Spying in High Heels (18 page)

I even debated calling Cinderella to see if she'd heard anything from him. Which should tell you just how desperate I was because calling Cinderella meant acknowledging that she actually existed, and that ranked below sucking up to Jasmine on the list of things I wanted to do this lifetime.

My internal whining was cut short as the familiar blond news reporter piped up from the TV.

"Last night She body of missing business mogul Devon Greenway was found by authorities at a North Hollywood motel."

I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, watching images of the Moonlight Inn flicker across the screen. It was daylight now, but the parking lot was still littered with police cars and yellow crime scene tape. I grimaced as Metallica's greasy face filled the screen.

"There were two of them. These chicks. And they were like really buff, like pro wrestlers or something. I tried to fight them off, but they were like totally strong. I think they were on steroids."

I rolled my eyes.

The cameraman cut away to an image of a green Dumpster. The coffee churned in my empty stomach as I listened to the reporter remind the viewing public that this was the same Greenway whose wife had been found dead earlier this week.

Then Ramirez's face filled the screen. My stomach rolled for a whole different reason. He seemed tired, like he hadn't slept, but I hated how sexy the five o'clock shadow dusting his jaw looked.

A reporter from another station shoved a microphone at Ramirez, yelling questions from the mob of press. "Do you have a murder weapon?"

Ramirez answered with a standard, "We're still in the process of recovering a weapon."

"Do you have any suspects?" another reporter demanded.

The mob went quiet as Ramirez answered. "We do."

"Detective Ramirez," the first reporter shouted, "Are you prepared to name them at this time?"

Ramirez looked squarely at the camera and I could swear he was talking directly to me. "Based on our current evidence, we've issued a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Greenway's attorney Richard Howe."

Chapter Twelve

I stared at the television, my brain half listening and half screaming that this was some mistake. Richard, wanted for murder? This couldn't be happening.

A picture of Richard from the office Christmas party flashed across the screen. I'd bet anything Jasmine had furnished it to the press. They were probably descending on Dewy, Cheatum and Howe like vultures right about now. I had a mental image of Jasmine's Elvis smirk preening for the cameras on the six o'clock news. I thought I was going to be sick. I sat down hard on my futon as the reporter made appropriately concerned faces, then cut to a Doritos commercial.

Ramirez was going to arrest Richard. I knew Ramirez well enough to know that there wasn't a whole lot I could do to stop that. Sure I could put on my Bond Girl outfit again and search Richard's office for the umpteenth time, but what good would it really do? I had no idea what I was doing. I was the worst Nancy Drew ever. Every time I tried to help, another dead body showed up. I'd like to think it was coincidence but I made a mental note to go to mass on Sunday with my grandmother just in case.

On the other hand, the search to find Richard was now an all-out manhunt. Every cop in the city would be looking for him. And not for whoever
really
had killed Greenway. Because I was still relatively confident that Richard wasn't capable of killing anyone.

Which is why even though I knew I should take Ramirez's advice and leave this to the professionals, I grabbed a lined notepad and began scribbling.

I wrote the word "Suspects" at the top of the page in big bold letters. My pen hovered in the air, poised to write Richard's name down on the list. But even though I was pretty pissed off at the cheating bastard, I couldn't bring myself to do it. So instead I made a compromise. I amended the "Suspects" with an "other than Richard." There, that was a better starting place.

Only my mind was a blank when I tried to list them. I didn't have any suspects. All I had to go on was a blond hair and a stiletto impression. Which I was pretty sure Ramirez still thought were mine. I wrote "blonde in heels" on the list. Gee. That narrowed the field to 95 percent of L.A.'s population.

Obviously I needed more to go on. And it was equally obvious that following Ramirez around town wasn't a good idea anymore. Besides the fact that he'd be on the lookout for a red Jeep, I had a feeling he'd been
this
close to hauling me downtown last night. And I didn't want to tempt the man. Especially if he hadn't slept. Lord only knew how grouchy Bad Cop got with no sleep.

So that meant Sherlock Fashion was on her own. I stared down at the notepad again. It was a pretty pathetic list. If I was going to convince Ramirez that Mystery Blonde was a suspect at all, I needed more. Which meant going back to the Moonlight.

