Undercover in High Heels (15 page)

Bug-eyed Billy used a Sharpie to hook Felix’s hand
gun and pull it out of my purse. The grips in line jumped back, one of them actually gasping. Queen Latifah’s hand hovered over her own weapon, and she escalated her shouts into her walki-talkie until she sounded like she’d gone for the triple-shot espresso that morning.

“Ohmigod, Maddie! You have a gun?” Dana shrieked behind me.

“Look, I can explain, ” I said, holding my hands out in front of me. “It’s not loaded.” I think. “And it’s not even mine.”

Bug-eyed Billy narrowed his eyes at me. “Just like the
neck massager
wasn’t yours?”

“Right!” Only I realized too late that that was Billy’s attempt at sarcasm. “No! I mean, no, not like that. That was a misunderstanding. This is…It’s not mine!” I protested, really starting to worry now.

And then worry turned to downright panic as three more security guards rounded the corner, hands hovering over their weapons.

“Miss, please put your hands in the air.”

“I…I…” I sputtered.

“Just do it, Maddie. They look serious, ” Dana advised, taking a few steps backward.

I lifted my arms above my head, hoping my neckline didn’t shift low enough to give the grips a free show.

“Get down on your knees, ” one of the security guards barked.

“Is this really necessary—”

But Queen Latifah cut me off, tackling me from behind and slamming my body onto the ground beneath hers.

“Unh.” I felt the air rush out of me, my head going fuzzy as she pinned me with her bulk. This chick should seriously think about calling Jenny Craig.

“I got her! I got the two-fifteen!” Latifah called. I watched as three pairs of feet scuffled toward me, one of them pinning my hands behind my back a second before cool metal handcuffs slapped against my wrists.

“No, wait, it’s not like that…Please, you don’t understand…”

But it was useless. Even as I protested my innocence, the three security guards lifted me up by my armpits and were dragging me, still in my bare feet, toward the back of the lot.

“Don’t worry; I’m right behind you, ” Dana called.

I looked over my shoulder. The grips were giving Dana a wide berth, while Bug-eyed Billy meticulously went through her handbag.

Since my watch was in my purse, which had obviously been confiscated, I had no idea how long I sat at the folding table in the four-by-six room at the back of the Sunset Studios security office. But it was long enough that I was starting to fidget beneath the glare of the buzzing fluorescent lights. I nervously twirled one strand of blonde hair between my fingers, wondering what the charge for carrying a weapon onto studio property was. I wondered if it was even registered. Or legal. Maybe I was carrying a hot gun?

That was it: I was so switching back to pepper spray.

I was just wondering if Mrs. Rosenblatt had any more of her secret stash when the door opened and in walked Detective Prune Face, followed closely by Ramirez.

Gone was any trace of the guy who’d brought me
coffee in bed this morning. Instead, his eyes were dark and unreadable, his jaw set into those hard lines of granite, his posture stiff and unyielding, as if it took every ounce of strength he had not to reach over the table and strangle the blonde in slutty spandex.

I gulped down a dry lump.

Oh boy.

Prune Face looked at me, recognition dawning. “Wardrobe girl again.” He turned to Ramirez. “You wanna take this one?”

Ramirez’s granite jaw flinched. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

Prune Face hovered at the door a moment, his gaze bouncing between us. Finally he shrugged and backed out of the room. “Good luck.”

I wasn’t sure if that was directed at Ramirez or me. But by the death look in Ramirez’s eyes, it was clear I could use all the luck I could get.

I shifted nervously as Ramirez sat down in the folding chair opposite me and crossed his arms over his chest, silently staring me down.

“Okay, so here’s the thing. The gun—totally not mine. And I didn’t even remember I was carrying it. It just kind of slipped into my purse. Well, I guess technically Felix slipped it in—”

“Felix?” he interrupted.

“The reporter, remember? From the
Informer
. He’s…uh, a friend.”

Ramirez narrowed his eyes at me. “Friend?”

