Spying in High Heels (16 page)

Luckily my eternal soul was saved as Ramirez's cell phone chirped to life on his belt. He picked it up, glancing briefly at the number before answering it without so much as a look of apology in my direction.

"Ramirez," he said, stepping off to semi-privacy at the far side of the yard.

I wandered back over to the picnic tables, sitting on a bench as I watched Ramirez talk. It was hard to tell in the dark, but I thought I saw his Bad Cop face return, the lines of his jaw tense, his eyes that impenetrable dark cloud again. I wondered if the call had anything to do with Greenway. Maybe CSI Guy had found something useful after all. Then I wondered if Ramirez would share it or just tear out of here with another "Go home." It was hard to tell. He'd almost seemed like a real person a minute ago, but back into cop mode, I wasn't sure.

"He works too much." Mama came up behind me, offering a glass of water. I took it gratefully, not admitting even to myself how heated dancing with Ramirez had made me.

"Always that phone going off. Always the beeper. Clint works at the teddy bear factory in Industry. Now that's a good job. Go to work in the morning. Make the bears. Come home at night and see his wife and kids. Good steady job."

"Jack's good at his job." What irrational idea made me suddenly defend Ramirez, I have no clue. But I did. "He's a good cop."

"You better make sure those condoms don't break. You marry this one, you'll never see him."

Unfortunately, it was a little late for the broken-condom talk.

"Mama," Ramirez said, coming up behind me. "I'm sorry, but we've got to go." He flipped his phone shut, the hard look still in his eyes.

"Oh, so soon?" Mama's face fell. Then she shot me an I-told-you-so look.

"Sorry, Mama." Ramirez leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. "I'll call you this weekend."

Ramirez grabbed my arm and steered me back toward the house. I barely got out an "It was nice to meet you," before I was propelled back through the tchotchke laden house to the front door.

I didn't like the urgency in Ramirez's movements any more than I did the hard line of his jaw. My stomach was rapidly sinking like quicksand.

"What?" I asked as soon as we were out of Mama's earshot. "What's happened? Is it Richard?"

His eyes narrowed at the mention of Richard as he shoved me out the front door and practically ran to his SUV.

"What? What is it?" My voice was now rising into the range of hysterics and I had terrible visions of attending Richard's funeral beside Cinderella. "Please tell me what's going on!"

He stopped. "It's Greenway."

"They found him? When? Where?"

"Just a few minutes ago. In a Dumpster behind the motel." He paused. "With a gunshot wound to the head."

Chapter Eleven

I blinked hard, digesting this information.

"But he was just alive," I protested. "He shot at me."

"Well, he's not shooting anyone now. Get in your car and I'll follow you to the motel."

I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. "You want me to go with you?"

Ramirez turned around and fixed me with a stare. "You're going to follow me anyway, aren't you?"

I hated being this predictable. "Yes."

"At least this way I can keep an eye on you." He turned and strode to his car.

I tried to get over my shock and clattered to my Jeep, quickly roaring it to life as Ramirez made a U-turn and waited for me to pull out. I did, retracing our drive back to the freeway with Ramirez's headlights as a constant companion.

The drive back to the 5 and west to North Hollywood took more than half an hour. Long enough for the implications of this latest development to sink in.

If Greenway had been shot, that meant someone had to have killed him. All this time I had been assuming that Greenway had been the one who'd killed his wife. But if that was true, who'd killed Greenway? Three people knew where Greenway hid the twenty million dollars. Two were dead. I clenched my teeth together to keep them from chattering as I did the math. That meant only one was left.

Richard.

I focused on the task of driving through the late-night traffic to keep my mind from rolling this fact over and over like a snowball out of control. There were two possibilities now staring me in the face, neither one particularly pleasant. Either Richard was in a Dumpster of his own somewhere or…

Richard was pulling the trigger.

That thought sent a chill straight through me, prompting me to flip on the heater despite the seventy-plus temperature outside.

The Richard I knew folded his socks into perfect pairs in his drawer, drank nonfat milk, and had even asked permission to kiss me the first time. The Richard I knew did not shoot people.

Then again, the Richard I knew didn't have a wife.

