Ramirez finished with CSI Guy and walked over to a group of men standing around a black van with the word "coroner" on it. I shuddered.
Okay, so I had no great love for Greenway. But just yesterday I'd been on the phone with the man. It was unnerving to think of someone being here, and then suddenly not being here. Like at any moment I could not be here. Again I had that creepy feeling of being the dimwitted blonde in the horror movie who the entire audience knows will end up getting chased across the lawn in her underwear by the ax murderer at the end of act two. Only I didn't have a face for my ax murderer now.
Obviously Greenway hadn't shot himself. It's a little hard to dispose of one's own body in a Dumpster. But I really couldn't put Richard's face there either. Richard wasn't a killer. He was an attorney. Yes, I know, not the highest of life forms, but not a murderer either. There had to be another explanation.
Only I wasn't entirely sure Ramirez was going to look for it. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Richard was no longer a "person of interest." In fact, I had a sinking feeling as CSI Guy joined Ramirez and the ME, that Richard's status had just been upgraded to full-fledged suspect.
Ramirez broke away from the group and crossed the cracked macadam to the office again. He paused in front of me, his eyes calculating as he stared down.
"You sure you didn't go into Greenway's room?"
A wave of dread rolled through my stomach.
"Yes. Why?"
He didn't answer, just crossed his arms over his chest. "Look, I know you've been less than honest with me in the past, but now's the time to come clean."
"I never went in Greenway's room. I told you, we knocked, then we heard shots and ran. Why? What did he tell you?" I tried to look past him to CSI Guy, honestly a little hurt that my evidence collector would turn on me like this after my intimate encounter with his lint roller.
"We found blonde hairs in Greenway's room and impressions in the carpet that CSI thinks came from a stiletto heel."
I looked down at my shoes. "For your information these are not stilettos. They are platform heels."
His eyes narrowed, the Bad Cop face not budging.
"You don't seriously think I had anything to do with this? That I actually killed him?"
"Look, I don't know what to think. Your boyfriend, whom you seem to know nothing about, disappears along with twenty mil and this guy," he gestured to Metallica, "this guy here says he saw you and your friend go up to Greenway's room tonight. And apparently a woman with blonde hair and a thing for high heels was in his room recently enough that the shoe impressions are still in the carpet."
"Ask CSI Guy," I sputtered. "He has a bunch of my hair. He'll tell you it's not mine. You've got to believe me. I had nothing to do with this."
Ramirez sighed. "I want to believe you, but you're not making it real easy. What the hell am I supposed to tell my superiors? Let alone the press?"
"Tell them whatever you want. I did not shoot Greenway."
Ramirez sighed again, then began rubbing his temple. "Will you go home now?"
"Gladly." I was on the verge of tears but I'm proud to say I kept them at bay. The last thing I wanted to do was bawl like a baby in front of Bad Cop.
"Good. And don't take this the wrong way, but stay way from me, okay?"
"No problem." I spit the words out a little more harshly than I meant to, banking on my anger to keep the tears from flowing down my cheeks.
I turned and stalked across the parking lot with as much dignity as a hooker in four-inch heels can muster. And wouldn't you know it, the second I began fumbling in my little purse for my keys, I felt a big fat drop hit the back of my neck. I looked down to see more drops hitting the blacktop with an acrid smell of wet motor oil. It was raining. Great. One more thing I can say I was wrong about tonight.
I was wrong to let Dana talk me into dressing like a hooker, wrong to think I could find a murderer on my own, wrong to ever trust Ramirez. And last but not least, I was apparently wrong about the weather too. I cursed the weather gods right along with Ramirez's superior attitude as I found my key and got in my Jeep. I made it all the way out of the driveway and down the street before I finally let the tears run loose.
I think I'd been a pretty tough chick up until now. I'd managed to keep my cool even when under threat of gunfire, arrest, and pregnancy. But suddenly it all came rushing at me and once the tears started I couldn't make them stop. Maybe it was because I'd heard a man get shot, or because my cheating ex-boyfriend was now the prime suspect in a murder investigation, or because for half a second Ramirez actually thought I had something to do with this even when his mother thought we were making like rabbits. Or maybe it was just all of it. The whole ridiculous, awful evening. Everything was spiraling out of control and I was powerless to stop it. I felt very alone, very vulnerable, and, I hated to admit, oh-so-very girly as I cried my guts out down the 405.
