Spying in High Heels (8 page)

She didn't, wiggling her size-two behind to the reception desk with purpose as the elevator doors slid closed in front of me. Whew. Close one.

Two minutes later I was racing across the street to the safety of my little red Jeep. I hopped in, locked the doors, and flipped on the radio, letting Blink 182 fill the unnerving silence as I yoga breathed my pulse back to normal. Even though I knew Green-way wasn't going to reach through the phone and strangle me via AT&T, the conversation had left me with a serious case of the heebie jeebies. Until recently my biggest fear in life was spiders with hairy legs. The sudden jump into wife-killer territory had me sweating and shivering all at the same time.

I tried to console myself with the thought that Greenway hadn't known where Richard was any more than I did. This was good. It meant the chances of finding Richard facedown in a pool were down considerably. (Something I was relieved to hear, because the more I thought about that condom wrapper the more I wanted to be the one to strangle him.)

So what now?

I glanced across the street again, my eyes searching out the windows of Richard's office on the sixth floor. No sinister shadows, no cops to follow, no bad guys in black.

That was it; I needed reinforcements.

I grabbed my cell and punched in Dana's number. She answered with a groggy "Hello?" on the fourth ring.

"It's me," I said. "You busy?"

Dana giggled, then I heard a muffled male voice in the background.

I rolled my eyes. "Maybe the more appropriate question is, are you alone?"

Dana giggled again. "Not entirely. Why, what's up?"

"I'm kind of having a crisis here."

"Another one?"

Tell me about it. "Never mind, I can hear you're busy."

"No, no. Sasha was just leaving. He's got pyramid practice." She giggled again and I thought I might throw up. "Tell you what, I've got an audition later this afternoon, but you wanna meet me at Fernando's in, say, twenty minutes? I could use a pedi first anyway."

My day definitely screamed for a pedicure. "I'll be there in ten."

Fernando's was located in the center of Beverly Hills' Golden Triangle, at the corner of Brighton and Beverly Boulevard, just one block north of Rodeo. Faux Dad started his career as the great Fernando in a strip mall in Chatsworth, but through word of mouth, and a few fabulous mentions in the
L.A. Times
, Fernando had primped and permed his way out of the Valley and into the playground of the rich and Botoxed.

In addition to being a wizard with hair, Faux Dad also had an innate flair for interior decorating. (Okay, so I was 75 percent sure he wasn't gay.) Fernando's went through a yearly metamorphosis, keeping up with the "in" theme of the moment. This year the look was Modern Industrial. The walls were covered in a rusted finish with a metallic over-glaze, causing them to shimmer in the light coming through the all-glass front wall. Exposed copper pipes overhead and unframed modern art canvases on the walls added to the look, while a dozen blow-dryers, rinse sinks and cutting stations hummed with activity down on the concrete floor. In Watts this would have been a warehouse, but on Rodeo, it was Warehouse Chic.

"Maddie, dahling!" Marco, the receptionist, came at me with an air kiss on both cheeks. Marco was slim, Hispanic, and wore more eyeliner than Tammy Faye. "How are you?" he asked in an accent that was pure San Francisco.

"
I've
been better," I answered truthfully. "Is Ralph in?"

"
Fernando
," Marco reminded me, "is doing a color weave on Mrs. Spears." Then he added in a low whisper, "Britney's mother."

"Oh," I whispered back, suitably impressed. I looked to the back of the salon and saw Faux Dad weaving red extensions onto a fiftyish brunette in Chanel. He caught my eye and gave a little wave.

"So," I said, turning back to Marco, "I'm just having one of those days. Any way you can fit me in for a pedi?"

"For you, sweetie, anything." Marco grabbed his big black book off a desk that looked like it was made of aluminum siding. He flipped through the pages.

"Think you could fit Dana in too?"

Marco frowned.

"Pretty please?"

"Maddie, you gotta stop doing this, dahling. You throw me all off schedule."

I blinked my eyelashes at him. "Oh, pretty, pretty please with Brad Pitt on top."

"No fair, you know my weakness. Okay. Chia can do you both in fifteen. Why don't you go soak?"

"You're a doll, Marco."

Marco threw me a kiss. "Don't I know it!"

I made my way over to the line of pedicure chairs along the back wall and chose a vacant one, taking off my shoes and sinking my feet into the little bubble bath. The second I hit the warm water I felt myself begin to relax.