I picked up my cell and dialed Dana's number, hoping she was up for playing Cagney to my Lacey again. (Never mind that the reality was more like an Ethel to my Lucy.) Unfortunately, No Neck Guy answered the phone at the Actor's Duplex and informed me (through a serious of caveman-worthy grunts) Dana hadn't come home yet. Still out hot tubbing with Liao, no doubt. I said to have her call me when she got in and hung up.

As much as I dreaded going back into the bowels of the Valley alone, it was either that or draw kiddie shoes. And I was so not in a kiddie shoes place right now.

I grabbed my keys and purse and headed out to my Jeep, braving the afternoon traffic into North Hollywood.

There was an overturned big rig on the 405 and a police chase on the 101, so by the time I reached Vanowen again the Moonlight Inn was clear of reporters and CSI teams. In fact, save for the bright yellow crime tape still gracing the door of room two-ten, it looked like business as usual. Radios blared, spandex-clad women bade good-bye to their gentleman callers, and the parking lot pharmaceutical trade had resumed in full force. North Hollywood was quick to bounce back from one little shooting.

I parked the Jeep and avoided glancing toward the green Dumpsters as I made my way to the _ront O__ice.

I pulled open the smudged glass doors and saw

Metallica was on duty again. He'd changed into an AC/DC shirt, but his greasy hair betrayed that he hadn't taken time to shower before coming back to work. He stared for a moment before recognition kicked in.

"Oh shit. It's you!" He ducked down below the counter. "Please don't shoot."

I rolled my eyes. "Do I look like I'm carrying a gun?"

Metallica peeked his head up over the Formica. He did an up and down thing with his eyes, his gaze resting on my breasts. A grin broke out on his face. "Nope. You look niiiiice." He nodded, drawing out the word.

Hmmm… maybe I should start carrying a gun.

"Get a grip. They're just mammary glands."

"Dude, I think the cops are looking for you. You chicks like totally messed that guy up."

"We didn't kill him."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "You sure?"

"Yes!"

" 'Cause I wouldn't tell no one. I mean, when you think of it, it's actually kind of hot. Chicks with guns. Like a Lara Croft thing. Lara Croft is hot."

I had a feeling any woman with a pulse was hot in Metallica's world.

"Sorry to interrupt your wet dream, but we didn't kill him. In fact, the police think my boyfriend killed him."

"Dude!"

"I know!"

Metallica leaned in. I tried not to grimace at the scent of stale weed and breakfast burrito. "Did your boyfriend kill him cause he was your John?"

"No! God, no. I'm not really a hooker."

Metallica looked me up and down again. "You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

He grinned, showing off a mouth in serious need of some Crest White Strips. "You
could
be one. You'd make a really hot hooker."

I felt my left eye begin to twitch. This was getting nowhere.

"Did you see anyone else go up to room two-ten last night?"

"Nope. Just you, your friend, and that dude they found in the Dumpster."

Damn. But, on the bright side, at least he didn't say he saw a lawyer in tailored slacks.

"Could anyone have gone up when you weren't looking? Like maybe you went 'out back'?" I put my thumb and index finger up to my mouth in a smoking motion.

He giggled. "Hey, anything's possible, babe."

"How about the parking lot? See anyone suspicious hanging around?"

Metallica grinned. Right. Stupid question.

"Anyone who didn't look like they belonged here? Anyone… with money?" Or the vaguest notion of hygiene.

Metallica chewed on his chapped lips, squinting off into space. "Nope."

I was beginning to feel like I'd wasted a trip to the Valley for nothing. I tried one last angle. "How about this. Did you see any blondes last night? Wearing high heels?"

"Dude, that would have been hot."

Great. He was like Beavis and Butthead rolled into one. Well, what did I expect? The man's brain probably looked like Swiss cheese.

Then a thought struck me. Dana and I had had to weasel Greenway's room number out of Metallica. If Metallica hadn't seen the blonde, that meant she already knew where Greenway was staying. Either she followed him, which I didn't think was likely, considering Greenway would have been pretty careful about whom he led to his hideout, or else Greenway trusted her enough to give her the room number. I mentally added another item to the Suspects list. Blonde in heels, Greenway's trusted confidant. Maybe a mistress? I wouldn't put it past him. During our short phone conversation, Greenway hadn't seemed like the type to balk at extramarital affairs.

