Homicide in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  Luckily the server arrived at that moment with a bottle of wine, so Dana didn't have to come up with a witty reply to a married man bringing up his wife on a clandestine date. Instead, she snuck me an eye roll as Ratski inspected the bottle.

  I turned my head away, stifling a laugh.

  "I've been reading about the team's troubles online," Dana said, clearly eager to cut to this evening's chase.

  "Troubles?" Ratski's eyes glazed as he swirled wine in his glass. Then he took a big sip followed by a hiccup.

  Geez, we needed to make this quick before he got too drunk to give us any information.

  "Yes," Dana said, clearing her throat again. "You know, the death of that poor girl Lacey."

  I watched Ratski's face. At least he had the decency to wipe the grin off of it as he responded. "Yeah, it sucks. Totally distracting to the team. We got killed yesterday. Total shutout."

  His concern was touching.

  "How terribly upsetting for you." Dana reached across the table and laid a hand on Ratski's.

  "Yeah, upsetting." Ratski furled his eyebrows as if trying to create the appropriately "upset" expression.

  "Is your game suffering too badly?" Dana asked.

  Ratski shrugged. "We'll recover. We got a lot of season left to play."

  Dana shot him a fake smile. "Sure, but doesn't the distraction kill your momentum? Make it harder to perform on the field?"

  "Nah." Ratski drained his glass and refilled it from the bottle on the table. "Not much fazes me."

  Dana bit her lip. I could tell she was running out of polite ways to hint at Ratski's need for performance enhancers. "I heard you guys are playing a doubleheader tomorrow. That must get tiring. That's, what, six hours of play? How do you guys have enough energy to do that?"

  "Oh, I got stamina, baby," Ratski leered.

  Ick.

  "Don't you ever need a little energy boost or something?" Dana pressed.

  "Yeahlikewhat?" Ratski said, his words slurring together as he downed another gulp.

  Dana shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, you naughty baseball boys must have some clever way to pep up before a big game." She gave him a knowing wink.

  "Riiiight," he agreed, drawing out the word as the grin returned to his face. "You have a thing for the naughty boys?"

  "Maybe I do," Dana persisted, leaning forward so that just a bit more of that cleavage showed beneath her sparkly dress.

  Ratski leaned in on his elbows (or elbow, singular…The other slipped out from under him, almost crashing into his plate with intoxicated grace.). "Well, let me tell you a little secret then, Miss Dana…"

  "Good evening, ma'am, my name is David."

  "Shhh!" I shushed the server beside me on instinct.

  The poor guy jumped.

  "Uh, what I mean is, I'm not quite ready to order," I quickly amended, sending him a smile.

  He gave me a funny look but thankfully walked away. I tuned in again to the conversation two tables over.

  "…I had no idea," I heard Dana say.

  Damn. I'd missed something juicy. I closed my eyes trying to hone in on only their voices over the myriad of conversation happening around me. The other tables nearby had quickly filled, and the conversation was starting to roar as the trendy nine o'clock hour approached.

  "Yeah, well, what can you do, right?" Ratski shrugged, sitting back in his seat and downing the rest of his drink.

  "So what did Bucky do then?" Dana asked.

  Double damn. Whatever Ratski had told her must have involved Bucky. Was he the one popping PEDs?

  "Nothing. The coach might have been all over him, but management knows he's the golden boy. They'd only be screwing themselves if they took him out of the game."

  "Hmm," Dana said. "You know, it was Bucky's girlfriend who was killed, wasn't it?"

  Ratski nodded, drinking again.

  "I wonder…" she trailed off thoughtfully. "Oh, but of course I remember reading that Bucky has an alibi, right?"

  Ratski grinned. "Don't we all."

  Dana shifted showing a bit more cleavage. "Whatever do you mean by that, naughty boy?"

  "Well, Bucky and I—"

  "Are you ready yet, ma'am?"

  I closed my eyes and thought a really dirty word directed at one overly-vigilant server standing by my table yet again.

  "Martini," I shot out, hoping the drink order would keep him busy for a few minutes.

  "Very good ma'am. And would you like that shaken or stirred?"

  "Shaken," I spat back, leaning in to try to catch the end of the conversation two tables over.