I closed my eyes, trying to calm the roller coaster of emotions I'd ridden today. I'd almost succeeded when Dana plopped into the chair beside me with a huff.

"Sorry I'm late. There was traffic on the 110."

I opened my eyes and blinked. Twice.

Sitting beside me was Morticia Adams. Or, more accurately, Morticia Adams meets Playboy Bunny. Dana was dressed in a black vinyl outfit, just barely covering her derriere and showing more cleavage than I even owned. Her own hair was covered in a black wig that was taller than my hair had been in 1985. Pale foundation, black eyeliner and deep burgundy lip liner completed the Halloween chic costume. Only it was July.

"Do I want to know?" I asked.

"What?" Dana looked down at herself. "I told you I have an audition later. It's for an Elvira lookalike thing. Why, do I stick out?"

I looked around the salon. Actually, she didn't. Hey, this was L.A.

"So," she asked, "what's the pedi emergency?"

As quickly as I could, I filled her in on the events of the last two days. Ramirez in Richard's condo, the floating redhead, and finally my impromptu chat with Greenway. By the time I was finished our toe-nails were soaked, moisturized and filed, and Dana's jaw was hanging open.

"This is better than
The Sopranosl
You actually talked to a
murderer
? What did he sound like?"

"Kind of pissed, actually."

"Ohmigod. You could have been killed!"

Did I mention Dana has a flair for the dramatic?

"It was just a phone call, Dana." I didn't tell her about my own overly dramatic reaction to said call.

"So what did you do?"

"Nothing. He hung up."

Dana looked at me like I was the worst Nancy Drew ever.

"What do you mean, 'nothing'? Didn't you ask where he was?"

I slowly shook my head.

"Did you hear anything helpful in the background? Check the caller ID? At least star-sixty-nine him?"

I shook my head again. I was ashamed to admit I hadn't even thought of those. "Dumb, right?"

Dana was such a good friend, she didn't even answer that. Instead she drew her blackened eyebrows together in concentration. "You know, I dated this guy once who worked at the phone company. He said that some of these small companies keep a log of calls coming in or going out. You think maybe Richard's firm does that?"

I thought back to the blurb in Jasmine's file about her long-distance calls. "Yes! They do. Ohmigod, Dana, you're brilliant."

Dana sat back in her chair, looking like she'd just solved a Rubik's cube.

Obviously Jasmine wasn't going to give out any company information to me, but I had a feeling if I waited until she went on break again tomorrow, I could probably convince Althea to look up the number. She'd seemed sympathetic enough to Richard's plight. And if that didn't work, I could always bribe her with a free manicure.

"This is so cool," Dana said, wiggling her primped toes. "It's just like that pilot I shot last spring,
Diva Detectives
. We're actually tracking down a murderer."

We?

"Whoa. What do you mean, 'we'?"

Dana feigned a hurt look, sticking out her over-lined lip. "Hey, there's no way I'm letting you go all Charlie's Angels without me."

While I appreciated the help, the light in Dana's eyes as she said "Charlie's Angels" had me immediately fearing feathered wigs and bellbottoms.

"It's not a game, Dana. I think Richard's really in trouble." And even as I said it, the whole idea of running down Greenway was beginning to sound a little crazy. What were we actually going to do if we found him? I mean, as Dana so exuberantly pointed out, he was a murderer. What if he had a weapon? What if he tried to shoot us? I didn't think I could face being shot at any more than I could face an EPT.

"Maybe I should just turn this all over to the police," I said. "I mean, they have all the resources. Not to mention experience with this sort of thing."

Dana narrowed her eyes at me. "And what do you think will be the first thing the cops do when they find Richard?"

I bit my lip. "Give him a ride home?"

"Ahhhnt." Dana made a buzzer sound. "Wrong answer. They're going to read him his rights and slap a pair of cuffs on him. Honey, they tore his office apart; they searched his home. They don't do that unless they're after a serious suspect. Don't you watch
COPS
?"

My heart sank into a hollow pit in my stomach. I did. And she was right. The look in Ramirez's eyes as he'd questioned me yesterday had been clear enough. Richard was no longer considered just a witness.

"But Richard is innocent," I protested. Only it sounded oddly uncertain even to my own ears. "And there's more," I admitted.

"What 'more'?"

I leaned in close, half whispering to avoid Marco's gossip radar. "When I was going through Richard's office I kind of found something. Something that shouldn't be there."

