I moved on to the next pile of files, teetering precariously beside the bookcase. Billable hours records. Dinners with clients, travel times, and phone records of every millisecond he’d spent on any given case, billed by the quarter hour at rates that made my head spin. But nothing to tell me where Richard might be now.
The pile leaning against the desk contained copies of employee files, no doubt distributed to each partner to keep tabs on the Altheas of the office. While I had a feeling they wouldn’t yield anything helpful, I couldn’t help my curiosity getting the better of me when I unearthed Jasmine’s file. I opened it, peeking inside. Two complaints from other clerks about her personal long distance calls on the company phone, three commendations from the senior partner (who was older than dirt, bookoo rich, and in the middle of a messy divorce – suspiciously Jasmine’s type if you asked me), and her salary statements for the past three months. I almost laughed out loud at the paltry sum Miss PP earned answering phones and guarding the frosted door. I honestly didn’t think it was possible for anyone to exist in L.A. on a salary less than mine, but the statement proved me wrong. Poor Jasmine. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost, I reminded myself, thinking of how I’d had to sneak in here like a common criminal.
Speaking of which… I looked down at my watch and realized I’d been snoop- I mean, searching for evidence (there, that sounded much less nosey) for the last twenty minutes and Jasmine would be back from lunch soon.
Closing her file I rapidly began searching in earnest for anything that might lead me to Richard. Maybe I was having such lousy luck finding anything because I wasn’t even really sure what it was I was looking for. Had there been any obvious clues, they certainly wouldn’t be here now. Ramirez would have his CSI Guys scanning them for fibers and fingerprints back at Good Guy headquarters. No, my only hope is that Ramirez may have overlooked something that had meaning to me because of my intimate knowledge as Richard’s girlfriend. Yes, I know the chances were slim, especially considering my knowledge wasn’t turning out to be all that intimate after all. In fact, give him a couple days and Ramirez might know more about my boyfriend than I did. A thought which caused a bout of morning sickness to roll through my stomach again.
Ten minutes later I was frantically going through Richard’s desk, pulling out letter openers, fountain pens, paper clips, rubber bands, and… hello, what was that? A shiny blue piece of foil protruded from under Richard’s desk sized calendar. I lifted the calendar corner and pulled the foil out. Staring at it. A condom wrapper?
I froze, one hand gripped like a vice around an empty super ribbed Trojan packet and the other quickly balling into a fist at my side. Richard had a condom wrapper on his desk?
My brain went through a rapid search of possible reasons why this might be okay. It was left over from his associate days (read: pre-Maddie days)? He was representing the Trojan company in a lawsuit and had to inspect the product as possible evidence? Hormone crazed teenagers had broken in wanting to experience the thrill of sex in a lawyer’s office?
Damn. None of these was even remotely plausible. I swallowed hard, trying to cleanse the sandpaper feeling that had suddenly formed in my mouth. My boyfriend used condoms at work. This was really not good. If I ever found Richard, I was going to kill him.
I was still staring at the offending Trojan wrapper when the telephone on the desk rang. On instinct, I picked it up.
“Hello?” Oh crap! I wasn’t supposed to be here. I thought a really bad word and hoped it wasn’t Jasmine checking in.
There was a pause on the other end, as if the person were as surprised I’d picked up the phone as I was. Then a tentative male voice said, “Give me Richard.”
I gulped and hoped he didn’t hear it. “Who may I ask is calling?”
Again with the pause. Only this time I heard him mumble, “Shit” under his breath, obviously not pleased with my interrogation and debating whether to answer or hang up on me. Finally he decided to go with option number one, and answered in a gruff voice. “Devon Greenway. Who the fuck is this?”
Chapter Five
I froze, every muscle in my body suddenly tensing. Ohmigod. I was on the phone with a murderer!
A murderer that was looking for Richard. A knot formed in my stomach. There was no denying Richard was in this up to his eyeballs now. Only I didn’t know exactly how. A part of me screamed that this was a good thing, look what happened to people who knew! They ended up face down in their million dollar swimming pools.
