Spying in High Heels

Well, when technology failed, there was always the good old standby, paper files. I groaned inwardly at the sight of files strewn over every conceivable surface. I started with the piles closest to the door, which turned out to contain copies of Richard’s personal accounts payable for the past six months. Boring. Though, I noticed as I looked at the figures, Richard wasn’t quite raking in what I thought he was. In fact, he had six overdue slips stamped with big red “delinquent” notices across the top. Great. Add that to the growing list of things Maddie didn’t know about her boyfriend. He was a compulsive spender and didn’t pay his bills on time. I suddenly felt guilty for prodding him into buying me those platinum dew drop earrings for my birthday. It was clear now that he couldn’t afford them any more than I could afford a duplex in Beverley Hills.

I moved on to the next pile of files, teetering precariously beside the bookcase. Billable hours records. Dinners with clients, travel times, and phone records of every millisecond he’d spent on any given case, billed by the quarter hour at rates that made my head spin. But nothing to tell me where Richard might be now.

The pile leaning against the desk contained copies of employee files, no doubt distributed to each partner to keep tabs on the Altheas of the office. While I had a feeling they wouldn’t yield anything helpful, I couldn’t help my curiosity getting the better of me when I unearthed Jasmine’s file. I opened it, peeking inside. Two complaints from other clerks about her personal long distance calls on the company phone, three commendations from the senior partner (who was older than dirt, bookoo rich, and in the middle of a messy divorce – suspiciously Jasmine’s type if you asked me), and her salary statements for the past three months. I almost laughed out loud at the paltry sum Miss PP earned answering phones and guarding the frosted door. I honestly didn’t think it was possible for anyone to exist in L.A. on a salary less than mine, but the statement proved me wrong. Poor Jasmine. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost, I reminded myself, thinking of how I’d had to sneak in here like a common criminal.

Speaking of which… I looked down at my watch and realized I’d been snoop- I mean, searching for evidence (there, that sounded much less nosey) for the last twenty minutes and Jasmine would be back from lunch soon.

Closing her file I rapidly began searching in earnest for anything that might lead me to Richard. Maybe I was having such lousy luck finding anything because I wasn’t even really sure what it was I was looking for. Had there been any obvious clues, they certainly wouldn’t be here now. Ramirez would have his CSI Guys scanning them for fibers and fingerprints back at Good Guy headquarters. No, my only hope is that Ramirez may have overlooked something that had meaning to me because of my intimate knowledge as Richard’s girlfriend. Yes, I know the chances were slim, especially considering my knowledge wasn’t turning out to be all that intimate after all. In fact, give him a couple days and Ramirez might know more about my boyfriend than I did. A thought which caused a bout of morning sickness to roll through my stomach again.

Ten minutes later I was frantically going through Richard’s desk, pulling out letter openers, fountain pens, paper clips, rubber bands, and… hello, what was that? A shiny blue piece of foil protruded from under Richard’s desk sized calendar. I lifted the calendar corner and pulled the foil out. Staring at it. A condom wrapper?

I froze, one hand gripped like a vice around an empty super ribbed Trojan packet and the other quickly balling into a fist at my side. Richard had a condom wrapper on his desk?

My brain went through a rapid search of possible reasons why this might be okay. It was left over from his associate days (read: pre-Maddie days)? He was representing the Trojan company in a lawsuit and had to inspect the product as possible evidence? Hormone crazed teenagers had broken in wanting to experience the thrill of sex in a lawyer’s office?

Damn. None of these was even remotely plausible. I swallowed hard, trying to cleanse the sandpaper feeling that had suddenly formed in my mouth. My boyfriend used condoms at work. This was really not good. If I ever found Richard, I was going to kill him.

I was still staring at the offending Trojan wrapper when the telephone on the desk rang. On instinct, I picked it up.

“Hello?” Oh crap! I wasn’t supposed to be here. I thought a really bad word and hoped it wasn’t Jasmine checking in.

There was a pause on the other end, as if the person were as surprised I’d picked up the phone as I was. Then a tentative male voice said, “Give me Richard.”

I gulped and hoped he didn’t hear it. “Who may I ask is calling?”

Again with the pause. Only this time I heard him mumble, “Shit” under his breath, obviously not pleased with my interrogation and debating whether to answer or hang up on me. Finally he decided to go with option number one, and answered in a gruff voice. “Devon Greenway. Who the fuck is this?”

Chapter Five

I froze, every muscle in my body suddenly tensing. Ohmigod. I was on the phone with a murderer!

A murderer that was looking for Richard. A knot formed in my stomach. There was no denying Richard was in this up to his eyeballs now. Only I didn’t know exactly how. A part of me screamed that this was a good thing, look what happened to people who knew! They ended up face down in their million dollar swimming pools.

So, trying my darndest not to sound like a mouseketeer in front of the big bad embezzler slash murderer, I answered him.

“Maddie Springer.”

“What’re you, Richard’s receptionist?”

I took personal offense to that, now knowing exactly how little his receptionist made.

“Noooo. I’m his girlfriend.

Silence. Then, “Richard never mentioned a girlfriend.”

I fought down a stab of disappointment. Here I may be carrying his child and he’d never even mentioned me.

“You sure? Maddie Springer? Though sometimes he just refers to me as Pumpkin. That’s his pet name for me. You sure he didn’t mention a Pumpkin?”

I heard Greenway swallow an oath on the other end. Right. Irrelevant.

“Never mind. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I just thought, you know, he might talk about me sometimes, just, maybe in casual conversation. I mean, not that you and he have a lot of casual conversations, I’m sure it’s all just business and you don’t have any sort of personal stake in each other’s lives, so I guess really there would be no reason for Richard to mention me at all-”

Greenway cut me off. “Jesus, do you ever shut up?”

I swallowed hard. I did tend to talk a lot when I was nervous. And being on the phone with men who strangled their wives, then dumped them in their swimming pools made me very nervous. I took a deep breath and mumbled, “Sorry.”

“Put Richard on,” he demanded.

“Uh…” I looked around the police-ransacked office. “Richard’s not here right now.”

“Where the hell is he?”

Pal, I wish I knew.

On the one hand, disappointment welled inside of me as I realized this wasn’t the great break in the Where’s Waldo game my life had suddenly become. On the other, if Richard was hiding out from Greenway (as the dead wife now convinced me he was) he was doing a good job of it. I halfway hoped he stayed hidden. Something about Greenway’s voice had the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. Like he’d almost enjoy strangling someone.

“Look, Richard’s girlfriend, I don’t have all day. Where the fuck is Richard?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “He hasn’t been here since Friday.”

Greenway said a few colorful words, breathing heavily into the phone.

“Can I take a message?” I squeaked out, hoping if I kept him on the phone long enough my pulse might return to normal and I could think of something clever to say.

“You mean to tell me,” he smirked through the receiver, “that prick took off? Without even telling his girlfriend?”