High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  “This is all so James Bond. But, are you sure we should be interfering? I mean, wouldn’t this be better left up to the police?”

  Yes it would. But as long as Richards’s name was crawling up the list of Ramirez’s suspects, I didn’t have that option. So, I sweetened the deal. “I could get you in for a complimentary pedicure at Fernando’s?

  That did it.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, then disappeared behind the frosted doors in search of the phone records.

  I stood at the front desk, anxiously tapping my nails on the mahogany surface. I glanced at the brass clock above Jasmine’s desk. 12:23. I hoped Althea hurried.

  Less than two minutes later she was back with a computer printout.

  “Okay here are all the calls to Richard’s office yesterday. There weren’t many because, well, you know.” She blushed like a beet again. “When did the call come in?”

  I took the printout, scanning my finger down the page. I’d received the call from Greenway just before Jasmine came back from break yesterday. 12:27 a call was logged to Richard’s office from an 818 area code. My heart was suddenly racing like the bus from Speed. It was a North Hollywood prefix. As of yesterday, Greenway was still in the area.

  “I think maybe this one is it. Is there any way you can find out who owns the number?”

  Althea clicked a few buttons on Jasmine’s keyboard. “I can do a reverse look up.” If I hadn’t known better I’d say Althea was beginning to enjoy this. Her eyes were shining behind her thick frames, her fingers flying at lightening speed across the keyboard. “Got it.”

  I tried not to sound too excited. “Whose number is it?”

  “It says the Moonlight Inn in North Hollywood. You really think Greenway is hiding out there?”

  I could have kissed her. “God, I hope so. Thanks, Althea.”

  “Thanks for what?”

  I froze. I knew that helium perky voice. Jasmine.

  Althea knew it too. Her head snapped up, a deer in the headlights expression frozen on her face.

  I sent serious psychic vibes across the desk at her. Say nothing. Play dumb!

  Althea must have got them because she quickly closed the window on her computer screen, obliterating all evidence of our noontime caper. Not that I was actually threatened by Jasmine. On her steady diet of laxatives and vitamin water she weighed about as much as a toothpick. However, I had a feeling she’d take inordinate pleasure in tattling on me to Ramirez.

  “Thanks for what?” Jasmine asked again. “What’s going on here?”

  I tried to put on my innocent face. I opened my mouth, hoping some great lie would come out, but Althea beat me to it.

  “I said I’d forward Richard’s bills to his accountant’s office. She didn’t want his accounts going delinquent.”

  I stood and stared. Wow, Althea wasn’t half bad at this cloak and dagger stuff.

  Jasmine narrowed her eyes at me. (Or at least tried. They didn’t move so well after her lid lift last May.) I wasn’t sure she was buying it, but what could she say?

  “Well, thanks again,” I said, turning and walking as fast as I could out the doors. I could feel Jasmine’s cold stare at my back all the way to the elevator. It was unnerving, like she was putting some Barbie hex on me. I was glad when the elevator arrived and I quickly stepped inside, punching the lobby button.

  As soon as I was clear of the building, I pulled out my cell and punched in Dana’s number.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “I’ve got the number. It’s the Moonlight Inn in North Hollywood.”

  Dana squealed with excitement on the other end. I had to hold the phone away from my ear to keep from going deaf.

  “So,” she asked. “What now?”

  “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. Get your Angels clothes on.”

  * * *

  Nineteen minutes later I pulled up to Dana’s duplex in Studio City. It was a modest, stucco structure that she shared with four other aspiring actors slash personal trainers. Which meant it always smelled vaguely of costume makeup, gym socks and Rice-a-Roni (the struggling actor’s treat).

  I knocked on the door and was answered a couple beats later by No Neck Guy. I’d long ago given up trying to remember the names of Dana’s roommates. Being an actor didn’t exactly translate into steady income and they tended to come and go like nomads. There had been Bubbly Blonde, Guy with Bleached Teeth, Latin Dancer Guy, and my favorite, Italian Guy Who Can’t Keep his Hands to Himself. (Yuck!) No Neck Guy worked at the Sunset Gym with Dana and reminded me of the Incredible Hulk without all the green dye.

