Danger in High Heels (11 page)

I heard a beep and a buzz, which I hoped was the guard signing off to go find Ricky.

I shifted from foot to foot, feeling the intense stares of the paparazzi grow more interested the longer I stood there. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying not to look as self-conscious as I felt.

I waited a full five minutes, before I spotted a sleek, black car coming down the drive toward the gates.

The paparazzi jumped to attention, flashes going off like fireworks. The car stopped at the gate and a guy in a black suit, sunglasses, and an earpiece that looked like it had been swiped from the Secret Service got out. The flashes immediately ceased, a collective groan from the media signaling their disappointment that it wasn't Ricky.

Secret Service Guy opened the gate and motioned me through, giving dirty looks to the paparazzi outside. I slipped past him and got into the passenger seat of the car, riding in silence as the bodyguard drove me up to the main house. As soon as we arrived, the guard ushered me through the front door and into a wide hall. "Ricky's in there," he grunted, gesturing to a room at my right.

I walked through a pair of French double doors, taking in the décor as I did.

While Dana had invited me several times to the place she and Ricky shared in the Hollywood Hills, I'd actually never been to the Malibu getaway. Cool white marble tiled the floors, and white walls with pale wood accents gave the home a modern feel. Bright paintings done by some famous artist lined the walls, but it was the scenery stretching outside of the oversized windows that had me catching my breath. Turquoise blue sea, rugged green cliff sides, and soft, sandy beaches.

"Cool, huh?" Ricky said, getting up from a chair in the corner as I approached.

I nodded. "Very cool. To die for," I added. Then silently cursed my poor choice of words. "How are you holding up?"

Ricky shrugged, doing a small, self-deprecating smile. "Been better, but I'll be okay."

He was unshaven, barefoot, and wearing a rumpled t-shirt and basketball shorts. It was a far cry from the Red Carpet Ricky his fans knew.

"Dana's not with you, huh?" he asked, his eyes darting behind me.

I shook my head and thought I saw his shoulders slump in response. "Sorry."

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a white leather sofa.

I did. "She's pretty upset, Ricky," I told him.

He nodded. "I know. And I'm so, so sorry. You have to believe that I never meant to hurt her."

"Give it to me straight," I told him. "What was going on between you and Irina?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. A little too quickly.

"Ricky, she was seen going into your dressing room. More than once," I added, remembering both Kaylie's and Lana's accounts.

"We were friends."

"That's it?"

"That's it. I swear."

I bit my lip. As much as I wanted to believe him, it was clear that he was holding something back. "Ricky, Lana saw you going into your dressing room with Irina just before she was found dead."

His skin paled beneath his five o-clock shadow. He leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him as if in an unconscious pleading motion. "Maddie, I did not kill her."

"So what were you two doing in there?"

"Talking," he said, his eyes suddenly avoiding mine.

For such a great actor, he was a terrible liar.

"Ricky, she was naked."

He shook his head. "No, she was clothed when she was with me. I swear it. I went into my dressing room with her. We... talked... then I left."

"You left her in your dressing room?"

He bit his lip, looking past me out toward the ocean as if it held the correct answer. Finally he nodded. "I was coming right back. I just had to... to get something."

"What something?"

"I... it was... look, that doesn't matter," he said, shaking his head. "What matters is she was alive and fully clothed when I left her."

Oh, yeah. He was definitely hiding something. I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to figure out what. "What time was that?" I asked.

"I... I don't remember. It wasn't like I was looking at my watch."

"Where did you go?"

His eyes ducked down, avoiding mine again. "Around. On the set."

"That's about the worst alibi I've ever heard."

"I'm not guilty," he shot back. "I wasn't planning on needing an alibi."

"Were you alone?"

"Yes," he said, eyes shifting downward.

"And no one saw you leave the dressing room?"

"No."

"Or saw Irina alive after you left her?"

"No." He paused. "Except the
real
killer."

"You do realize how O.J. that sounds, right?" I asked him.

"Look, I didn't kill her, Maddie," he said, eyes pleading with me. "You have to believe me."

"Did Irina ever mention a Russian guy?" I asked him, switching gears. "Average height, dark hair, wears a diamond earring in one ear?"

Ricky frowned. "No. Not that I remember. Why? Who is he?"

"I wish I knew. Shaniqua says she overheard Irina plotting with this man to buy votes for the show."

Ricky's eyes went wide. "No way!"

"Way. She didn't tell you anything about it?"

He shook his head vehemently. "No. I had no idea she would do that. I mean, why would she need to? We were ahead every week. I honestly thought we had a pretty good shot at the prize."

"So did I," I admitted. "But apparently, Irina wanted to make sure."

"So, you think this Russian guy might have killed her?" Ricky asked, hope lighting his eyes.

I shrugged. "I'm looking into it."

Ricky smiled. "Thanks, Maddie. You have no idea how much it means to me that you believe in me."

I grunted a non-committal response back. Mostly because I didn't have the heart to tell him my belief was wavering.

*  *  *

Once I got home, I took one pair of happy, giggling babies from Mom and thanked her for her help.

Unfortunately, as soon as I shut the front door behind her both twins started crying.

"Don't worry, Mommy's here," I cooed to them, picking Max up. Which somehow prompted him to cry even harder.

I tried not to take it personally as I filled the kitchen sink with water, stripped the poor things out of their duck suits, and gave the pair a bath in their little recliner tubs. The warm water eventually soothed them, allowing me to dress, feed, burp and change (and, in Olivia's case,
re-change)
them before I finally wore them out, and they fell asleep in their matching cribs. I was just tiptoeing out of the nursery with baby monitor in hand when Ramirez came through the front door.

