Spying in High Heels (3 page)

Clearly Richard wasn't at the office. Next stop— his condo.

Richard lived in a two-story condo in Burbank, nestled in a gated community of tall stucco buildings on Sunset Canyon. The condos were all painted a pale taupe that hid dirt and on high-smog index days matched the exact color of the air. Richard's was the third structure on the right.

I parked across the street, thankfully finding a spot on the same block after circling only twice, and clubbed my steering wheel.

I keyed in the entry code on the electronic pad next to the iron gates and made my way through the mini garden courtyard, consisting of yucca trees, leafy green bushes and flowering agapanthus. I paused as I reached Richard's door, took a deep breath, and stuck my key in the lock.

I was halfway expecting Mafia thugs to jump out at me, or the place to look trashed, as if Richard had been dragged away against his will, kicking and screaming, "Wait, just let me return my girlfriend's call first!"

I was disappointed. The condo looked exactly as it always did. Sleek black leather sofas were set in the sunken living room, offset by chrome and glass end tables. The alcove kitchen to the right was clean, the green granite counters gleaming as morning sun filtered through the sliding glass doors to the second-story balcony.

"Hello?" I called into the silence. But almost instinctively, I knew I wouldn't get an answer back. The house had the feel of disuse, the air slightly stale as if the windows hadn't been cracked in days. Which did nothing to reassure the anxiety building in my belly.

Richard wasn't here. He wasn't at the office. I was running out of places to look for him. Was it possible that he'd been called out of town suddenly? Maybe a family emergency? His mother lived alone in Palm Springs—maybe she was sick?

I crossed the room, angling down the narrow hallway that led to the marble tiled bathroom, Richard's bedroom, and the spare room Richard used as a home office. I opened the office door, gingerly peeking inside. No Richard. But the answering machine on his desk was blinking like mad. Feeling just the teeny-tiniest bit intrusive, I pressed the play button.

Would you believe all twelve messages were from me? Yikes. Quickly I erased all but one. There, that sounded more like a rational, sane girlfriend.

I took a quick look around the rest of the office. No plane tickets to the Bahamas, no telegrams saying, "Mom's sick, come now." I moved on to the bedroom, my heels echoing on the polished hardwood floor.

Like the rest of the house, the bedroom seemed untouched. The bed was made, the burgundy duvet unwrinkled. The dresser held only the usual bits of clutter: a tin of loose change, pair of old sunglasses, book of matches/ packet of vitamins, and two Bic pens. Feeling a little like Colombo, I checked the address on the matchbook. It was a club he'd taken me to last week. Drat. So much for my brilliant detective skills.

I opened the top drawer of his dresser. Rows of rolled-up socks and Hanes briefs didn't provide any clue to his whereabouts either. I had a sinking feeling I was just snooping at this point. I searched through the drawer, grimacing as I found a pair of purple argyle dress socks. I opened another drawer. T-shirts and gym shorts. I shuffled them around a bit and came across a pair of neon-blue spandex running shorts. Egad! Those had to go. I tossed them in the direction of the wastebasket, sure that Richard would thank me later.

I was just moving on to the pajama drawer when I heard a sound other than my own clucks of disapproval. It was the sound of the front door opening.

My first thought was that it was Richard, and Obsessive Woman was caught red-handed. Then I heard something else.

"Hello? Richard, are you in there?"

I froze. It was a man's voice, but not Richard's. Good Lord, what would I do if it was one of his friends? Sure, Richard had given me a key, but not so I could come in while he was gone and inspect his wardrobe. At the risk of forever being labeled "that crazy chick who went through the drawers," I quickly jumped into Richard's closet, securing the sliding paneled doors behind me. Just call me the obsessive chicken.

I heard the front door close, footsteps echoing through the condo. Cupboards opened and closed in the kitchen, leather squeaked against leather as I listened to him move cushions on Richard's sofa.

Footsteps clicked down the hall, then came to an abrupt stop, presumably at the door to Richard's office. They continued again, fading as the man entered the room. I opened the closet door just a crack and peeked out. I couldn't see anything. Ever so quietly, I tiptoed to the doorway of Richard's bedroom. I heard the message machine beep, then my voice filled the condo.

