Spying in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  “What are you doing?”

  My head snapped up so fast I feared whiplash.

  Standing in the doorway was none other than Mr. Nobody. My heart froze in my chest and I quickly checked his person for a gun. Fortunately I didn’t see one. And considering how tightly his navy t-shirt and Levis were hugging the form in the doorway, there wasn’t much chance of hiding it from view. He looked like he worked out. A lot. Dana would have been proud of him.

  “Well?”

  Well what? Oh, right. What was I doing here.

  “Looking for Richard,” I squeaked. Suddenly at the sight of him I’d turned into Minnie Mouse. I cleared my throat, trying to convince myself that this guy didn’t scare me. We were in a lawyer’s office for crying out loud. He couldn’t very well kill me here. Right?

  I took a step backward anyway. Better safe than sorry.

  “What a coincidence,” he replied, his voice much deeper and smoother than I’d imagined. “So am I. Any luck?”

  I shook my head no, afraid I’d sound like a mouseketeer again if I spoke. This guy seriously flashed “danger” in big, bold neon. And it wasn’t just the potentially concealed weapon. It was the hard set of his jaw, the steadiness of his dark eyes as they quickly swept the room, the white scar over his eyebrow that I’d bet my Spigas he hadn’t gotten from a paper cut.

  He walked slowly over to Richard’s desk and glanced down at the file I’d been attempting to read. “Anything good in there?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t speak attorney.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly. “Cute.”

  “Thanks.”

  He leaned his back casually against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his T-shirt, the tattoo on his right arm peeking out again. It looked like a panther. Dark and sleek. With razor sharp claws. “So, you want to tell me what you’re really doing here?”

  “Nuh uh.” I shook my head again.

  He grinned. A slow, wicked grin that reached all the way to his dark eyes. It was the kind of grin that made women either cower in fear or want to rip his cloths off.

  I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly filled with sand.

  “Okay,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “How about this. How about you tell me who you are then, huh?”

  “Maddie.”

  “Maddie what?”

  “Maddie Richard’s girlfriend.” I was reluctant to give him my last name as at the moment I couldn’t remember if I’d been talked into a public listing by the phone company.

  “His girlfriend? Really?” He raised one eyebrow at me.

  “Yes. His girlfriend.”

  “Huh.” He looked me up and down, his eyes doing a slow, thorough appraisal.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just didn’t see him with someone so girly.”

  Hey! I planted my hands on my hips, throwing on my best tough chick voice. “This happens to be my Bond girl outfit. It is not girly.”

  “Easy, Bond girl.” That slow, wolfish smile slid across his face again. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

  Gulp.

  “Oh.” Dang it, I was going for tough chick again, but somehow in the wake of that I’ll-huff-and-I’ll-puff-and-I’ll-blow-your-clothes-right-off smile, Minnie Mouse was back. “So, um, who exactly are you?”

  “Detective Jack Ramirez. LAPD.”

  Ugh. Mental forehead slapping. That explained the gun. I silently hoped that snooping hadn’t been upgraded to a misdemeanor.

  As if he could read my mind, his lips quirked again. “Jasmine doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”

  I did not dignify this with an answer. Which seemed to amuse him even more, his eye crinkling at the corners. However, he didn’t comment, but instead changed his line of questioning. “When was the last time you saw Richard Howe?”

  “Friday. We were supposed to have lunch together. What is this about anyway?”

  “Did he cancel?”

  “No, I was late.” I cringed at the sound of the word echoing through my own head. “When I got here he was talking to you, then he…” I trailed off, remembering the way Richard had stared after Ramirez, then abruptly cancelled our lunch. It was clear even then he’d had something on his mind. And I didn’t like the way that something had prompted Richard to pack his bags for parts unknown.

  I swallowed hard, trying to change the subject. “How did you even get in here?” I asked, knowing that if Jasmine hadn’t let me in there was no way she’d let a cop in.

  He grinned. “I have a warrant.”

  Double ugh. Suddenly my theories of blackmail and secret cover-ups weren’t sounding so far fetched. “Warrant?” I squeaked out. “As in, you have the right to remain silent?”

  His smile widened, a dimple punctuating his left cheek. Clearly he was enjoying this. Personally I wasn’t finding the predicament all that funny. My boyfriend was missing, there was a cop in his office with a warrant, and I had a pregnancy kit sitting on my kitchen counter waiting for another Big Gulp moment. This was not the stuff sitcoms were made of.

  “It’s a search warrant,” he said. He sat down at Richard’s desk, picked up the file I’d just been attempting to read and began scanning its contents. His forehead creased in concentration. Apparently it meant something more to him than it had me. I tried to read over his shoulder, to see if words that made sense had suddenly materialized on the paper. Nope. Same foreign language.

  “Searching for what?” I asked finally.

  “Evidence.” It was clear this guy wasn’t going to win any public speaking awards.

