The bitter sarcasm was thick in Schwimmer's voice, and I couldn't say I blamed him. "How did Lacey find out?" I asked.
Schwimmer laughed, a hollow thing that held zero humor. "Look, in order to keep up his ruse John has this thing where he flirts with every woman he can find. He thinks it somehow insulates him from any question about his sexuality. Lacey was no exception. As soon as Bucky started dating her, Ratski went through the motions of hitting on her, just like he has all the other players' wives, girlfriends, even their mothers, if you can believe it." Schwimmer rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
"If he hit on her, what tipped Lacey off that it was faked?"
"Look, Lacey was a gold digger, pure and simple. Bucky's the Stars' golden boy at the moment, so she sought him out. But it didn't take long before Lacey realized Bucky wasn't pulling in any real money. He had the fame but not the fortune she was looking for. That's when she set her sights on Ratski. He flirted with her a bit, and she thought maybe she had a chance of becoming his mistress and getting her hands on some hush-hush bling, at the very least.
The picture was becoming clearer in my head, puzzle pieces falling into place. "So Lacey tried to take the flirtation to the next level," I said.
Schwimmer nodded. "Truth is, John is a horrible flirt," he said, the laughter in his voice real this time, a note of affection coloring it. "It's a rare occasion when any of his lines actually works on a woman. So when Lacey tried to take it to the next level, John got flustered. He didn't know what to do, and, well, let's just say there was no Oscar-worthy performance on his part. For all of her questionable morals, Lacey was a smart little thing. She figured it out."
"And that's when she started blackmailing him."
Schwimmer bit his lip, pausing before he confirmed, probably more out of habit than any real hope of denying it at this point. "Yes. She said she would go to his wife, to the press, to anyone who would listen to the story, unless he paid her."
"Ten thousand a week," I said, quoting the amount Ramirez had found mysteriously deposited into her bank account.
Schwimmer raised an eyebrow. "Actually, no. It was five."
I felt a frown pull between my eyebrows. "Are you sure?"
Schwimmer nodded. "That's what John said. It was an exorbitant amount, and I told him not to pay it. Look, three years ago, it might've been death to his career. But with people like Jason Collins and Michael Sam paving the way, it's only a matter of time before more athletes come out."
"But Ratski didn't want to take that chance."
Schwimmer shook his head, confirming it. "No. If he was putting up numbers like Bucky's, maybe he would have. But Ratski's not a rookie anymore. He's getting older. He felt that if something like this were to come out, he'd be the first expendable member of the team when his contract came up for renewal. He said he would figure out a way to deal with Lacey, but in the meantime he had to pay her off. "
My turn to raise an eyebrow. It was becoming more and more likely that his way to "deal with Lacey" was an amphetamine overdose into her tanning solution.
Schwimmer must have realized what he'd said as his eyes suddenly got big, and some of the fight returned to the set of his shoulders. "Look, John had nothing to do with what happened to Lacey. He was no fan of hers, but he would never hurt anyone like that. He's been beside himself since this whole thing happened. Trust me, whoever did that to Lacey, it had nothing to do with John."
While it was my gut instinct that Schwimmer believed everything he was saying, I wasn't inclined to share his favorable view of Ratski. Schwimmer might view Ratski as more of a lover than a fighter, but I also knew that desperate people took desperate measures when they were cornered. If Ratski really was worried about his contract coming up for renewal, chances were he didn't have an unlimited supply of cash to hand over to his blackmailer.
I was just about to grill Schwimmer on the shakiness of Ratski's alibi when a knock sounded at the door and the blonde receptionist poked her head in again.
"Excuse me, Mr. Schwimmer," she said in her evenly modulated voice. "But a client is here to see you."
"Who is it?" Schwimmer asked.
"John Ratski."
I felt myself freeze in place as if somehow the ballplayer's radar picked up the fact that I was there grilling his boyfriend. It took me a second before I realized how ridiculous that was. Clearly Ratski was just there because he was having a publicity crisis. Two days in a row he'd been featured on the Informer site.