I was crying so hard it took me a minute to realize what the flashing lights in my rearview mirror were. I blinked, wiping away the tears and saw a CHP glued to my back bumper. Oh shit. I looked down at the speedometer. Seventy-five. Oh really shitty shit.
I tried to pull myself together as I slowed and pulled off to the side of the road. I flipped down my mirrored visor, wiping at the mascara streaks running down my face. Eeek. I looked like Tammy Faye's evil twin. I was still doing hiccup sobs as the officer came around to the passenger side and motioned for me to roll down the window.
"Good evening, ma'am," he said, leaning his elbows on my driver side door. He was clean shaven and looked about twenty, with clear blue eyes and pudgy cheeks that warned he may never lose his baby fat. A radio was clipped to his shirt beside a CHP badge that looked like he polished it nightly.
I took one look at the badge and couldn't help it. I burst into tears again. Yes, I know, I was so not cutting it as a Bond Girl right now. But this was just the thing to top off my horrible night. A speeding ticket. I was in serious feeling-sorry-for-myself mode and no amount of streaked mascara was going to stop the flood of tears.
The poor officer looked about as uncomfortable as I felt and, had I not been in the throws of my own hysteria, I might have felt sorry for him.
"I'm sorry ma'am, but I'm going to need to see your license and registration."
I retrieved my license from my purse and the registration from the glove box, still sobbing uncontrollably as I handed them over.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the officer said uncomfortably, "But I'm going to have to write you a ticket."
I tried to be brave. "No, (sniff, sniff) it's okay. How fast was I going?"
"Seventy-five."
"I'm so, so, so, sorry." I started sniveling again. "It's just…I'm dressed like a hooker. And I really, really hate spandex. And Ramirez's mother saw me in this. And she's right. I've always liked my legs. But if I'm having Richard's baby they're going to be all shot to hell. And then it started raining. Rain is very bad for purples."
The officer just stared at me. "Have you been drinking tonight ma'am?"
"No. No, I have not been drinking. I only had a Diet Coke at the bar. But then Ramirez showed up and I really wanted a martini. But I couldn't have one because of the Muppet. And, oh my aura is just ruined now. Can you believe it, it never rains in L.A.?"
"I'm going to need to give you a breathalyzer test, ma'am."
"Oh God. I can't go to jail. Look at me. I'm a hooker!"
"Ma'am, please step out of the car." All sympathy had gone out of CHP Guy's eyes, his hands hovering near the cuffs on his utility belt. Nothing highway patrol loves less than a drunk driver. Except maybe a drunk hooker driver.
"Please, I'm not drunk. I'm just…I'm just…" I searched for words to describe the night I'd had. I came up with nil. "I'm…I'm Detective Ramirez's girlfriend!"
Oh God. Why did I say that?
CHP Guy looked dubious, but his hand was off his cuffs. "Detective Ramirez?"
I decided to go with it. "Yes, he works in
homicide. You can look him up."
"Do you have his badge number?"
Crap. Badge number. Then I remembered the business card still tucked in my purse. "Uh, just a minute." I grabbed my purse and dumped the contents onto the passenger seat, spilling my cell phone, a tampon, tube of lipstick, a breath mint, a handful of change, and Ramirez's business card. I read off the numbers.
"2374." I handed the card to the officer.
He took it, going back to his squad car. I watched in the rearview mirror, praying he didn't call Ramirez to ask he if was dating a hysterical hooker. Luckily, I only saw him punch a few keys on his keyboard before returning, apparently satisfied.
"All right," he said, handing back the business card along with my registration and license. "I'm going to give you a warning this time. But please slow down. And, uh, don't worry," he said awkwardly. "It's going to be okay."
I swallowed. "Thanks," I sniffed out. Though I didn't really believe him. Things were so far from okay, it would take a layover in Cincinnati to get there.
I watched the cop pull back onto the freeway, trying to get a hold of myself well enough to drive back home. I took deep breaths and finally got the hiccupping under control before pulling back onto the freeway.