Dana leaned in so close I could smell her morning nonfat decaf latte on her breath. "What?"

I swallowed hard. "
A
condom wrapper."

She blinked, looking at me as if still waiting for the punch line. "So?"

"So, Richard and I have never done it in his office. I mean, we've only done it in his bedroom. Or mine."

"Wait, you mean to tell me that you've never had sex with Richard outside of a bed?"

I'm no shrinking violet. I watch HBO, I have frank discussions with my gynecologist using anatomically correct language, and I've had enough sexual experiences that I have to take my socks off to count them all. But something about the way Dana was looking at me as if I'd just confessed I didn't know where second base was made my cheeks grow instantly hot.

"No," I said defensively. "Richard likes to be comfortable."

Dana made a disbelieving sound, something between a snort and a cough. "Comfortable and sex are two words that should never go together. Wild and sex, maybe. Passionate and sex. Even animal and sex—"

"Okay, I get the point." I think Mrs. Spears was beginning to stare.

"Wow. You live a sheltered life."

If my cheeks got any hotter, I'd erupt. So Richard liked things comfortable. What was wrong with being comfortable? Comfortable was fine. No gear shifts in your back, no soap in your eyes. We might not be on the sexual safari that Dana was, but Richard and I were fine. And I swear my mind did not flash for a second on Ramirez when she mentioned wild animal sex. Not one second.

"Dana, you're missing the point. That condom wasn't mine."

"Well, let's not jump to conclusions. Maybe it wasn't his, maybe it was one of his friends'."

Yeah right. That was the same excuse I'd used the one time I'd Been dumb enough to try pot senior year of high school and my mom had caught me trying to air out my room before she got home from work. It was flimsy then, and it didn't sound much better now.

But I was desperate.

"You think?"

"Sure. Or maybe he just emptied his pockets onto his desk after an overnight at your place."

Hey, that one didn't sound so bad. "Right. That's probably it."

"Of course it is. Richard's mad about you. It's not like he'd go bop his secretary or something."

Richard and Jasmine? That thought made me ill. I'd have to buy a gun and put myself out of my misery because I didn't want to live in a world where the likes of Miss PP could steal a boyfriend from the likes of me. Not that I'm a conceited person, but Jasmine was one step up from belly-button lint.

"Right. You're right. I'm sure Richard will have a perfectly good explanation." Once I found him.

After our toes were Fuchsia Fusion and Pinkberry Stain, Dana and I went for lunch at the Brown Bag Deli on Wilshire. There Elvira, Mistress of the Dark Eye Shadow, signed no less than three autographs for star-happy tourist, with a hopeful, "I'm so getting this part." By the time we were both stuffed with kosher pickles and turkey sandwiches (hers with low-fat mayo and sprouts, mine with extra cheese and salty fries—Hey, I was possibly eating for two now, right?), it was getting late and I realized I hadn't touched the Strawberry Shortcake high-tops in days. I promised Dana I'd call her as soon as I saw Althea and dropped her at her audition before heading back to my studio. ,

I forced myself to finish the sparkly laces and Velcro closure for the Shortcake shoes, then ordered delivery from the Vietnamese place down the street. I was too tired to bother with dishes, so I ate my rice noodles with a plastic spork while standing at my kitchen counter. Trying to avoid eye contact with the little pink box that had become my obsession.

I knew I was being a wuss. Just take the damn test already. But if there had been too many it's for comfort before, there were way too many now. if Richard was involved with Greenway.
If
he wasn't entirely innocent in this whole thing, if Ramirez—or, heaven forbid, Greenway—found Richard first.

If
Richard didn't have a good reason for that condom wrapper.

So instead of opening the box like a normal, rational woman, I decided to go with the if-I-don't-look-at-it-it-doesn't-exist theory of matter and plopped down on the futon, turning on the TV instead. Denial is a girl's best friend.

But wouldn't you know it, the first channel I flipped to showed a perky reporter with a Tipper Gore bob doing a report from Celia Greenway's swimming pool. Ramirez appeared (dressed in butt-hugging Levi's and a slick leather jacket—seriously hide-your-daughters sexy) and gave the reporter an update on the investigation. Basically repeating what he'd already told me. The coroner's office wasn't yet ready to release a statement and in the meantime it was being considered a "suspicious death." Suspicious was right.