He was in his fifties, if I had to guess, his salt and pepper hair turned mostly to salt at this point. He was solidly built, though his cheeks had started to go slack around the jowls, giving his face a bulldog look. Adding to the canine image, his eyes were small, set far apart in his face, and, at the moment, sharply intent on Dana and me.
“I’m Larry Goldstein,” he said, rising from behind his desk to shake our hands.
“Maddie Springer,” I offered. “And this is my friend, Dana Dashel.”
“Very nice to meet you,” he said, sitting again. “How may I help you ladies?”
“We wanted to ask you a few questions,” I started.
He raised one bushy eyebrow. “Such as?”
“How well do you know Becca Diamond?” Dana blurted out.
He frowned, his forehead wrinkling. “Who?”
“Don’t play coy with us,” Dana said, taking a menacing step forward. Well, as menacing as a blonde in a mini skirt and three inch heels can be. “We saw you pick her up in your car last night.”
The frown between his bushy eyebrows intensified. “You mean Willow?”
I cocked my head to the side. “I mean the redhead in the black dress and dark wig who jumped into your car outside Sebastian’s place.”
“Right,” he agreed, the confusion lifting. “Willow Morte.”
“A stage name?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is she said her name was Willow.”
“Okay, fine. So how well do you know Willow?”
“Why do you want to know about her?”
“We have some… issues to discuss with her. And we’re having a hard time reaching her.”
He sucked in his cheeks, nodding. But whether he bought the line or not, he seemed curious enough to continue the conversation.
“I knew her casually,” he said. “I’ve seen her at a few parties.”
“Sebastian’s vampire parties? So, you’re a frequent guest?”
His cheeks tinged red above his starchy collar. “Well, I wouldn’t say frequent, but I do attend from time to time.”
“And that’s where you met Willow?”
He nodded. “But I wouldn’t say I know her well.”
“Well enough to take her home last night,” Dana pointed out.
He paused, looking from Dana to me. “What exactly is this about?”
“Alexa Weston,” Dana answered. “Did you know her, too?”
Goldstein gave Dana a blank look. Either he had no idea who she was talking about, or it was a fabulous poker face.
“You may have known her by a stage name, too,” I added. “She was Willow’s friend. Long black hair, pale skin, super skinny.”
Goldstein slowly nodded. “I think I know the girl. What about her?”
I bit my lip. Apparently he hadn’t heard. “Alexa was murdered three nights ago.”
I could see Goldstein would be a champion in the courtroom. His face was a total blank, any emotion he may have felt at the passing of the “immortal” Alexa was completely hidden. For a second, I wondered if he’d even heard me.
Finally, he spoke again. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said, his voice a flat monotone.
“When was the last time you saw Alexa?” I asked, trying to pull something out of him.
He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Last week. Sebastian had a party, and I attended.”
“And both Alexa and Becca were in attendance, too?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Where did you take Becca last night?” Dana asked.
I watched Goldstein mentally try on several different answers before he finally settled on, “Why do you want to know?”
“Becca was the last person seen with Alexa before she died.”
“And we think she knows something about Alexa’s death,” Dana added.
Goldstein shook his head. “No. You must be mistaken. Becca is not that kind of girl.”
“So you do know her well,” I said.
He paused, looking from Dana to me, trying to assess just how much he should tell us. Finally he nodded. “Fine. Yes. I knew Becca well enough to know she would never kill someone. She was a sweet girl.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Sweet” was not exactly the kind of word I’d expect anyone to use when describing the girls I’d met at Crush. Which made me wonder…
“Were you sleeping with her?”
Goldstein’s cheeks immediately went screaming red. “I’m a married man,” he said holding up his left hand clad in a thick, gold band on the ring finger.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I’ll have you know that I love my wife very much.”
I nodded. “But you were sleeping with Becca?”
“This is preposterous. I don’t have to answer these kinds of questions,” he said, shaking his head so that his bulldog jowls wiggled like Jell-o.
Honestly? His lack of denial already kind of had. “Okay, let’s go back to Alexa,” I said, backing away from the touchy subject. “When did you say the last time you saw her was?”
For once, he seemed glad to answer a question, gratefully jumping on the subject change.
“Last week. Alexa came up to me at the party saying she needed some legal advice.”
“About what?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I never found out. I told her to drop by my office, but she said that was too risky. She said she’d meet me at the party last night. I was there, but she never showed up.”
“But Becca did,” I broke in.
He nodded. “She came running up to me and said she needed to leave right away.”
“Why? What was she running from?” I asked, even though if I had to guess a murder rap would be at the top of my list.
Goldstein shrugged. “She didn’t say. But she was shaken up enough that I agreed to drive her home.”
“So, you went back to her place?” Dana asked.
Goldstein paused again, licking his lips. I could tell he wasn’t the kind of person who said a single thing without first deliberating. A great courtroom skill, but it made for an annoying interview process.
“Not exactly,” he finally said.
“What do you mean?” I pressed.
“Well, she was antsy. Kept looking out the back window, like she thought someone was following her.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t say.”