  “Is Dana in?” I asked.

  No Neck shrugged, then bellowed through the house for Dana.

  “Coming,” she yelled from deep in the Actor’s Duplex. No Neck Guy nodded at me, then disappeared up the stairs. No Neck was a man of few words.

  Three seconds later Dana bounced through the doorway, doing a little skipping footwork thing. Though one glance at her outfit took my attention quickly away from her feet.

  “What are you wearing?” I stared, torn between the urge to laugh and cry.

  “You like?” she asked, twirling in her doorway for me. She wore a tiny pleather mini skirt in a bright blue, spandex halter top that was at least two sizes too small for her well endowed D chest (another reason I hated her), a long strand of fake pearls (I know they were fake because they were neon green.) and had capped the whole thing off with a jet black, page boy wig. I won’t even go into the make-up. I prayed she’d just come off the set of “Hookers for Hire.”

  Apparently I hadn’t answered her yet, as Dana pouted her cherry red lips and put both hands on her exposed hips. “You don’t like my spying outfit?”

  “This isn’t what Charlie’s Angels wore.”

  “Well, duh! I was going for call girl.”

  “Okay, maybe this is a dumb question, but why are you dressed like a call girl?”

  “See, here’s what I was thinking. We’re going need to get Greenway’s room number. And if we just go ask the manager, he’s going to tell us to get lost. But, looking like this…” She did another twirl and her pearls clacked against her boobs. “He’ll think were hookers.”

  “But I don’t want to be a hooker.” Not a phrase I ever thought I’d have to say.

  Dana ignored me. “I’ve got it all worked out. I did this scene for my acting class once from Pretty Woman, so I totally know how to act like a hooker. We’ll tell the manager that we’re meeting a john and can’t remember his room number. Don’t worry, people expect hookers to be dumb.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Anyway, he’s not going to want us banging on every door in his place until we find our john, now is he? Trust me, if we’re dressed like this, guys are gonna be a lot more helpful.”

  That I didn’t doubt.

  “Dana, I just spent the morning as Barney in drag. I am not – N-O-T-” I spelled out for her, “spending the evening dressed as a hooker.”

  Dana put her hands on her hips again. She tilted her head to one side. She narrowed her eyes. Then she pulled out the big guns. “You peed on that stick yet?”

  I sighed and willed my eye not to twitch.

  “Fine. I’ll be a hooker.”

  Fifteen minutes later Dana was coaching me on hooker-speak (which apparently consisted of a lot of “yo baby”’s and “wa’sup dawg”’s) and pulling dress after increasingly tiny dress from her closet. Finally she settled on a neon pink, strapless spandex thing that looked small enough to be a size negative two. She added a long red wig that reached clear down to my butt and a pair of four-inch acrylic heels chunkier than a Snickers bar.

  As she sat me down on her bed to put the finishing touches on my make-up I filled her in on Ramirez’s latest news about Richard.

  The great thing about really good friends is that they often get as upset as you, if not more, when your boyfriend does something really stupid. Like get married.

  “That bastar
d. That cheating son of bitch. The motherfu-”

  “My thoughts exactly.” I cut her off before she got too colorful. She was, after all, in character.

  “How could he be married? I mean, you’ve met his freaking mother!”

  I’d been thinking the same thing. In fact my first irrational thought when Ramirez told me about Cinderella was, had all his family and friends been lying to me for the last five months? Had they all been briefed beforehand to keep Maddie in the dark? It was like I was a bad reality show contestant. Only there was no cash payoff with this hoax.

  But even as I listened to Dana cuss him out, I couldn’t help a teeny tiny part of me from hoping that maybe Richard had an explanation for all this. And that wasn’t just the denial talking. I knew Richard. Okay, so there were a few aspects of his life I wasn’t privy to, but deep down I knew the man. I knew he was no more capable of leading a double life than he was of growing seven inches and playing for the Lakers. This kind of deception just wasn’t in his makeup. Somehow, I knew there was a logical explanation for all of this and I was having a hard time hating him as much as I should until I heard his side of the story. I just could not believe Richard was actually married.

