Spying in High Heels (27 page)

I was just contemplating whether or not I should take the can out to the Dumpster in the back of the building, when the phone rang.

"Hello?" I answered.

There was a pause on the other end, but I heard breathing.

"Hello?" I tried again, envisioning Richard trying to make a call while rapists and murderers breathed, down his neck.

Only the voice I heard wasn't Richard's. It was a woman's.

"Greenway deserved what he got. Leave it alone. Or the next bullet's for you."

Chapter Eighteen

I froze, the receiver still glued to my ear as the line went dead. Ohmigod. Had it been Bunny? Andi? Thong woman? I couldn't tell. The voice had been kind of muffled. It was a woman, that much I knew. And she was pissed.

I shivered and quickly replaced the receiver as if she could reach through the phone and shoot me. If ever I needed confirmation that Richard was innocent, that was it.

How had she gotten my number? How did she even know who I was? Did she know where I lived too?

I ran to the front door and checked the lock. Still in place. I unlocked and relocked it again just in case. Then I checked all the windows and shut the blinds. I had the irrational urge to hide under my futon. Instead, remembering my own stint crouching in Richard's closet, I quickly scanned mine. I was relived to find no one hiding in my seasonal sweaters.

After checking the lock on the front door one more time, I sat down on my futon and turned the television on really loud, trying to fill the now menacing silence with
Seinfeld
reruns. Only I wasn't paying attention to Jerry. I was listening for sounds outside. Like the sounds of a crazed thong-wearing, stilettoed blond homicidal maniac. I turned
Seinfeld
down so I could hear better.

I was truly getting freaked out.

I needed a weapon. Something in case Homicidal Barbie tried to break in during the night. Like a sharp knife or a heavy wrench. Unfortunately, since I didn't cook or do carburetors, I didn't have either. My eyes scanned the room for anything heavy enough to conk a Barbie on the head. I grabbed my dusty Thighmas-ter from the closet and jumped back onto my futon.

Nope. Still didn't feel safe.

Reluctantly, I pulled Ramirez's number out of my purse. I stared at it. The right thing to do was call the cops, right? I mean, I'd just received a death threat. This was the sort of things cops did. Respond to calls like this.

Only, after our fight this morning, I didn't really want to be the one to make first contact. I mean, I didn't want Ramirez to think this was just some excuse to call him. If I called him first, that made me the loser, right?

I bit my lip, deciding which was worse, being a loser or being Barbie prey. I grabbed my cordless and dialed the number. It rang once. And then I chickened out and hung up. Shit. I was a loser.

The phone rang in my hand and I jumped about three feet in the air. My hands shook as I pressed the on button.

"Hello?" Oh god, please let it be a telemarketer.

"Maddie?"

No such luck. It was Ramirez.

"Oh, hi."

"Did you just call me? Your number came up on my caller ID."

I cursed modern invention.

"Oh, uh, yeah. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Fine. I called and hung up. Happy?"

There was a pause on the other end. I expected laughter but instead his voice held a note of concern. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

Damn. I hated that I was acting like a teenager and he was being all concerned and touching. Mad-die, you are seriously screwed up, girl.

"Yes. I'm okay. I just got a disturbing phone call."

A pause again. "Tell me about it."

So I did. It didn't take very long. It was a short call, but the chill in the caller's voice was leaving a long impact. When I finished there was a silence on the other end again.

"Do you want me to come over?" he asked.

Boy, did I. And I wasn't even thinking about sex. Much. Just the thought of Bad Cop with his big bad gun guarding my door made me feel a lot less like hiding under my futon. On the other hand, calling and hanging up had been pretty girly of me. And asking him to come spend the night just because some woman was crank calling me would be
really
girly. So despite the fact that my insides were screaming, "Yes, come over, bring your gun and let's get naked," I managed to muster up some pride.

"No, thanks. I've got my Thighmaster. I'm fine. Really."

I could hear him sighing on the other end. I don't think he believed that any more than I did.

Finally he said, "You have my number, right?"

"Yes."

"Put it on speed dial." Then he hung up.