I bit my lip. “Yeah. Sorta.”

His eyes did that fine-slits thing again. “This the same ’friend’ who got you kidnapped last year?”

“Uh…”

He snorted. “That Felix is some guy.”

“Hey, he was just trying to offer me some protection. He was concerned about me.”

I’m not sure what made me defend Tabloid Boy, but clearly it was the wrong move. Ramirez leaned forward menacingly.

“I’m the
only
guy who gets to be concerned about you.”

If he didn’t look so scary, I might have been touched.

Instead, I gulped.

“What the hell are you even doing here?” Ramirez asked. He gave a long glance at my dress (lingering in what would have been the cleavage area, were I actually big enough to fill it out), and I could hear him mentally adding,
In that
. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, obscuring his view. “And I’m just supposed to do as I’m told, huh?”

“Once in a while it might be nice.”

“You know, you have some nerve—asking me to move in with you, then interrogating me.”

Ramirez raised one eyebrow. “
Move in
with me?”

“This morning you said I should stay at your place.”

Ramirez snorted again. “For a couple of days. Maddie, I didn’t say you should
move in
.”

I gulped back another lump, this one slightly larger. I know, I know.
I’d
been the one having the commitment freakout just this morning at the thought of cohabiting. But he didn’t have to sound so repulsed by the idea.

“I know!” I said a little too loudly. “I mean, it’s not
like I thought you meant
permanently
. Of course you weren’t
actually
asking me to move in. I mean, hell, you’re the guy who can’t even bring himself to give me a key.”

Ramirez scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered, “Jesus, ” under his breath. “Look, just stay away from this Felix guy, okay?”

My turn to narrow my eyes. “I don’t think you’re exactly in a position to tell me who I can and can’t be friends with.”

“The guy slipped a loaded gun into your purse! You realize you could have been arrested for carrying that thing onto studio property?”

“He was just trying to help!”

“What would help is if you stayed the hell out of this investigation. Look, just go back to my place and wait for me there.”

“I can’t, ” I yelled, tears piling up behind my eyes. “I locked the door!”

Ramirez muttered another “Jesus.” He rubbed a hand at his temple, as if just talking to me gave him a headache. “Look, I’ll have a uniformed officer drive you home. He’ll wait with you there. Okay?”

No, not okay. I hated being treated like I needed a babysitter. But since I was currently without home, car, or decent wardrobe (not to mention being stalked by a crazy woman), I didn’t have much choice. “Fine, ” I muttered. “But tell me one thing first.”

He rubbed at his temple again. “What?” The word came out on an exasperated sigh.

“Whose body did you find in Central Park?”

Ramirez paused, putting his Bad Cop face firmly into place.

“I’m going to find out sooner or later anyway, ” I reasoned.

He gave me a look, then blew out a deep breath. “Oh hell, ” he said, caving. “I’m sorry, Maddie. It was Dusty.”

For some inexplicable reason the room began to mambo in front of my vision, like I’d had one too many cosmos on the dance floor. “D-Dusty?” I sputtered, my voice sounding oddly disconnected even to my own ears.

It couldn’t be her. Dusty was fine. She was just a little shaken up about Veronika, right? She was just taking a few personal days. She was fine. Wasn’t she?

“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice high and threatening to crack.

Ramirez gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid so. Purple hair, multiple piercings?”

He was right. It was pretty hard to mistake Dusty for someone else. “B-but how? Why?” I asked, my mind racing over the last message Dusty had left me. She’d sounded upset. Or had she been scared? Fearing for her life?

Ramirez shook his head. “The why, we don’t know yet. But she was strangled, the same as Veronika. Only this time the guy used a bright orange scarf.”

I paused. Why did that ring a bell?

“An orange scarf? Orange wool?”

Ramirez cocked his head at me. “I don’t know about the wool part, but it was thick. Why? Do you know something?”

