Spying in High Heels (6 page)

"You'll be okay; just take a few deep breaths." Ramirez sat down beside me. Or rather, I heard him sit and felt the heat from his body beside me.

I peeked up, careful to look at Ramirez and
not
the swimming pool where I could hear the splashes of men fishing the poor woman out.

"She's dead, right?" I know, stupid question. But I had to ask. Somehow my mind really, really wanted her to be okay. For this all to be one big mistake or a really bad
Punk'd
episode.

"Very dead."

"Who is—" I paused, correcting myself. "
Was
she?"

Ramirez narrowed his dark eyes at me. I could see him mentally debating whether to treat me like a suspect, witness, or just some dumb blonde who couldn't balance in her new heels. Finally he opened his mouth to speak, apparently settling on the dumb blonde theory. "Celia Greenway."

I swallowed hard, trying to decide how best to phrase my next question. "So, uh, she didn't just slip into the pool, did she?"

Ramirez shook his head slowly.

"You sure?"

He nodded.

"It was… I mean, she…" Somehow I couldn't bring myself to actually say the word "murder" out loud. It seemed too John Grisham and so
not
anyone's real life. At least not anyone I knew. I designed children's shoes, for crying out loud. I did not stumble upon dead bodies in posh Orange County swimming pools.

But instead of tripping over my own psyche, I rephrased the question. "Someone did this to her then?"

He hesitated, taking in the crumpled position I'd been in for the past half hour.

I straightened my spine, trying to make the most of my meager height in a show of bravado I certainly didn't feel. "I can take it. I'm a tough chick." Yeah right. I forced my gaze to stay on him, not on the gurney now wheeling away the unfortunate Mrs. Greenway in a human Hefty bag.

He gave in. "Okay. Yes, it looks like murder."

My stomach lurched again and I resisted the urge to stick my head between my knees.

Ramirez went on. "The official cause of death won't be pronounced until an autopsy can be done by the ME's office. But there were obvious ligature marks on the body. Her neck was black and blue."

"Strangled?"

Ramirez's gaze drifted to the swimming pool. "Looks like it."

As sorry as I felt for the poor woman, my thoughts immediately went to Richard, an unpleasant image of my boyfriend facedown in an OC pool invading my brain. I dropped the brave little soldier act and put my head between my legs again, taking deep breaths that smelled like my leather shoes, chlorine, and the cold sweat I felt trickling down my back.

"You sure you're okay?" Ramirez asked again.

"Yeah, fine." Which actually sounded like "yeffen."

"You're a really bad liar, you know."

"Duly noted."

"Well, since you're 'fine,' maybe you wouldn't mind answering a few questions about your boyfriend now."

I froze, a horrible thought slinking through my brain. Ramirez couldn't possibly think Richard had anything to do with this. I mean, not with Celia's death. He couldn't. Could he?

"What kind of questions?" I would have loved a clue as to what he was after. But as hard as I tried to read his stony expression, I came up blank. The man should have been cleaning up in Vegas with a poker face like that.

"Let's start with his whereabouts."

"I told you, I don't know. You think I'd be here if I knew?" My voice came out in a high whine I hadn't used since I'd lost my retainer in sixth grade. I sniffed back the tears I could feel welling behind my eyes. "I don't know where Richard is."

Ramirez stared at me for a second. The real unasked question was clear in his dark eyes as they narrowed in on me.

"Richard did
not
do this." I emphasized the point by shaking my head so violently those black dots threatened again. "He's not a killer. He's a lawyer. If he's pissed at someone, he sues them. He would never,
could
never, do this. You don't know Richard."

His cocked his head to one side. "Do you?"

I bit my lip. Good question. I thought I did. But obviously there were some aspects of his life he'd neglected to share with me.

Luckily I didn't have to come up with a clever answer, as a guy in a CSI shirt walked up the hillside toward us. Only this guy looked nothing like the hunks on the CBS version. He was tall, skinny and bald as a cue ball. His nose hooked over like a beak and he had small, calculating eyes that I would venture to guess didn't miss much.

"Is she ready?" he asked, addressing Ramirez as if I were a piece of deck furniture.

Ramirez glanced at me. "I'm not sure."

