Spying in High Heels (24 page)

"Are you okay?" Ramirez asked me.

"I'm fine." I paused. "He didn't do it." I know, it was a feeble attempt, but I had to make it. And, I realized, I honestly believed it. It was painfully obvious now that Richard didn't have the guts to shoot anyone.

But it made any trace of Ramirez's concern for my safety disappear. His face settled into those hard Schick commercial lines and just like that he was the unreadable Bad Cop again. He crossed the room in one quick stride and before I could say Miranda Rights, Richard's hands were cuffed behind his back.

A lump knotted in my throat, and I balled my fists at my sides. Only right at the moment I wasn't sure who to be more angry with—Richard for getting involved in such a stupid scheme to begin with, or Ramirez for arresting the father of my possible child. Or, to be honest, myself, for leading Ramirez right to him. I suddenly wondered if this had been Ramirez's plan all along. Why he'd sat through my mother's kitschy wedding and made nice with Grandmother.

"You can't do this," I protested. "He's innocent. He didn't kill anyone."

Ramirez wasn't moved. He didn't even look at me, dialing a number into his cell phone instead and requesting backup.

"He was here the whole time. Please, don't do this." God, I was pleading as pathetically as Richard had been just a minute ago.

Only Ramirez wasn't half as receptive as I'd been.

"I have a warrant," he responded in a flat monotone. "He's wanted for murder. I have to take him in."

"But, but… you kissed me!"

Both Ramirez and Richard turned to look at me. Then at each other. Uh oh. I could feel the testosterone level in the air rising.

"It was just a little kiss," I squeaked out.

Had Richard not been in handcuffs, I'd like to think he would have decked Ramirez. In reality, Ramirez would have had him flat on the floor before he even threw a punch. Either way, they let the animosity lie untouched between them as there was little Richard could do besides glare.

Ramirez held Richard by the shoulder and escorted him to the door. He paused as their little parade passed me. "I assume you can find another ride home."

And then he left.

Shit. I picked up the lamp on the writing desk and threw it on the floor with all my might. Just my luck; it was plastic and kind of bounced on the shag carpet instead of making a satisfying crash. Tears welled behind my eyes, but I was damned if I was going to cry again. I'd done enough of that in the last few days to last me a lifetime. And especially not over two idiots like Richard and Ramirez.

I hated them both. Richard could rot in jail for all I cared and Ramirez… Well, Ramirez could kiss my granny panties. He'd had his tongue down my throat not fifteen minutes ago, and now he wouldn't even listen to me. Just like a man. That was it. I was through with all of them. The whole male species. Maybe I'd make my grandmother proud and go join a convent after all.

Speaking of Grandmother…

I was pretty sure if I sat here feeling sorry for myself much longer, someone from the reception would come looking for me. And I so didn't want to have to explain this to my relatives. How many Hail Marys did one get for sleeping with criminals?

Because it hit me, that's just what Richard was. Even if he hadn't had anything to do with the murders, he'd flat out confessed to the embezzlement. White collar or no, that was a crime.

That squishy burrito turned into a lead weight in my stomach.

I left the room, closing Richard's door behind me, and took the elevator back down to the lobby. I was sure that in a matter of minutes Ramirez's backup would have CSI teams combing the room for any speck of incriminating evidence. And I wasn't in the mood for a lint roll right now.

I hightailed it back into the main hall just in time to see Mom throwing her bouquet. Both Mrs. Rosenblatt and Dana made a mad dash for it. A few beads popped off Mrs. Rosenblatt's muumuu, but Dana caught the flowers in the end. Then gazed starry-eyed at No Neck. Poor guy, he didn't know what he'd gotten himself into.

I think I put on a passably convincing facade that everything was hunky dory in Maddie's life for the rest of the reception. I avoided Grandmother's not-so-subtle hinting over my biological clock versus Ramirez's suitable Catholic husband status, and even managed not to scratch out my own eyeballs through the removal of the garter belt, which I now knew should never be attempted by any bride over the age of forty. Yick.

By the time we were all blowing bubbles out of tiny bell-shaped wands as Mom and Faux Dad jumped into their 1974 Mercedes with the words "just married" in shaving cream on the back window, I felt like I'd run a marathon. If I had to keep the plastic smile wedged on my face any longer I had a feeling I'd permanently end up looking like Perky Reporter Woman.