So, trying my darndest not to sound like a mouseketeer in front of the big bad embezzler slash murderer, I answered him.
“Maddie Springer.”
“What’re you, Richard’s receptionist?”
I took personal offense to that, now knowing exactly how little his receptionist made.
“Noooo. I’m his girlfriend.
Silence. Then, “Richard never mentioned a girlfriend.”
I fought down a stab of disappointment. Here I may be carrying his child and he’d never even mentioned me.
“You sure? Maddie Springer? Though sometimes he just refers to me as Pumpkin. That’s his pet name for me. You sure he didn’t mention a Pumpkin?”
I heard Greenway swallow an oath on the other end. Right. Irrelevant.
“Never mind. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I just thought, you know, he might talk about me sometimes, just, maybe in casual conversation. I mean, not that you and he have a lot of casual conversations, I’m sure it’s all just business and you don’t have any sort of personal stake in each other’s lives, so I guess really there would be no reason for Richard to mention me at all-”
Greenway cut me off. “Jesus, do you ever shut up?”
I swallowed hard. I did tend to talk a lot when I was nervous. And being on the phone with men who strangled their wives, then dumped them in their swimming pools made me very nervous. I took a deep breath and mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Put Richard on,” he demanded.
“Uh…” I looked around the police-ransacked office. “Richard’s not here right now.”
“Where the hell is he?”
Pal, I wish I knew.
On the one hand, disappointment welled inside of me as I realized this wasn’t the great break in the Where’s Waldo game my life had suddenly become. On the other, if Richard was hiding out from Greenway (as the dead wife now convinced me he was) he was doing a good job of it. I halfway hoped he stayed hidden. Something about Greenway’s voice had the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. Like he’d almost enjoy strangling someone.
“Look, Richard’s girlfriend, I don’t have all day. Where the fuck is Richard?”
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “He hasn’t been here since Friday.”
Greenway said a few colorful words, breathing heavily into the phone.
“Can I take a message?” I squeaked out, hoping if I kept him on the phone long enough my pulse might return to normal and I could think of something clever to say.
“You mean to tell me,” he smirked through the receiver, “that prick took off? Without even telling his girlfriend?”
Even though I was pretty sure Greenway was being sarcastic with me now, but put like that Richard did sound like a prick.
I thought about not answering. I certainly didn’t want to help Greenway get any closer to bumping off witness number two, a.k.a. The Prick. But, since I really didn’t know where Richard was, I figured it could hardly hurt. “That’s right. He didn’t.”
“Son of a bitch.” And Greenway hung up.
I stood there for a full minute, staring at the receiver, willing my heart to stop pounding like a Latin conga drummer. I took a deep breath. Then another. And another. Then began to fear I was hyperventilating and sat down in Richard’s leather desk chair to think.
If I were Ramirez, I could have traced the call. I’d probably have black and whites squealing up to wherever Greenway was right now, arresting him so my boyfriend could come out
of hiding and I could pee on a stick. Unfortunately, I wasn’t Ramirez. In fact, I wasn’t turning out to be much good at this spy thing at all. I’d had the prime suspect in a murder investigation on the phone and I hadn’t even thought to ask where he was! I thunked my head against the desk. I had no idea where to go from here.
I looked down at my watch. 12:28. Jasmine was due back from lunch any minute.
I pried myself out of the chair and willed my legs not to buckle under me. They didn’t, which I took as a good sign, and I quickly slipped out the door, down the hall and into the reception area.
“You find what you needed?” Althea called to my retreating back.
“Yep. Great. Thanks!” I gave a half wave as I plowed through the front doors at Flo Jo speed. 12:29. I hit the down arrow on the first bank of elevators, nervously tapping my foot as I waited. “Come on, come on,” I coaxed the elevator.
Finally it arrived and I slipped inside, just as the second bank of elevators to my left slid open and Jasmine exited. I put my head down and hoped she didn’t look back.
