Spying in High Heels (30 page)

I poured myself a second cup of coffee and took it into the living room.

Well, now what?

Contrary to my decision to become an official cheerleader last night, the idea of sitting back and doing nothing while waiting for Ramirez to give me the "all clear" signal to go back to my life didn't appeal to me. And I was more convinced than ever that the real killer was not only on the loose, but that I was getting close enough to make her nervous.

The only problem was, where to go from here? I'd pretty much exhausted Greenway's supply of playmates. I closed my eyes, mentally going down my list again.

It was possible Carol Carter had hired someone to kill Greenway, but I seriously doubted she'd even know where to find him if she really had been in Canada all week. Ditto Andi Jameson. After the pencil-dick incident, I didn't see Greenway inviting her over to the Moonlight for a reconciliation.

That left Bunny. I only had her word for it that she and Greenway had split at all. And let's not forget Cinderella. If she had been toying with Greenway on the side, she had just as much opportunity as Bunny to get rid of him.

The question was, which one of them had hacked into the phony accounts and funneled out the twenty mil? Who'd had access to Richard's computer? As I'd already proven, getting past Jasmine didn't take the skills of a CIA-trained spy; any blonde with half a brain could have slipped into Richard's office while she was out at lunch. And luckily, my one ally in the Richard's Innocent Campaign was the person who'd know the comings and goings of Richard's office better than anyone. Althea.

I looked up at the clock. It was too late to coincide my inquiry with Jasmine's lunch break, so I decided to wait until five. If I knew Jasmine, she'd be the first to leave when quitting time rolled around. If I were quick, I could probably catch Althea before she left for the day without having my conversation overheard by Gossip Barbie.

Feeling pretty pleased with my plan, I settled back onto the sofa to watch trashy daytime TV for the rest of the afternoon. Unfortunately, the first thing I flipped on was Maury Povich doing a segment on surprise paternity results. I looked down at my belly. Were there any surprises in there?

I contemplated going out to buy a new pregnancy test, but considering that my Jeep was still at my place, it was at least a two-mile hike in the rapidly climbing heat to the nearest drugstore, and I looked like I'd just gone two rounds with Oscar De La Hoya, I decided that might not be such a hot idea.

Though I seemed to remember Dana saying something about an emergency just-in-case test…

I muted Maury and went into the bathroom, rummaging through Dana's cabinets until I hit upon that familiar EPT pink stashed behind a bag of cotton balls. I stared at the box. Well, I figured things couldn't very well get much worse in my life. I might as well face the music sooner rather than later.

I ripped open the box, skimming over the instructions again for good measure, then did the whole five-second urine test thing. I sat down on the rim of the bathtub to wait, gnawing my fingernails so badly Marco was sure to shriek in horror when I came in for my next manicure. Seconds crawled as I watched Dana's Betty Boop shower clock tick off the three minutes until I saw lines. Or line—singular. God I hoped it was line. Finally Betty's little red second hand had done three full rotations and I jumped up as if I were sitting on springs. Resisting the urge to cover one eye, I peeked at the little windows. Nothing. Huh?

I picked up the instructions again, rereading them. Pee on the cotton swab, leave stick on flat surface, check for lines. I had done all that. I stared at the empty windows again. What the hell? I picked up the box, turning it over to look at the expiration date. January 15, 2002. Ugh. Mental forehead smacking.

I threw the useless test in the trash, too emotionally drained to even curse Dana for keeping an expired test around, and flopped myself back onto the sofa, wishing Dana had something more comforting than low-carb Newtons and Diet Snapple Iced Tea to gorge myself on. I so needed a box of Double Stuff Oreos right now. Instead, I settled for
Jenny Jones
reruns.

By four I knew how to stuff a game hen, six signs you need a sexy makeover, and that Bo's brother was really Hope's secret lover. I was sufficiently vegged out. Flipping off the TV, I decided Jasmine was probably packing it in for the day and it was safe to resume the next phase of Operation Free Richard. I grabbed my purse and called a cab, hoping I'd timed my trip downtown so I'd miss Jasmine.

Unfortunately, the 101 was clear of accidents and my cab driver was an eager little beaver in his blue turban, so the first face I saw as I walked into Dewy, Cheatum and Howe was, predictably, Jasmine's.

She looked up as I walked though the front doors, her eyes narrowing like a cat's. "What do you want?"

"Are you always this friendly?"

She scrunched up her nose, squinting at my face. "What happened to your eye?"

