Killer in High Heels (23 page)

“It wasn’t me,” I said again for good measure. “They’re framing Larry; don’t you see?”

“Who’s framing him, Maddie?”

“Monaldo and Unibrow!”

His eyebrows knitted together. “Unibrow?”

“That big guy who works with Monaldo. He was at Larry’s house yesterday too.”

Ramirez sat forward, all ears now. “You saw him with the body?”

“Well, no, not exactly. But I saw him in Larry’s house and then saw his car outside and the trunk was open. That must have been how he transported the body.”

“So let me get this straight.” Ramirez rubbed his temples again as if following my train of thought gave him a headache. “You actually saw Unibrow in Larry’s house.”

“Yes. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“I was hiding under the bed at the time. But I saw his shoes.”

Ramirez threw his hands up in the air. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“But I could totally pick them out of a lineup though. They were chocolate brown, soft leather, wingtips, thin rubber soles, with a tiny detail on the back like a diamond shape.”

Ramirez gritted his teeth together again. “We are not doing a shoe lineup.”

“But you’ve got to believe me. You know I didn’t do this!”

Ramirez sighed, blowing a big breath of air up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, Maddie,” he said, his voice a little softer, “but it doesn’t matter what I know; it only matters…”

“…what you can prove,” I finished for him. He was starting to sound like a broken record.

He nodded. “Look, I’ll see what I can do to get you out of here. But I’m telling you, the DA has enough to hold you over for arraignment. This is murder they’re talking about. I can’t just make this go away because I like you.”

I bit my lip. I know I should have been plummeting into despair at the thought of going back to my friends in holding, but instead I was fixated on that last part of the sentence. Ramirez liked me. He really liked me.

I reined in my Sally Field impression, instead asking, “So, about Bobbi. How did he…you know, expire?”

“The cause of death was blunt force trauma. Someone hit him over the head.”

Not a gunshot. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Okay, I know I told Ramirez Larry was being framed, but until he’d said that a teeny tiny part of my mind had been replaying the sound of that gunshot on my answering machine.

“So where has he been for the last week?”

Ramirez shook his head. “I don’t know. Look, this isn’t even technically my case. I should be with Monaldo right now.”

“Sorry,” I said, hanging my head. Just when I’d vowed to stay out of Ramirez’s way, here I was jeopardizing his case all over again.

He reached across the table and put his hand over mine. It was big and warm and I had the sudden urge to feel that same comforting grip wrapped around my whole body. Tears stung the back of my eyes at the thought of him leaving me alone here.

“It’s going to be okay,” he promised. Had anyone else said it, I would have told them they were full of donkey doo. But somehow, coming from him, I believed it.

Instead of letting the sting develop into full-fledged tears, I sniffed and nodded in what I thought was a pretty brave display, considering the circumstances.

“Here.” Ramirez pushed the notepad across the table to me. “Write down everything you just said to me. Though,” he paused and shot me a lopsided grin, “you may want to leave out the whole breaking and entering part.”

I nodded. “Right.” I picked up the pen and tried to put down the events of the last two days in a semicoherent fashion.

“I’m going to tell Detective Romanowsky he can come back in now,” Ramirez said, standing up.

I nodded. Then did a little wave at the mirror.

Ramirez paused halfway across the room. “What was that?”

I pointed at the mirror. “I was waving to the detective.”

He cocked his head to the side and gave me a funny look.

“You know,” I continued. “On the other side of the glass.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s just a mirror.”

“But on
Law & Order
they…” I trailed off as Ramirez shook his head at me, that quirk turning into a full-fledged grin.

“Honey, you watch way too much TV.”

I ducked my head back down to the notepad, feeling volcanic heat blush my cheeks as Ramirez did a low chuckle out the door. I think I just hit an embarrassment scale seventy-five.

After I finished my written statement, then verbally repeated the whole thing to Detective Sipowicz, I was escorted back to the holding cell where Buggy and the Bra Lady were still waiting.

There were no windows in the cell and since my watch had been confiscated along with my shoes (I was still trying to figure out just how my Fossil could be used as a weapon), I had no idea how long I sat there. But it felt like an eternity. Especially since I hadn’t used the bathroom since before the funeral and despite refusing every soda offered, now had to pee like a racehorse. I eyed the very public commode in the corner. Even overlooking the fifteen million germs lurking on its steely metal surface, there was no way I was going to do my business out in the open for all to see. I crossed my legs and prayed Ramirez got me out of here soon.