  If I wanted information, I was going to have to pry it out of him. I mentally greased up my crowbar. “Okay, I give up. What exactly is going on here?”

  Ramirez looked up. He narrowed his eyes at me, as if trying to decide how much to share. “All right. Your boyfriend,” he said emphasizing the word as if he didn’t really believe it, “is wanted for questioning in connection with embezzlement charges we’ve brought against one of his clients. Devon Greenway.” He paused. “You’ve heard of him.”

  I had, and apparently my expression betrayed it. Devon Greenway was one of Richard’s biggest clients. I knew Richard had met with him often. In fact he’d canceled a dinner date with me just last Thursday to meet with him. However, if Richard was in trouble I wasn’t going to be the one to nail his coffin.

  “I may have heard the name.”

  Ramirez pinned me with a look that could pry pearls out of an oyster. Great, I had to pick now to become a terrible liar.

  “Devon Greenway is the CEO of Newtone Technologies,” he continued. “They’re in the process of filing with the Securities and Exchange Commission for a place on the New York Stock Exchange. However, in the course of an independent audit of the company’s finances, a minor discrepancy was noticed.”

  “How minor?”

  “Twenty million dollars.”

  “Wow.” I was so in the wrong business.

  “No kidding. But before we could file charges, Greenway skipped town.”

  “And the cash?”

  “Just as elusive. Originally the money was funneled from Newtone into a joint usage account, from which a series of checks were drawn made out to PetriCorp. On the surface everything looked legit until we realized that PetriCorp was only a business on paper. And guess who owns it.”

  “Devon Greenway?”

  “Close. Under the business filing the owner of record is his wife, Celia. Filed under her maiden name, Wesley. Only PetriCorp’s accounts are now empty, too. The paper trail ends with the person who set the accounts up in the first place.”

  A knot formed in my gut. “Richard?”

  “Bingo.” Ramirez sat back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest again, watching me digest this information.

  I tried not to look as shaken as I felt. “So, is Richard a suspect?”

  Ramirez’s face was unreadable. “He’s a person o
f interest.”

  Uh oh. I’d watched enough episodes of Law & Order to know what that meant. Just one thing. I really had to find Richard now.

  Before Ramirez did.

  * * *

  As soon as I could I hightailed it out of there. I didn’t even wait for Jasmine to go on break before barging back through the frosted doors and jogging across the reception area to the tune of her calling “fraud” after me.

  My head was spinning the entire two blocks back to the garage. Richard had blown me off and had dinner with Greenway last week. If what Ramirez said was true, it would have been the day before Richard took off for parts unknown. Suddenly I didn’t want to know what had gone on at that meeting.

  Not that I thought Richard was involved. Richard was a straight arrow, he couldn’t even stand his tie being crooked. He would never be involved in something illegal. However, if he’d unwittingly helped Greenway, it was possible he knew more than was good for him, and if Greenway was as unscrupulous as he sounded, Richard might be in danger. And I didn’t have the feeling he’d fare much better if Ramirez found him first. Any way you looked at it, my boyfriend was up shit creek.

  I climbed the stairs to the second story of the parking structure and revved up my Jeep, pulling out onto Grand. I was contemplating my next move at a red light, when I saw Ramirez emerge from Richard’s building and jump into a black SUV. Parked illegally. The perks of being the law. He started the SUV and pulled into traffic three cars ahead of me. As the light turned green I watched him weave through downtown, making a sharp right onto 8. On instinct, I changed gears and followed him.

  Did I know what I was doing? No. But it was abundantly clear that Richard hadn’t just gone home to take care of his ailing mother. And I didn’t have any better ideas.

  Feeling very sly, I stayed two car lengths back as Ramirez got onto the 110 heading south. I followed him right through downtown, passing through Watts and Compton until we hit the 405. He was going a reasonably decent speed and I wished I had a less conspicuous car. While I loved my red Jeep, it didn’t really blend into the background. I made a mental note to borrow Dana’s tan Saturn if any more surveillance was needed.

  The SUV continued south until we turned off at the 22, heading east toward the 5 and Orange County. It was getting late and I knew we’d hit traffic once we got to the 5. And I was starving. I reached across to my glove box, hoping for some protein bar Dana might have left in there. All I came up with was a packet of stale saltines and a stick of Doublemint. I ate the crackers, hoping Ramirez would pull into a Taco Bell soon.

  No such luck. We merged onto the 5 and Ramirez moved into the left lane, settling in for a long drive. I groaned, making a mental note to always eat before tailing a cop.