"Some receptionist gave me lip. We tussled. If you think this is bad, you should see her."

She took a hand on hip stance. "Listen, you, I don't have time for this. I have a date. Why don't you just go home and make an appointment to see Chesterton tomorrow."

"I'm actually here to see Althea."

Jasmine's eyes narrowed again beneath her brows. "Althea? What do you want with her?"

"Well, I think that's between Althea and me, don't you?" I gave her my best fake smile, showing teeth and everything.

She scowled. Well, tried to scowl. It was more like a lopsided squint. That Botox was really working. "Fine. I'll get her. Wait here." She walked around the reception desk, her lipo-shrunk butt wiggling in her barely there skirt. I didn't know how she got away with wearing that kind of stuff to work. Honestly, it was the kind of outfit I'd have to borrow to make another midnight run to the Moonlight Inn. The only decent thing about it were her knockoff Prada boots, the perfect made-in-Taiwan replicas of the pair I'd tried on yesterday. Cute, but, like everything else about Jasmine, fake.

A few minutes later Jasmine came back through the frosted doors, Althea in tow. Althea was dressed in a striped jumper that reminded me of a private-school uniform, boxy and shapeless. She shuffled toward me, talking in hushed tones.

"Maddie, what's wrong? Has something happened to Richard?" she asked, genuine concern lacing her voice. Then she paused. "What happened to your eye?"

"Nothing. Bar fight. Tripped. Whatever." I waved the question away. "Anyway, Richard's fine. I actually just want to ask you…" I paused, glancing behind me at Jasmine.

I'd hoped she'd leave for her date, but she suddenly seemed in no hurry, picking up a nail file and trying to look like she wasn't listening in.

I sighed, resigned to her eavesdropping, and pulled the newspaper photos of Bunny and Andi Jameson out of my purse. "I wanted to know if you've seen either of these women come into the office."

Althea took the photos, pursing her thin lips together as she studied them. I could feel Jasmine leaning over the desk to get a better look.

"No." Althea shook her head. "Sorry, I don't recognize either of them. Who are they?"

I tried not to sound too disappointed. "Women Greenway dated. I thought maybe one of them could have slipped in and gained access to Richard's files."

Althea gave me an apologetic look. "I really wish there was something I could do to help Mr. Howe. We all miss him around here." She bit her lip, then turned awkwardly and shuffled back through the frosted doors.

I put the photos back in my purse, trying not to feel defeated. I mean, just because Althea hadn't seen anyone, that didn't mean no one had snuck in. I looked up at Jasmine, still tying to appear uninterested behind her desk. Did I dare ask her?

I watched her file her nails for a second, her legs crossed so one Prada knockoff stuck out from behind the desk. They were pretty good knockoffs actually. I resisted the urge to ask her where she'd bought them. I looked closely, taking in the details. Unlike most knockoffs, the metal zippers were clearly embossed with the Prada logo and the stitching was tiny and precise, not puckered. And, as Jasmine uncrossed her legs, I noticed they had that soft ease of movement unlike the usual stiff imitations. In fact… I took a step closer, openly staring at her shoes now.

Oh my god. Those weren't knockoffs. Those were a genuine pair of five hundred-dollar Prada boots.

And suddenly it hit me. Where had Jasmine gotten the money for Prada?

Chapter Twenty

I stared, my gaze riveted to the imported calfskin. I felt like a
Jeopardy
! contestant, suddenly faced with all the answers if only my brain would catch up quickly enough to find the right questions to ask. The blond hairs in the motel room. Access to Richard's files. One expensive cosmetic surgery after another on a salary that made mine look decadent. Ohmigod. Jasmine was mistress number four.

I swallowed hard, realizing I was still staring. Then looked up to find Jasmine watching me. Our eyes locked and I felt my blood turn cold.

"Are you still here?" she asked, her voice oddly flat.

"Me?" I squeaked out. "Nope. No, I'm done. I'm gone. I mean, I'm leaving now. See, here I go."

She cocked her head to one side, looking at me funny as I turned and all but ran out the door. I didn't wait for the elevator, instead taking the stairs two at a time, hoping I didn't fall and break my neck, as theories swirled through my brain at an alarming pace. Had Greenway met Jasmine on one of his visits to Richard's office? What if he'd had an affair with her? With Jasmine's eavesdropping habit, she was sure to have overheard something of Richard and Greenway's less-than-legal money shuffling. And she had easy access to all Richard's files. Including bank account numbers. Jasmine had shot Greenway, I was sure of it.

