I felt myself growing smaller and smaller the more he talked. "Oops."
"Oops?" He raised an eyebrow at me. "Oops?! Seven people injured, thousands of dollars in property damages, one stolen vehicle and three weeks worth of investigative work down the toilet and all you can say is 'oops?’"
If I grew any smaller I'd be looking up at the bottom of my broken heels. "Oops, sorry?"
He narrowed his eyes and made a growling sound deep in his throat.
Suddenly I kind of wished Isabel had taken me with her.
"It would be one thing," he said through clenched teeth, "if this were an isolated incident. But this isn't the first time you've butted into a police investigation. What, exactly, do you suggest I tell my superiors?"
I bit my lip again, eating off any remnants of lip gloss. He was right. Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time I'd stuck my nose in his police business. That was actually the way we'd met. He'd been investigating my last boyfriend, Richard, a prominent L.A. attorney, for fraud and, subsequently, murder. I'd sort of inadvertently gotten into the middle of that investigation when I'd popped the real murderer's breast implant and stabbed her in the jugular with a stiletto heel. After that there'd been the incident last fall involving my father, a bunch of drag queens, and the mob, which had ended with me getting kidnapped and Dana blowing a hole through some guy's chest. So, I could see why this was something of a sore spot with him. Not to mention, his superiors.
"Look, Jack, I'm really, really sorry."
He took a deep breath and did some more head shaking. He opened his mouth to say more, but was cut off by the uniformed officer with the cute butt.
"Hey, Ramirez?"
"What?" Ramirez called over his shoulder.
"It's the captain." Buns of Steel held up a cell phone. "He wants to speak to you."
Ramirez shut his eyes in a two-second meditation. "Shit." He turned and grabbed the cell phone, then paused, jabbing a finger my way. "You – go home. We'll talk later."
I nodded meekly. Later was good. Later was after he'd had time to calm down and hopefully gotten that whole bulging-vein thing under control.
After Buns of Steel took my statement (where I relayed the events of the evening the best I could without making it sound like his co-worker was dating a loony) and the paramedics checked me out (scrapes and unattractive bruises, but not much more), Dana bundled me into her Saturn and drove me home. She offered to stay the night with me, but from the way she was frothing at the mouth over every guy we passed (including the greasy haired attendant at the Chevron station), I figured she needed an SA meeting more that I needed a sleep over.
Instead, I climbed the steps to my cozy second story studio alone. “Cozy,” of course, being real estate slang for “dinky.” My fold-out futon, a drawing table and three dozen pairs of shoes had the place fuller than Paris Hilton's BlackBerry. Still, it was near the ocean, relatively quiet, and most importantly, fell within my cozy budget.
As a young girl I had dreamed of being a runway model in Paris. But since, as I may have mentioned, I top out at just below Tom Cruise height, genetics worked against that career plan. Instead, I went to the Academy of Art College and got a degree in fashion design. Namely, designing shoes. Unfortunately, a job which sounds way more glamorous than the paycheck. As an unknown designer the only steady work I'd been able to get so far had come from Tot Trots children's shoe designs. And, thanks to my recent brushes with the law, even those jobs were becoming fewer and further between. Sure I was still working on the Pretty Pretty Princess patent leathers for Easter, but they'd given both the Superman flip flops and the summer line of Disney water shoes to someone else. In hopes of someday moving beyond Spongebob slippers, I'd lately started doing a little freelancing on the side, for – wonder of wonders – actual adults. Okay, so I'd designed a pair of purple size thirteen sequin covered heels for my father's birthday (Yes, you heard me right. Father. He danced in a Las Vegas all male 'showgirl' revue.) and I'd recently put the finishing touches on my first Maddie originals for myself. Pink pumps with three inch heels, leather ankle straps, and tiny crystal details on the buckles. All in all, I was rather proud of them.
I let myself into my apartment and kicked off my abused heels, then dragged myself into the shower, careful to rinse all the bits of broken auto glass out of my hair. I pulled on an oversized Guns 'n' Roses T-shirt, left over from my college days, and curled up on my futon with my TV remote. Three late-night episodes of Cheers later, and I was fast asleep.
