Spying in High Heels

“Let’s start with, where is Richard Howe?”

“I told you, I don’t know. You think I’d be here if I knew?” My voice came out in a high whine I hadn’t used since I’d lost my retainer in sixth grade. I sniffed back the tears I could feel welling behind my eyes. “I don’t know where my boyfriend is.”

Ramirez stared at me for a second. The real unasked question clear in his dark eyes as they narrowed in on me.

“Richard did not do this.” I emphasized the point by shaking my head so violently those black dots threatened again. “He’s not a killer. He’s a lawyer. If he’s pissed at someone, he sues them. He would never, could never, do this. You don’t know Richard.”

His cocked his head to one side. “Do you?”

I bit my lip. Good question. I thought I did. But obviously there were some aspects of my boyfriend’s life he’d neglected to share with me.

Luckily I didn’t have to come up with a clever answer as a guy in a CSI shirt walked up the hillside toward us. Only this guy looked nothing like the hunks on the CBS version. He was tall, skinny and bald as a cue ball. His nose hooked over like a beak and he had small, calculating eyes that I would venture to guess didn’t miss much.

“Is she ready?” he asked, addressing Ramirez as if I were a piece of deck furniture.

Ramirez glanced at me. “I’m not sure.”

“Ready for what?” I asked.

Neither paid any attention. Instead, CSI Guy set his black bag down by his feet. “I think I should do her before she gets any further contaminated.”

“Contaminated?” I said.

Ramirez gave me another assessing glance. “Yeah, go ahead. She’s ready.”

“Ready for what?” My voice was threatening that Minnie Mouse quality again as my gaze ping-ponged back and forth between them.

Ramirez sighed, taking a patient tone one might use with a kindergartner. “They need to take samples of your hair, fingerprints and shoe impressions. You’ve contaminated the crime scene by being here. They need to be able to rule you out as they process the evidence.”

CSI Guy pulled out a small roller that looked suspiciously like the one I used on my black cashmere after visiting Mom and her army of tabby cats. His tiny eyes scrutinized me like I was one giant piece of evidence. Then, without so much as an introduction, he proceeded to run the roller over my blue baby T, down my sleeves, up my sides, and in places most guys didn’t touch without dinner and a movie first.

Ramirez looked on and I could swear he was almost enjoying this.

“This isn’t funny,” I shot at him with as much dignity as I could muster while being groped by a lint roller.

“Nothing funny whatsoever.” Only Ramirez’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he said it.

I decided to change the subject. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“I assume this is Celia Greenway’s house.”

He nodded.

“Did you know she would be… I mean was…”

“Dead?”

I cringed. Somehow the word seemed so final. Like poor Celia Greenway would never again know the joy of a semi-annual clearance sale at Bloomies, the scent of new leather pumps, or the thrill of finding that one of a kind bag in the half-off bin. (Really, it’s the little things that make life worth living.)

I tried to soften the image. “Swimming.”

“No, I didn’t. I just wanted to talk to her.”

CSI Guy tucked the roller into a baggie, which he then deposited in what looked like a black fishing tackle box. He pulled out a pair of tweezers and eyed my hair.

“What?” I asked.

CSI Guy didn’t answer, just circled me, scrutinizing my blonde highlights.

“What is he doing?” I ask Ramirez.

“He needs a hair sample. Preferably one with a skin tag for DNA analysis.”

“DNA? I didn’t say you could have my DNA. I don’t want him touching my hair.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then you shouldn’t have crashed my crime scene.”

Touche.

I shut my mouth, not wanting to push my luck. If Ramirez wanted to I’m sure he could make my life very miserable. I knew I was trespassing, meddling, snooping and a whole host of other minor sins cops didn’t look too fondly on. Besides, the way Ramirez had asked about Richard, I wasn’t entirely sure that we were on the same side and it didn’t seem wise to make enemies at this point. I had enough problems without Mr. Hardbody complicating things.

One of the uniforms called Ramirez down to the pool level, leaving me alone with CSI Guy, who continued circling my head for the perfect hair. After he chose a couple innocent little strands (not gently, I might add) he poured some plaster into two plastic trays and told me to step into them. I did, after making him promise on his mother’s life that the plaster would wash off of my shoes. The death of Mrs. Greenway was tragedy enough for one day, we didn’t have to compound it by adding the demise of $300 suede.

As the hook-nosed evidence collector worked, I dared to gaze back at the swimming pool again. With the body gone and the afternoon sun casting a shimmery light on the pool’s smooth surface, the scene looked anything but sinister. In fact, if you dressed the CSI ants in chinos and Abercrombie, this would look like any other day in the OC.

Just goes to show you, looks can be deceiving.

I closed my eyes, letting the sun warm my face as I tried to wrap my thoughts around what I’d learned today.

Devon Greenway had embezzled twenty million dollars from his company. Celia and Richard were the only people who knew the details. Celia was dead and Richard was missing. I prayed Richard was only hiding out from Greenway and not…

Swimming.

“You finished?” Ramirez climbed back up the hill, addressing CSI Guy who was packing his plaster moldings into another black bag.

“I’ve got all I need,” he answered, picking up his bags.

“Good.”

CSI Guy gave me a curt nod, which I took as a “thanks for not squirming too much,” and trekked back down the hill. Ramirez watched him go, then sat down beside me.

Close beside me.

A little too close. I wiggled away, the increase in pheromones nearly choking me.

Ramirez turned, his eyes darker than a double espresso as a half smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Do I make you nervous?”

What, me nervous? Nuh uh.

I nodded. I can be such a chicken.

Which of course caused his smile to grow into a full-fledged grin, complete with wolfish white teeth. “Good.”

I looked away, preferring the sight of the swimming pool to the wicked gleam in Ramirez’s eyes. I had a feeling it was the same gleam he got when he dragged someone off to jail.

Or into bed.

I didn’t want to find out which. (Bok, bok.)

“So… ” I said clearing my throat, “What now?”

Ramirez shifted closer. The scents of Downey and Right Guard hit me as Ramirez casually draped one arm around my shoulders.

“Now,” he said, leaning in close. “I take you home.”

Bok, ba-gawk!