So I was looking for a blonde mistress in heels. All right, it wasn't a Columbo moment, but at least it was something.

"Thanks a ton," I said to Metallica.

"Thanks for what?"

"For not seeing anything."

"Dude, I don't see shit all the time."

I didn't doubt it.

My cell started ringing as I got back in my Jeep. I flipped it open as I pulled back onto Vanowen.

"Hello?"

"Mads, it's Ralph."

"Hi, Ralph. How's Mom doing?"

"Better. She's still trying to get a Catholic priest to go bless the hotel gardens before the ceremony, but at least she's stopped eyeing her rosary."

That was a start.

"Anyway," he continued, "I was just calling to remind you about the bachelorette party tonight. Not that I thought you'd forget, but, well, I just thought I'd remind you."

"I wasn't going to forget."

"Right. Of course not." Faux Dad cleared his throat. "I knew you'd be there. I just… wanted to make sure."

Okay, I had forgotten. What was it with this wedding that I seemed to be blocking it out of my memory?

"Don't worry, Ralph. I'll be there. Cross my heart."

I hung up with Faux Dad, ignoring the icky feeling that washed over me at the combination of Mom and male strippers, and dialed my number to check my messages again. Only Dana, saying she was back from hot tubbing. Nothing from Ramirez. Nothing from Richard.

I called Dana back as I swung into an In-N-Out Burger, and filled her in on the latest developments over a double-double and fries. I also made her promise to go with me to Beefcakes tonight. I didn't think I could stomach it alone.

As I hung up with Dana and dabbed at a spot of mustard on my skirt with a paper napkin (the burger was messy, but oh-so-worth it), I pulled out my Suspects list again. So who was this blonde? The problem was I didn't know anything about Green-way, aside from the Cliffs Notes version Ramirez had given me. What I needed was more dirt on Greenway's personal life. Like nosey neighbor or
National Enquirer-type
dirt. Since I didn't see Green-way's neighbors gossiping with prime suspect number two (a.k.a. me! Ugh!), I figured a trip to the library was my best bet at ferreting out the gory details of Greenway's social exploits. If there was dirt to be gotten, I felt confident that back issues of the
OC Rag
were the place to find it.

I hopped back on the 405, making a quick stop at home to change out of my mustard-spotted clothes and into my version of library wear—tweed skirt, white silk blouse, and low-heel loafers—before heading to the Santa Monica library. I was on a mission to view every bit of microfilm they had on Devon Greenway.

Which turned out to be a lot. Apparently Green-way was not only a frequent story in the gossip columns, but also in the business section, due to the new microchip innovations of his company, New-tone Technologies. I scanned through page after blurry page of microfilm, the constant hum of the machine my only companion. This was the side of detective work they didn't show on HBO. The no-frills-and-even-less-glamour side. It made the kiddie shoes look tempting again.

If I'd hoped for a headline that read greenway SPOTTED WITH BLOND, HOMICIDAL MISTRESS AT CHARITY gala I was sorely disappointed. What I found instead was page after page of ribbon cuttings, IPO filings, and company prospects analyses.

Two hours later my eyes were squinty and my nose was itchy with dust, but I knew every detail of Greenway's life, business or social. And unfortunately, a lack of blondes hadn't been one of Greenway's problems. In fact, through the course of the press's two-year infatuation with all things Greenway, it was speculated he'd had no fewer than three mistresses. Andi Jameson, Carol Carter, and, get this, Bunny Hoffenmeyer. All blond. (My money was on Bunny. Who could grow up with a name like that and
not
be homicidal?)

I wrote down all three names on my Suspects list, ignoring the fact that they didn't get me a whole lot closer to earning Richard that get-out-of-jail-free card. Sure I had the names of Greenway's
known
mistresses, but who knew how many had slipped by the press? Greenway struck me as the slick type.

But, just to be thorough, I looked up all three blondies in the library's yellow pages before heading home. Andi Jameson was easy enough to find, listed in a condo in Encino, otherwise known as Silicone Valley. I called her number, but she wasn't home. So I left a message saying I was a friend of Greenway's and wanted to ask her a few questions.