* * *
I wasn't sure how long I'd actually been asleep, but I knew it wasn't long enough. My phone was ringing from somewhere deep inside a lovely dream of Ramirez and me doing horizontal acrobatics across my kitchen counter when I cracked one eye open to stare at the digital clock beside my bed. 6:15 AM. Ugh. I'm not exactly what you'd call a morning person. I'm more of a stumble-out-of-bed-at-ten-and-make-a-break-for-the-nearest-Starbucks kind of person. Which may be why my voice sounded like I'd been sucking on sandpaper as I croaked out a, "Hello?" in the vicinity of my phone.
"Maddie! Oh my word, honey, what happened?"
Instinctively, I pulled the phone away from my ear. 6 AM was too early for anyone to be that loud.
"Mom?" I croaked out again. "You don't have to shout, I can hear you."
"Sorry. I'm on a cell phone, sweetie," she yelled.
I felt a headache brewing between my eyes.
"Maddie, what's going on? I was having breakfast with Mrs. Rosenblatt and we saw a man reading the L.A. Informer at the next table. Honey, your picture was on the front page. Were you involved in a shoot-out last night?"
I smacked my palm to my head. Leave it to L.A.'s sleaziest tabloid to sensationalize a simple misunderstanding between a girl and her beau into a wild west showdown at the O.K. corral. "It wasn't a shoot-out, Mom. Just… a misunderstanding." Okay, I admit, saying it out loud, the Informer's version sounded closer to the truth.
"Are you okay? They said you were taken hostage."
I groaned again. "Mom, I'm fine. I promise."
"Oh honey, I'm coming over right now."
"No!" I fairly screamed into the phone. Don't get me wrong, I love my mother. But the last time she was in my apartment she insisted on organizing my underwear drawer, covering my cook top in aluminum foil, and feng shui-ing the entire place by moving my television into the bathroom and my futon next to the refrigerator. "No, I'm fine, Mom, really. Never better." Except for that headache which seemed to be spreading to my temples.
"Now, don't try to be all adult and independent on me, Mads. I know when my baby needs me."
I rolled my eyes. I was facing the big three-o this year. God forbid I should be adult and independent.
"Mom-"
"Nope. No protests."
"But-"
"And no buts."
I rubbed my temple, hoping I still had that travel sized bottle of aspirin in my purse. "Okay, how about this, Mom. How about I just come down to the salon later? That way you wouldn't have to drive all the way out here and I could get my pedi fixed at the same time?" I asked, hoping for a compromise that didn't involve rearranging my furniture.
Mom paused, considering this. Luckily, I knew how much she hated to drive the 405. "Well, if you're sure you're okay…"
"Right as rain!" I said doing my best perky cheerleader impression.
"All right. Why don't you meet me at Fernando's after lunch and you can tell me all about it. Okay?"
I did a silent sigh of relief. "Perfect. I'll see you then."
I hit the end button and flopped back down on my pillows. 6:20 AM and already one crisis averted. My day was off to a smashing start.
Chapter Three
Fernando's Salon was located on the ultra chic, ultra high rent corner of Beverly and Brighton, one block north of Rodeo and smack in the center of Beverly Hills' Golden Triangle. It was the kind of neighborhood where the champagne was free and the pumps cost more than a small country. My step-father, R
alph (or as I had affectionately dubbed him, Faux Dad), started out in a small strip-mall in Chatsworth, but his mastery of the cut and color soon earned him a place in the hearts and hair-dos of the rich and not-quite-famous. Only, knowing a salon called “Ralph's” wouldn’t fit in with the Versaces, Blahniks, and Vuittons of BH, Ralph reinvented himself with a faux Spanish ancestry and twice weekly spray on tans, and thus was born, Fernando, European hair sculptor. When I first met him I was convinced he was gay, but considering he and Mom have been married almost nine months now, I'm almost sure he's not.
In addition to Faux Dad's skills with a blow dryer, he's also quite the interior decorator (Hey, I said I was almost sure.), a fact illustrated by the metamorphosis his salon went through every few months. Today, as I walked through Fernando's polished glass doors, I was treated to a Caribbean theme. The walls were done in watercolor washed turquoise blue with knotted bits of rope hung like swags along the ceiling line. Bright pictures of exotic beaches, along with bits of fishing net, decorated the walls, interspersed with large leafy green plants and bright tropical flowers in artfully chipped planters. The reception desk was paneled in white clapboard with silk flower leis glued to the sides. And, I kid you not, in the corner sat a three foot high birdcage holding a bright green parrot.