"Ready for what?" I asked.

Neither paid any attention. Instead, CSI Guy set his black bag down by his feet. "I think I should do her before she gets any further contaminated."

"
Contaminated
?" I asked.

Ramirez gave me another assessing glance. "Yeah, go ahead. She's ready."

"Ready for what?" My voice was threatening that Minnie Mouse quality again as my gaze ping-ponged back and forth between them.

Ramirez sighed, taking on a patient tone one might use with a kindergartner. "They need to take samples of your hair, fingerprints and shoe impressions. You've contaminated the crime scene by being here. They need to be able to rule you out as they process the evidence."

CSI Guy pulled out a small roller that looked suspiciously like the one I used on my black cashmere after visiting Mom and her army of tabby cats. His tiny eyes scrutinized me like I was one giant piece of evidence. Without so much as an introduction, he proceeded to run the roller over my blue baby tee, down my sleeves, up my sides, and in places most guys didn't touch without dinner and a movie first.

Ramirez looked on and I could swear he was almost enjoying the show.

"This isn't funny," I shot at him with as much dignity as I could muster while being groped by a lint roller.

"Nothing funny whatsoever." Only Ramirez's eyes crinkled at the corners as he said it.

I decided to change the subject. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"I assume this is Celia Greenway's house."

He nodded.

"Did you know she would be… I mean was…"

"Dead?"

I cringed. Somehow the word seemed so final. Like poor Celia Greenway would never again know the joy of a semi-annual clearance sale at Bloomies, the scent of new leather pumps, or the thrill of finding that one-of-a-kind bag in the half-off bin. (Really, it's the little things that make life worth living.)

I tried to soften the image. "Swimming."

"No, I didn't. I just wanted to talk to her."

CSI Guy tucked the roller into a baggie, which he then deposited in what looked like a black fishing tackle box. He pulled out a pair of tweezers and eyed my hair.

"What?" I asked.

CSI Guy didn't answer, just circled me, scrutinizing my blond highlights.

"What is he doing?" I asked Ramirez.

"He needs a hair sample. Preferably one with a skin tag for DNA analysis."

"DNA? I didn't say you could have my DNA. I don't want him touching my hair."

He narrowed his eyes. "Then you shouldn't have crashed my crime scene."

Touche.

I shut my mouth, not wanting to push my luck. If Ramirez wanted to, I was sure he could make my life very miserable. I knew I was trespassing, meddling, snooping and a whole host of other minor sins cops didn't look upon too fondly. Besides, the way Ramirez had asked about Richard, I wasn't entirely sure that we were on the same side and it didn't seem wise to make enemies at this point. I had enough problems without Mr. Hardbody complicating things.

One of the uniforms called Ramirez down to the pool level, leaving me alone with CSI Guy, who continued circling my head for the perfect hair. After he chose a couple of innocent little strands
(not
gently, I might add), he poured some plaster into two plastic trays and told me to step into them. I did, after making him promise on his mother's life that the plaster would wash off of my shoes. The death of Mrs. Greenway was tragedy enough for one day; we didn't have to compound it by adding the demise of three-hundred-dollar suede.

As the hook-nosed evidence collector worked, I dared to gaze back at the swimming pool again. With the body gone and the afternoon sun casting a shimmery light on the pool's smooth surface, the scene looked anything but sinister. In fact, if you dressed the CSI ants in chinos and Abercrombie, this would look like any other day in the OC.

Just goes to show you, looks can be deceiving.

I closed my eyes, letting the sun warm my face as I tried to wrap my thoughts around what I'd learned today.

Devon Greenway had embezzled twenty million dollars from his company. Celia and Richard were the only people who knew the details. Celia was dead and Richard was missing. I prayed Richard was only hiding out from Greenway and not…

Swimming.

"You finished?" Ramirez climbed back up the hill, and addressed CSI Guy, who was packing his plaster moldings into another black bag.

"I've got all I need," he answered, picking up his bags.

"Good."

CSI Guy gave me a curt nod, which I took as a "thanks for not squirming too much," and trekked back down the hill. Ramirez watched him go, then sat down beside me.

Close beside me.

A little too close. I wiggled away, the increase in pheromones nearly choking me.