I licked my lips, willing the room to sit still. “Maybe. Margo has one. She tried to wear it on the set the other day, but I made her take it off.” I gulped down another crack in my voice. “Ohmigod, it’s Margo! Margo did it, didn’t she? Because she was jealous of Mia?”

“Hold on there, Nancy Drew.” Ramirez held one hand up. “What did Margo do with the scarf after she took it off?”

I closed my eyes, thinking back. Things had been a bit chaotic that day (what else was new on
Magnolia Lane
?). “I think she put it in the wardrobe room.”

“You think?” he prodded.

“Yes, I’m sure.” I nodded my head, gaining conviction. “I told her the scarf and the Crocs had to go, so she put them both on the sofa in the wardrobe room because she didn’t have time to go back to her trailer before the scene started. We were kind of running behind in wardrobe because Dusty…” I trailed off, remembering how Dusty had been absent from the set the last few days. I suddenly felt guilty. I should have tried harder to call her. Whatever had been bothering her, she’d never be able to tell me now. I wondered if maybe it was what had gotten her killed.

“So, anyone could have picked up the scarf?”

I gave myself a mental shake, pushing thoughts of Dusty to the back of my mind. “Maybe. But did you know that Margo has a serious grudge against Mia?”

“Oh?” He raised one eyebrow, leaning forward slightly.

I nodded and relayed the info Dana had shared with
me that morning, watching his face for any sign of agreement. “If Margo did have it in for Mia, ” I finished, “maybe Dusty saw something she wasn’t supposed to when Margo offed Veronika, only Margo thought that Veronika was Mia, but maybe Dusty knew it was Veronika, or at least she did after she found her in the trailer the next morning.” Yes, I realized that put like that, my theory was about as twisted as an L.A. freeway. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t accurate. As I’d learned lately, people could be pretty twisted, too.

Ramirez sat back in his chair, his face a complete blank as he digested this.

Remind me never to play poker with this guy.

“So, what do you think?”

“I think it’s time for you to go home.”

I rolled my eyes. “I meant about Margo.”

But Ramirez didn’t answer, instead scraping his chair back as he made for the door. “Wait here. I’ll get a uniform to drive you home.”

“But…” I started to protest, then gave up. What was the use? Actually, I’d gotten off pretty lucky. He hadn’t arrested me, and neither of us had stormed out. All in all, it had been one of our better conversations lately.

I picked at my flaking nail polish (mentally making an appointment at Fernando’s) as I waited in the little room again. Finally, a guy in uniform blues with a greasy black mustache walked in, my purse in one hand, my shoes in the other. I had never been so glad to see anyone in my life. I thanked him profusely as I donned my pink pumps and followed him outside to slip into the backseat of his patrol car.

Under the uniform’s watchful eye, I dialed Dana’s
cell, letting her know what had happened. She told me Steinman had, obviously, closed the set again today, and that she was going back to Ricky’s place to help him run lines instead. I told her to remember her celibacy pledge and said I’d call her later.

I sank back into the vinyl seats as we rode in silence toward Santa Monica. Even though I wasn’t under arrest, I felt slightly criminal sitting behind the divider between Officer Mustache and me, knowing that my doors didn’t open from the inside. I wondered how many big-time bad guys had occupied this same seat on their way to prison, where they knew they’d spend the rest of their lives. Carjackers, rapists, murderers. Murderers like Margo? I wondered. She was one of the few people on the set whom I hadn’t talked to much. Though until today she’d always struck me as harmless enough. In fact, she had a habit of fading into the background, and, with the exception of that one blowup on set, you tended to forget she was even there. I wondered if that would have been different if Margo had gotten the role of Ashley. If Mia were out of the way, I wondered what would happen to Nurse Nan’s character? She had been gaining momentum lately, especially with the baby-daddy story line.

Which brought me back to Veronika. Was it just a coincidence that she’d been pregnant and dating a mystery man? And if Mia had been the target, what was Veronika even doing in Mia’s trailer? I’d never been a big fan of puzzles, and this one was making my head hurt.