“So, what happened?”
“As soon as we turned onto Victory, she said she’d walk the rest of the way and got out of the car.”
“Victory?” I asked, hearing the confusion in my own voice. That was a good ten miles from Becca’s place off Sunset. “Did you see where she went?”
Goldstein slowly shook his head. “She headed east, toward Lankershim. I figured she lived nearby.”
Only we knew for a fact that she didn’t.
Meaning, once again, Becca was in the wind.
Chapter Thirteen
I tried dialing Becca’s number again, but there was, predictably, no answer. Just for kicks, Dana and I drove by her building again, but there was no sign of her. And after Dana climbed the four flights of stairs (thankfully she let me hang in the lobby as backup), there was no sign that Becca had been back to her trashed place, either.
After circling the block a couple of times for any sign of a redhead in a black wig, Dana dropped me off back at home. Where I was surprised to find not only Ramirez’s black SUV in the drive (before 5 PM even!), but also a shiny, silver mini-van with an “I heart my hairdresser” sticker on the bumper.
Uh oh. Mom was here.
I cautiously walked through the door, only to find Ramirez being held captive in the kitchen by my mom and her best friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt. He was holding a hot water bottle in one hand and a tennis ball in the other. Mom had Baby-So-Lifelike in her arms, and Mrs. Rosenblatt was holding a stopwatch.
“Do I even want to know?” I asked, already knowing t
he answer to that question.
“Madison Louise Springer,” my mother said, immediately turning on me. “Do you know where I found my grandbaby this afternoon?”
I blinked. “Uh… hi. Nice to see you, too.”
“He was on the floor. Face down. Under a pile of shoes!” She held Baby-So-Lifelike to her chest. “The poor dear could have suffocated.”
“He’s plastic.”
“He’s a practice baby, and so far you are indicating that you need a whole lot more practice before you can be trusted with a real baby. Maddie, you left him alone in the house all day. You can’t leave a baby alone! This is the ficus all over again.”
Oh, brother.
I looked to Ramirez for help, but found him edging himself slowly out of the room.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Mom asked, turning on him.
Ramirez froze like a deer in the headlights of a GMC barreling down the 15. “Uh… I thought we were done?”
“Done with what?” I asked, my gaze pinging between the tennis ball and Mrs. Rosenblatt’s stopwatch.
“Timing your exit strategy to the hospital,” Mrs. R explained.
Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred pound, five-time divorcee who talked to the dead. She did a weekly astrology column for a local tabloid and ran a psychic reading booth down on the Venice boardwalk on the weekends. She spent weekdays alternating between a booth at Ira’s Deli on Highland and my mom’s living room, sipping coffee and gossiping about the neighbors. Her wardrobe consisted of a never-ending supply of brightly colored muumuus and Crocks. Today’s offering was a hot pink tent with neon yellow daisies printed all over it. Which perfectly matched the neon yellow eye shadow extending clear to her painted-on eyebrows. To say Mrs. Rosenblatt was a bit eccentric was like saying Lindsey Lohan was a bit of an alcoholic. However this was Hollywood, so honestly, she didn’t stick out all that much.
“So far,” she informed me, looking down at the stopwatch, “your husband is at just under twenty minutes. Though we took off ten minutes because he had to go looking for the tennis ball in the garage.”
“I’m confused. Tennis ball?”
“In case you have back labor,” Mom said. “It’s very common in our family.”
“We’re aiming for fifteen minutes flat to get you out of here,” Mrs. R said, resetting the stopwatch. “So the big guy here’s gotta pick up the pace.”
“And even fifteen isn’t that much time when you take into consideration travel time,” Mom added. She paused. “You do have your travel route to the hospital planned out, right?”
I blinked. “Uh…”
“Good lord, Maddie! You don’t know how to get to the hospital?” My mom’s face went white. “My first grandson is going to be born in traffic on the 405. I just know it.”
“Mom, she’s not due for another four months. We have time,” I argued.
“Babies come early, you know,” Mom said, wagging a manicured fingernail at me.
“Like Kyle Morganthwait,” Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed, nodding sagely.
“Who?” I asked.
“My third husband’s cousin’s daughter’s kid,” Mrs. R explained. “Little Kyle was born three months early. Only weighed a single pound.”
I looked down at my belly. Could it really be that The Bump only weighed a pound? Good lord, where had the other fifteen I’d gained gone?
“Don’t panic,” Mom said, putting up a hand. “I’ll find a route to the hospital.”
“You’re the only one panicking, Mom,” I pointed out. “And I really think Ramirez and I are capable of finding the hospital.”
But she completely ignored me, making for the spare room and Ramirez’s laptop.
I followed a reluctant step behind, watching her navigate around the diapers, jiggle the mouse to life and pull up Google Maps.
“Okay, so if you take the 405 to Santa Monica to Beverly, it should only take you twenty minutes.”
“If there’s no traffic,” Mrs. Rosenblatt interjected, coming into the room behind us. “If it’s past 3 PM, you’re gonna want to take surface streets all the way.”