She didn’t, wiggling her size two behind to the reception desk with purpose as the elevator doors slid closed in front of me. Whew. Close one.
Two minutes later I was racing across the street to the safety of my little red Jeep. I hopped in, locked the doors, and flipped on the radio, letting Blink 182 fill the unnerving silence as I yoga breathed my pulse back to normal. Even though I knew Greenway wasn’t going to reach through the phone and strangle me via AT&T, the conversation had left me with a serious case of the heebie jeebies. Until recently my biggest fear in life was spiders with hairy legs. The sudden jump into wife killer territory had me sweating and shivering all at the same time.
I tried to console myself with the thought that Greenway hadn’t known where Richard was any more than I did. This was good. It meant the chances of finding Richard swimming were down considerably. (Something I was relieved to hear, because the more I thought about that condom wrapper the more I wanted to be the one to strangle him.)
So, what now?
I glanced across the street again, my eyes searching out the windows of Richard’s office on the sixth floor. No sinister shadows, no cops to follow, no bad guys in black.
That’s it, I needed reinforcements.
I grabbed my cell and punched in Dana’s number. She answered with a groggy, “Hello?” on the fourth ring.
“It’s me,” I said. “You busy?”
Dana giggled, then I heard a muffled male voice in the background.
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe the more appropriate question is, are you alone?”
Dana giggled again. “Not entirely. Why, what’s up?”
“I’m kind of having a crisis here.”
“Another one?”
Tell me about it. “Never mind, I can hear you’re busy.”
“No, no. Sasha was just leaving. He’s got pyramid practice.” She giggled again and I thought I might throw up. “Tell you what, I’ve got an audition later this afternoon, but you wanna meet me at Fernando’s in, say, twenty minutes? I could use a pedi first anyway.”
My day definitely screamed for a pedicure. “I’ll be there in ten.”
* * *
Fernando’s was located in the center of Beverly Hills’ Golden Triangle, at the corner of Brighton and Beverly Boulevard, just one block north of Rodeo. Faux Dad started his career as the great Fernando in a strip mall in Chatsworth, but through word of mouth, and a few fabulous mentions in the L.A. Times, Fernando had primped and permed his way out of the Valley and into the playground of the rich and Botoxed.
In addition to being a wizard with hair, Faux Dad also had an innate flair for interior decorating. (Okay, so I was 75% sure he wasn’t gay.) Fernando’s went through a yearly metamorphosis, keeping up with the “in” theme of the moment. This year the look was Modern Industrial. The walls were covered in a rusted finish with a metallic over-glaze, causing them to shimmer in the light coming through the all-glass front wall. Exposed copper pipes overhead and unframed modern art canvases on the walls added to the look, while a dozen blow dryers, rinse sinks and cutting stations hummed with activity down on the concrete floor. In Watts this would have been a warehouse, but on Rodeo, it was Warehouse Chic.
“Maddie, Dahling!” Marco, the receptionist, came at me with an air kiss on both cheeks. Marco was slim, Hispanic, and wore more eyeliner than Tammy Faye. “How are you?” he asked in an accent that was pure San Francisco.
“I’ve been better,” I answered truthfully. “Is Ralph in?”
“Fernando,” Marco reminded me, “is doing a color weave on Mrs. Spears.” Then he added in a low whisper. “Britney’s mother.”
“Oh,” I whispered back, suitably impressed. I looked to the back of the salon and saw Faux Dad weaving red extensions onto a fiftyish brunette in Chanel. He caught my eye and gave a little wave.
“So,” I said, turning back to Marco, “I’m just having one of those days. Any way you can fit me in for a pedi?”
“For you, sweetie, anything.” Marco grabbed his big black book off a desk that looked like it was made of aluminum siding. He flipped through the pages.
“Think you could fit Dana in too?”
Marco frowned.
“Pretty please?”
“Maddie, you gotta stop doing this, dahling. You throw me all off schedule.”