"We were finished here anyway," I quickly said, ducking my head away from the door.
I heard another pair of footsteps approach. Fast ones. Big, baseball-sized ones, if I had to guess.
"Sorry for barging in, Theo," I heard Ratski, his voice at the door. "I was just going to see if you could—" Ratski stopped midsentence. Even though I had my back turned to him, I could feel his eyes shoot to me.
"You!"
Damn. Clearly the back of my head was as recognizable as the front. I slowly turned, doing my best toothy smile, blinking innocent eyelashes at Ratski. "Wow, what a small world."
While the bruises around Ratski's eyes were fading to a garish yellow, I noticed white tape across his nose where he'd taken the brunt of Ricky's blow. He looked like a boxer who wasn't very good at his job. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked me.
By this time Schwimmer had stood up from his desk, his eyes were pinging between the two of us, his dark brows pulled into a frown. "You two know each other?"
"Uh…" I started.
"Oh, hell, yeah we do," Ratski said, his voice veering into dangerous territory. "This is the wife of that jerk cop who hit me."
"Hey, you started it," I protested.
Schwimmer turned to me, a sudden fire in his formerly soft eyes. "You told me you were a reporter."
"Well, technically, I said I was with the Informer. Which I sort of was. Earlier today…" I trailed off.
"Look, I don't know what sort of game you and your husband are playing," Ratski said, crossing the room in quick strides. The look in his eyes was pure anger, the clench of his hands menacing. No matter what Theodore Schwimmer said, in that split second I could easily see Ratski killing someone.
Unfortunately, at the moment that someone was me.
"Look, I don't want any trouble here…" I said, circling away from him, toward the open door.
"Well trouble is what you got, sister," Ratski informed me. His hand shot out, grabbing onto my arm.
In my defense what happened next was pure instinct. Maybe Ratski just meant to propel me toward the door. Maybe he was trying to keep me from getting any closer to Schwimmer. Or maybe he meant to strangle the life out of me. But as soon as his fingers clenched around my upper arm, I swung my purse with my right hand as hard as I could in the region of his face.
"Sonofa—" Ratski yelled, immediately letting go of me as both hands flew to his face. He staggered backward a few paces putting distance between us.
Distance I only increased by quickly backpedaling toward the door where the stunned receptionist was still standing, watching the entire scene unfold.
"Look what you did!" Ratski shouted. Blood gushed between his fingers, and as soon as he took his hands away from his face I could see that for the third time in as many days Ratski had a bloody nose.
"Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod," Schwimmer chanted, rushing to his boyfriend's side. "Quick, grab some tissues. Call a doctor. Bring my car around."
The receptionist ran off to her desk to do one, two, or all three of the tasks being thrown at her.
With everyone's attention otherwise occupied, I took my opportunity to escape and quickly shot out the door. I took the stairs two at a time down to the ground floor and would have jogged to the end of the block if I hadn't been wearing heels. As it was, I power-walked quickly enough to put a mall-er-sizer to shame. I didn't feel safe again until I was inside my car with the doors locked. I felt my breath coming out in quick pants, my hands shaking at having been manh
andled by a possible murderer.
I took a couple of deep breaths before I pulled out my cell and dialed my husband's number.
"Hey, babe," came his answer. I could hear the sound of children giggling in the background. It was comforting and immediately helped to slow my rapid heartbeat.
"I just hit somebody. Hard. In the face," I said, my words coming out in a barely coherent rush.
"What happened? Are you okay?" Ramirez asked. The urgency in his own voice suddenly had me feeling guilty. Truth was, I was fine. I might have a bruise on my arm later, but Ratski had taken the brunt of the encounter.
I took another deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yes, I'm fine. Now. I just…wanted to let you know that there might be some assault charges filed against me in the near future." I cringed, only halfway joking.
"Who did you hit?" Ramirez asked, his voice still tight and clipped with emotion.
I scrunched up my nose, wincing at the words. "John Ratski."