  "Perfect. And would you like olive or onion?"

  I ground my teeth together. "Neither."

  "Wonderful. Now, would you like to hear about the specials—"

  "No!" I said. Clearly a little too loudly as heads at the neighboring tables turned my way. Including, unfortunately, Dana and Ratski's. I quickly ducked my head toward the server hoping to avoid recognition. "What I mean is, I've already decided I'll have the…" I glanced at the menu finding the first thing my eyes landed on. "…roasted chicken in mushroom sauce."

  "Very good, ma'am." The server scribbled my order and thankfully walked away from the table.

  I heaved a small sigh of relief, then furtively glanced through my brunette locks toward Dana's table again. They were giving their order to another server. Crap. I'd missed the juicy stuff again. I sincerely hoped Dana was taking great notes.

  I waited while Dana ordered an arugula and watercress salad and Ratski ordered fried calamari and another bottle of wine.

  As soon as the server walked away Dana leaned forward again. "So you and Bucky are close, then?"

  "Sure. We all are. We're one big happy team," Ratski drawled, his eyelids looking decidedly heavy.

  "Everyone is tight all the time?" Dana probed.

  Ratski shrugged. "You know, we have our moments."

  "Like what?"

  He paused, looking over his glass at her. "Why?"

  "Oh, you know, we girls just love a little gossip." Dana sent him another flirtatious wink.

  Ratski chuckled, taking another sip. "Alright, you like juicy stuff? I've got gossip for ya."

  I was leaning so far toward their table my right butt cheek was halfway off the chair, and I was precariously close to toppling to the floor.

  "Oh, do tell," Dana crooned.

  Ratski opened his mouth to speak.

  Unfortunately, he never got the chance as I heard a faint clicking sound from the table just behind Ratski and Dana. They must've heard it too as the pair immediately turned their eyes on the culprit. A young guy in slacks and Converse held a cell phone up toward the couple, rapidly firing off shots like a great amateur paparazzi.

  "Uh, I'm wondering if this was such a great idea," Dana stammered, her eyes glued to the phone. She'd been in show business long enough to know that those pics could either be someone's bragging material at their next dinner party or the headliner for TMZ tomorrow.

  "It's just a couple of photos," Ratski drawled, shrugging his shoulders. "No biggie."

  Dana didn't look convinced. "But what if your wife sees them?"

  "Huh?"

  "Your. Wife." Dana clearly enunciated, trying to break through his intoxicated fog.

  "Oh. Her. Yeah, well, you know I wouldn't worry about her too much…" Ratski trailed off.

  At the table just to my right another person whipped out a cell, and I heard a whisper of "Dana Dashel" followed by more soft clicks.

  Uh-oh.

  Dana shot a panicked look my way. I did a curt half nod toward the front door.

  Unfortunately we hadn't gotten much from Ratski. But if we didn't get out now, there was a bad chance we'd be hearing from his wife tomorrow.

  "You know, I'm not really comfortable," Dana said, rising from the table. "I've got to go."

  "I tell you what, honey," Ratski said, wrapping a hand around Dana's arm. "How about we go somewhere a little more private?"

/>   "Private?" Dana asked

  "How about my place?"

  Double uh-oh.

  Unfortunately, that was all I heard of their conversation as my server arrived with not only my martini, but a plate of chicken, mushrooms, rice, and a side of vegetables. I couldn't help the groan that escaped my lips as I took in the humongous meal. After the tamales I'd already eaten there was no way I could even make a dent in this.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ratski throw a few bills down on their table then steer Dana toward the door. And not a moment too soon as three more cell phones flew out of back pockets, snapping shots of the two escaping from the restaurant.

  "Is anything wrong, ma'am?" the server asked.

  "Uh, yeah," I rushed. "Can you wrap this up to go?"

  By the time I finally got the slowest server in the entire L.A. basin to wrap up my gargantuan meal, paid my bill, and rushed outside, both Dana and Ratski were nowhere in sight. I cursed my timing. Had I just sent Dana out alone with a murderer?

  I was just about to start freaking out when my cell buzzed in my pocket. I looked down and heaved a sigh of relief when I saw Dana's name flash across my screen with the text:

  Ratski drunk. driving him home.

