Undercover in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  Clearly today wasn’t that day.

  I finally ran out of breath and sat down at a bus stop somewhere in New York. “Somewhere” being the key word here. As I wiped at my damp cheeks, I realized I had no idea where I was.

  The fake city was eerily creepy in the fading dusk, the setting sun creating shadow across the New York skyline. I did a few unladylike hiccups, getting myself under control as I got up and walked down the street, half expecting a mugger to jump out of the dirty alleyway, even though I knew the dirt had been spray painted on by set dressers and the only rats on the lot were the agents.

  But between the talk of murderous letter writers and even more murderous murderers, the empty buildings seemed to take on an ominous feeling.

  And then I heard it. The sound that made my heart start pumping double-time.

  Footsteps.

  I paused, freezing in the middle of a street lined with brownstones (or, at least, brownstone facades). The footsteps continued for a beat, then stopped, too.

  Okay, so maybe it was just a set dresser getting New York ready for that cop show tomorrow. Maybe it was a cleaning crew. Maybe it was an actor trying to soak up some of the East Coast atmosphere.

  Maybe it was a homicidal maniac who strangled women in their trailers with panty hose.

  I started walking again, briskly, in the direction of the set. Only, with the adrenaline-fueled fear pumping through my veins, I wasn’t sure which direction the set was.

  I quickened my pace, almost jogging now as I rounded the corner and found myself suddenly on a tavern-lined street in Boston. The footsteps followed me, speeding up as mine did. I glanced behind my shoulder and let out a squeak. A figure loomed in the shadows just a few yards behind me. Clearly my imagination did not produce that. Frantically I tried the door to O’Shays Pub. Of course it didn’t open because, duh, it was freaking painted on. Nothing here was real!

  Nothing, that was, except the murderer chasing me.

  I was running now, trying not to trip over my feet as I heard the footsteps growing closer. I didn’t dare look back for fear he’d be right on top of me. I rounded another corner, onto a San Francisco street lined with Victorians, and started jogging uphill.

  I could hear him closing in, his breath coming fast, as if he weren’t any fonder of San Francisco terrain than I was. I reached into my purse, grasping for anything that might be used as a weapon. Lipstick, tampon, change…pepper spray! I said a silent thank-you to my overly protective (though, in hindsight, genius) mother as my fingers curled around the canister. I felt around for the little button to push, still tripping uphill. I found it.

  Just as I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder.

  Chapter 7

  More out of instinct than anything else, I let out a bloodcurdling scream as I whipped around and shot the contents of the spray canister blindly at my attacker.

  “Son of a…!” My attacker staggered backward, clawing at his eyes. “What the bloody hell did you do that for, Maddie!”

  I blinked, the adrenaline slowly receding from my limbs as I took in the rumpled khaki pants, sneakers, and slept-in white button-down. Felix.

  “Oh crap!” I dropped the canister on the ground. “Oh holy crap. I’m so sorry, Felix. Oh crap, are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not bloody okay!” He was still rubbing at his eyes, his entire face turning redder than a Malibu sunburn victim. “What the hell was that?”

  “Pepper spray.”

  He dropped his hands, his eyes tearing as he stared at me. “Pepper spray? You bloody shot me with pepper spray?”

  I felt myself blush. “Sorry. But in my defense, you did kind of sneak up on me.”

  “I did no such thing. I was trying to catch up to you. You’re bloody fast in flats. Dammit, this stuff stings.”

  “Water. We need to rinse it with water.” I led Felix, who was pretty much blind now, thanks to my blonde moment, through the streets until we found a drinking fountain in the Golden Gate Park that actually worked (as opposed to the three we passed that were just for decoration). I helped Felix splash water on his eyes, between his “bloody this” and “bloody that” curses.

  Finally he stopped tearing and swearing, his eyes only marginally puffy. Okay, so he looked like a bee-sting victim in some slapstick-comedy movie, but since he didn’t have a mirror, he didn’t need to know that.

  “Bloody hell, you’re a menace, girl.”

  “Hey, I resent that. Besides, what do you mean, chasing girls like that? What was I supposed to think? There’s a killer on the loose, you know.”