I turned off the ringer and complied, adding Ramirez's number to my speed dial. Then I clutched my Thighmaster in one hand as my pride and I hunkered down for a long night. Punctuated by dreams of killer Mattel dolls and a naked Ramirez. Was my subconscious screwed up or what?

The next morning I woke up early and checked to make sure all the doors and windows were still locked. They were. Which should have made me feel better, but only served to heighten my paranoia. I skipped the shower—visions of Janet Leigh's
Psycho
scene playing through my head—and downed two cups of coffee instead as I quickly got dressed.

I checked my messages and found one from Althea saying that visiting hours at the prison were from two to four, and she'd put me on the list to see Richard. I said a silent thank you that at least someone was on my side.

The second message was from Dana. She'd changed her mind about borrowing an outfit, but now she, needed a new pair of boots. Did I want to shoe shop with her?

On the one hand, it seemed kind of frivolous to be shopping while my life was quickly crumbling around me. On the other, a new pair of shoes always helped me think more clearly…

I quickly called Dana back and told her I'd meet her at Neiman's in half an hour.

Neiman Marcus was located in Beverly Hills just three blocks from Wilshire's famous Miracle Mile, teeming with museums, restaurants, and most importantly, store after designer store filled with fashion temptation for the Visa challenged such as myself. I rounded the block, parked in the garage, and found Dana sitting in Neiman's shoe department, a pile of boots on the seat beside her.

"You're late," she said.

What was with people continually pointing this out?

"Sorry. I had a long night."

"Oooh… with your detective?"

"No!" Thanks to my stupid pride. "And he's not
my
detective. He's just
a
detective." Who kept showing up in my dreams naked. Ugh.

"Too bad. So…" Dana got that wicked twinkle in her eyes. The one that through many years of friendship I'd come to associate with short-term men. "Ask me about my night with Sasha." She wiggled her eyebrows up and down.

"Would you hate me if I said I'd rather not?"

"It was fabulous! Maddie, the man is a machine." She held up four fingers. "Four times. Four separate orgasms in one night. Can you imagine?"

I was ashamed to say, I almost couldn't.

"I'm telling you, he's like the Energizer Bunny. He just goes, and goes, and goes…"

"I get the point."

"And the best part is…" She leaned in close, pseudo whispering. "… he has a friend. Micha." She winked at me. "Wanna double date tonight?"

I admit, the Energizer Bunny aspect was tempting. "Dana, the last thing I need right now is another man."

She cocked her head at me. "But didn't you say Richard was married? And, like, in jail?"

"Can we not talk about this right now?"

She shrugged. "Okay, whatever. Just think about it, okay?" She held up four fingers again.

I rolled my eyes and quickly changed the subject. "Are those Prada?"

"Uh huh. You likey?" Dana wiggled her toes in a pair of camel-colored calfskin boots.

"Likey? Honey, I'm in lovey. Can you afford Prada?" I asked.

"I wish. But I can afford to try them on."

As if on cue a salesman emerged from the back room, carrying three more boot boxes that he deposited on the seat beside Dana.

"Thank you, David," she said, reading his name tag. "You're an absolute doll." Then she flashed him her biggest, flirtiest smile. "And would you mind checking if you have these," she pointed to a pair of spike-heeled Guccis, "in black?"

"No problem." He then looked expectantly at me.

"Oh, I, uh…" I looked from the calfskin Prada to the salesman. What the hell. "And those in a seven and a half."

Twenty minutes later I was warring with my Visa over whether there was any chance in hell I could afford Prada. Maybe if I sold my car, and didn't eat for the next six months I could swing them. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I decided it would almost be worth it. The soft tan leather felt as light and airy as silk against my legs and the soles were so finely crafted it felt like I was walking on clouds. Not to mention that the three-inch heels made my calves look almost like Dana's. Tiny precision stitching, perfectly molded contours, and that shiny little Prada logo zipper. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what shoes were meant to be. I twirled in front of the mirror and did a little sigh.

