Spying in High Heels (19 page)

There were about fifty Carol Carters, so I reluctantly wrote her address down as "unknown."

Bunny Hoffenmeyer, as it turned out, was an adult film star, number unlisted. I did, however, find the production company she worked for. Big Boy Productions in Sherman Oaks. Great. Back to the Valley.

It was late afternoon and hitting that day's high of 96 degrees, according to the bank on the corner of Westwood and National. I cranked my air conditioner as far as it would go as I pulled onto the 405 and reluctantly made the trip back over the hills. A thick layer of smog held tight to the curves of the mountains, covering the Valley with a sickly gray color that made me wonder why anyone would live here by choice. On the other hand, it did strengthen

Bunny's motive. Twenty million dollars would go a long way toward buying her way into the Beverly set.

Another ten minutes of fighting freeway traffic and I was cruising down Sepulveda, a street lined with warehouses that passed themselves off as production studios for rent. Large, gray and rusty they didn't resemble Universal Studios in the least. And, I ventured to guess, neither did their films. Most were straight to video or foreign market pictures. Or, in the case of Big Boy Productions, tailored for a more mature audience. (Read: kinky.) Big Boy was located in a gunmetal gray building covered in corrugated metal siding. I parked in the lot beside a lunch wagon and stared at the building.

'K—here's the thing. I'm not really a porn kind of girl. I mean, I've
seen
porn. Once. When my college boyfriend tried to convince me it was hot to see close-ups of strangers' privates while we made love. (Needless to say I broke up with Voyeur Boy soon after.) But honestly, the closest I'd ever come to knowing the insides of the adult film industry was Marky Mark's performance as Dirk Diggler in
Boogie Nights
. And that was as close as I wanted to come.

Damn Richard. This was all his fault.

I took a deep breath and forced myself out of the car and across the two yards of parking lot to the unmarked door of Big Boy Productions. I almost covered my eyes as I walked in.

If I'd been expecting a lava lamp-induced orgy, I was disappointed. The room I stepped into looked like just about every office reception area I'd ever seen. In fact, with the exception of a bright red light-bulb flashing over the door, it bore an unnerving resemblance to Dewy, Cheatum and Howe's front office. Only instead of one Jasmine, there were three. Three women behind expensive-looking desks, all blond Anna Nicole Smith lookalikes, all Double D's barely concealed by itty-bitty pink crop tops with the words "Big Boy" stretched across their implants, and all three were staring up at me.

I gulped, suddenly feeling like Granny Prude in my library attire.

"Uh, hi," I said to the Double D closest to the door. "I'm looking for Bunny Hoffenmeyer."

The Double D shifted in her seat and I resisted the urge to look away in case an implant escaped her crop top's precarious hold. "And you are?" she asked in a breathy, Marilyn Monroe sort of voice.

"Urn. Maddie."

She looked at my prim tweed skirt and frowned. "Are you doing a scene together?"

"No!" I said a little more loudly than I'd intended.

"Right." She looked me up and down again. "I didn't think so."

I wasn't sure whether I was relieved or insulted.

"I actually wanted to talk to her about a mutual acquaintance of ours. Devon Greenway."

Double D's face softened. "Oh. Right. That guy she was dating. I heard about him on the news. Really sad."

"Very sad," I agreed, nodding and mimicking Perky Reporter Woman's appropriately concerned faces. "Did he ever come in here with Bunny?"

Double D smiled, showing off a row of slightly crooked teeth. "Actually, her name's Myrtle. Bunny's just a stage thing."

Myrtle Hoffenmeyer? I think I liked Bunny better.

"And, sure, he was here a few times. He was really cute. And rich." Blondie sighed. "Myrtle was real lucky to meet him."

Lucky. Right. Lucky she wasn't swimming facedown right about now. Which brought me back to her current whereabouts…

"So, is Bu—uh, Myrtle here today?"

"Oh, sure. She's just finishing a scene in studio two." Blondie indicated a pair of doors to her right.

I cut a look to the doors. I had an unnerving feeling
that
was where the orgies took place.

"Urn, do you mind if I wait here until she's done with her, um… scene?" I asked.

"Sure, no prob." Double D grinned and indicated a pair of padded chairs along the wall. I sat down, glad that the studio seemed to be soundproofed.