I slowly navigated the oil slick roads, watching the unexpected rain gather in the gutters, creating mini floods along the drainage impaired L.A. streets. By the time I pulled up to my studio, it was an all out downpour. I covered my hair with an old copy of Vogue I found in the back seat and clacked up the stairs, letting myself into my silent apartment.
At that point I was too tired to feel scared, alone, or any other emotion that had assaulted me during the evening. All I wanted was my warm cozy bed and the familiar, uncomplicated Letterman to lull me to sleep. I stripped out of the wet spandex and wrapped myself in a Lakers T-shirt before snuggling under my quilted blankets. I didn't even get to Dave's first guest before I fell asleep.
* * *
I was sitting at the edge of a tiled swimming pool watching a man swim laps. I couldn't tear my gaze away. His long, sleek form cut through the water, the muscles in his back flexing as he swam for the far side of the pool. It was like a Cool Water commercial, his movements in slow motion so every muscle tensed, every move was exaggerated. As he hit the end of the pool and began swimming back toward me, I felt water falling on me. It was raining. Fat, clear drops hit the glassy surface of the water making rhythmic sounds like nature's orchestra.
The man swam closer and I leaned over the edge of the pool to get a closer look. But suddenly I was wearing Strawberry Shortcake high tops that were three sizes too small and I tripped on the sparkly laces. I began to fall toward the water. It seemed like I was falling forever, as the rain orchestra picked up tempo, plinking out a frantic William Tell Overture. I screamed, and the man stopped swimming. He reached up to catch me. And that's when I noticed the black panther tattooed on his right bicep.
* * *
I opened my eyes, jerking to a sitting position. My gaze whipped wildly around me as if expecting the swimming man to appear. All I saw were the tangled sheets on my bed, harsh sunlight slanting through my windows and a pile of rain soaked spandex on my floor. The only thing that remained of my dream was the strain of William Tell coming from the region of my purse. I rubbed my eyes, fumbling with sleep clumsy hands for my cell phone.
"Hello?" I mumbled, still trying to shake the image of Ramirez's tattooed muscles.
"It's gone." Mom's voice assaulted my ears with a high-pitched screech.
"Mom?" I rolled over to look at the clock on my kitchen wall. Six-thirty. I groaned.
"Maddie, the cliff is gone. The whole thing is just gone."
I blinked the cobwebs out of my eyes, trying to figure out what she was talking about. "What's gone? What cliff?"
"The cliff in Malibu," she shrieked. "Where I'm supposed to get married tomorrow! It's gone. The rain caused a landslide and the whole cliff side fell into the ocean last night. It's just a big rocky, muddy mess. Maddie, what am I going to do?"
Oh. That cliff.
"Mom, don't panic. We'll think of something. Did you call the Malibu office?"
"Yes, yes. I talked to them first thing this morning. They said they'd refund the deposit for the site, but Maddie where on earth am I going to have the wedding now? Oh God. This is your grandmother's fault. She said we should get married in a church. She said God would never forgive me if I didn't get married in the Catholic Church. Now look, I've pissed off God so badly he's destroying Malibu."
My head was pounding, screaming for a double mocha espresso. "Where are you, Mom?"
"I'm at Fernando's."
"Okay, give me twenty minutes, I'll meet you there, and we'll think of something."
"This is it Maddie. I've heard about these sorts of Catholic curses. I'm doomed. This marriage is doomed. Oh God. I've doomed Ralph too."
"I'm hanging up now, Mom."
I pressed the end button and flopped back onto my bed. I closed my eyes, hoping that maybe this was the dream and I was really going to wake up soon. I lay there for a good five minutes before I cracked one eye open. Nope. No dream. Damn.
Somehow I dragged my exhausted body to the bathroom and managed to shower, dry my hair, and throw on a little makeup without gasping in horror at the sight of my puffy eyes. After the good, long cry I'd had last night I resembled a bug-eyed cartoon character. That's it, no more feeling sorry for myself. My eyes couldn't take it. I quickly slipped on a pale blue sundress and a pair of low-heeled, silver mules before deciding I was fit for human eyes again.