As Ramirez tailed me onto the 134, another horrible thought occurred to me. Dana and I had heard shots earlier. At the time we'd assumed Greenway was shooting at us. But what if it were the other way around? What if someone had been shooting Greenway? Oh my god. That made Dana and me ear witnesses to a murder. I had a sudden vision of me in the witness protection program, wearing some really horrible
Married to the Mob
stretch pants like Michelle Pfeiffer. I shivered again.

I pulled into the parking lot of the Moonlight Inn, Ramirez close behind me. Again, residents were out on the balconies, men in stained robes and women dressed like myself. Metallica stood outside his office, talking with a uniformed officer who was making notes in a small black book. I parked my Jeep and got out as Ramirez pulled into the spot beside me.

Metallica spotted me, his eyes round and his pupils suspiciously dilated. "That's her!" he shouted. "That's one of those crazy hos I told you about. They killed that dude!"

The officer looked up, one hand instinctively hovering over the gun holstered at his hip.

"I got it." Ramirez appeared at my side, waving to the uniform that he had the "crazy ho" under control. He leaned in close to my ear, his voice low. "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do."

I bit my lip. No kidding.

Ramirez steered me past Metallica and into the cockroach-infested _ront O__ice. He sat me down on a hard plastic chair as he leaned against the Formica counter, arms crossed over his chest. "Looks like paperwork's inevitable at this point. You better tell me what went on here tonight."

I tried to read Ramirez's expression in the flickering glare of the Moonlight's neon sign. No luck. I couldn't tell whether I was currently being questioned as a suspect, witness, or just a cute little pain in the ass.

I'd watched enough TV dramas to know that when the cops put on their we've-got-to-talk faces, the first thing you do is call your lawyer. But considering my lawyer was currently nowhere to be found, I cracked under Ramirez's steady gaze and told him everything, right down to the look in Dana's eyes as she'd grabbed a handful of Metallica's shirt.

Ramirez's gaze didn't waver. He didn't crack a smile or blink an eye. Nothing. Not even call me girly. I bit my lip again, hoping I'd done the right thing in talking.

"So what now?" I asked.

"What now is you go home and let me handle this. I don't want to see any more hookers, red Jeeps, or designer shoes until this whole mess is straightened out. Got it?"

I nodded meekly.

"And if, for any reason, Richard gets in touch with you, you are to call me right away. Not go for a manicure first. Right away."

I nodded again, though I felt the manicure comment was uncalled for.

CSI Guy emerged from room two-ten, a handful of black bags in tow as he clomped down the metal stairs.

"Wait here," Ramirez commanded, stalking out the glass doors and intercepting CSI Guy at the bottom of the stairs.

For once, I did as told, wrapping my arms around myself as I strained to hear what CSI Guy and Ramirez were talking about through the open doors. Unfortunately, all I got was "… hair fibers."

"ridge detail," and "back to the lab for processing." Which put together could mean just about anything.

Ramirez finished with CSI Guy and walked over to a group of men standing around a black van with the word "coroner" on it. I shuddered.

Okay, so I had no great love for Greenway. But just yesterday I'd been on the phone with the man. It was unnerving to think of someone being here, and then suddenly not being here. Like at any moment / could not be here. Again I had that creepy feeling of being the dimwitted blonde in the horror movie who the entire audience knows will end up getting chased across the lawn in her underwear by the ax murderer at the end of act two. Only I didn't have a face for my ax murderer now.

Obviously Greenway hadn't shot himself. It's a little hard to dispose of one's own body in a Dumpster. But I really couldn't put Richard's face there either. Richard wasn't a killer. He was an attorney. Yes, I know, not the highest of life forms, but not a murderer either. There had to be another explanation.

Only I wasn't entirely sure Ramirez was going to look for it. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Richard was no longer a "person of interest." In fact, I had a sinking feeling, as CSI Guy joined Ramirez and the ME, that Richard's status had just been upgraded to full-fledged suspect.

Ramirez broke away from the group and crossed the cracked macadam to the office again. He paused in front of me, his eyes calculating as he stared down.

"You sure you didn't go into Greenway's room?"

A wave of dread rolled through my stomach.

"Yes. Why?"