Unfortunately my Visa won the argument when I did the math on how many pairs of kiddie shoes I'd have to design to afford one pair of boots. It was not pretty. Reluctantly I put my own emerald slingbacks back on. Dana and I left Prada at Neiman's and she settled on a pair of white vinyl go-go boots for her reinvention
of Mod
Squad Chic.

Purchases in hand, we walked down the street to Leon's where I ordered extra cheesy chili fries and Dana munched on a low-fat cucumber and sprouts pita as I told her about my late-night caller.

When I finished, Dana looked thoughtful, grazing on her sprouts. "So who do you think it was?"

"I don't know. Bunny maybe? She was pretty pissed when I ran into her at Charlie Platt's."

"Uh huh." Dana popped a cucumber into her mouth, chewing as she nodded.

"Or maybe Andi. She did sound like she had a vicious streak to her."

"You know," Dana said, licking her fingers, "I'm wondering, have you thought about the wife?"

"Celia?" I asked. "She's dead."

"No, I meant Richard's wife."

I froze, chili fry halfway to my mouth. "I thought we weren't mentioning his marital status."

"Sorry, sorry," she said, waving her napkin in the air. "It's just…" She trailed off, biting her lip.

I gave in. "What? What about Richard's wife?"

"Well, we've been going on the theory that the murders are tied to Greenway's infidelity. But what about Richard's infidelity?"

I cringed. "Go on?"

"Well, maybe his wife found out about you and was pissed. What if she used Greenway to frame Richard? Seeing your cheating ex on death row would be one hell of a revenge."

I popped a chili fry in my mouth as I chewed on this new angle. I had to admit, I liked it. "If she was planning on divorce, twenty million dollars
would
make a nice parting gift. And, as Richard's wife, Cinderella could have easily gained access to his files."

"Right. And women do get a little crazy when they discover they've been lied to."

You're telling me.

Dana shrugged. "It's something to think about anyway."

It certainly was. The only question was, would Cinderella really kill two people in cold blood just to get revenge on Richard? I shuddered. I always knew there was something creepy about those Disney characters.

"Well," Dana said, balling up her napkin, "this has been fun, but I've got to be in Hollywood in twenty minutes." She held up her go-go boots. "Wish me luck."

"Break a leg," I said as she gave me an air kiss and made her way back down Wilshire. As I watched her round the corner toward the parking structure, my mind was still digesting the Cinderella theory. I scooped up the last of the chili with a soggy French fry and popped it in my mouth. I had to admit, the more I thought about it, the more I really, really wanted the killer to be Cinderella. Why not? Ramirez said that the gun was hers in the first place. Who better to use it? And the blond hairs in Green-way's room could have easily come from her. Heck, maybe Cinderella was even having an affair with Greenway? I mean, what did I really know about her anyway? Not much. Just that she drove a brand-new roadster.

And was married to Richard. The bitch.

I looked down at my watch. Two-ten. Visiting hours at the prison started ten minutes ago. No time like the present to drag a few answers out of Richard. I quickly threw away the remains of my calorie-splurge lunch and headed for my Jeep.

The L.A. County lockup was about the same as you'd see in any prison movie. Bleak and square, a series of cement blocks painted a dull orange sometime in 1976. The inside wasn't much better, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and smelling like Pine Sol and cigarettes. An indefinable feeling of tension hung in the air and no one quite looked me in the eye.

I had to stop at the desk to have my purse examined inside and out for anything that could be used as a weapon (they held my nail file hostage) and was patted down twice by a woman who looked like John Goodman. Then I was sent into the gymnasium-like room full of tables and chairs where weepy women sat across from men in orange jumpsuits. All of them looked like they could use a good bath and a dose of anti-bacterial soap.

The stony-faced guards flanking the room did little to soothe my nerves, so I took a place at a table near the door. Five minutes later Richard was led through the self-locking door on the far end of the room. I almost felt pity for him as he sat across from me. His eyes were rimmed in dark circles like he hadn't slept and his chin was covered in pale stubble. Only it didn't remind me of a Schick commercial. More like Nick Nolte's mug shot.

"Thanks for coming," he said.

I nodded, not really sure what to say.

"Chesterton tell you I wouldn't make bail?"

I nodded again. "I'm sorry."