Undercover in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  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 so
rt 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.”

  You’re very talented.

  “Thanks!” Okay, the guy couldn’t be all bad if he knew a good pair of heels when he saw them.

  Show me your toes.

  “Oh. Well…okay.” I let one pump drop to the floor and wiggled my half-painted toenails at the camera. “I usually get a pedi down at the salon, but I was late for the Terror’s party, so I only got one foot done. Sorry.”

  Take the other shoe off.

  I complied, letting the other shoe drop to the floor. As long as we stuck to bare feet, I could do this. I glanced at my silent cell phone again. What was taking him so long?

  Let me see your toes.

  I leaned back on the bed, supporting myself on my elbows as I lifted both feet up in the air, wiggling my toes at the camera. “Like this?” I asked.

  Beautiful.

  “Thanks.”

  Now, suck your big toe.

  Excuse me? I blinked at the screen.

  A) Grooooosssss! B) Who’d wanna watch that? And C) Um…was that even possible? I mean, I wasn’t Gumby here.

  “How about I just take my top off instead?” I offered, suddenly thinking stripping wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  There was a pause. Then the words, I’ve got to go flashed on the screen.

  “No, wait! Okay, I’ll.”—I paused, trying not to grimace—“suck my big toe.”

  Do it.

  Ugh. I closed my eyes, picturing Dusty’s face. I was doing this for her. I’d failed her once; I wasn’t going to let her killer get away with it. I would find the bastard. I would nail his ass to the wall.

  I would suck the toe.

  I took a deep breath and leaned forward as far as I could. But since the last time Dana had dragged me to yoga class I’d fallen flat on my face while doing a downward-facing dog, my face came about six inches shy of my big toe.

  “Hang on.” I gave the camera the universal one-finger “wait” signal. I scooched closer to the edge of the bed and curved my spine over into a ball, grabbing my right ankle with both hands and straining to reach it. I felt my leg start to cramp up as I attempted human pretzel. I was close, if I could just roll forward a little more, just another half an inch…

  Unfortunately, I rolled up so well that I rolled right off the bed. Headfirst. Landing with a thud on the pink carpeting. “Ow.”

  I stood up and rubbed my forehead, stomping feeling back into my legs. “Sorry, ” I told the camera. “I, uh, kinda fell. But I think I might have licked my toe. A little, ” I added hopefully.

  I leaned over the bed and checked the monitor.

  I have to go now.

  “Wait, no! Let me try again. I can totally do this. I was this close, ” I protested, holding my thumb and index finger up.

  But it was too late. A red line of text slashed across the screen, informing me that BigBoy78 had logged off of the system.

  Shit, shit, shit! I grabbed my cell and quickly dialed Felix’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Please tell me you got him?”

  Felix chuckled. “Your head all right, love?”

  “Fine.” I rubbed at my forehead again, where I could feel an imprint of the carpet. “Did you get the trace or not?”

  “Yeah, we got him.”

  I did a sigh of relief. “Thank God. What took you so long?”

  “I actually had him five minutes ago.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the phone. “Then why didn’t you call?”

  He chuckled again. “I was enjoying the show.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re going to love me after I give you his location.”

  “This had better be good, ” I mumbled under my breath. I grabbed a pen from my purse and wrote the address Felix read off onto the back of my hand. It was a Hollywood zip code, though the street wasn’t familiar. Felix pulled up MapQuest.com while I waited; then he gave me directions from the 101.

  Which would have been very helpful, I realized as I hung up, if I’d had a car.

  Damn.

  Jasmine opened the door to the bedroom. “You done in here? ’Cause we got another customer logging on.”

  I grabbed my purse and bolted for the door. No way did I want a repeat of that performance. “It’s all yours.”

  Jasmine ushered Anna back into her pink room and shut the door behind her. “You get what you need?” she asked, turning to me.

  “Yeah. The only problem is, now I need a car.” I paused, doing my best puppy-dog eyes at her.

  She planted both hands on her bony hips. “Well, don’t look at me.”

  “Please, Jasmine, ” I pleaded. “I can make it worth your while.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How worth my while?”

  “Three months of ads in the Informer?”

  She shook her head. “No way. Back-cover ad. In color. And I drive. Nobody drives my baby but me.”

  I bit my lip, hoping Felix really was loaded. “Deal.”

  “Okay, where are we going?”

  “Hollywood. But…” I paused, remembering the armed officer waiting outside for me. I had a feeling I’d been lucky to talk Officer Mustache into taking me here. A detour into Hollywood to confront a possible killer with a toe fetish was probably out of the question. Besides, I was pretty sure this was one of those “harebrained” things Ramirez had been talking about, and when Officer Mustache reported back, I was likely to be put under some sort of house arrest.


  What I needed was a distraction.

  I pulled my cell back out and hit number two on my speed dial. Mom picked up on the first ring.

  “Maddie? Are you okay? Oh lord, what’s happened this time?”

  I rolled my eyes. Geez, give me a little credit, huh? “Nothing, Mom. I’m fine. I was just wondering what you were doing right now.”

  “Mrs. Rosenblatt and I are at Molly’s. We’re helping her send out thank-you notes. Why do you ask?”

  “Are all the kids there, too? And Connor?”

  “Yes.”

  Perfect! I almost felt sorry for Officer Mustache.

  “Why, Maddie? What’s going on?”

  “Listen, I was wondering if you could do me a little favor. Could you pack all the kids into the car, Molly and Mrs. R, too, and drive them to my friend’s house?” I recited Jasmine’s address.

  I could sense Mom frowning through the phone. “What do you want us to do when we get there?”

  “Oh nothing. Just be yourselves.”

  Chapter 15

  Fifteen minutes later a gold minivan pulled up in front of Jasmine’s house, and I watched from the window as the occupants burst out. Mom was first (in peg-legged white pants, an oversize Day-Glo green T-shirt tied at her hip in a large knot, and penny loafers with no socks), then Molly (waddling due to her ever-growing belly encased in a huge maternity dress that looked like a tent with eyelets), all four of my cousin’s kids (in various states of sticky-mouth, sucking on leftover piñata candy as two of them wielded some sort of Nerf noodles and popped the unarmed one on the head), the Terror (blowing big, fat spit bubbles that dribbled down his chin onto his Baby Gap sweatshirt as he wailed), and, last but not least, Mrs. Rosenblatt (in a bright orange-and-red muumuu and Birkenstocks). Oh, yeah. And Pablo.

  “Squawk. Don’tcha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Squawk. Yeah, don’tcha?”

  “What the hell is that thing?” Jasmine asked beside me, gesturing to the cage dangling from Mrs. Rosenblatt’s chubby hand.

  “That is the best distraction ever.”

  I peeked between the curtains as Molly’s kids ran circles around the lawn, Molly waddling after them and yelling at the munchkins to stop hitting their siblings. Connor wailed as he got whacked in the side of the head by a noodle. Mom picked up Connor, who promptly tried to wiggle out of her grip, doing the patented toddler back arch. Mrs. Rosenblatt told Pablo to stop singing or he was going back to the salon in a teeny-tiny body bag. Molly’s eldest found a pile of doggie doo on the lawn and starting singing about doggies that made “hunks of stinky chunks.” And above it all, Pablo screeched, “A freak like me!”