To my surprise I heard laughter on the other end of the phone. "Babe," he said. "Take a number. Who hasn't hit John Ratski this week?"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As soon as I filled Ramirez in on all the gory details, he assured me he would call a buddy at the precinct to head off any assault charges filed against me. Then I hung up and dialed Dana's number. Three rings in I heard her breathless voice answer.
"Hello?" she panted.
"Uh…did I catch you at a bad time?"
"No. This is…" pant, pant "…fine. Why?"
"You sound just a little out of breath," I told her, squinting my eyes shut, so I didn't picture visions of her and Ricky doing something I so did not want to interrupt.
"Just at the gym," she said between puffs of breath. "No shooting today, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to get a workout in. Man, I'm out of shape."
Out of shape for Dana meant that she was only in half marathon mode. Prior to her acting career taking off, Dana had been an aerobics instructor, spending eight-plus hours a day leading spin classes, Pilates, kickboxing, and more. I would never say so to Ricky, but I had a feeling Dana could actually lift more than he could.
"I don't suppose you're in the mood for lunch?" I asked. I quickly filled her in on my run in with Ratski.
Dana did all the appropriate "ohmigods" and "no freaking ways" throughout the conversation, ending with a promise to meet me in twenty minutes at a place called Sprouts on Highland.
I'd never heard of the place, but with a name like Sprouts I was tempted to grab a drive-through burger on the way. However, I was also desperate to go over the latest development in our case with Dana, so I put my car in gear and headed toward the freeway.
Twenty-five minutes later I finally found parking on the street two blocks down from the restaurant. Which, as I approached it, looked just as healthy as I'd feared. The sign above the restaurant was fashioned like a large green alfalfa sprout scrolling through the letters. While the interior looked chic enough to be the new "It" lunch hotspot��dark wood floors, white walls, bright colorful geometric artwork, and sleek chrome tables and chairs scattered throughout the dining area—I wrinkled my nose at the scents coming out of the kitchen. None of them smelled greasy or bacony. I had a feeling this place was my penance for all the takeout I'd been eating lately.
I spotted Dana right away. She was at a table off to the side, near the far wall. She was still wearing her workout-wear of black spandex shorts, hot pink Nike running shoes, and a neon yellow sports top under a black asymmetrical collar sweatshirt. Though I noticed she had a ball cap and sunglasses on, presumably to fend off any further paparazzi pics ending up on the homepage of the Informer's website.
"Hey," I said, sliding into the empty seat across from her. "Sorry, parking was a nightmare. Have you been waiting long?"
Dana shook her head. "No. But I ordered us both drinks."
I raised an eyebrow. Drinks might make this day better.
"Raspberry alfalfa kale shakes," Dana added, her eyes twinkling behind her semi-tinted glasses.
Then again, maybe not so much.
"So, tell me everything about Ratski's publicist," Dana insisted, leaning both elbows on the table.
I did, spilling everything Schwimmer had told me about Lacey blackmailing Ratski. "But he swears Ratski had nothing to do with her murder."
Dana scoffed. "Of course he does. What's he gonna do? Rat out not only his best client, but his boyfriend?"
I had to agree. Schwimmer was in no position to be objective.
"Okay, I have a question," Dana said, as our drinks arrived.
I gingerly sipped mine. Surprisingly, it wasn't too bad. Not an ice cream shake or anything, but palatable. "Shoot."
"If Ratski is gay, why has he been hanging out at the Glitter Galaxy?"
I blinked at her, my straw hovering halfway to my lips. "That, Dana, is a fantastic question."
And one I intended to find out.
* * *
As soon as we finished our lawn in a cup, Dana and I made tracks for the Glitter Galaxy. I texted ahead to make sure Ling was on shift, and as we entered the dark room full of pounding music and cigarette scented walls, I spotted her working the lunchtime crowd. A handful of guys in suits drinking their lunches made up the majority of the patrons. Ling was whispering something in the ear of a particularly pudgy, pink guy, who giggled in response like a middle school girl. She spotted us and held up her index finger, indicating she would just be a moment.