  “And you’re going to defend yourself against him with cayenne pepper?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Worked, didn’t it?”

  He gave me a death look.

  “So, what did you want anyway?”

  “I wanted to see how your coworker Dusty was faring.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You mean you wanted to see if you could get an interview with her.”

  He grinned. “You know me so well.”

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh. No way, pal. Dusty’s not talking to anyone, least of all a sleazy tabloid.”

  “Aw, come on. Throw me a little something. I’ve got to have some sort of follow-up to print in tomor-row’s edition.”

  “How did you even get on the lot?” I asked.

  Felix smiled. “I’ve got the golden ticket.” He pulled a laminated card out from his shirt pocket. “Press pass. It just so happens that the Informer’s editor in chief plays golf with the head of Sunset Studios. Thanks to the fact that the chief throws every game, I’ve got carte blanche on the lot.”

  I scoffed. “Am I supposed to be impressed by that?”

  “No, but here’s something that might get your attention: the coroner’s report.”

  “On Veronika?”

  He nodded.

  Damn. He was right: I was all ears now.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What was in the coroner’s report?”

  Felix clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Nah, uh-uh. Not until you give me something first.”

  “Forget it. I’m not giving you any dirt.”

  Felix shrugged. “Okay, then I’ll just keep Veronika’s condition to myself.”

  I pursed my lips. Dammit. He knew my weakness. What condition? I was dying here. “How did you get a copy of the coroner’s report? That gold ticket get you into the morgue, too?”

  Felix shook his head. “No. My excellent computing skills got me into the morgue. Or, more accurately, their database.”

  “You hacked into the LAPD database?” I’ll admit, my tone was horrified, but inside I was actually a little impressed. The last time we’d worked together, Felix had proven himself competent at a variety of lock picking, a skill he still hadn’t totally explained. Now he was a computer hacker, too. Part of me was thinking I should be worried about this guy, but mostly I was wishing I had skills like those, too.

  Of course, here was Felix offering to let me reap the rewards of said skills.

  I did an angel-shoulder, devil-shoulder thing for about two seconds before I finally gave in.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll give you a gossip tidbit you can run tomorrow. But cough up the report first. What condition?”

  Felix gave a satisfied crooked smile. “She was pregnant.”

  “No way!”

  “Way. About three months.”

  “Any idea who the father is?” Talk about life imitating art.

  Felix shook his head. “Not yet. I’m sure the police are currently swabbing any male she’s come in contact with lately. I’ll let you know when anything pops across my screen.”

  I chewed at my Raspberry Perfection lip gloss as I digested this bit of information. Maybe we’d been too quick to judge. Maybe Mia hadn’t been the target after all, but Veronika. She wouldn’t be the first mother-to-be who had broken baby news to a less than enthusiastic father.

  “Hey, you all right?” Felix asked.

  “What?”


  He reached out a hand and wiped a finger down my cheek. “Looks like you’ve been crying.” He cocked his head to the side. “You all right?”

  I sniffed hard, trying not to dwell on the irony that the most tender touch I’d had in days just came from a tabloid reporter. “I’m fine. Men just suck.”

  Felix raised one eyebrow. “Tiff with the boyfriend?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Felix’s face broke into his charming grin (which actually was a bit comical with his eyes still swollen). “Definite tiff with the boyfriend. And, I’d venture to say, a big one.”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

  His grin widened. “Okay, fine. How about we talk about the juicy bit o’ gossip you’re going to lay on me?”

  “Okay.” I cleared my throat. “Deveroux Strong is gay.”

  Felix scoffed. “Oh, hell, I know that. Everyone knows that. That’s not news.”

  I shrugged. “Sorry, it’s all I’ve got.”

  Felix glared at me. “That’s it, then? I give you ‘Veronika’s pregnant’ and all you can give me is stale gaydar?”

  “Better luck next time.” I waved and walked off in the direction (I hoped!—wow, was this place a maze) of stage 6G.

  To the tune of Felix muttering, “Bloody hell, ” behind me. He really should learn to watch his language.