"Hi, Richard, it's me. Just wondering what you've been up to. I haven't heard from you in a while. Well, not a while really, but I thought you said you'd call me last night. Not that I was waiting or anything. But maybe you forgot. Or just got really busy. Which I
totally
understand, 'cause, duh, you've got lots of cases and stuff to think about. I mean, not that I think you
don't
think about me. I'm sure you do. But, you know, you just have a lot on your mind, so I can see why you forgot to call. So, um, anyway, call me when you can. 'Kay?"

Oh God, did I really sound like that? No wonder my boyfriend had gone AWOL.

I thought I heard the man chuckle as the machine beeped off. Thank God I'd erased the rest of the messages.

I heard the sounds of desk drawers being opened and closed, papers being shuffled. I would swear it sounded like this guy was going through Richard's stuff too. What kind of friend was he? I just hoped he found whatever he was looking for before he got to the bedroom.

No such luck.

Footsteps echoed again, drawing closer. I let out a little "eek" and I jumped back into the closet, quickly closing the sliding door as the footsteps grew louder upon entering Richard's bedroom. I crouched on the floor, wedging myself between a pile of winter sweaters and Richard's Bruno Magli loafers.

I heard the man opening dresser drawers, rummaging like I'd been doing just moments ago. What
was
this guy looking for? My curiosity got the better of me, and I eased the closet door open a crack to take a peek at him.

I recognized him almost immediately. The solid frame hunched over Richard's dresser, the worn jeans, the dark hair. It was the same guy I'd seen with Richard the other day. Mr. Nobody. He was in denim, again wearing a black T-shirt, sans jacket this time as a concession to the heat. The sleeves of his shirt were stretched taut over biceps that bulged like Nerf balls. I thought I caught the glimpse of a black tattoo just peeking out beneath the hem, but I couldn't quite make out the design.

And then I saw it. A gun.

I froze, my eyes glued to the bit of gleaming metal shoved into the waistband of his jeans, the butt flat against his tight stomach. My breath came out in quick shallow gasps, my brain racing to come up with any good reason why a man with a gun should be searching through Richard's personal belongings.

Mr. Armed and Dangerous mumbled to himself again as he opened Richard's underwear drawer. I strained my ears to pick up what he was saying.

"Come on, come on… I know you left something… what the… ?" He paused, holding up the pair of purple argyles. He shook his head, making a sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, before throwing them back in the drawer. Well, at least the bad man had good taste. I watched as he continued to the next drawer. "Come on, come on… don't tell me the sonofabitch packed everything."

Wait—packed?

My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I looked around the closet at rows of hanging suits, polos and pressed slacks. Sure enough, there were noticeable gaps. I felt my stomach clench up in a way that warned of morning sickness. Missing clothes, missing boyfriend. A man with a gun rummaging through Richard's underwear drawer. And me crouched in a pile of seasonal sweaters, hoping like anything that the dizziness hazing my vision was just fear and not pregnancy hormones. This was not good. I didn't know what was going on here, but good it definitely was not.

And then things got worse.

Mr. Nobody stepped toward the closet doors. I bit my lip, hoping he would turn around. Nope. He headed straight toward me. I shut my eyes tightly, making myself as small as I could. I said a silent prayer, promising to attend church more often, give half my salary to the poor and really work in a soup kitchen this Thanksgiving instead of just telling my mother I was in order to avoid her dried-out turkey.

I heard the wooden door slide on its tracks and eased one eye open, saying a silent thank you that he'd opened the other side of the closet and I was still in shadows. I held my breath, certain that my every inhale was as loud as a jackhammer in the silence.

Mr. Nobody looked at the clothes hanging in the closet. He squinted his dark eyes at them almost as if he were mentally counting.

"Shit." He breathed the word on an exhale, then turned around and stalked out of the room. His boots continued to echo all the way down the hall and out the door, which he shut behind him with a crash that sent my teeth chattering. Or maybe they were doing that all on their own. I realized I was shaking, and wrapped a wool sweater around myself as I sat in the dark closet for a full two minutes before venturing back out into the room.

I don't know what Mr. Nobody would have done had he seen me there, but the gun poking out of his Levi's was not reassuring.