Ten minutes later the red light above the door shut off and a sound like a fire alarm blared through the building. I must have jumped as Double D reassured me, "That means they're done shooting. It should be safe to go back there now if you'd like."

"Thanks." I stood up and pushed through the double doors, hoping Bunny had robed.

The studios of Big Boy weren't pretending to be anything other than a Valley warehouse. Walls were covered in rusted metal (and not the chic rust of Fernando's, but the real kind caused by years of corrosion), large pipes ran along the ceiling and the floor was a cracked concrete. The only break in the industrial look was the three-walled rooms made of painted plywood that were supposed to resemble bedrooms. At least that was my guess, judging by the enormous beds scattered through the warehouse.

A group of people was huddled around one. Luckily, they seemed to be dispersing, men winding up lengths of cable and women wearing silky bathrobes, with slightly mussed bedroom hair. I felt my cheeks growing hot as I averted my eyes.

I recognized Bunny right away from her photographs with Greenway in the
OC Rag
. She was sitting on a stool by a plywood bedroom, cigarette between her acrylic nails as she watched the grips check the camera. She was my height, but about five pounds slimmer and filled with enough silicone that she might topple over at any second. I had a hard time picturing her hauling Greenway's body all the way downstairs and out to the Moonlight's Dump-sters. Still, no stone unturned.

"Bunny Hoffenmeyer?" I asked.

She looked at me with a disinterested stare. "Yeah?"

"Hi. I'm Maddie, uh… Ramirez." Okay, why I gave her that name, I didn't know. But for some reason I didn't want her to know who I was really was. At least not until I knew if she owned a gun.

"Hi," Bunny said, blowing smoke up toward the ceiling.

"Hi. I, uh, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about Devon Greenway?"

Her eyes clouded. "Why?"

Why. Very good question. "Well, I uh, I'm from the
OC Rag
and, uh, we're doing a story on Green-way's death. We wanted to include some interviews from those close to him."

Bunny still looked dubious, so I tried to sweeten the pot. "We'd love to include some pictures too. It would be great exposure for you." No pun intended.

Bunny straightened in her chair at the mention of pictures. "What do you want to know?"

Did you kill him? But I figured blunt wasn't the way to go. They always finessed the suspects a little first on
Law & Order
. I put on my best finessing voice. "I heard you and Greenway were close."

She smirked. "You could say that."

I had a feeling I was going to regret this next question. "How close?"

Bunny raised an eyebrow. "I fucked him occasionally, if that's what you're asking."

At least she didn't mince words.

"Right. So, when was the last time you, uh… saw Greenway?"

She took a long drag from her cigarette. "Last Thursday."

I perked up. Thursday had been the night Richard canceled dinner with me to meet Greenway. I wondered if Bunny had been there.

"What did you do?"

"We had dinner at La Petite's, this totally expensive French place on Ventura. Then he had to meet his lawyer. Some Ken Doll in a suit."

Hey! That was my Ken Doll she was talking about. But I had to admit, now that she mentioned it, Richard did resemble Ken a little. Perfect plastic facade—hollow on the inside. Ugh.

"Do you know what the meeting was about?"

She tiled her head and scrutinized me. "I dunno. Some business shit. What did I care?"

I felt my bubble of hope deflating. Even if Porn

Star Barbie had been present at Richard and Green-way's meeting, I doubted any of it would penetrate her silicone-filled head.

"So you haven't seen him since Thursday?"

She blew out a slow stream of smoke at the ceiling. "No. I broke it off with him."

"Really? Why?" Honestly, Greenway and Bunny seemed like a perfect fit.

"'Cause I found some chick's thong in his pocket."

"His wife's?"

Bunny smirked again. "Honey, wives don't wear shit like this. This was a leopard-print mesh thong. He was fucking someone else."

I'm pretty sure my eyes strayed to the bed where Bunny had just finished her scene. I had a hard time believing she was a stickler for monogamy.

"Hey, this is just work," she defended. "I fake it at work. What Devon and I had was the real deal. And if he was sticking his real deal to some other chick, I didn't want any part of it."

Fair enough.

"Any idea who the thong belonged to?"

Bunny smirked again. "Some slut. I think he was meeting her for nooners, 'cause he never answered his phone around lunchtime."

"So, just for the record, where were you last night?" Even thought Bunny was slipping down my list of suspects, I figured it didn't hurt to be thorough.