After checking my voice mail, just in case Ramirez left a message saying he had Richard in custody, I grabbed my keys and headed for my Jeep.
Fifteen minutes later I pulled up to Fernando's. I parked on the near empty street (Beverly Hills doesn't rise before ten unless it's Oscar night.) and pushed through the glass doors.
"Dahling, thank God you're here!" Marco greeted me. He had his hair spiked up in crisp little points today, his eyeliner even thicker than usual. He leaned in and pseudo whispered. "I put your mom in the back. She's pulling a Whitney Houston freak-out on us."
"Where's Ralph?"
"Fernando," Marco emphasized, "is with a client. He's almost done." He motioned to the sole chair being used at this unearthly hour. Faux Dad was doing a color rinse on a small Hispanic woman.
"Mrs. Lopez. Jen's Mom." He nodded solemnly. "She always comes in early to avoid the tabloids."
"Ah. I see."
"Come on. That psychic lady is with your mom, but I don't think she's actually helping things. She said she had a vision of a tornado."
I rolled my eyes, praying Mrs. Rosenblatt would at least refrain from comment on my aura today. Of course, the fact I hadn't been to confessional in about five years is probably why God didn't have time to get to my prayer by the time Marco and I crossed to the back room.
"Your aura looks awful. Were you out in the rain last night?" Mrs. Rosenblatt narrowed her eyes at me.
"A little."
She opened her mouth to warn me of the universal dangers of aura soaking, but I quickly cut her off. "I know, I know. Rain isn't good for purples."
She looked me up and down the way one might a leper. "Oh bubbee, you're way beyond purple now."
Trying not to get self conscious about the state of my aura, I leaned down and kissed Mom's cheek. "I'm so sorry about the cliff."
Mom looked like she'd been crying harder than I had. Her nose and cheeks were red and splotchy like she'd spent the weekend at the Venice boardwalk without sunscreen. She was still wearing her nightgown underneath a gray trench coat with blue tube socks and a pair of Nike's. The effect was sadly comic
"Malibu was so beautiful," Mom sniffed.
"But it was such a long drive," I said, trying to put a positive spin on this. "Maybe we can find somewhere closer?"
"Maybe," Mom squeaked out. She pulled a handful of tissues from her pocket and blew her nose.
"Come on, there's got to be something?" I glanced down at Mom. She had that Old Faithful look about her. Like any minute tears would come gushing with landmark intensity.
"Albert said there's nothing in L.A. County," Mrs. Rosenblatt argued.
"Who's Albert?"
"My spirit guide."
Great. Just what we needed. A pessimistic spirit guide.
Just in case Albert hadn't done his homework, I asked Marco to pull out the L.A. County phone book. I won't tell you what kind of I-told-you-so look Mrs. Rosenblatt gave me when half an hour later I'd gone through every conceivable site with no luck. None could accommodate a wedding of this size on such short notice.
"Albert is never wrong." Mrs. Rosenblatt informed me. "He was a fact checker for the New York Times in his earthly existence."
I ignored her with no small effort. "Okay, well, maybe there's something in Orange County? Or Ventura?"
Again Marco went to retrieve more phone books. Marco took Riverside County, Mrs. Rosenblatt took Orange, and I took Ventura, while Mom sat in the corner and took a Xanax.
Just as Faux Dad joined us, saying Mrs. Lopez's roots had never looked better, Marco hit pay dirt. It wasn't much, but a small hotel in Riverside had a back garden they sometimes rented out for weddings. They'd had a last minute cancellation when the bride-to-be found a pair of someone else's Victoria's Secrets in the groom-to-be's pick-up truck, and the garden was free for tomorrow afternoon. They said they even had the chairs and tables rented for the previously cancelled wedding, so we'd be all set. As long as it didn't rain. Mom made the sign of the cross at that, but Mrs. Rosenblatt assured her that Albert said it wasn't scheduled to rain again until November. I promised I'd check the weather channel, just in case.
Wedding crisis averted, I went home. My answering machine was blinking furiously when I stepped in the door. The first message was from Tot Trots, asking why they hadn't gotten the Strawberry Shortcake designs yet. I glanced guiltily at my drawing table as I deleted the message.
Spying in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries #1) Page 13