I was just about to reach into my purse and dig for an aspirin when the “William Tell Overture” burst out from its depths. Officer Mustache glanced at me through the bars in the divider.

“My cell, ” I explained, flipping it open. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Jasmine.”

My heart instantly sped up, and I gave a guilty glance at Officer Mustache, as if he could telepathically feel a “harebrained scheme” being cooked up in the backseat.

“Hi, ” I said in a low voice. “What’s up?”

“Why are you whispering?” she asked.

I cleared my throat. Then louder: “No reason. What’s up?” I gave Officer Mustache a reassuring smile in the rearview mirror. It came off a little feeble, but I think I saw him return it under his bristled lip.

“You asked me to call when he logged on, ” Jasmine said in a bored voice.

I held my breath. “Yes?”

“Well, he’s on. Logged on a couple of minutes ago.”

“A couple of minutes? You were supposed to call me the second he showed up!”

“Hey, I have stuff to do. I can’t just jump when you tell me, Blondie.”

I thought a really bad word.

“Okay, fine. Look, just keep him on. I’ll be right there.”

Officer Mustache glanced at me in the rearview, seemingly picking up on the panic in my voice. I sent him a one-finger wave. No return smile this time.
Crap.

“Fine. I’ll try. But hurry.” Jasmine punctuated this by hanging up on me with a loud click.

I flipped my phone shut and tapped on the divider.

“Uh, excuse me?”

Officer Mustache glanced in the rearview again. “Yeah?”

“Um, could we possibly make a little stop?”

He frowned. “No can do. Detective Ramirez was very clear: I should take you straight to your place and wait for him there.”

Damn. My babysitter was well-informed.

I shifted in my seat, the vinyl giving an unladylike burp, as I tried a different tactic. “Um, what address did he give you?”

“Ten Ocean View Road.”

I crossed my fingers and hoped that Ramirez was up for forgiving me just one more time. “That’s the wrong address.”

Officer Mustache gave me a confused look over his shoulder. “What do you mean, ‘wrong’?”

“I moved. Recently. Ramirez gave you my old address.”

Mustache gave me a scrutinizing look. I held my breath, trying to look as innocent as possible.

“Maybe I should call Ramirez to verify it.”

“No!” I shouted.

Mustache jumped in his seat.

“I mean, uh, no need to do that. No need to bother him over something so trivial. Right?”

He narrowed his eyes at me again in the mirror. I did a poor imitation of Dana’s eyelash-batting thing.

Officer Mustache gave me a long stare, then slowly nodded his head. “Yeah, okay.”

Mental sigh of relief.

“Anyhoo…let me give you my new one.” I recited Jasmine’s address and felt a little lift of triumph as he pulled off the 2 and made a U-turn, heading back to the 101.

I quickly dialed Felix’s number, which, fortunately, he picked up this time.

“Felix Dunn.”

“Where are you?”

“On my way home from the studio. Why?”

“We’re a go, ” I said.

“Cyber guy?”

“Yep.”

“All right, I’ll get the trace on him ASAP. Just keep him logged in.”

“I’ll try. Call me the second you have him. I’m not sure how long Jasmine can keep him on the line.”

“Done.”

Felix hung up, and I felt a little lift of excitement. With any luck, we’d have our baby-daddy identified in a matter of minutes.

As it turned out, Officer Mustache was a cautious driver, and by the time we pulled up in front of Jas-mine’s den of iniquity, I’d picked every bit of nail polish off my fingernails and was tapping my foot so hard I feared I might break a heel.

“You live here?” Mustache asked, doing a low whistle as he parked at the curb.

“Yup. Thanks for the ride!”

“Detective Ramirez told me to wait.”

“Oh. Right. Okay, sure, whatever.” Honestly, at the moment I couldn’t care less whether Officer Mustache cooled his heels at the curb. All I cared about was whether or not Veronika’s boyfriend was still logged into the system.

I practically raced up the pathway to Jasmine’s front door, the mix of adrenaline and sudden exertion leaving me panting like a Saint Bernard by the time she answered my knock.