  By the time I got back to the set, Steinman was just calling it a wrap. I grabbed my things and slogged out to my Jeep. As I pulled up in front of my apartment, I could hear the sounds of Mrs. Alvarez watching Wheel of Fortune, and my stomach was rumbling. I parked in the drive and carried my purse up the wooden stairs, mentally debating the merits of pizza delivery versus Chinese again.

  I was having visions of chicken chow mein when my cell chimed from my purse. I fumbled with my keys at the front door as I balanced the phone between my ear and shoulder.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me!” Mom shouted.

  I resisted the urge to jerk away from the receiver. “You don’t have to yell, Mom.”

  “I’m on a cell!” she screamed.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Listen, I’m sorry I’m late. There was traffic on the 101. But we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  I froze. “Um, you’ll be here?”

  Mom did her patented “where did I go wrong?” sigh. “You forgot?”

  “No, of course not.” Oh, hell. What now?

  “Connor’s gift. For his birthday party?”

  “Right!” Mental forehead smack. “Oh, wow, um, you know what? It’s been a really long day and I totally trust you, so, you know, maybe you could just pick something up for me?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m already on my way.”

  “Mom, really, I’m beat and I—”

  “Just a minute, we’ll be right there.”

  “Seriously, I’m so not in a toddler toy place right now and—Wait, who’s we?”

  Too late. I looked up to see Mom’s gold Dodge minivan pull up in front of my apartment. Mom waved her cell at me from the driver’s seat. I could see Mrs. Rosenblatt’s muumuu-clad outline in the back. And then the passenger-side door burst open and my cousin Molly waddled out. Waddled because, yet again, she was pregnant.

  Molly had popped out four munchkins in the last four years and was the apple of my Irish Catholic grandmother’s eye. There’s nothing an Irish Catholic family loves more than a girl who gets married young and makes babies like a bunny. Don’t get me wrong; I loved Molly. She just made my ovaries hurt sometimes.

  “Mads!” she said, attacking me with air kisses.

  “Hi, Molly, ” I mumbled, navigating a hug around her swollen belly.

  “I’m so glad you’re coming to the party. Connor is really looking forward to seeing you again.”

  Yeah, I’ll just bet. He was probably planning his attack on my Cavalli pumps as we spoke.

  “Ready for Toys ’R’ Us?” Molly asked, her eyes twinkling.

  I think my ovaries groaned.

  Half an hour later I was in the preschool aisle of toy hell, surrounded by noisy, three-foot-high people with runny noses and sticky hands, pretending to shoot me with little red plastic laser guns.

  “I don’t see it, ” Molly said, scanning the shelves. “Where’s Chicken Dance Elmo?”

  A kid with freckles and pigtails made little pow, pow sounds at me and stuck out her tongue.

  I resisted the urge to respond in kind (just barely).

  “How about this one?” Mom pulled a furry red monster off the shelf. She squeezed its tummy and it told her she was special.

  “No, no, that’s Self-esteem Elmo. I need the Chicken Dance one. Connor wants the Chicken Dance one.” Molly shoved packages aside on the shelf, digging in the back.

  Considering that Connor’s entire vocabulary consisted of drool and spit bubbles, I seriously doubted he could tell one monster from another.

  “This guy’s kinda cute, ” Mrs. R said, grabbing a furry blue Grover doll. “Kind of reminds me of my last husband, Luther.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Luther was all gangly arms and legs, ” Mrs. R explained. “Real tall, never quite looked like he knew what to do with his body. That is, until we got in the bedroom, if ya know what I mean.” Mrs. Rosenblatt waggled her drawn-on eyebrows up and down.

  Muppets and sex, two topics that should never collide. Trying not to envision Mrs. R in bed with a six-foot-tall furry blue monster, I pulled a puzzle off the shelf. “Here, this looks cute. I’ll just get this.”

  Molly whipped around. “What’s the age range?”

  “Uh…” I scanned the box.