And as I watched them drive away I had a sudden and profound feeling of loneliness. Richard was on his way to prison, Ramirez and whatever had been between us was over, Dana and No Neck had left hand in hand for another night of great sex at the Actor's Duplex, and even Mom and Faux Dad were in their own little honeymoon world for two weeks in Hawaii. It was just me and the Purple People Eater. Deep sigh.

Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed to give me a ride back to Beefcakes, where my little red Jeep had spent the night. It was dark by the time I finally drove up to my studio, and I was beyond tired. I was in that state of feeling sorry for myself that comes just before the walking-dead phase of exhaustion. I trudged up the stairs and unlocked the door, not even bothering to turn on the lights before I collapsed onto my futon.

I gave myself five minutes to cry. Just five. Then I was going to be done, finished. Over that creep for good. Never mind that I wasn't quite sure which creep I was talking about.

Richard, right? I mean, Richard was the one I should be getting over. He was the one I'd been dating for the past five months, all the while blind to the fact he'd been married to Cinderella on the side.

Of course, I was none too happy with Ramirez either. Only, as I closed my eyes all I could think about was the way his lips had tasted on mine. Like canapes and champagne.

God I was pathetic.

I rolled over and buried my head in a pillow, my only comfort knowing that tomorrow couldn't possibly be worse than today had been.

I felt sunlight hit my face the next morning, but was almost afraid to open my eyes for fear of what new disaster might await me. Tornado? Hurricane? Plague? It wouldn't surprise me. With the way my life was going my aura must be a pukey puce by now.

I summoned up all my courage and cracked open one eye.

No detectives sleeping beside me. No cell phone ringing. No screeching brides or best friends. So far so good.

Gingerly I got up and flipped on my Mr. Coffee. After two strong cups I turned on the news to see if my boyfriend had made the morning report.

Perky Reporter Woman did a ten-second snippet on the arrest of Devon Greenway's lawyer, but the whole story was losing steam and had been sandwiched between a segment on a school closure in Watts and a dog who sniffed out heroin at the airport. The press had moved on.

And, honestly, I should too. Richard probably had a whole team of lawyers surrounding him by now, pulling every rabbit out of their legal hats to get him safely back to his leather and chrome condo. What could I possibly do to help that they couldn't? More importantly, why did I even want to?

I sighed. My gaze straying to the EPT on the counter.

That's why.

I stared at the little pink box. It stared back and I could swear it was silently mocking me (bok, bok, bok).

"Fine, I'll take the damn test!" I yelled to the universe at large. I picked up the stupid little box and marched into the bathroom. After reading the instructions only three times (my hands were shaking just a little) I ascertained that I was supposed to pee for five full seconds on the little cottony strip. Five seconds? This was going to take some preparation.

I went back to the kitchen and grabbed a two-liter of Diet Coke from the fridge. I downed half of it, only getting slightly fizzy nosed from the bubbles. I waited ten minutes, then took the Coke back into the bathroom with me. It was now or never.

I clipped my hair back, took a deep breath and did the whole peeing thing, which ended up being way more complicated than it sounded. When I finished, I set the test down on my bathroom counter to wait. One line negative. Two lines"… I'd be asking my mother to pick up another bassinet full of booties and binkies. I took a fortifying swig of Diet Coke as I watched the hands on my watch crawl by. Three minutes.

Okay, I could do this. I was a tough chick. Whatever those pink lines threw at me, I could handle this, right? Okay, so maybe I'd have to take little Ritchie Junior to visit his father behind bars, and maybe I'd never again fit into that cute Dolce crop top again, but I could do this. Of course, I'd have to get a second job. Tot Trots barely kept me in Top Ra-men and pumps; there was no way I could raise a baby on that salary. I looked around my dinky studio. And I'd probably have to move back in with Mom and Faux Dad. And the Jeep would have to go. No way was a convertible Jeep safe for a baby to ride in. Oh god, would I have to get a minivan? I had a vision of myself in Mom clothes from Target, driving a beige Odyssey and living in the room above my parents' garage.