“But not Santa Monica,” Mom added. “In that case, you’ll want to take the canyon, coming out on Sunset and cutting through town.”
“Unless you get car sick,” Mrs. R amended. “Then you should go the 101 route, taking Melrose to La Cienega. And in that case, you’d better have your tennis balls ready to go, because that could be a full forty minute ride.”
“She can put them in her overnight bag, right Maddie?” Mom said.
I blinked.
“Oh, God, Maddie, please tell me you have an overnight bag ready to go?”
I shook my head. “Honestly, I’m not planning to stay overnight.”
“What?” Mom froze at the keyboard.
“The hospital only requires a twelve hour stay,” I explained. “If we go in the morning, we’ll be home by dinner.”
“And what if the baby comes in the middle of the night?” Mom asked.
“Well, I’m sure that could happen, but-”
“Or what if you end up needing a C-section,” Mrs. Rosenblatt added.
I cringed involuntarily at the idea of scalpels anywhere in the vicinity of my skin. “I’m sure we won’t need to-”
“Or what,” Mom jumped in again, “if you have a long labor?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed. “My second husband’s first wife was in labor with their son, Tommy, for thirty-six hours.”
“Thirty-six?” I squeaked out. I suddenly felt faint.
“Don’t panic,” my Mom repeated. “I’ll pack you a bag. I’ll be sure to put lots of cozy nightgowns in it.
The last time I wore a “nightgown” I was five. But I didn’t argue, still trying to wrap my brain around the idea of being in labor for a full three days. That must be a mistake. That can’t be normal. I mean, What to Expect When You’re Expecting said nothing about thirty-six hours. Surely What to Expect When You’re Expecting would have told me if I should expect thirty-six hours. It mentioned three stages of labor, but I was pretty sure I could knock each one out in an hour. Two tops, if I was determined.
“…and then… Maddie are you listening?”
I realized I wasn’t. I’d been too busy not panicking.
“Sorry, what?”
“I was saying that when they put in the epidural-”
But I put up a hand to stop her. “Stop right there. I’m not planning to have an epidural.”
Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt turned to me as one, looks of horror on their faces like I’d just said I was going to roller skate down the Venice boardwalk without pants.
“What do you mean no epidural?” Mom asked.
“I want to have a natural birth.”
“Good lord, why?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked.
“Because the fewer the drugs, the safer it is for the baby. Besides, my Lamaze teacher says that we can use proper breathing techniques, and with each contraction my endorphins will kick in to provide a natural pain reliever.”
Mom stared at me. She blinked. Then she burst into laughter. “Oh honey, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Okay, this conversation was going downhill fast. “Look, I’m fine. Ramirez and I have a natural birth plan worked out with our Lamaze coach. We can find the hospital. We’ll be great. Thanks so much for all your help,” I said, ushering her ever so gently out of the room and toward the front door.
“My fifth husband, Buck, was all into that natural stuff, too,” Mrs. R said, nodding. “He died at age forty. Had a wheat grass blockage in his colon.”
“Greatseeingyou, thanksforstoppingby, seeyousoon,” I said all in one breath as I shut the door behind them.
I let out a long sigh, then turned around to see Ramirez, still standing in the kitchen, staring after them, a shell-shocked look on his face. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this tennis ball.”
If I didn’t know better, I
’d say Bad Cop was actually scared.
* * *
While Ramirez reheated a tamale casserole, courtesy of his mother again (I don’t know why people are so down on mother-in-laws. I was kinda in love with mine lately.), I settled in at the laptop and a) tried not to think about labor, back or otherwise, b) tried not to think about where my husband was planning to sleep tonight, and c) tried to focus in on just who might have wanted Alexa dead.
I started by googling the term “vampires”.
Okay, let’s face it, Ramirez was right on one account – all I knew about vampires I learned from Moonlight. Which maybe wasn’t the most definitive source out there. And considering everything in this case seemed to point back to them, I figured I’d better educate myself about my subject.
An hour and six tamales later (Hey, if The Bump only weighed a pound, I had to fatten her up.), I had found out three things:
1. There is a proportionally large number of the online population that think they are actual bloodsuckers
2. Everyone on Facebook couldn’t wait for the Moonlight sequel and
3. It’s a lot harder than Hollywood would have you believe to drain the blood from a person.
This last fact was courtesy of a woman who called herself the Vamp Doc, and had a blog article explaining just what it took to drain a body of blood.
Apparently the rate at which someone would naturally bleed out depends on which artery is punctured. An average person has five to six liters of blood. The heart circulates this entire amount every minute. So, depending on the size and location of a puncture wound, it’s possible to drain a person’s entire blood supply in just over a minute.
In theory. But, as Vamp Doc went on to say, those are under ideal (or non-ideal, depending on your point of view) conditions. In a typical “vampire” biting, the puncture wounds would be small enough that the heart wouldn’t pump out at maximum volume. However, she estimated that it would only take a total of two to three minutes before an individual would lose two-and-a-half to three liters of blood, a sufficient amount to cause loss of consciousness and death.
Fearless in High Heels Page 9