He didn't answer, just crossed his arms over his chest. "Look, I know you've been less than honest with me in the past, but now's the time to come clean."

"I never went in Greenway's room. I told you, we knocked, then we heard shots and ran. Why? What did he tell you?" I tried to look past him to CSI Guy, honestly a little hurt that my evidence collector would turn on me like this after my intimate encounter with his lint roller.

"We found blond hairs in Greenway's room and impressions in the carpet that CSI thinks came from a stiletto heel."

I looked down at my shoes. "For your information, these are not stilettos. They are platform heels."

His eyes narrowed, the Bad Cop face not budging.

"You don't seriously think I had anything to do with this? That I actually killed him?"

"Look, I don't know what to think. Your boyfriend, whom you seem to know
nothing
about, disappears along with twenty mil and this guy," he gestured to Metallica, "this guy here says he saw you and your friend go up to Greenway's room tonight. And apparently a woman with blond hair and a thing for high heels was in his room recently enough that the shoe impressions are still in the carpet."

"Ask CSI Guy," I sputtered. "He has a bunch of my hair. He'll tell you it's not mine. You've got to believe me; I had nothing to do with this."

Ramirez sighed. "I want to believe you, but you're not making it real easy. What the hell am I supposed to tell my superiors? Let alone the press?"

"Tell them whatever you want. I did not shoot Greenway."

Ramirez sighed again, then began rubbing his temple. "Will you go home now?"

"Gladly." I was on the verge of tears but I'm proud to say I kept them at bay. The last thing I wanted to do was bawl like a baby in front of Bad Cop.

"Good. And don't take this the wrong way, but stay away from me, okay?"

"No problem." I spit the words out a little more

harshly than I meant to, banking on my anger to keep the tears from flowing down my cheeks.

I turned and stalked across the parking lot with as much dignity as a pretend hooker in four-inch heels could muster. And wouldn't you know it, the second I began fumbling in my little purse for my keys, I felt a big fat drop hit the back of my neck. I looked down to see more drops hitting the blacktop with an acrid smell of wet motor oil. It was raining. Great. One more thing I could say I was wrong about tonight.

I was wrong to let Dana talk me into dressing like a hooker, wrong to think I could find a murderer on my own, wrong to ever trust Ramirez. And last but not least, I was apparently wrong about the weather too. I cursed the weather gods right along with Ramirez's superior attitude as I found my keys and got in my Jeep. I made it all the way out of the parking lot and down the street before I finally let the tears run loose.

I thought I'd been a pretty tough chick up until now. I'd managed to keep my cool even when under threat of gunfire, arrest and pregnancy. But suddenly it all came rushing at me and once the tears started I couldn't make them stop. Maybe it was because I'd heard a man get shot, or because my cheating ex-boyfriend was now the prime suspect in a murder investigation, or because for half a second Ramirez actually thought I had something to do with this even when his mother thought we were making like rabbits. Or maybe it was just all of it. The whole ridiculous, awful evening. Everything was spiraling out of control and I was powerless to stop it. I felt very alone, very vulnerable, and, I hated to admit, oh-so girly as I cried my guts out down the 405.

I was crying so hard it took me a minute to realize what the flashing lights in my rearview mirror were. I blinked, wiping away the tears and saw a CHP glued to my back bumper. Oh shit. I looked down at the speedometer. Seventy-five. Oh really shitty shit.

I tried to pull myself together as I slowed and pulled off to the side of the road. I flipped down my mirrored visor, wiping at the mascara streaks running down my face. Eeek. I looked like Tammy Faye's evil twin. I was still doing hiccup sobs as the officer came around to the passenger side and motioned for me to roll down the window.

"Good evening, ma'am," he said, leaning his elbows on my driver-side door. He was clean shaven and looked about twenty, with clear blue eyes and pudgy cheeks that warned he may never lose his baby fat. A radio was clipped to his shirt beside a CHP badge that looked like he polished it nightly.

I took one look at the badge and couldn't help it. I burst into tears again. Yes, I know, I was so not cutting it as a Bond Girl right now. But this was just the thing to top off my horrible night. A speeding ticket. I was in serious feeling-sorry-for-myself mode and no amount of streaked mascara was going to stop the flood of tears.