Breathing heavily, I ran outside into the heat and got halfway to the parking garage before I remembered I didn't have my Jeep. Crap.

I paused on the sidewalk between Bernie's Pawn Shop and Starbucks. I pulled my cell phone out, poised to call Ramirez and tell him what I'd learned. But I hesitated. As sure as I was that Jasmine had done it, I didn't have a shred of proof. I had a feeling that when Ramirez heard about my latest shoe clue, he'd have a good chuckle and I'd get the Big Boy speech again. Add to that my promise to leave the whole thing alone (never mind I'd had my fingers crossed), and I wasn't really excited about facing Bad Cop again.

What I needed was proof. Anything that definitively tied Jasmine to Greenway. Something more than a designer shoe. I had to get to her computer. It hadn't escaped my notice that her computer screen closed with lightning speed whenever I walked into the reception room. I'd bet my favorite slingbacks that the numbers of an offshore account, recently twenty million dollars richer, were buried somewhere between her solitaire games. Ramirez and his crew had no doubt torn Richard's hard drive inside out, but who would have bothered with the receptionist's computer?

I looked down at my watch. Five-fifteen. In another couple of hours, the office would be empty. One thing I'd learned while dating Richard was that if lawyers were going to work late, they were damn well going to charge their clients for a steak dinner while doing it. After eight the offices would be deserted. And Jasmine's computer unmanned.

I ducked into the Starbucks and ordered a mocha frappuccino, which I took to a seat by a window with a good view of Richard's building. I hadn't been there two minutes when Jasmine exited the building, her Prada boots calling to me as she walked the two blocks to the garage. I sipped my drink and waited, watching one law clerk after another leave the building. Althea came out a few minutes later, a patchwork bag with a picture of a cat on it slung over her shoulder as she made her way to the Metro Rail. Finally Donaldson left the building, getting into his Mercedes and pulling away from the curb just as it was beginning to get dark.

I forced myself to wait another half hour, just in case an important file or brief had been left behind. The after-dinner crowd began to arrive, filling the coffeehouse with hand-holding couples. I ordered another frappuccino, watching the theater-goers and homeless converge on the downtown streets. After my butt became numb and my pupils were fully dilated from caffeine overload, I finally grabbed my purse and made my way back across the street to the offices.

The building was eerily quiet as I rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. I knew the doors stood unlocked for the cleaning crew, but the only noise I heard as I got off the elevator was the steady hum of abandoned computers.

Slowly I pushed through the frosted doors of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe, my limbs buzzing with nervous energy. Not to mention two grande frappuc-cinos. I tiptoed through the dark office, the plush carpet swallowing up the sound of my heels as the light from Jasmine's idle monitor guided my way.

I quickly tiptoed to Jasmine's desk, slipping behind the mahogany behemoth. Luckily, like everyone else, she kept her computer on when she left for the day. She'd logged out of the system, but I entered her back in easily enough with Richard's password. Briefs. How original. I did a mental eye roll.

Once in, I wasn't really sure what to look for. I knew I wouldn't be lucky enough to find a file marked "Swiss bank account number" but I was at a loss for where to look. I'll admit, I'm not a. computer genius. I can do AOL and iTunes, but beyond that I'm kind of clueless. I began opening random files, hoping to stumble upon something useful. I could feel the clock ticking behind me and I knew it was only a matter of time before a man with a vacuum came in and asked what I was doing here.

I opened her Internet Explorer and checked her online history. Yestheyrefake.com, a plastic surgery site, came up. No big surprise. I clicked around a little more and stumbled across a pay-per-play cyber-sex site. Livelovelyladies.com. Ugh. At least Jasmine was keeping busy at work.

I'd almost given up, deciding that Ramirez was right and I was grasping at straws, when I noticed a group of files that were numbered instead of named. I'd seen files like this on Richard's computer before. Usually these numbers indicated a case number, and contained Richard's typed trial notes. I clicked, opening the files one by one. As expected, most held snippets of information about witnesses, motions, and various legal citings. But as I went down the list, opening file after file, I ran across one that was blank. I looked closely at the numbers of the other files. They all had six. This one had ten. I felt my adrenaline kick in. Did Swiss bank accounts have ten numbers? I grabbed a Post-it note from Jasmine's desk, jotting down the number. Ramirez was so going to eat crow over this.