Spying in High Heels (25 page)

Apparently Dana hadn't seen the news yet, her attention having been consumed by a limber Russian all night. I quickly filled her in on last night's disaster as she gestured Sasha through two more rounds of cybex torture. It took longer than I thought because the sight of Sasha's muscles straining proved to be a little distracting for Dana, but as we moved on to the rowing machine, I produced the printout from the library, showing her Carol Carter's picture.

"Do you recognize her?" I asked. "She's an actress and I thought maybe she worked out here."

Dana and Sasha both leaned in to look.

Sasha let out a low whistle. "She is having the boob that are big like cantaloupe."

"They're fake," I pointed out.

Dana squinted at the photo. "What did you say her name was?"

"Carol Carter."

"I never see boob like this. Boob back home, flat. Like pancake food. Like biting of bug." Sasha looked up at me. "Like you."

Yep. I hated all men.

"The name sounds familiar," Dana said, still staring at the photo. "Oh! You know what? We were both up for the role of Bikini Girl in that teen movie last month."

"You be very good Bikini Girl." Sasha looked Dana up and down. "Very good."

"Thank you! I thought so too. But I never got a callback."

"Those director blind. You are very good body. You have the curvy boob."

"Oh, you're so sweet!" Dana leaned down and kissed Sasha. I looked away before I got a glimpse of Russian tongue.

"Back to Carol Carter," I interrupted. "You don't happen to have her number, do you?" I asked.

"No, sorry. But I do know who her agent is. Charlie Platt. He's in that big building on the corner of Le Brea and Hollywood."

"Dana, you're a goddess." I could have hugged her if she weren't covered in gym sweat.

"You sure boob is fake?" Sasha was still staring at the photo of Carol Carter. "Is very bouncy looking."

"Trust me, nature does not come in those sizes," I said.

He nodded. "Yes. Maybe true. Not so curvy, like Dana."

Dana giggled and kissed Sasha again. This time I definitely saw tongue. Ew.

"Well, I'll, uh, leave you two to your workout…" I trailed off as I backed away, but I was pretty sure no one was listening to me anymore.

I ran back to my Jeep and called information for the number of the Platt Agency. Unfortunately I got a recording saying they would be closed until four. I glanced down at my dash clock. Noon. I decided McDonald's was as good a place as any to wait it out, and put my Jeep into gear, hitting the drive-through.

Fifteen minutes later I was making my way through a Big Mac, large fries and a strawberry milkshake. Which unfortunately reminded me of Strawberry
Shortcake
. And my ever more tenuous employment with Tot Trots. I still hadn't called them back and I had a feeling if I didn't get those high-top designs done soon, unemployment would be edging its way closer to the top of my list of problems.

With a sigh, I finished off my fries and pointed my Jeep toward home. If I put in a good hour of drawing before going to find Carol Carter, at least I could call Tot Trots back with a clear conscience. I even made myself stop by Rite Aid on the way home and bought a new pregnancy test. This time I got the deluxe digital version, which the pharmacist assured me was virtually indestructible.

Only as I pulled up to my studio, there stood the one thing in the world I wanted to see even less right now than two baby pink lines. Ramirez.

Chapter Seventeen

His arms were crossed over his chest and his hair was wet, like he'd just showered, as he lounged against my front door. I had a bad feeling that if I got too close I'd smell that fresh Ivory and aftershave mix that had me sniffing my futon cushions like a bloodhound last night.

I told myself not to breathe any of it in as I got out of my Jeep. I'd pretend that he had no effect on me. He didn't. So what if he'd seduced me, met my family and then used me to get to Richard? I was not going to lose it. I was not an emotional girly girl. I was tough. I was Demi Moore in
G.I. Jane
. I was Uma Thurman in
Kill Bill
. I was cool. Calm. In control.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi? Don't you dare 'hi' me. You arrested Richard! After feeling me up. And you have the nerve to make my grandmother like you. You know how long I'm going to have to hear her ask about that nice Catholic boy? So don't you dare 'hi' me, you… you… pig!" Cool, in control Maddie. Yep, that's me. Ugh.

"I had a warrant." His voice was infuriatingly calm. Which of course made mine rise that much more.

"You used me!"