  Then again, I had a hard time envisioning him consorting with killers and yet, here we were.

  “Okay, I’m done.” Dana capped her lipstick and pulled back her closet door to reveal a full-length mirror. We stood side by side and Dana put one arm around my shoulder. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun!” she squealed.

  Again with that “fun” thing. Why did everyone think dressing up in dangerously ugly clothing was fun?

  The wig itched a little, the spandex was riding up on my thighs already, but I had to admit as I stared in the mirror for the final effect, it was a good disguise. I looked nothing like myself. Thank God.

  “Honey, we look fabulous,” Dana said. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  I’m not ashamed to say I had a knot in my stomach the entire drive up the 405. Well, that and a wedgie from the incredibly tight and unforgiving spandex causing my granny underwear to bunch. I shifted in my seat, promising myself I’d do laundry tomorrow.

  We decided to ride in my Jeep as Dana said it looked more hookerish than her car. I wasn’t sure if I should be offended by that or not. As we crawled through rush hour traffic, I couldn’t help looking in my rearview mirror every two seconds for signs of a black SUV. I was a little paranoid about Ramirez spotting my car now. As if having him see me in the Purple People Eater wasn’t bad enough, catching me as the Happy Hooker would probably kill me of embarrassment on the spot. Not to mention put a serious crimp in our plans.

  Speaking of which…

  “So, what is this Pretty Woman plan of yours? I mean, do we just walk up and ask what room Greenway is in?”

  “Don’t worry,” Dana said, flipping down the visor to check her makeup, “just leave the talking to me.”

  Why is it when someone says, “don’t worry,” it makes me worry even more?

  “So,” Dana asked, before I could question her further, “where exactly is this place?”

  I consulted the directions I’d printed from Yahoo maps before leaving the Actor’s Duplex.

  “Lankershim and Vanowen in North Hollywood. We should be there in about twenty minutes.”

  Dana nodded, pulling out a tube of lipstick and lapsing into silence as she added another layer of Circus Clown Red.

  We wove north up the 405 and through the hills, which were actually quite scenic, until we reached the 101 and started our descent into the Valley. As we neared the 134 split, I slowed down, exiting the freeway at Lankershim as we entered North Hollywood.

  While Hollywood features famous landmarks, celebrity footprints, and glitzy tourist shops, North Hollywood’s name is unfairly deceptive. North Hollywood is Hollywood’s ugly stepsister. Homes have bars on the windows, ‘79 Oldsmobiles propped on cement bocks cover brown lawns and old toothless men of every conceivable race sit on front porches yelling things like, “That my damn garbage. Touch that and I’ll break yo’ arm.”

  As we passed toothless man number three (yelling about the damn dog going on the damn lawn) I instinctively locked my doors. It wasn’t that I was afraid of North Hollywood. Hey, I grew up in L.A., it took a lot more than bars on a window to frighten me. But the way that toothless old man had been staring at me like he was counting his pennies had me worried about the kind of propositions two hookishly dressed young ladies might get in this neighborhood. I did a little yucky squirm in my seat at the thought.

  “It should be up here on the right,” Dana said, reading the addresses as we passed by a liquor store, a closeout furniture place and a Desi’s Porn Palace.

  My stomach began to feel queasy as we neared the address and I spotted a woman wearing my same spandex dress negotiating at the passenger side window of a dented caddy. Unlike Dana, I was no actress. Granted, I was exercising my truth bending skills quite a bit lately (lying sounded so tawdry), but I wasn’t quite sure I could pull off “hooker with a mission.”

  Too late to turn back now.

  “Here it is.” Dana pointed to a run down motel on the right. Ten units on the bottom, ten on the top and a metal staircase running along the side. A small building in front served as an office and behind it I could see green dumpsters overflowing with trash. The beige, stucco walls of the motel had seen one too many nights of gang tagging, being a tri-colored mass of symbols that meant nothing to me but could likely get one shot at in South Central. The windows predictably sported prison-like bars and the roof likely would have leaked buckets – if it ever rained in L.A. that is.

  I pulled into a spot under a sickly looking palm. Dana got out and immediately adjusted her top. I followed suit, trying one last time, in vain I might add, to retrieve my grannies from my cranny.