In the meantime I replayed my encounter at Larry’s house in my head again. After listening to Ramirez, I was sure Unibrow had killed Bobbi, then planted the body in my dad’s garage. What I wasn’t sure of was if the LVMPD could ever really prove it. So far Monaldo had gotten away scot-free with Hank’s killing, and by the looks of things—me in a jail cell!—he wasn’t doing much worse with this one. Which begged the question: Which was worse, my father being on the run from the Mob or on the run from the police?

I uncrossed and recrossed my legs again, wondering just how long it took for a bladder to burst. I was pretty sure I was seconds from finding out when Mizz Belushi finally came back in and called my name. I almost wept for joy when she opened the doors and said I was free to go. Almost. Instead I pleaded with her to point me in the direction of the nearest bathroom.

After using the facilities (which honestly weren’t a whole lot better than the ones in the holding cell), I splashed a little water on my face and went in search of my belongings. Specifically my cover-up. My eyes no longer qualified as bags. I was packing steamer sized trunks.

Belushi escorted me to a little metal cage where a guy in a uniform handed me a plastic baggie with my personal belongings. I was instructed to check to make sure everything was there then sign my name on a slip of paper in triplicate. They were, including my brokenheeled Cavallis. I put them on anyway. Broken or not, they were better than the paper booties. Besides, they went perfectly with my grass-stained blouse and mangled skirt.

Before I left, Sipowicz met me at the door and informed me in no uncertain terms that I was not to leave Clark County. Even slowly.

I stepped outside into the cool night air and took a deep breath. I felt like I’d been locked up for days instead of hours. The sun was long gone, the sky a dark blue, and above the layer of Vegas lights there might have even been stars twinkling. I wrapped my arms around myself against the chill in the air, feeling the weight of the last twenty-four hours sitting on my shoulders like a tension headache just waiting to explode.

Part of me had hoped that Ramirez would be waiting for me when I got out, but the only people on the steps of the Clark County Regional Justice Center were a couple of homeless guys and a man handing out flyers for a strip club downtown. I was torn. The fact that he was working meant he was that much closer to putting Monaldo behind bars and my father out of harm’s way. But the fact that he’d chosen work over me, yet again, didn’t speak well of whatever sort of non-relationship relationship we were attempting to have here. I tried not to think about it (lest I incur the wrath of that tension headache). Instead I sat down on the stone steps and pulled out my cell to call Dana for a ride.

But before I could hit send, the phone rang in my hand.

“Hello?”

“You were arrested!” came the screeching tone of my mother’s voice.

Why, oh, why couldn’t I remember to check the caller ID before I picked up?

“Hi, Mom.”

“Oh my god, please tell me it’s not true. Tell me that my baby is not in jail!.”

“Okay. I’m not in jail.” Which, as of five minutes ago, was actually the truth.

“Oh Maddie, how could you do this to me? Last time Vegas, now Marco calls and tells me you’ve been hauled off to jail!”

Great. Leave it to Marco to spread news faster than a grassfire in the Hollywood Hills.

“Mom, I’m okay, really.”

“Where did I go wrong, Maddie?” she asked, ignoring me. “What did I do to turn you to a life of crime?”

Mental forehead smack. “Mom! I didn’t do it.”

“Of course not. And we’ll get you the best lawyer in town to prove it. Let’s see, Mrs. Rosenblatt’s second husband was an attorney. Of course, he’s dead now, but I’m sure she knows someone from his firm who will take our case. Oh, I know! Al Weinstein has a brother who knows a man who did time for mail fraud. Maybe we can call his lawyer…”

“Mom!” I interrupted before she started calling names from the yellow pages. “I’m fine. Look, this is all just a big misunderstanding.”

“They didn’t hurt you, did they, Maddie? I saw this Barbara Walters special last month about how those guards take advantage of female prisoners. They didn’t take advantage of my baby, did they?”

“No, Mom. I’m fine. The officers were very nice.”

“Are they standing right there? Are they making you say that? Cough twice if they’re making you say it.”