He squawked at me as I approached the reception desk. "Hips don't lie. Sqwuak!"
I turned to Marco, Faux Dad's receptionist, who was slim, Hispanic, and probably the only person in the world as addicted to Project Runway as I was. "What did he just say?" I asked.
Marco rolled his heavily-lined eyes. "Oh honey, tell me about it," he drawled in an accent that was pure San Francisco. "The previous owner apparently had a thing for pop music. This damn bird has been singing Shakira all day." Marco shook a finger at the bird. "You stop it, Pablo, you naughty boy."
Pablo The Parrot tilted his head to the side. "Hips don't lie. Sqwuak!!"
"Aye, yai, yai!" Marco clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes again. "We couldn’t get a nice quiet goldfish. Nooooo, it had to be a parrot."
"Sorry," I sympathized.
"So…" Marco leaned his elbows across his desk. "I heard about your big shoot-out last night. Ex-ciiiiii-ting!" he said, drawing out the word.
My turn to roll my eyes. "It wasn't a shoot-out. It was a simple… misunderstanding." That was my story and I was sticking to it.
"Do tell, dahling," he prodded me on.
Since Marco practically lived for gossip, and the Informer had already beaten me to it anyway, I filled him in on the latest entry in my top ten not-so-finest moments. So un-fine, in fact, that as I related the story I felt worse and worse. Geeze, had I really thought Ramirez was cheating on me? How paranoid was I? To be quite honest, Ramirez had every right to be mad at me. I mean, only I would turn a little thing like a canceled date into a shoot-out.
I mean misunderstanding.
True to his Queen of the Beverly Gossip status, Marco hung on my every word, and when I got to the part about Ramirez doing his Bad Cop face at me, Marco did an exaggerated swoon and started fanning himself. "That man is hotter than my mother's chili con carne, honey."
I had to agree. Unfortunately, he had a temper to match. "Yeah, well, I think he's just a wee bit miffed with me at the moment. And speaking of miffed people…" I surveyed the room behind Marco, scanning the hairdresser stations and buzzing blow dryers. "Are Mom and Ralph here?"
"Fernando," Marco chided, "is with a client. He's doing a weave for Mrs. Banks." He leaned in close and did a pseudo whisper that could be heard all the way to the Valley. "Tyra's mom."
"Oh." I nodded, appropriately impressed.
"But your mother's in the back doing a pedi." Marco gestured toward the back of the salon where a line of foot tubs flanked the turquoise walls.
"Thanks," I waved as I walked off.
"Hips don't lie, hips don't lie!" I heard behind me.
Then Marco mumbling another, "Aye yai yai…"
In keeping with the island paradise theme, the pedicure chairs had been covered with red tropical prints, sporting large, colorful hibiscus flowers. Which completely clashed with the neon green muumuu covering the woman getting the pedi. Though, to be fair, Mrs. Rosenblatt was one of those people that clashed with just about anything. She was a five-time divorcee who weighed three hundred pounds, wore her hair in a shade of Lucille Ball red, and talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. (Yeah, I know. Only in L.A.)
She'd met my mother when, after a particularly depressing Valentine's Day, Mom had gone to Mrs. R for a psychic reading. When Mom met the dark haired stranger Mrs. R had predicted the very next day, Mom was hooked. Never mind that the stranger turned out to be a chocolate Lab named Barney, Mom and Mrs. R had been firm friends ever since.
"Mads!" Mrs. Rosenblatt called as I approached. "I heard about your shoot-out last night. Very impressive!"
I gritted my teeth together. "It wasn't a shoot-out."
Mom looked up from Mrs. R's toes. She dropped a bottle of green polish on the floor and immediately grabbed me in a fierce hug. "Oh my baby, I'm so glad you're all right!"
"I'm fine, Mom." Which actually came out sounding more like, "I fie ma," considering she was cutting off my air supply.
"I was so worried about you! My poor, poor baby."
"Really," I said, extracting myself from her death grip. "I'm fine. It was just a little… misunderstanding."
Mrs. Rosenblatt nodded sagely, her chins (plural) bobbing up and down. "It's Mercury. Mercury's in retrograde this month. Makes for a whole heap of misunderstanding."
At least someone understood.
