“I… I don’t know.” Althea glanced down at the desk, avoiding eye contact. “Jasmine wouldn’t like this.”
I tried not to roll my eyes at the mention of Miss PP.
“Look, I really need that number.” I leaned in closer with exaggerated importance. “I think Richard might be in danger.”
Her eyes grew wide behind her thick frames. “Danger? What kind of danger?”
If it had been Jasmine asking, I’d have told her to go take a flying leap. But somehow I felt that with frizzy haired, cardigan wearing Althea, my secret was safe. I told her about the call from Greenway and my fear that Richard was hiding out from him. Or worse. Swimming.
Althea took it all in, her “O” of a mouth growing progressively wider. When I finished she did a few myopic blinks, staring at me as if this was the most exciting thing to happen to her since post-it started making colored pads.
“This is all so James Bond. But, are you sure we should be interfering? I mean, wouldn’t this be better left up to the police?”
Yes it would. But as long as Richards’s name was crawling up the list of Ramirez’s suspects, I didn’t have that option. So, I sweetened the deal. “I could get you in for a complimentary pedicure at Fernando’s?
That did it.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, then disappeared behind the frosted doors in search of the phone records.
I stood at the front desk, anxiously tapping my nails on the mahogany surface. I glanced at the brass clock above Jasmine’s desk. 12:23. I hoped Althea hurried.
Less than two minutes later she was back with a computer printout.
“Okay here are all the calls to Richard’s office yesterday. There weren’t many because, well, you know.” She blushed like a beet again. “When did the call come in?”
I took the printout, scanning my finger down the page. I’d received the call from Greenway just before Jasmine came back from break yesterday. 12:27 a call was logged to Richard’s office from an 818 area code. My heart was suddenly racing like the bus from
“I think maybe this one is it. Is there any way you can find out who owns the number?”
Althea clicked a few buttons on Jasmine’s keyboard. “I can do a reverse look up.” If I hadn’t known better I’d say Althea was beginning to enjoy this. Her eyes were shining behind her thick frames, her fingers flying at lightening speed across the keyboard. “Got it.”
I tried not to sound too excited. “Whose number is it?”
“It says the Moonlight Inn in North Hollywood. You really think Greenway is hiding out there?”
I could have kissed her. “God, I hope so. Thanks, Althea.”
“Thanks for what?”
I froze. I knew that helium perky voice. Jasmine.
Althea knew it too. Her head snapped up, a deer in the headlights expression frozen on her face.
I sent serious psychic vibes across the desk at her. Say nothing. Play dumb!
Althea must have got them because she quickly closed the window on her computer screen, obliterating all evidence of our noontime caper. Not that I was actually threatened by Jasmine. On her steady diet of laxatives and vitamin water she weighed about as much as a toothpick. However, I had a feeling she’d take inordinate pleasure in tattling on me to Ramirez.
“Thanks for what?” Jasmine asked again. “What’s going on here?”
I tried to put on my innocent face. I opened my mouth, hoping some great lie would come out, but Althea beat me to it.
“I said I’d forward Richard’s bills to his accountant’s office. She didn’t want his accounts going delinquent.”
I stood and stared. Wow, Althea wasn’t half bad at this cloak and dagger stuff.
Jasmine narrowed her eyes at me. (Or at least tried. They didn’t move so well after her lid lift last May.) I wasn’t sure she was buying it, but what could she say?
“Well, thanks again,” I said, turning and walking as fast as I could out the doors. I could feel Jasmine’s cold stare at my back all the way to the elevator. It was unnerving, like she was putting some Barbie hex on me. I was glad when the elevator arrived and I quickly stepped inside, punching the lobby button.
As soon as I was clear of the building, I pulled out my cell and punched in Dana’s number.
“Hello?” she answered.
“I’ve got the number. It’s the Moonlight Inn in North Hollywood.”
Dana squealed with excitement on the other end. I had to hold the phone away from my ear to keep from going deaf.
“So,” she asked. “What now?”
“I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. Get your Angels clothes on.”
Nineteen minutes later I pulled up to Dana’s duplex in Studio City. It was a modest, stucco structure that she shared with four other aspiring actors slash personal trainers. Which meant it always smelled vaguely of costume makeup, gym socks and Rice-a-Roni (the struggling actor’s treat).
I knocked on the door and was answered a couple beats later by No Neck Guy. I’d long ago given up trying to remember the names of Dana’s roommates. Being an actor didn’t exactly translate into steady income and they tended to come and go like nomads. There had been Bubbly Blonde, Guy with Bleached Teeth, Latin Dancer Guy, and my favorite, Italian Guy Who Can’t Keep his Hands to Himself. (Yuck!) No Neck Guy worked at the Sunset Gym with Dana and reminded me of the Incredible Hulk without all the green dye.
“Is Dana in?” I asked.
No Neck shrugged, then bellowed through the house for Dana.
“Coming,” she yelled from deep in the Actor’s Duplex. No Neck Guy nodded at me, then disappeared up the stairs. No Neck was a man of few words.
Three seconds later Dana bounced through the doorway, doing a little skipping footwork thing. Though one glance at her outfit took my attention quickly away from her feet.
“What are you wearing?” I stared, torn between the urge to laugh and cry.
“You like?” she asked, twirling in her doorway for me. She wore a tiny pleather mini skirt in a bright blue, spandex halter top that was at least two sizes too small for her well endowed D chest (another reason I hated her), a long strand of fake pearls (I know they were fake because they were neon green.) and had capped the whole thing off with a jet black, page boy wig. I won’t even go into the make-up. I prayed she’d just come off the set of “Hookers for Hire.”
Apparently I hadn’t answered her yet, as Dana pouted her cherry red lips and put both hands on her exposed hips. “You don’t like my spying outfit?”
“This isn’t what Charlie’s Angels wore.”
“Well, duh! I was going for call girl.”
“Okay, maybe this is a dumb question, but why are you dressed like a call girl?”
“See, here’s what I was thinking. We’re going need to get Greenway’s room number. And if we just go ask the manager, he’s going to tell us to get lost. But, looking like this…” She did another twirl and her pearls clacked against her boobs. “He’ll think were hookers.”
“But I don’t want to be a hooker.” Not a phrase I ever thought I’d have to say.
Dana ignored me. “I’ve got it all worked out. I did this scene for my acting class once from
I rolled my eyes.
“Anyway, he’s not going to want us banging on every door in his place until we find our john, now is he? Trust me, if we’re dressed like this, guys are gonna be a
That I didn’t doubt.
“Dana, I just spent the morning as Barney in drag. I am