I seriously hoped Dana had an Advil in her purse because the tension headache had just started flirting with migraine territory.

“I’m fine, Mom. F-I-N-E.”

“This is all your father’s fault. He dragged you into this. I could kill that man.” She paused. “Woman. Whatever.”

I rubbed my temple. “Let’s not bring Larry into this, okay?”

“Oh, my sweet, sweet, sweet baby. You always were so protective. So caring. So loving.”

So in denial.

“But don’t you worry, Maddie,” she continued. “Mommy’s here. It’s okay if you want to cry.”

“I don’t want to cry.” What I wanted was an aspirin with a tequila chaser.

“Oh, my brave baby! Don’t worry, honey, we’re going to take care of everything.” Then I heard a funny sound in the background. Almost like an announcement over a loudspeaker.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing. Just the 317 in from Dallas.”

I froze, pure dread washing over me. “Mom,” I said very slowly. “Where are you?”

“The airport, of course.”

No, no, no!

“Mom, please don’t tell me…”

“Don’t worry, honey, Mrs. Rosenblatt got us tickets on the first flight out. We’ll be there in no time. Just hang in there and don’t admit to anything!”

“No, Mom, you don’t need to—”

“Mommy’s on her way, baby!”

“Mom, please, I’m—”

“Oh, they’re calling our flight. I’ve got to go.”

“No, Mom, wait—”

“Hang in there, Maddie. Keep the faith alive! We won’t let them lock you up. Freedom!” she cried, doing a bad imitation of Mel Gibson in a kilt.

Then the line went dead.

I stared at my cell. In the past twenty-four hours I’d been to a biker bar, a drag funeral, and a prison. I’d been lied to, photographed, and arrested. I’d had a reporter follow me, my wig-wearing dad run from me, and both the mafia and the LVMPD threaten me. And now Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt were on a plane to Vegas.

I dropped my head into my hands, wondering what else this day could possibly throw at me.

And then I found out.

A black SUV pulled up to the curb and the passengerside door opened. Ramirez was sitting at the wheel, his face covered with a sexy growth of day-old stubble, his eyes dark and dangerous.

“Get in.”

Chapter Fifteen

I got in. With just the tiniest bit of reluctance, I settled into his passenger seat.

I know, I know, just minutes ago I’d been hoping he’d be here to pick me up and here he was. Wish granted. Only in Maddie’s perfect world I’d envisioned him giving me a big hug, a tender kiss on the lips with maybe even a little tongue action. (Tender tongue action. You know, like, I-missed-you-and-worried-about-you-every-second-you-were-in-jail tongue.) But instead, I’d gotten a barked order. Get in. Not exactly the words of endearment every girl longs to hear. Which left me wondering, was I a girlfriend? A suspect? Or just a girly blonde who kept messing up his case?

But, like I said, I didn’t argue.

I buckled my seatbelt silently as Ramirez pulled away from the curb.

“Thanks for getting me out,” I finally said, as he rounded the block.

“You’re welcome.” Then added as an afterthought, “Just don’t make me regret it.”

“Who me?” I asked in mock innocence.

He pinned me with a look. Right. Not in the mood for prison humor.

“Um, so where are we going?” I asked instead as he navigated the darkened streets.

“Back to my place.”

Despite the totally unsexy day I’d had, I felt my hormones zing to attention. “Your place?”

“Uh huh.” He nodded. “The only reason you’re not sitting in front of a judge right now is that I convinced him to release you into my custody. So,” he said, giving me a dark look, “I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”

“You mean you don’t trust me?”

He smiled a slow, crooked smile. “Nope.”

I should have taken offense, but honestly, I couldn’t say I blamed him.

I sat in silence as Ramirez wound us through downtown, ending up two streets from Las Vegas Boulevard in a neighborhood populated with motor inns, convention centers, and low cost buffets. Amazing how just two blocks from the Strip the price of prime rib plummeted to $3.99 a plate.

Ramirez pulled his SUV into the parking lot of the Lucky Seven Lodge, a twenty-unit motel done in peeling turquoise paint and rusted wrought iron. A kidneyshaped swimming pool, drained of water, sat next to the street while a neon sign over the front office advertised free HBO. Or rather “Free H O.” Their B was on the fritz.