"So, did you have a gun during this 'misunderstanding?' You pop anyone?" Mrs. R asked.
I rolled my eyes. "No, I did not pop anyone. No one got popped."
"Bummer," Mrs. R said. "I always wanted to know what it would be like to shoot a gun. My second husband, Ollie, had all kinds of guns. He used to hunt quail with 'em. Never let me shoot one though."
Ollie was a smart man.
"So, what did happen last night?" Mom asked, sitting down and wiping the spilled nail polish on her black skirt. I grimaced. At the nail polish stains, yes. But more at the skirt.
When I was ten, Mom was the hippest mother in my Brownie troupe. Unfortunately, she hadn't changed her fashion style since then. Today she wore a lacey black skirt that was about two inches too high for comfort, black mesh leggings, ballet flats, and three different tank tops layered together above about a billion jelly bracelets in every color of the rainbow. A little mole and she'd be the perfect post-menopausal Madonna.
Ignoring the urge to comment on her outfit, I gave Mom a much edited version of the night's events. However, by the end, her plucked eyebrows were still hunched together in concern.
"Maddie, you could have been killed!"
"I'm fine, Mom. Really," I tried to reassure her.
"I think you should think about carrying some protection."
"Protection?"
"What you need is a gun," Mrs. Rosenblatt offered. "I think I might still have one of Ollie's in storage."
"No!" I said a little too loudly. "Look, I've got pepper spray at home. I'll be fine." I didn't add that when I'd gotten it I'd been so scared of accidentally spraying myself with the mini canister of eye scorching stuff that I'd promptly shoved it to the back of my junk drawer and it hadn't seen the light of day since. My idea of protection was a ribbed Trojan. Carrying actual weapons was a little too Rambo-chick for me.
"I don't know, Maddie…" Mom said, still not convinced.
"Honest, I'm fine. Look, this was just a fluke. A misunderstanding. Isabel is probably in Mexico by now. I'm fine. There's nothing to worry about. Really."
"Wait!" Mrs. Rosenblatt held up a pudgy hand. Then smacked it on my forehead. "I'm getting a vision." She rolled her eyes back into her head until she resembled a Dawn of the Dead reject. "I see a woman with long dark hair. She's screaming. And destroying a bug." Mrs. R opened her eyes. "You go
t a roach problem or something?"
Mental forehead smack.
* * *
After I reassured Mom for the bazillionth time that I was not likely to encounter a bullet anytime soon, I left the salon (to the tune of Pablo still singing Shakira and Marco still threatening to have roast parrot for dinner if he didn't shut up) and hoofed it the two blocks to my Jeep. The first thing I did when I got in was crank on the air conditioning. Even though it was barely the end of March, we were nearing triple digits this week. One of those freak heat waves that seem to hit L.A. more and more often. I blamed global warming. Though, personally, I'd still rather break out the tank tops and flip flops in March than give up my aerosol hair spray and gas guzzling Jeep.
I let the air blast over me as I made my way down the bumper-to-bumper afternoon traffic on Pico, people-watching the Saturday afternoon shoppers, admiring the Lexus dealerships, taking in the latest billboards. I passed one of a man popping out of the page 3D style, carrying a cell phone and advertising something about a long distance carrier. There was another that featured huge Dumbo ears and urged me not to let the magic of Disneyland pass me by. But it was the one on the corner of Pico and Westwood that made me sit up and stare in earnest.
A woman, lying on her stomach, spanned the length of the billboard, clad only in a teeny tiny pair of lacy panties that would make a Playboy Bunny blush. Two big round globes of double D's peeked out between her strategically placed arms. She had one finger seductively touching a glossy red lip, the caption “Like to watch?” underneath her with a web address to view her 24 hour web cam. But the part that almost made me gag was the woman's name. "Sexy Jasmine."
Last year when I'd been involved in the murder investigation that resulted in my meeting Ramirez, Jasmine (or as I was more fond of calling her, Miss PP. As in Plastic Parts. Seriously – you think those kinds of boobs grew naturally?) had, at one time, been my prime suspect. But, instead of offing embezzlers, it turned out Jasmine's biggest sin was moonlighting on a pay-per-play adult website. Apparently, after being fired from her day job as a receptionist, she'd turned her hand to full time cyber whoring. And, by the size of that billboard, it looked like it was paying off.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 55