"Me? Maddie, I'm not the one who got you pregnant, then ditched you for a flea trap in Riverside."

"Look, I know you think Richard did this, but I've been looking into Greenway's past—"

Ramirez rolled his eyes. "Jesus, didn't I tell you to leave this alone?"

I gritted my teeth and ignored him. "Do you want to know what I found out or not?"

"Fine. Can we go inside first?"

I gave him the evil eye, but had to agree that Richard's "status as a felon was not high on the list of things I wanted to share with my neighbors. I unlocked the door to my apartment, marching in ahead of Ramirez and laying my new EFT on the kitchen counter. He didn't wait for an invitation before following me in. He leaned against the door frame, arms still crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised in anticipation.

"So? Let's hear it," he said with a this-oughta-be-good expression on his face.

I ignored the look, instead sharing my brilliant mistress theory and filling him in on my chats with Greenway's string of big-breasted girlfriends. "And all three are blond and might own stilettos," I finished. "I'm not sure. I haven't gotten access to their closets yet."

Ramirez rolled his eyes again. "Wonderful. The great shoe detective."

"Hey, you were the one who told me about the shoe clue." Okay, put like that it did sound like it belonged in a Scooby Doo episode. But I stood my ground, putting my hands on my hips and doing my best don't-mess-with-me face.

"So you want me to believe there's some mysterious thong-wearing woman going around killing people?"

"Not people, just Greenway. And maybe his wife."

Ramirez shook his head. "This is ridiculous. The investigation is closed."

"How can it be closed? You don't even have a murder weapon yet."

Ramirez went silent.

I felt that lead weight settle in my belly again. "Do you have a murder weapon?"

"The report came back from ballistics. Greenway was shot with a .22, the same caliber weapon Richard bought for his wife last year. She says he asked to borrow it before he left town, and now it's missing."

I bit my lip. "That doesn't mean Richard pulled the trigger."

Ramirez threw his hands up. "I don't understand how you can possibly think this guy's innocent."

"What makes you so sure he's not?" I countered, my voice starting to rise again.

"Because he's an asshole! He lied to you, Maddie. He lied to the police, he lied to his wife. He's a criminal."

"But he's not a murderer."

"What, because some porn star found a thong?"

"Hey, if you'd get your head out of your macho-man ass for two seconds, you'd see that there were other people with plenty of motive to want Greenway dead. You were the one who said there was a stiletto impression and blond hairs in the room."

"For God's sake, Greenway probably had a hooker in his room."

"Metallica said we were the only hookers he saw."

"Great, so your witnesses are a porn star and a stoner. Gee, you're really building a case, Nancy Drew."

"Hey, I don't appreciate your tone of voice."

"I don't appreciate you sticking your nose into my investigation."

"I thought you said your investigation was closed."

"It is!"

We paused for a breath, our nostrils flaring, glaring like two prize fighters about to start round three.

Then Ramirez glanced down at the kitchen counter. "Taken that test yet?"

"Get out!" I pointed a straight arm at the front door. "Get out, get out, get out!" Okay, so I'd become a scene out of
Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown
. But he was hitting below the belt now.

Bad Cop turned and slammed the door behind him.

I picked up the new EPT and threw it across the room at the closed front door. It bounced on the floor with a little plop. Which wasn't nearly satisfying enough. So I picked it up and jumped up and down pn it a few times. My heel hit the little plastic window with a satisfying crunch. Apparently "virtually indestructible" didn't take into consideration a pissed-off woman with spiky heels.

I stared at the ruined pile of plastic. Damn. What was wrong with me that I couldn't take a simple pregnancy test without becoming Calamity Jane? That's it. I seriously needed therapy.

Ice cream therapy.

I got back in my Jeep, drove straight to the nearest Ben and Jerry's shop and ordered a pint of Chunky Monkey. I sat in the parking lot and ate the entire thing.

Unfortunately, as I licked bananas and chocolate from my plastic spoon, I realized part of what Ramirez had said was true. Richard
was
a liar. He'd kept his marriage secret from me. And that was a hell of an omission. But part of me still hoped he had a reasonable explanation. Granted it was a very small part. But it was still there, itching at the back of my mind. Urging me to polish off the last of my ice cream therapy and point my Jeep in the direction of Richard's office. I wasn't sure where Ramirez's cop friends were keeping Richard, but I knew someone at Dewy, Cheatum and Howe would. And it was time to have a little chat with the lying bastard.