"Hey, I'm home," he called.

"Shh," I commanded, pointing to the monitor.

"Oops. Sorry," he whispered. "I missed them, huh?" I could see genuine disappointment in his eyes.

"Yeah, they just went down."

He nodded. "How'd they do today?"

"Great," I said. Or at least, that's what I'd been told.

"Good. Maybe I'll try to slip home at lunch tomorrow and get some play time in."

I nodded. "I'm sure they'd like that." I made a mental note to be here at lunch time.

"How was your day?" I asked. I'll admit, I had a twofold agenda with that question. Of course I cared how my husband's day went, but I also cared if he'd encountered any new leads on the case that was taking me in circles to nowhere fast.

"It was good," he said, taking off his jacket and laying it over the back of the sofa before plopping down. "Busy, but good."

"Busy with..." I prodded, taking a seat beside him.

He grinned. "Irina's case, and you know it."

"So, how's the case going?"

"You're incorrigible," he said, grinning as he put one arm around my shoulders.

I leaned into his chest, inhaling the faint scent of aftershave still clinging to his shirt. No matter how long we were together, the smell never ceased to turn me on.

"I know," I responded. "But you love me anyway."

"Most days."

"Hey!" I punched him playfully in the ribs.

He chuckled. "Okay, okay, since you've been stuck at home all day with the terrible two, I'll throw you a bone."

"Thank you," I said, even though a flush of guilt hit my cheeks at being just the teeny tiniest bit deceptive about how I'd spent my day.

"Irina's autopsy was today," he went on.

"And?"

"And we got more info on the murder weapon that killed her."

"So what was it?" I asked.

Ramirez shrugged. "Honestly, we're still not sure. But it was a heavy, blunt instrument."

I felt my shoulders sag. "That was hardly a bone."

"But," he added, "it left a distinct impression on her skull."

I perked back up. "What kind of impression?"

"Triangular. About this big," he said, holding his thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart. "With a cross hatched pattern on it."

"Any guesses what made it?"

Ramirez shook his head. "Unfortunately, nothing left at the scene seems to match the pattern."

"And I assume none of your fancy police databases had any hits?"

He shook his head. "We're still looking, though. Anyway, enough work talk," he said. "What's for dinner?"

I shrugged. "Whatever you're in the mood to make me."

Ramirez groaned. "I was afraid of that. I guess it's sandwiches again."

"Or," I said, a tiny light bulb going off. "We could go out. There's this new place I've been dying to try. Tapas Mexicana?"

"Sounds like a lot of work hauling two sleeping babies with us," Ramirez protested, putting his feet up on the coffee table.

"Well, since they're asleep already, they're probably good to go for at least a couple of hours before they wake up hungry. I could see if Dana wants to come over and hang here with them while we go eat."

"I don't know. I've been out all day..."

"Oh, come on. We haven't had a date night in forever. Just the two of us? It will be fun." I gave him my brightest smile, hoping he bought it.

Ramirez sighed, clearly weighing his options. But considering he'd been living on sandwiches for the last two days, his stomach finally won over his tired feet. "Okay, Springer. You win. Date night it is."

Chapter Nine

Half an hour later Dana was sitting on my sofa watching reruns of
CSI
on demand while waiting for a delivery of mu shu pork, spring rolls, lemon chicken, chow fun, and egg fried rice from the Shanghi Palace. And once I told her about my meeting with Ricky, she added a cheesecake to her list of demands. If her body didn't go into junk-food shock by the end of the night, it would be a miracle. On the upside, after the afternoon at Fernando's she was looking more like her movie star self. Even if said self was still shoved into a pair of sweats. (Minus the Crocs. Marco told me he'd tossed them in the dumpster out back as soon as he could get his hands on them, sending her home in salon issued flip-flops instead.)

I left Dana with the remote and the number to a bakery that delivered 24/7 (a fav of mine in my pre-baby-weight life), and, after a quick jaunt through traffic, Ramirez and I were walking through the doors of Tapas Mexicana. The place was small, as all popular restaurants in L.A. seemed to be, but it was intimate rather than cramped feeling. Tables for two lined the walls, soft acoustic guitar music played through hidden speakers, and the air smelled like chili powder, cumin, and cinnamon. I inhaled deeply, wondering if just one little night off my diet was really all that bad.

As the host showed us to our table, I surveyed the other patrons. A handful of guys in suits - network exec types. A few in jeans and sneakers - writer types, trying to cozy up to the exec types. And several blondes in tops tight enough to show off their surgically enhanced girls - actress types trying to get the attention of all the other types. And amidst the attention seekers, there was one rumpled looking tabloid editor type, seated at a table near the center of the room, his back to me, leaning toward a blonde in a little black dress. (Emphasis on "little".)

"Oh look who it is," I said, grabbing Ramirez by the arm and feigning surprise. "Felix Dunn!"

Ramirez squinted toward the table in question, then grunted. "Swell."

To say Ramirez and Felix had a tenuous relationship was like saying Christina Aguilera wore a
little
makeup. Total understatement alert. Ramirez and I had just started dating when I first met Felix. At the time, Felix had been hot on a story involving yours truly, which hadn't exactly endeared him to me. However, as I'd gotten to know Felix, I'd realized there was more to him than just his tabloid boy facade. And, admittedly, I'd softened to him. So soft that at one time I might have even kissed him. In the heat of the moment. Accidentally. Totally not meaning to. But I hadn't exactly hated it either.