  “Dana, I don’t know if I can do this.” I glanced nervously at the front office. Or, as the sign read. _ront O__ice. It looked like someone had shot out the “F”’s.

  Dana looked in the side mirror, adjusting her wig. “Relax, it’ll be fine. Just leave the talking to me. I’m a sweet-talking expert.” Dana gave me a wink.

  I took a deep breath. Okay. I could do this. Maddie Springer, Happy Hooker Extraordinaire.

  Chapter Eight

  The first time I ever saw Dana was on the blacktop at John Adams Middle School. She was wearing pink stirrup pants, a Madonna cut black, mesh shirt, and way more make-up than any other seventh grader I knew. She was standing with Alan Miller, our pre-teen equivalent of Donnie Wahlberg, and flirting. And not in the giggle, giggle, hair-flip way other girls I knew did. Dana had moves that made Alan’s pants look like a little pup tent. She did the eyelash batting, the hip jutting, the shoulder thrusting, and what was later to become known as her signature move, the Lean and Shake.

  Over the years the Lean and Shake has been perfected to the highly effective form I was now witnessing as Dana leaned her elbows on the stained Formica counter of the Moonlight Inn, her boobs threatening to spill from her halter, her round bottom doing a little shake, shake, shake in the air behind her.

  And it was no less effective now. The night manager (a short, bald guy with mustard stains on his Metallica T-shirt) stared at Dana with a glazed expression and I could swear I saw something move in his pants. Ew! I quickly looked away.

  “So, you can see our predicament,” Dana said, her voice sugary enough to create instant cavities.

  Metallica licked his thin, chapped lips. “Dude,” he said, talking to Dana’s cleavage, “I’d, like, really love to help you. What was the guy’s name?”

  “Mr. Smith.” Dana winked.

  “Ah.” Metallica nodded. “So it’s one of those kind of dates, huh?” He wiggled his sparse eyebrows up and down.

  I had a feeling the Moonlight Inn saw quite a few of those kind of dates. As ratty as the outside was, the interior of the office was even worse. The floor was covered in peeling vinyl that cracked under my hee
ls and hadn’t been washed since sometime in the Reagan years. The walls were a dingy gray showing water damage and mold from faulty plumbing. Two dim, fluorescent lights buzzed above us and the air had a thick, uncirculated smell of burnt food and unwashed bodies.

  “Alls I know,” Dana said, continuing her rump shake, “is Spike, that’s my manager, told me to meet Mr. Smith here. And now I can’t remember the room number.” Dana pouted her lower lip out. “Spike’s gonna be so pissed if I come back empty handed. Ya’ know?”

  Wow, Dana did a really good dumb blonde voice. It was somewhere between Betty Boop and Marilyn Monroe. Totally nine hundred number fake, but Metallica was eating it up. Nothing a metal head loves more than a dumb blonde in a halter top. I could see sweat beading on his upper lip as Dana poured on the charm.

  “So, I was thinkin’, maybe I could just kinda describe my Mr. Smith to you and maybe you could tell me what room number he’s in?”

  “We’d really appreciate it,” I chimed in, licking my lips and making a kissy face. Okay, so I’m not the flirting expert Dana is. In fact, I felt really ridiculous in this whole getup and totally not sexy at all. Satin lingerie from Victoria’s Secret is sexy. Neon spandex is just wrong.

  Luckily, Metallica didn’t seem to share my thoughts. He continued to eye Dana like a kid in a candy store.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “We get an awful lot of dudes coming through here. I’m not sure I’d remember one from the other.”

  “Oh, I bet you have an excellent memory.” Dana laid her hand on Metallica’s arm and I thought he might start hyperventilating.

  “The guy we’re after probably checked in on Friday, alone,” I added. “He’s got dark hair that he wears slicked back from his face and probably keeps a real low profile. He was last seen wearing a leather bomber jacket, black pants and a red button down shirt.” I’d learned that much from the ten o’clock news last night.

  Metallica tore his gaze from Dana’s chest to quirk an eyebrow up at me. “How do you know so much about this guy?”