  An address was listed below it. I quickly typed out a response as I walked to my car.

  Two minutes behind you

  I jumped behind the wheel of my minivan and pulled into traffic with such force that my tires squealed. While it was nice of Dana to drive Ratski home, I was pretty sure Ratski had an agenda other than avoiding a DUI.

  Luckily, traffic was light at this time of night and only fifteen billboards and two freeways later I was pulling into a trendy neighborhood in Brentwood filled with multimillion dollar homes, gated manicured lawns, and so many celebrities people practically used their Golden Globes as lawn gnomes.

  I spotted Dana's sports car crawling up the circular drive of a colonial flanked by tall cypress trees halfway down the street. I cut my lights and waited at the curb until I saw her shiny silver dress exit the car, walk around to the passenger side, and pull an unsteady Ratski out beside her. It took him three tries to shove his key into the front door.

  I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting in the dark, wondering what I should do next. If Dana was in trouble, I wanted to be close. But it would totally blow our cover if I went busting through the front door. After five agonizing minutes of silence, I finally texted Dana.

  You okay?

  Almost immediately a reply came back.

  Fine. Ratski passed out.

  I raised an eyebrow. Iiiiiinteresting. Ratski was out, and we had free access to his house? Me thinks me felt some snooping coming on.

  front door, I texted back, exiting my car and jogging toward the house.

  A beat later Dana opened the door and quickly ushered me in with a finger to her lips. I tiptoed inside and softly closed the door behind me. Though as I peeked into the parlor off the foyer, I could tell there was very little that was going to wake Ratski. He was flat on his back on a petite floral sofa, snoring like a bear with a sinus infection.

  "You get anything good from him before he passed out?" I asked.

  "Maybe," Dana said, leading me away from Sleeping Ugly. "I didn't get Ratski to say one way or another if he was using, but he did tell me something interesting about Bucky."

  "I'm dying here. What?" I prodded.

  "Well, Ratski said that just last month Bucky was caught with something he shouldn't have had."

  "No! PEDs?"

  "Sort of. ADD meds."

  I nodded. "Right, Ramirez said that some ADD meds contain amphetamines."

  "Apparently Bucky's cousin has ADD, and Bucky popped a couple of pills before a game to give him a pick-me-up."

  "But he wasn't suspended? It wasn't in the news."

  Dana shook her head. "No. Ratski said the coaching staff swept it under the rug. They didn't want to risk taking Bucky out and potentially losing games. So everyone involved was told to forget it ever happened."

  "Did Lacey know about this?" I asked, suddenly wondering if maybe the person she'd been blackmailing had been none other than her boyfriend.

  Dana shrugged. "I didn't get a chance to ask Ratski before he went comatose."

  "What did he tell you about Bucky's alibi?"

  Dana grinned. "Only that it's shaky. Look, all three guys did go to the gym together that day. But they didn't work out together. He told me Bucky wanted to get in a basketball game, Blanco was in the weight room, and Ratski spent most of the time at the pool and sauna. But when Lacey died and the police started asking questions, they all agreed to alibi each other out."

  "Just like Ramirez thought." My husband really was a good detective. I cursed Ratski again for getting him suspended. "So Bucky has no real alibi and had access to the murder weapon. The only thing he's missing is a motive." I paused. "Let's face it, even if he and Lacey were on the outs, the simplest thing to do would have been to dump her, not kill her."

  Dana nodded. "Unless she was blackmailing him over his PED use."

  I pursed my lips together. "Possibly. But Bucky doesn't have the kind of money Lacey was depositing. However…" I glanced around myself at the decorator-designed opulence in Ratski's foyer.

  "…Ratski does," she finished for me.

  I nodded. "He's also got the same shaky alibi."

  "But we still don't know if he was even using PEDs or not."

  I grinned. "Well, there's no time like the present to find out." I glanced around the marble tiled entry. Rooms led off in all directions in a semicircular pattern, with a sweeping staircase going up the center. A landing stood at the top, off of which I could see more doorways. To say this place was massive was about the same understatement as calling my place cozy. "Which room do you think holds his medicine cabinet?"