  Just when I’d decided I was on a wild goose chase and going to faint from hunger if I didn’t have a Big Beefy DelDeluxe, Ramirez exited the freeway at Bear Street, toward the San Joaquin Corridor. My heart did a little jump as I realized he was taking me right into the heart of Orange County’s premier shopping district. Maybe Ramirez wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

  As we neared the South Coast Plaza, Ramirez pulled away from the shopping district and into the residential. He moved through streets lined with two-story California Spanish villas and faux Tudors until he pulled up to a large, modern home, all glass on one side. I could tell it was designed by some famous architect or other by the angular lines of the structure, looming as if it was ready to topple in the next 6.3 earthquake. The small yard was done in utilitarian bluegrass and decorative stone, which echoed the stark feeling of the glass structure.

  Ramirez parked his SUV and got out, approaching the house. I parked across the street, slouching down in my seat in case he glanced behind him. Luckily, he didn’t, because I’m sure my red Jeep stuck out like a sore thumb among the subdued Jags and BMWs lining the road.

  Ramirez knocked on the front door, then waited. Then knocked again. Apparently no one was home. My shoulders sagged at the possibility that I’d just driven all that way on an empty stomach for a nobody’s home.

  Ramirez looked over both shoulders, as if someone might be watching him. Good cop instincts… I was impressed. I slouched down further in my seat, just my eyes and nose peaking over the rim of the driver side window. Apparently Ramirez was satisfied, as he proceeded to walk around the back of the house, disappearing through a painted, wooden gate.

  I waited. Nothing.

  Shit. If he was doing some fancy breaking and entering I couldn’t see from this viewpoint. For all I knew he could have Richard in handcuffs back there. I opened the car door and slunk out, crouching as I ran cross the street. Then realized how ridiculous I must look. Gee, Maddie, that’s not suspicious. I straightened up, throwing my shoulders back and walked around the side of the building as if I owned the place.

  The backyard was much more lush than the front, the landscaping done in a mix of tropical birds of paradise, palms, and fat succulent bushes. Small levels had been carved out of the natural hillside, creating a barbecue area, a patioed terrace, and finally an Olympic sized swimming pool. Ramirez stood on the bottom level staring at the swimming pool. I couldn’t see what he was looking at, so I quickly picked my way through foliage to the next level above him. I straightened up to get a better look.

  Unfortunately, the uneven ground and my two-inch Choos made for a less than stellar combination. My foot slipped, my arms waving for balance that never came. I pitched forward and, before I could catch myself, let out a little scream.

  Ramirez turned just in time to see me flailing like a lunatic, falling right toward him.

  “Jesus…” he muttered, before collapsing with an “oof” as I landed on top of him.

  I had to admit, landing on him sure beat the ground, though I’m not sure which was harder. His muscled chest didn’t give way an inch. I wondered how many hours a day he spent at the gym.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, his nose inches from mine.

  I blinked hard, trying to ignore the rush of heat as his muscles wiggled beneath me. “I followed you.”

  “Hell, I knew that much. But I figured you’d stay in the car.”

  So much for my career as Maddie the fashionable stealth.

  I pried myself off of him, awkwardly regaining my footing. Note to self: real Bond Girls don’t wear Choos. “Sorry,” I mumbled, sure I sounded as sheepish as I felt.

  Ramirez grunted by way of response, standing up and dusting off the seat of his jeans. I tried not to stare. Much.

  “I’ll wear flats next time,” I said instead.

  “Smartass,” he muttered. But he didn’t go for his gun, now clipped conspicuously to his belt, which I interpreted as a good sign.

  “So, whose house is this?” I asked.

  Ramirez’s eyes darkened, the line of his jaw tightening until I could see a little blue vein starting to bulge in his neck. “Hers.” He gestured down to the pool.

  I peeked over the edge of the hill at the sparkling blue water, shimmering in the late afternoon sun.

  “Eek!”

  My stomach clenched, the saltines threatening to make a repeat appearance as black spots danced before my eyes. The manicured landscape swayed in front of me and Ramirez’s arm, suddenly at my waist, was the only thing keeping me from crumpling back down on the rocky ground.

  In the pool was a tall, slim woman with clouds of flaming red hair.

  Floating face down.

  Chapter Four

  Red and blue lights flashed through the palm fronds, reflecting off the surface of the swimming pool, which I was so not looking at again. Men in black T-shirts that read “CSI” on the back crawled over the hillside like little ants, stopping now and then to seal a piece of dirt or hair in a Ziploc baggie. Police radios crackled to life every five seconds, relaying indistinguishable messages to the uniformed cops standing guard beside the pool as they waited for the Medical Examiner. And I sat with my head down, trying really hard not to vom
it.

  “You all right?” Ramirez asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said. Only it came out as a muffled, “I five,” as my head was still firmly placed between my knees in a semi fetal position in a teakwood deckchair. I’d been sitting here for what seemed like years, waiting for the backyard to stop spinning and those little black dots to stop dancing in front of my eyes. I had a vague memory of Ramirez carrying me across the yard and radioing for backup, but it was kind of blurry. Like a really bad dream I couldn’t wait to wake up from.

  “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 my head 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 so 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.