I took the 10 into downtown, parking across the street from the law offices, as I wasn't in any sort of mood to walk the two blocks from the garage. Especially since I could feel the afternoon heat creeping into the high nineties again. Instead, I anted up the change for the meter and gratefully rode the air-conditioned elevator up to the fourth floor.

As usual, Jasmine was standing sentinel at her desk. She looked up and quickly closed whatever screen she'd been working on. I suspected another highly productive solitaire game.

"You again," she said. "You're not getting past me this time." She wagged an acrylic nail at me in scolding.

"Relax, Receptionist Barbie. I'm here to see about Richard."

She gave me a big, toothy smile, which I could swear actually said kiss off, bitch. "Richard is indisposed, as you may have heard."

"I know. I want to speak to whoever is handling his case."

"Do you have an appointment?"

I gritted my teeth. I counted to ten. I promised myself another pint of B&J's if I made it out of here without strangling her. "No. I don't have an appointment."

She smirked. I think she lived for people who didn't have appointments. "Please have a seat and I'll let Mr. Chesterton know you're here. But," she added with obvious glee in her eyes, "it could be a while. Mr. Chesterton's
very
busy right now."

I matched her kiss-off-bitch smile with one of my own. "I'll wait."

I sat down in a leather chair near the door as Miss PP dialed Mr. Chesterton's extension. She spoke to him for a few minutes, then hung up. "He'll be with you in a moment," she said. Which of course by the satisfied gleam in her eyes translated to: Get comfy. It could be awhile.

I held my tongue, watching as she opened her computer screen again, her eyes intent on what I guessed was a very difficult card game for a woman whose head was filled with silicone. Her evil Barbie sense must have felt my eyes on her as she turned around and caught me staring.

"What?" she asked, one hand on her hip.

"Nothing. I'm just amazed at how much you get done around here."

She narrowed her eyes. "Sarcasm isn't a very attractive trait."

"Neither is bitchiness."

Jasmine scowled at me. At least, she tried to scowl. Her eyebrows just kind of just twitched.

"Your eyebrows are twitching."

Jasmine's hands immediately went to her forehead and I had a moment of glee myself as she selfconsciously pulled out a compact.

"For your information, I'm frowning at you. It's the Botox. Dr. Bradley says I can't frown for another three days."

Ugh. Mental forehead slap.

"Well, you look very placid."

Jasmine snapped her compact shut again. "Thank you."

I refrained from pointing out that wasn't a compliment.

I was spared further conversation about Jasmine's cosmetic procedure number five thousand and one as the frosted doors opened and Mr. Chesterton ambled up to me.

"Miss Springer, we're so sorry to hear about Richard's legal troubles," he said, taking one of my hands in both of his. Mr. Chesterton reminded me of an oversize teddy bear, tall with fuzzy cheeks and large hairy hands. He had a loud, deep voice that sounded like Raymond Burr, which, I'm told, he used to full advantage in front of a jury. I felt a little better knowing he was in charge of Richard's defense.

Right behind him was Althea, looking especially dowdy today in a checked cardigan, corduroy A-line that reached mid calf and low-heel loafers. Her eyes never strayed higher than knee level as she stood meekly beside her employer.

"I can't tell you how eager we all are to get this whole unpleasantness cleared up," Chesterton continued. "We're sparing no expense on Richard's account."

Althea nodded beside him like a bobble head.

"Thank you," I said. "I feel better knowing someone's on Richard's side. I was kind of worried that the police aren't looking at any other suspects now."

Mr. Chesterton tilted his head. "Other suspects?"

"Well, if Richard didn't do it, someone else had to," I reasoned.

Mr. Chesterton gave me a blank look. Like the thought of Richard's innocence hadn't even occurred to him. Or, perhaps closer to the mark, just didn't interest him. Dewy, Cheatum and Howe, like most attorneys outside of a television sound stage, had no time for such trivial matters as guilt and innocence. It was all about probable cause, technicalities, loopholes and very large retainers.