  "Upstairs?" Dana suggested.

  We tiptoed up the stairs as quietly as we could in our heels, trying not to clack them against the polished hardwood floors. Once we got to the top of the landing we both paused trying to instinctively feel our way toward the master bathroom. We poked our heads into the first room. It looked like a home office, a desk sitting in the center and sports memorabilia framed on the walls. The next one was a guestroom, if I had to guess from the lack of personal touches and pristine floral quilt on the queen-size bed.

  One hall bath, two more unused guest rooms, and one work-out room later, we finally hit upon the master. A set of double doors led into a large room decorated in tasteful pale grays and lemon yellows. Two nightstands flanked the bed—a four poster, mahogany item in California King size. The walls were covered in wainscoting, the bed in a contemporary designed duvet, and the floors in plush wool rugs that spanned from the bed to a large reading nook on the other side of the room. Beyond that stood an arched doorway leading into the master bath.

  "I'll take the bathroom," I told Dana. "Want to see if you can dig up anything in here?"

  Dana shot a reluctant look to the nightstands. "Okay, but if I find anything kinky, I'm outta here."

  I quickly crossed to the master bath. An oversized jetted tub sat on the far end of the room under a massive bay window. A glass-enclosed shower was to the right and two large vanity sinks to the left. Above the second was a built-in medicine cabinet. I made a beeline for it, quickly opening the craftsman inspired cabinetry (Did these guys know how to mix their architectural styles or what?) and peered inside.

  If I'd hoped to find some sort of prescription bottle, I'd hit the mother load.

  Three small shelves filled the cabinet, all of them lined with little orange bottles with prescriptions written on them. I blinked, momentarily overwhelmed before quickly scanning the labels. All of them were prescribed to Ratski. Unfortunately, most of them seemed benign enough: Propecia, Viagra, Zoloft, a couple of different painkillers. I pulled my phone out and took photos of a couple of labels I didn't immediately recognize, but I didn't see anything that mentioned ADD, "speed," or
"greenies."

  I moved on to the vanity drawers. Like the medicine cabinet, they were a treasure trove of bottles. Hair products abounded, and it took me a moment to realize these were men's products. Geeze, Ratski was high maintenance. Hair straighteners, hair curlers, nail growers, nail trimmers, exfoliators, moisturizers, acne creams, and wrinkle creams. I shuddered to think what Ratski might look like without this stuff.

  I was just about to give up on the idea that Ratski had kept his murder weapon in his house when I spied a walk-in closet to my right. With a quick over-the-shoulder, I tiptoed in, switching on a light.

  The thing was the size of my frickin' living room. Drawers, cupboards, and racks of clothes filled every wall, all of it lined in cedar that smelled like pure fashion heaven. Rows of slacks and dress shirts lined one wall, blouses and skirts the other. And the back wall held shoes…dozens of pairs of beautiful shoes in tidy little rows of cubby holes. I couldn't help myself. I ran my fingers over a pair that I knew were in the four-digit price range. I suddenly had a good idea why "poor Beth" stuck it out with a guy like Ratski. Heck, these might make me consider a guy like Ratski.

  I think I let out a little gasp when I saw a pair of vintage Martin Margiela pumps on the bottom row, and crouched down to get a better look.

  That's when I saw the duffle bag.

  Shoved behind the legs of some hanging trousers on the clearly "man" side of the closet, a bit of blue nylon peeked out. I gingerly reached under and tugged at it, extricating a gym bag that smelled suspiciously like Ratski's locker at the Stars stadium. Saying a silent prayer to the gods of not-touching-icky-things, I stuck my hand in and rummaged around. Unfortunately, there wasn't much in the bag other than the usual water bottle, running shoes, and ear buds.

  I was about to concede this whole trip had been a bust when I heard Dana cry out from the bedroom.

  "Eep!"

  In three quick strides, I was by her side. "What? Are you okay?"

  Dana blinked at me, holding up a pair of hot pink silk bikini briefs in a leopard pattern.

  I felt my heart rate immediately slow down. "Geeze you scared me."

  "And these don't?" Dana argued.

  "Well, they're a little wild for Beth—"