I slowly ducked my head out the bedroom door. No sign of the bad man. I tiptoed as quickly as I could down the hall, slinked out the front door and sprinted across the street to my car as if I were dodging gunfire. Once inside I locked the doors, removed the Club and revved up the engine, my hands still shaking as I adjusted the air-conditioning controls.

I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths as I took stock. I was in one piece. Mr. Nobody hadn't seen me. No bullet holes and I hadn't wet myself. All was well.

Okay, not
all
was well. Richard had obviously packed for a trip. That much was plain to both Mr. Nobody and me. A trip where? And why? Richard hadn't mentioned a trip, and by the way an armed man had broken into his place, I didn't envision it was a planned Club Med getaway. Was he hiding somewhere? Was he in trouble? Considering the fact that Richard thought claiming lunch with me as a deduction was unethical, I found it hard to believe.

I wondered if I should call the police. But I wasn't entirely sure Mr. Nobody had actually committed a crime by breaking into a man's house and going through his underwear drawer, hi fact, I wasn't even entirely sure he
did
break in. Had I locked the door behind me? I'd been a little preoccupied to notice.

God, I hoped Richard was all right. What would I do if he wasn't? What about my… lateness? Again I felt that bout of possible morning sickness swell over me. I swear to god if Richard was just in the Bahamas, I was going to kill him.

Just then my purse rang. I jumped so far into the air I almost hit the roof of my car, adrenaline pumping through every limb of my body. I reached into my bag and flipped open my Motorola. My mother's number popped up on the caller ID. If it had been anyone else, I would have ignored it. But knowing Mom, she'd send the National Guard looking for me if I didn't pick up by the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Maddie, you haven't forgotten, have you?"

"Of course not." I racked my brain. Forgotten what?

"Good. Because we made reservations for five and Ralph's canceling his last appointment so he can join us."

Right. Ralph, a.k.a. Faux Dad, the owner of Fer-nando's, the hottest place on Rodeo, and my soon to be stepdaddy. I still wasn't 110 percent convinced Faux Dad was straight, but I
loved
the discounted manicures.

Mom had hooked up with Ralph when, after twenty-six years as a single parent, she had discovered the wonders of Internet dating. Desperate to make a big reentry into the dating scene, she'd gone to Fernando's for a full makeover, where Ralph chopped, styled and colored her hair into a near masterpiece. After three months of flirtatious cut and colors, Mom was surprised to learn that not only was Ralph straight (allegedly), but his interest in her went way beyond her curly locks. Five months later they were planning a beautiful ceremony in Malibu, overlooking the ocean cliffs, for a week from Saturday. I was to be the maid of honor and tonight Mom was laying official duty number three thousand on me: planning her bachelorette party.

I debated fabricating an excuse to skip dinner. My hands were still shaking and, though my heart had slowed from NASCAR to L.A. freeway, I still had that jittery feeling in my chest, like I was ready to fight or take flight any minute. However, knowing Mom (see National Guard reference), if I backed out of dinner I'd only get more questions I wouldn't want to answer. So I gave in.

"Right. No, I'll be there. Five-thirty, right?"

"Five!" my mother yelled into the phone.

"Right." I looked down at my watch. Four forty-seven. Considering traffic on the 134 at this hour, I'd be cutting it close. "I was just getting in the car, Mom. I'll meet you there."

"Good. And don't be late."

I pretended not to hear that last comment. "You're breaking up, Mom. Sorry, gotta go."

At exactly five twenty-nine I pulled up to Garibaldi's restaurant in Studio City. I might have been on time had I not spent the entire drive looking in my rearview mirror for any sign of Mr. Nobody lurking behind me. Thankfully, I saw none. Paranoia lesson number one: Just because I couldn't see him didn't mean he wasn't there.

I found a spot on the street and parallel parked between a Jag and a Dodge Dart on its last legs. Luckily I was wearing my ready-for-anything Spiga sling-backs, so the block and a half sprint hardly even hurt my feet. Faux Dad was outside talking on his cell phone, a frown of concentration on his tanned face. Faux tan, of course. When he hit Beverly Hills, Ralph transformed himself from Midwestern farm boy into Fernando, the European hair sculptor. He figured the chances of 90210's elite frequenting a salon called "Ralph's" were slim to none. Unfortunately, Ralph's family was Swiss German, so to keep up with faux Spanish roots, he indulged in magic tan sprays twice a week.