I blinked my eyelashes at him. “Oh, pretty, pretty please with Brad Pitt on top.”
“No fair, you know my weakness. Okay. Chia can do you both in fifteen. Why don’t you go soak?”
“You’re a doll, Marco.”
Marco threw me a kiss. “Don’t I know it!”
I made my way over to the line of pedicure chairs along the back wall and chose a vacant one, taking off my shoes and sinking my feet into the little bubble bath. The second I hit the warm water I felt myself begin to relax.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm the roller coaster of emotions I’d ridden today. I’d almost succeeded when Dana plopped into the chair beside me with a huff.
“Sorry I’m late. There was traffic on the 110.”
I opened my eyes and blinked. Twice.
Sitting beside me was Morticia Adams. Or, more accurately, Morticia Adams meets Playboy Bunny. Dana was dressed in a black vinyl outfit, just barely covering her derrière and showing more cleavage than I even owned. Her own hair was covered in a black wig that was taller than my hair in 1985. Pale foundation, black eyeliner and deep burgundy lip liner completed the Halloween chic costume. Only it was July.
“Do I want to know?” I asked.
“What?” Dana looked down at herself. “I told you I have an audition later. It’s for an Elvira look-a-like thing. Why, do I stick out?”
I looked around the salon. Actually, she didn’t. Hey, this was L.A.
“So,” she asked. “What’s the pedi emergency?”
As quickly as I could, I filled her in on the events of the last two days. Ramirez in Richard’s condo, the floating redhead, and finally my impromptu chat with Greenway. By the time I was finished our toenails were soaked, moisturized and filed and Dana’s jaw was permanently stuck in the open position.
“This is better than The Sopranos! You actually talked to a murderer? What did he sound like?”
“Kind of pissed, actually.”
“Ohmigod. You could have been killed!”
Did I mention Dana has a flair for the dramatic?
“It was just a phone call, Dana.” I didn’t tell her about my own overly dramatic reaction to said call.
“So what did you do?”
“Nothing. He hung up.”
Dana looked at me like I was the worst Nancy Drew ever.
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’? Didn’t you ask where he was?”
I slowly shook my head.
“Did you hear anything helpful in the background? Check the caller ID? At least star-sixty-nine him?”
I shook my head again. I was ashamed to adm
it I hadn’t even thought of those. “Dumb, right?”
Dana was such a good friend, she didn’t even answer that. Instead she drew her blackened eyebrows together in concentration. “You know, I dated this guy once who worked at the phone company. He said that some of these small companies keep a log of calls coming in or going out. You think maybe Richard’s firm does that?”
I thought back to the blurb in Jasmine’s file about her long distance calls. “Yes! They do. Ohmigod, Dana, you’re brilliant.”
Dana sat back in her chair, looking like she’d just solved a Rubik’s cube.
Obviously Jasmine wasn’t going to give out any company information to me, but I had a feeling if I waited until she went on break again tomorrow, I could probably convince Althea to look up the number. She’d seemed sympathetic enough to Richard’s plight. And if that didn’t work, I could always bribe her with a free manicure.
“This is so cool,” Dana said, wiggling her primped toes. “It’s just like that pilot I shot last Spring, Diva Detectives. We’re actually tracking down a murderer.”
We?
“Whoa. What do you mean, ‘we’?”
Dana feigned a hurt look, sticking out her over-lined lip. “Hey, there’s no way I’m letting you go all Charlie’s Angels without me.”
While I appreciated the help, the light in Dana’s eyes as she said “Charlie’s Angels” had me immediately fearing feathered wigs and bellbottoms.
“It’s not a game, Dana. I think Richard’s really in trouble.” And even as I said it, the whole idea of running down Greenway was beginning to sound a little crazy. What were we actually going to do if we found him? I mean, as Dana so exuberantly pointed out, he was a murderer. What if he had a weapon? What if he tried to shoot us? I didn’t think I could face being shot at any more than I could face an EPT.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 6