Not surprisingly, I started to hyperventilate again. I sat down hard on the tiled floor and put my head between my knees. Unfortunately, as I flipped my head down, my hair clip came undone, flying across the tiny room and knocking into the bottle of Diet Coke. Which swayed precariously on its plastic bottom, then, as I watched in slow-motion horror, fell over and spilled bubbly liquid all over the EPT.

"Shit!" I jumped up and grabbed a bath towel, dabbing at the test. I looked down. It was soaked, the cottony swab at the end quickly swelling up like a sponge as the little windows turned a murky caramel color. I squinted, trying to make out any faint lines. Preferably just one of them.

Nothing.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

I sank back down to the floor. Great. Now what?

I stared at the ruined EPT. The way I saw it, I had two options. One, go back to the drugstore, pick up a new test, and go through this whole thing again. Or, two, hop back on the denial train (Because it was probably just stress anyway. I mean, sometimes stress messed up your hormones, right? And I
had
been under a tad bit of stress lately.) and go back to ticking off blond murder suspects to earn my boyfriend that get-out-of-jail-free card.

Which was scarier, murderers or pregnancy tests? After my minivan vision, that was a no-brainer.

I tossed the Coke-stained test in the trash and threw on a pair of butt-hugging jeans with my favorite red mules, mentally picking up my suspects list again. The only one I had left was Carol Carter. And the only thing the
OC Rag
had mentioned about her was that she was an aspiring actress. If she was anything like Dana, she probably spent her Sundays at the gym, toning and shaping for the coming week of auditions. It was a long shot, but I hopped in my Jeep and pointed it in the direction of the Sunset Gym.

Twenty minutes later I was showing my membership card to the steroid gatekeeper and trying hard not to inhale the stale eau de perspiration as I scanned the crowded workout room for Dana's perky blond ponytail. The place was packed with film execs trying to sweat off their weekly diet of doughnuts, and wanna-be starlets shaking every sil-icone body part imaginable in hopes of being discovered as the next
Baywatch
babe. I finally spotted Dana coaching a dark-haired man covered in veiny muscles on the leg-lift machine in the corner.

Feeling conspicuously out of place in my heels, I picked my way over the medicine balls and stretch mats to the leg lifter.

"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… and rest. Okay, check your pulse, Sasha. You shouldn't let it get over one-sixty."

Sasha nodded, sweat trickling off his forehead as he applied two fingers to his neck.

"Dana?" I made a little one-finger, come-here sign.

She saw me and waved. "Hey, what's up?" Dana looked down at my heels and frowned. "You can't work out in those."

I rolled my eyes. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Shoot."

I glanced at Sasha.

"Oh, sorry," Dana said. "Maddie, this is Sasha. I told you about him; he's the pyramid bottom for the Cirque Fantastique. Sasha, my best friend, Maddie."

"I have been pleased to meet you," Sasha said in a heavy accent.

"Me too. Uh, Dana, can I talk to you?"

"Sure. Sasha, do two more sets and we'll move on to something else."

Sasha nodded and went back to his leg lifts as Dana followed me out of earshot.

"What's with the Russian?" I asked.

"Isn't he hot?"

I glanced over at him, veins popping out on his neck as he lifted a stack of metal weights. "I guess, in a steroid-happy kind of way. But what about your roommate?"

"Who, Mr. Asshole the Stripper?"

Uh oh. Trouble in the-Actor's Duplex.

"What happened? You two were all over each other last night."

Dana snorted. "That's what I thought too. Only when we got back home I put the bridal bouquet in the freezer and he freaked out. He said he couldn't understand why I'd want to keep it. And I said, 'Well duh, I caught the bouquet.' And he said, 'Well, what's so special about that?' And I said, 'Well duh! It means I'm the next to get married.' And he totally freaked out. I mean, I didn't say I wanted to get married
to him, right now
. But he flipped. He said that he was suffocating. That he wasn't ready for a ball and chain. Do I look like a ball and chain?"

"Typical man." I really was beginning to hate the whole gender.

"No shit. Anyway, I was like, totally crying and Sasha called and he took me out for a cocktail, and, well, we ended up back at his place."

Dana has got to be the only woman I know who can start a story out by getting dumped by one guy and end it in some other guy's bed.

"Anyway, what's up with you?" she asked. "How goes the Charlie's Angels search?"