“Is”—in—“he”—out—“still”—in—“logged”—out—“on?”

Jasmine gave me disgusted look (apparently Barbies don’t pant) and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep him hooked.”

I followed her into the house, past the living room,
and up a set of curved wrought-iron stairs. Jasmine then led me down a wide hallway full of closed doors, the walls punctuated with pictures of half-naked women doing acrobatics on the hoods of sports cars.

“I’ve got Anna entertaining him in one of the private chat rooms, but he’s already losing interest, ” she continued. “He’s already typed, ‘I gotta go, ’ like, three times.”

I looked down at my cell, willing it to chirp to life with Felix’s number. Nope. Silent. “Can’t she keep him on just a little longer?”

“She’s trying. But Anna’s a brunette. This guy really prefers blondes.”

“So, send in a blonde.”

Jasmine shook her head. “With Veronika gone, the only blondes I have are the twins, Mandi and Candi. They’re off today shooting a Doublemint commercial.” Jasmine paused, then gave me a slow up-and-down, her eyes settling on my down-to-there neckline.

Uh-oh.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Not me. I can’t do this kind of thing!”

Jasmine raised one eyebrow at me. “Really? ’Cause you’re certainly dressed the part.”

“No, I’m not…I mean, I don’t…Look, I can’t even talk dirty to my boyfriend without blushing.”

Jasmine scoffed at me. “It’s easy. Guys don’t need anything flowery. Just talk ‘tab A, slot B, ’ and pout a lot, ” she said, pushing me toward a closed door at the end of the hall.

“But what if he wants me to, you know…
play cards
?” I asked, lowering my voice.

Jasmine smirked, and I had a feeling this was some
sort of divine revenge on her part. “Don’t worry. Just ask him what he wants.”

“But I—”

Jasmine cut me off, opening the door and shoving me in ahead of her. In the center of the room sat a large, canopied four-poster bed covered in layers of pink and ruffles, in the center of which sat a brunette in her skivvies doing kissy-faces at a camera mounted in the corner of the room. Beside the bed sat a computer screen with a bunch of cables running from the back of it. On the screen were lines of text written by someone named BigBoy78. I squinted and made out the words
you’re so hot
and
take it off
.

Oh boy.

“Anna, ” Jasmine said, playing to the camera. “I need you downstairs. Maddie is going to take over in here.”

Anna did a seductive little wave to the corner, then followed Jasmine out the door.

“He’s all yours, ” Jasmine said. And I could swear I heard her Barbie laugh as she shut the door.

I bit my lip. I stared at the camera. I did a feeble little wave.

“Uh, hi.”

A line of text appeared on the computer monitor to the right.

I have to go now.

“Wait!” I shouted at the camera. I looked down at my cell. Still silent. “Please wait, I…I’m new here. Just give me a chance; I swear I’m really, really good. Supersexy and all that.”

I glanced at the monitor. Nothing.
Crap.

“Um, I’m totally into talking about tab A. And slot B.”

Still nothing. See, I knew I was no good at this stuff.

Channeling Dana, I did my best pouty-face at the camera and let one sleeve of my dress slip down my shoulder. “So, big boy, what do you want?”

I swore to God, if he told me to take it off, I was bolting. I nervously checked the monitor—and gave a loud sigh of relief when text appeared.

Show me your feet.

My feet? Okay. Feet I could do.

I sat down and lifted up one pink pump-clad foot for inspection. “I know, the shoes totally clash with the dress. I originally had a pink sundress on, but it kind of got caked. Then ripped. So, I’m clashing a little today.”

I glanced at the monitor. No response. Had I lost him? Dammnit, Felix, hurry up!

“Uh, want to see the other foot?” I asked. I lifted my left foot for inspection, crossing my ankles in the air.

Nice.

Oh, thank God. “Thanks. They’re new.”

Stuart Weitzman?

“Actually I designed them myself. See, I’m a shoe designer, and they’re one of my few originals.”