  “In the corner.” Molly pointed. Then she shook her head. “It says ages eighteen months to two years. It’ll be too hard. Plus, the pieces are too little. Connor could choke on one. You have to read the age ranges, Maddie.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I put the puzzle back, then grabbed a plastic truck. “How about this?”

  Molly shook her head. “No, we’re allowing only gender-neutral toys into the house. Experts say that social imprinting begins at a very early age, and male-and female-nonspecific toys present them with the best chance for gender-role socialization in a nonthreatening and nurturing environment before they conceptualize gender constancy and their culturally determined roles.”

  O-kay. I put the truck back.

  “I think this guy’s kind of cute. You sure Connor wouldn’t like him?” Mom squeezed Self-esteem Elmo again.

  “Be proud of your uniqueness, ” it told her.

  “You know, it’s been ages since I saw Luther, ” Mrs. R said, putting Grover back on the shelf. “Last time was right after we signed the divorce papers. We bumped into each other at the Hometown Buffet. Then ended up back at my place for dessert.” She did another eyebrow waggle. “If ya know what I mean. I tell ya, for a skinny guy, that man could really eat.”

  I sincerely hoped she was talking about the pound cake.

  “Where is it? The online ad said that Chicken Dance Elmo was ten percent off this week. If they advertise it, they should have it. I need that doll!”

  Mom squeezed Self-esteem Elmo again. “Elmo loves you just the way you are.”

  “How about this guy?” Mrs. R held up another red monster, this one in a pair of shiny silver pants. She pushed the Try Me button on his hand and he began to gyrate to a hip-hop version of “Old Mac Donald Had a Farm.”

  “No, that’s Bust-a-Move Elmo. He’s last year’s model. We need the new one. Connor wants Chicken Dance Elmo!” Molly pushed past the freckle-faced girl with the gun, frantically rummaging through the stuffed toys.

  “You know, Luther wasn’t much of a dancer. Unless, of course, you count the horizontal mambo. Man, that guy could mambo all night. He had this huge—”

  “How about this?” I asked, quickly grabbing a teddy bear from the shelf, lest the freckle-faced kid get an anatomy lesson right here in the Elmo aisle.

  Mol
ly turned around, then blinked her blue eyes at me. “Seriously? Ohmigod, Maddie what are you trying to do to the kid?”

  Uh, give him a teddy bear?

  Molly grabbed the bear from my hand. “The eyes are made of buttons. Connor could easily pop them off and choke on one. Parenting Today magazine says all safe animals should have embroidered features. And the bow around his neck is secured with an elastic cord, which could get wrapped around Connor’s throat. And look at the tag! The stuffing isn’t hypoallergenic—poor Connor could have a reaction to it—and the fur isn’t even pretreated with fire retardant or Teflon. And to top it all off, it’s made in China, probably by children not much older than Connor in a sweatshop. What kind of message would we be sending him by allowing him to play with this? It should be illegal even to sell safety hazards like this.” Molly’s nostrils flared, and her eyes had a scary Jack Nicholson look to them.

  I slowly put the cuddly death trap back on the shelf, seriously contemplating a gift certificate.

  “I still like this guy.” Mom squeezed her Elmo.

  “You deserve respect and love, ” he squeaked back.

  “We’re not getting that one!” Molly turned her attention back to the shelves, knocking boxes off onto the floor now in her search. “All the other kids at Mommy and Me have Chicken Dance Elmo. Connor needs Chicken Dance Elmo. What will the other mothers think if I can’t find Chicken Dance Elmo!”

  “Wait!” Mrs. R clapped a thick palm to Molly’s forehead, her underarm jiggling with aftershocks. “Albert’s speaking to me. She rolled her eyes back in her head. “Ohmmmmmmmm.”

  “Albert?” Molly asked.

  “Mrs. Rosenblatt’s spirit guide, ” Mom explained.

  The freckle-faced kid took a few steps back and started calling for her mommy.

  I didn’t blame her.

  Mrs. R rolled her eyes so far back all I could see was white. “Albert says…he says he thinks he saw Chicken Dance Elmo fifteen percent off at Toy Town with the purchase of a Power Ranger action figure of equal or lesser value.”