springs up from the backseat and slashes until the car fills with red dyed Karo syrup. I shivered. I wanted to keep all my syrup right where it was, thank you very much.
I squinted through the darkness as Ramirez got out of his SUV. There were two black and whites in the lot now, one officer talking into his car radio while the other swept a flashlight along the license plates of the other cars in the lot. Ramirez walked up to the cop with the flashlight, conversing for a moment with the uniform who kept gesturing up to room two-twelve.
I followed Ramirez’s gaze up the stairs. The door to the room was open now and I could see the light on. Forms outlined against the ratty curtains, presumably CSI Guy and his many little black bags. The half dressed neighbors on either side of room two-twelve had come out of their rooms, milling around the doorway like moths to a flame.
Ramirez left the uniform and took the stairs two at a time, making long, purposeful strides to Greenway’s room. He disappeared inside for a minute, then quickly reemerged. He went back down the stairs and crossed the cracked blacktop to the office. I allowed myself a little smirk at the thought of Metallica cowering under Ramirez’s evil eye.
Five minutes later Ramirez emerged from the office and got back in his SUV. The lights turned on and he backed out of the lot, pointing his car down Lankershim in the direction of the freeway. I made myself count to three Mississippi before chasing after him.
More than likely he was just going back to the police station. But, on the off chance Metallica had shared intimate knowledge of Greenway’s next destination, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a little joyride. Besides, though I hated to admit it, my studio was suddenly sounding kind of empty. After the chilling experience tonight, coupled with the knowledge Greenway was still out there somewhere, the thought of being alone wasn’t all that appealing. And I didn’t even have anyone I could call for a chickenhearted sleepover. Dana was off in hot tub land, and of course Richard was AWOL. I guess I could have called my mom, but then I would have had to spend the evening hearing about her upcoming bachelorette party at Beefcakes and just how many twenties she was taking with her. Which was almost as creepy.
I know it was crazy, but as long as I had Ramirez in my sights, I felt safe. Funny how the taillights of an SUV could be so comforting.
So, I continued to follow Ramirez down Lankershim to the 134. He got on going east, toward Pasadena, but turned off at the 5 south. He drove fast, like he was late for something, weaving in and out of traffic down the 5, chasing it all the way to the 60 east toward Pomona. I struggled to catch up while simultaneously trying to keep at least one semi truck between us. I was determined to be in stealth mode tonight.
My dash clock read seven thirty before Ramirez finally pulled his SUV off the freeway and exited at Azusa and into the residential neighborhood of Hacienda Heights. The houses here were modest, single-family homes that looked like they’d seen generations of children come and go. Originally cookie-cutter tracts in the fifties, the street was now dotted with garage conversions, siding from Sears, and the occasional second story addition. The landscaping was mature, the lawns neatly clipped and littered with big wheels and soccer balls.
Ramirez led me past a house with a baby swing tied up to a tree in the yard and a crisp picket fence outlining the lawn, and I had a moment of suburban panic as my possible future flashed before my eyes. Was this what a pink line meant?
Okay, so I’m not so neurotic as to have a mental breakdown at the mere thought of settling down in soccer mama land. But the thought of giving up my studio (dinky as it may be), of, gulp, cohabiting with Richard, (yes, I was ignoring the Cinderella factor) and becoming Florence Henderson made my hands sweat. With one broken condom was I really ready to give up my whole life for suburbanitehood?
And I hated to admit a teeny tiny (very teeny tiny, mind you) part of me kind of wanted to. I blamed my Cabbage Patch kids for the sudden maternal wistfulness. I’d been programmed since I bought Barbie her dream house, complete with the perfect accessory, her Ken doll, to want all this. And yet as it stared me in the face, I broke out in a cold sweat.
So complete was my fear that I realized I’d lost Ramirez.
Shit.
I circled the block, turning at the corner to retrace my steps. On the second go round, I finally spotted his SUV parked on the opposite side of the street under a leafy oak.
I parked at the corner, well away from the dim glare of streetlamps, and slid low in my seat. I could see from here that Ramirez’s SUV was empty. He’d already gotten out and presumably gone into one of the houses while I’d circled the block. Crap.
I quickly scanned the two houses on either side of his car. One was completely dark. The other was a squat ranch style with yellow shutters and the blue light of a television set flickering through the front window. The yard was dotted with yucca trees and hula-hoops. Rose bushes lined the walkway, mingling with baseball mitts, Tonka trucks and an abandoned Raggedy Ann. All of which didn’t strike me as the type of hideout Greenway would choose. I silently wondered what Ramirez was doing here.
Then he yanked my psychic thread again.
“Looking for me?” Ramirez’s face appeared in my window.
I yelped like a terrier, jumping back in my seat.
“Geeze, you scared the crap out of me.”
His eyes crinkled in a half smile, as if he’d meant to. “You’re beginning to be a real pain, you know it?”
“Us girly girls are like that.”
“Don’t suppose I could persuade you to go home now, huh?”
I put on my best tough chick face. “No, you can’t. I don’t know what makes you think you can just order me around like this. It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it?”
His half smile widened. “Actually, it’s because I carry a badge.”
Right. Well, I guess he did have a point there.
I decided to change the subject. “So, where are we?” I asked, gesturing to the sleepy neighborhood.
He glanced at the hula-hoop house. “Nowhere important.”
Uh huh. Like I believed that for a second. “Who’s in there?” I asked, craning in my seat to see past the yellow shutters.
Ramirez shook his head. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“There you go again. Telling me what I want and don’t want. Do women really go for this sexist pig thing you’ve got going on?” But even as I said it I had no doubt that they did.
Ramirez got that I’m-gonna-arrest-you-and-I’m-gonna-like-it twinkle in his eyes again. “Okay. You really want to know?”
I was wavering. But, I hadn’t come this far just to be intimidated by some man who thought he could boss me around just because he was sexier than Brad Pitt in a toga. I squared my shoulders. “Yes.”
“All right. Let’s go in.”
This was too easy. There had to be a catch. But, after the stink I’d made, I could hardly chicken out now. (And I had to admit, going to Destination Unknown with Ramirez still sounded better than sitting in my studio alone, waiting for Greenway to jump out and spill my Karo syrup.) So, I grabbed my purse and locked my Jeep, following as Ramirez led the way across the street and up the rose lined path.
The front door was painted a vibrant red with an orange stained-glass window. Ramirez gave a familiar shave- and-a-hair-cut knock and opened the door without waiting for an answer, pushing me in ahead of him.
The air was warmer than outside and smelled like tamales, Pine Sol, and sugar cookies. Music played from somewhere deep in the house, and a chorus of children’s voices all vied for attention just beyond my vision. Ramirez walked me into a cozy living room that looked about to burst at the seams with chatchkes of every variety. Colored glass vases, a collection of Anaheim Angles bobble head dolls, homemade afghans in bright greens and assaulting pinks, and glass candle holders painted with pictures of the Virgin Mary filled every conceivable surface. A man in a worn work shirt and jeans dozed in a burnt orange lay-z-boy in the corner, a black cowboy hat resting on the coffee table beside him. The television I saw from the street was muted, playing a John Wayne western.
Just beyond the living room I could see a kitchen done in baby blue Formica, bustling with round women chattering in rapid Spanish.
I had serious second thoughts about coming in with Ramirez. I’d envisioned questioning a suspect under blaring lamps, breaking into a suburban crack den, even squeezing information out of Greenway’s second cousin’s neighbor.