Dana and I sat at a table in the center of the room, and I watched as Ling leaned down, did some more whispering, and came back up with a couple of bills shoved in her bra strap. She blew the pudgy guy a kiss before sauntering our way.
"Did he just slip you a twenty?" I asked.
Ling made a "pfft" sound through teeth and shook her head. "Honey, that was a Benjamin. I don't make a guy giggle like that for just twenty."
I shook off a fleeting thought of becoming a stripper in my spare time, instead giving Ling the quick version of my encounter with Theodore Schwimmer.
"Wait a minute," Ling said, holding up a hand. "You trying to tell me that Ratski guy likes boys?" Her threaded brows rose in disbelief.
"That's exactly what I'm saying," I confirmed. "That's what Lacey had on him. Ratski was afraid that if word got out, it would be the end of his baseball career. And Lacey took advantage of it."
Ling shook her head. "That explains a lot about that guy."
"What do you mean?" Dana jumped in.
"He always tip a lot, but he never grabbed my ass," Ling said.
"Which begs the question," I continued, "what was Ratski doing here in the first place?"
Ling's eyebrows pulled down into a frown this time. "You know, that a really good question, blondie. We don't have any male dancers here. Our clientele is real specific."
"Is it possible he just wanted to be seen at a strip club to keep up his ruse?" Dana asked. "You know, kind of like he didn't mind being seen out with me the other night."
I pursed my lips together, running over that thought. While it was clear now that Dana was right—Ratski had purposely chosen a restaurant to meet her where he knew they would both be recognized and quite likely filmed—the Ratski I'd seen slinking into the Glitter Galaxy with his ball cap pulled low hadn't looked like he'd been trying to be seen. In fact, no offense to Ling and her many Benjamins, but the Galaxy wasn't exactly the flashiest place to see nude dancers in town. There were plenty of places Ratski could've gone in Hollywood where he'd be much more visible. So, why drive out of his way to Industry, in dark sunglasses and a ball cap no less, to watch nude girls dance?
"Ling, do you know if Ratski got private dances from any other particular girls?" I grasped.
Ling pursed her lips together, her eyes going to the ceiling, as if searching there for the info. "Well, I told you I dance for him sometimes. But, honestly, I think Janel is his favorite. He has a thing for redheads." She paused. "Though I guess maybe his thing is not the
thing I thought it was, huh?"
"Which one is Janel?" I asked.
Ling's eyes searched the dimly lit club before she pointed out a girl with a tray full of drinks in hand. She was wearing a green thong, thigh-high platform go-go boots, and a pair of alien antennae atop a long, red wig.
"That's her," Ling said.
"Oh, Ling, Ling," the pudgy businessmen in the corner yelled out sing-song style across the club.
Ling gave him a playful wave then turned to us and rolled her eyes. "I gotta go. Duty calls."
I nodded my thanks to her, and Dana and I waited until the redhead had emptied her tray before hailing her to our table.
"Can I help you ladies with something?" she asked, eyeing us as if trying to size up our pleasure.
"Actually, we were wondering if we could talk to you about John Ratski?"
Janel looked from me to Dana, then back to me again, biting her lip nervously.
"We won't take much of your time, but I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions."
Her eyes narrowed. "What kind of questions?"
"What was Ratski here for?" Dana asked, getting right to the point.
The redhead's eyes ping-ponged between us again, and I could see her trying to figure out where we fit in. "Did Ratski send you here?" she asked. "Because he's late this week, you know."
Dana and I shared a glance. "Yep," I lied through my teeth. "Ratski sent us all right."
I could see the tension release from her shoulders. "Oh, good. You know I kinda thought maybe he wasn't coming this week. Which would totally screw me over since I already fronted for it, you know?"
I totally didn't know. But I was certainly hoping she could shed some light on it. "Well, we're here for him," I said, hoping I wasn't committing to anything too terrible.
She leaned in and whispered, "I'll be right back. It's in my locker." With that she got up and, as quickly as her six-inch heels would allow, crossed the club to a doorway behind the dark curtain next to the stage.
Homicide in High Heels Page 18