"Here. Shooting a scene for
Babes in Boyland
."

Ugh. A porn pun. "Okay. Well, I, uh, don't want to take up any more of your time." I reached out to shake her hand, then thought better of it, not knowing where that hand had been. Instead I waved a little good-bye as I turned and headed for the reception area.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

I spun around. "Yeah?"

"What about the pictures?"

Right, pictures. "The photographer will be out tomorrow," I lied. Gee, I was getting better at this. "Thanks again."

Back in my Jeep, I pulled out my Suspects list again. I wasn't entirely convinced Porn Star Barbie wasn't my blondie, but I was having a hard time picturing her hacking into Greenway's accounts and transferring twenty million dollars to unknown whereabouts. She hadn't struck me as the sharpest crayon in the box. I added "leopard thong, nooners" under "blonde in heels." Hmmm… Bunny was right. She did sound like a slut.

I was just merging back onto the 405, watching the sun sink into a hazy, glowing orb below the hills, when my cell phone rang. I glanced down at the number. Faux Dad. Oh crap, what did I forget now?

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"On the 405. Why?"

"Good. 'Cause your mom's at Beefcakes already and she's starting to worry about you."

D'oh! I slapped my forehead with my palm. Beefcakes. "Right. I was just on my way there."

Faux Dad heaved a sigh of relief into the receiver. "Good. 'Cause for a minute there, I thought maybe you'd forgotten again."

"Who, me? Never."

Faux Dad paused. "Mads, you seem a little distracted lately. Is there something on your mind?"

I resisted the urge to break out in maniacal laughter.

"I'm fine." Ha! "Sorry, Ralph, I gotta go. I'm going through the canyon."

I hung up and made a quick maneuver into the right lane, merging onto the 2 East toward Beefcakes.

This was turning out to be quite a week for me. Hookers, and porn stars, and strippers. Oh my!

Chapter Thirteen

Beefcakes was located between La Brea and Highland in an old Hollywood speakeasy that had been turned into a Mecca for bachelorettes, divorcees and horny housewives. The interior was done in all black with pink velvety sofas lining the walls. Down the middle of the floor was a catwalk, surrounded by purple tables and chairs where hordes of screaming, middle-aged women with dollar bills in their hands acted like teenagers at a Hilary Duff concert. I spied Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt at one of the tables near the end of the runway. Beside them was a cowgirl in Calamity Jane attire screaming out boisterous wa-hoos as "Fireman Bob" took to the stage.

"Mads!" Mom yelled above the girlish squeals. All traces of her post-cliff trauma were gone. A cosmopolitan in one hand, she bobbed her head in time with the pulsating music. Mom was dressed in her party chick clothes tonight. A black spandex halter top, minus the much-needed bra, a pair of polka-dot capris, and red Converse sneakers. In honor of the special occasion, her blue eye shadow reached all the way to her eyebrows. Mrs. Rosenblatt sat at a table beside her, dressed in a purple flowered muumuu that perfectly matched the two chairs she took up.

"Having fun?" I asked as I gave Mom a quick hug.

"I'll say. Oh god, Mads, isn't he a hunk?"

I looked up at Fireman Bob, dressed in boots, suspenders and little else. I was instantly reminded of how long it had been since I'd had sex, as my eyes strayed to his little red G-string.

"Check out that package," Mrs. Rosenblatt said, as if she could read my mind. "Reminds me of my fourth husband, Lenny. Lenny was royal putz, but he was blessed with a package like you wouldn't believe."

"That's nothing. You should see my Ralphie." Mom held her two index fingers ten inches apart, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.

Ew! Mom and sex—two things I never wanted to think about in the same breath. I felt like putting my fingers in my ears and chanting, "I can't hear you."

"Maddie, you made it!" The exuberant cowgirl turned around. I did a mental forehead smack. Dana.

"Nice boots, cowgirl," I said.

"I came straight from a shoot. Charmin commercial."

"As in toilet paper?"

"Cowboys invoke the image of strength. No one wants weak toilet paper. So," she asked, leaning in close, "how goes the great boyfriend search?"

I quickly filled her in on my mistress theory, punctuated by her occasional wahoos as Fireman Bob dropped his suspenders. I finished off by recounting my visit to Big Boy studios with Porn Star Barbie.