Ramirez turned, his eyes darker than a double espresso as a half smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Do I make you nervous?"

What, me nervous? Nuh uh.

I nodded. I can be such a chicken.

Which of course caused his smile to grow into a full-fledged grin, complete with wolfish white teeth. "Good."

I looked away, preferring the sight of the swimming pool to the wicked gleam in Ramirez's eyes. I had a feeling it was the same gleam he got when he dragged someone off to jail.

Or into bed.

I didn't want to find out which. (Bok, bok.)

"So…" I said, clearing my throat, "what now?"

Ramirez shifted closer. The scents of Downey and Right Guard hit me as Ramirez casually draped one arm around my shoulders.

"Now," he said, leaning in close. "I take you home."

Bok, ba-gawk!

* * *

Luckily, I convinced Ramirez I was okay to drive myself home. It
had
been a full hour since I'd been fetal. Not to mention that the idea of sitting beside Ramirez the Hormone Machine during rush-hour traffic back to Santa Monica made the cab of his SUV seem about ten times too small. And last but not least, coming back to this place tomorrow to retrieve my Jeep didn't hold any appeal. In fact, I had a feeling I'd be staying out of Orange County altogether for a while. (Unless there was a sale at the Block.)

By the time I finally pulled up to my studio, it was dark and I was famished. I fixed myself a grilled cheese with tons of gooey cheddar and washed it down with a Diet Coke. After the day I'd had, I would have preferred a beer, but considering my persistent lateness, I didn't think that was wise. Instead, I hit the play button on my answering machine, crossing my fingers that there was something from Richard.

One message from my mom, telling me she'd booked Beefcakes for her bachelorette party. (Ugh!) One from Faux Dad, saying he'd picked up a basket of hand-knitted baby items for Molly the Breeder. (Double ugh!) And one from Dana, asking if I'd seen a pink line yet. (There weren't enough ugh!'s in the world to express how this made me feel.)

Nothing from Richard.

I eyed the EPT still sitting on my kitchen counter and suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I felt like crying. I felt like my life had suddenly become an episode of
Law & Order: Special Blonde's Unit
. This week our fashionable, but oh-so-impractically dressed blonde stumbles onto a dead body while searching for her embezzling boyfriend who flies the coop as Maddie's monthly visitor refuses to make an appearance.

Not to mention the hunky lead of the series, Detective Jack Ramirez. He was danger with a capital "D." No, make that a capital, underlined and italicized,
D
.

I grabbed another Diet Coke, trying to ignore the instant flush at the thought of Ramirez. Though in my defense, it was hard not to flush around a man like that.

I lay down on my futon and turned on the TV, telling myself these were not the thoughts a pregnant woman should be thinking. I should not be fantasizing about rock-hard abs, wicked brown eyes, and a smile that could melt the clothes off the Mona Lisa. Instead, I should be thinking about drinking a gallon of water, taking, that EPT into the bathroom, and facing up to whatever those little pink lines threw at me. And I would. I eyed the test. Someday very soon.

I flipped to
Letterman
and settled in as he ran the Top Ten Signs You've Been in the Heat Too Long. He only got to number five ("George Hamilton looks an albino next to you.") before I fell asleep.

And dreamed of Ramirez, doing laps in a sparkling blue swimming pool.

In the buff.

First thing the next morning, I retrieved the long-forgotten phone number from my pants pocket and called Richard's mother. I didn't really expect to find him there, but I figured I might as well cover all my bases.

Unfortunately, his mother hadn't heard from him since he'd called for her birthday three weeks ago. I then proceeded to call his cleaning lady, his gardener and his dry cleaner, asking if they'd seen Richard in the last few days. Nothing. He'd vanished off the face of the earth last Friday and no one had seen him since.

I made myself a cup of coffee and a chocolate-frosted Pop-tart, which I ate at the kitchen counter as I went over my options. And really, when it came down to it, I didn't have any. Either I could track Richard down myself, or I could let Ramirez do it and possibly lead my boyfriend away in handcuffs. I didn't really believe Richard was guilty of embezzlement, but his disappearing act wouldn't convince Ramirez he was an innocent bystander. Unless I wanted to visit Richard behind bars, I had to find him first.