Ramirez’s gaze didn’t waiver. He didn’t crack a smile or blink an eye. Nothing. Not even call me girly. I bit my lip again, hoping I’d done the right thing in talking.
“So, what now?” I asked.
“What now is you go home and let me handle this. I don’t want to see any more hookers, red Jeeps, or designer shoes until this whole mess is straightened out. Got it?”
I nodded meekly.
“And if, for any reason, Richard gets in touch with you, you are to call me right away. Not go for a manicure first. Right away.”
I nodded again, though I felt the manicure comment was uncalled for.
CSI Guy emerged from room two-twelve, a handful of black bags in tow as he clomped down the metal stairs.
“Wait here,” Ramirez commanded, stalking out the glass doors and intercepting CSI Guy at the bottom of the stairs.
For once, I did as told, wrapping my arms around myself as I strained to hear what CSI Guy and Ramirez were talking about through the open doors. Unfortunately, all I got was a “… hair fibers,” “…ridge detail,” and a “…back to the lab for processing.” Which put together could mean just about anything.
Ramirez finished with CSI Guy and walked over to a group of men standing around a black van with the word “coroner” on it. I shuddered.
Okay, so I had no great love for Greenway. But just yesterday I’d been on the phone with the man. It was unnerving to think of someone being here, and then suddenly not being here. Like at any moment
Obviously Greenway hadn’t shot himself. It’s a little hard to dispose of one’s own body in a dumpster. But I really couldn’t put Richard’s face there either. Richard wasn’t a killer. He was an attorney. Yes, I know, not the highest of life forms, but not a murderer either. There had to be another explanation.
Only I wasn’t entirely sure Ramirez was going to look for it. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Richard was no longer a “person of interest.” In fact, I had a sinking feeling as CSI Guy joined Ramirez and the ME, that Richard’s status had just been upgraded to full-fledged suspect.
Ramirez broke away from the group and crossed the cracked macadam to the office again. He paused in front of me, his eyes calculating as he stared down.
“You sure you didn’t go into Greenway’s room?”
A wave of dread rolled through my stomach.
“Yes. Why?”
He didn’t answer, just crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, I know you’ve been less than honest with me in the past, but now’s the time to come clean.”
“I never went in Greenway’s room. I told you, we knocked, then we heard shots and ran. Why? What did he tell you?” I tried to look past him to CSI Guy, honestly a little hurt that my evidence collector would turn on me like this after my intimate encounter with his lint roller.
“We found blonde hairs in Greenway’s room and impressions in the carpet that CSI thinks came from a stiletto heel.”
I looked down at my shoes. “For your information these are not stilettos. They are platform heels.”
His eyes narrowed, the Bad Cop face not budging.
“You don’t seriously think I had anything to do with this? That I actually killed him?”
“Look, I don’t know what to think. Your boyfriend, whom you seem to know
“Ask CSI Guy,” I sputtered. “He has a bunch of my hair. He’ll tell you it’s not mine. You’ve got to believe me, I had nothing to do with this.”
Ramirez sighed. “I want to believe you, but you’re not making it real easy. What the hell am I supposed to tell my superiors? Let alone the press?”
“Tell them whatever you want. I did not shoot Greenway.”
Ramirez sighed again, then began rubbing his temple. “Will you go home now?”
“Gladly.” I was on the verge of tears but I’m proud to say I kept them at bay. The last thing I wanted to do was bawl like a baby in front of Bad Cop.
“Good. And don’t take this the wrong way, but stay way from me, okay?”
“No problem.” I spit the words out a little more harshly than I meant to, banking on my anger to keep the tears from flowing down my cheeks.
I turned and stalked across the parking lot with as much dignity as a hooker in four-inch heels can muster. And wouldn’t you know it, the second I began fumbling in my little purse for my keys, I felt a big fat drop hit the back of my neck. I looked down to see more drops hitting the blacktop with an acrid smell of wet motor oil. It was raining. Great. One more thing I can say I was wrong about tonight.
I was wrong to let Dana talk me into dressing like a hooker, wrong to think I could find a murderer on my own, wrong to ever trust Ramirez. And last but not least, I was apparently wrong about the weather too. I cursed the weather gods right along with Ramirez’s superior attitude as I found my key and got in my Jeep. I made it all the way out of the driveway and down the street before I finally let the tears run loose.
I think I’d been a pretty tough chick up until now. I’d managed to keep my cool even when under threat of gunfire, arrest, and pregnancy. But suddenly it all came rushing at me and once the tears started I couldn’t make them stop. Maybe it was because I’d heard a man get shot, or because my cheating ex-boyfriend was now the prime suspect in a murder investigation, or because for half a second Ramirez actually thought I had something to do with this even when his mother thought we were making like rabbits. Or maybe it was just all of it. The whole ridiculous, awful evening. Everything was spiraling out of control and I was powerless to stop it. I felt very alone, very vulnerable, and, I hated to admit, oh-so-very girly as I cried my guts out down the 405.
I was crying so hard it took me a minute to realize what the flashing lights in my rearview mirror were. I blinked, wiping away the tears and saw a CHP glued to my back bumper. Oh shit. I looked down at the speedometer. Seventy-five. Oh really shitty shit.
I tried to pull myself together as I slowed and pulled off to the side of the road. I flipped down my mirrored visor, wiping at the mascara streaks running down my face. Eeek. I looked like Tammy Faye’s evil twin. I was still doing hiccup sobs as the officer came around to the passenger side and motioned for me to roll down the window.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, leaning his elbows on my driver side door. He was clean shaven and looked about twenty, with clear blue eyes and pudgy cheeks that warned he may never lose his baby fat. A radio was clipped to his shirt beside a CHP badge that looked like he polished it nightly.
I took one look at the badge and couldn’t help it. I burst into tears again. Yes, I know, I was so not cutting it as a Bond Girl right now. But this was just the thing to top off my horrible night. A speeding ticket. I was in serious feeling-sorry-for-myself mode and no amount of streaked mascara was going to stop the flood of tears.
The poor officer looked about as uncomfortable as I felt and, had I not been in the throws of my own hysteria, I might have felt sorry for him.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’m going to need to see your license and registration.”
I retrieved my license from my purse and the registration from the glove box, still sobbing uncontrollably as I handed them over.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer said uncomfortably, “But I’m going to have to write you a ticket.”
I tried to be brave. “No, (sniff, sniff) it’s okay. How fast was I going?”
“Seventy-five.”
“I’m so, so, so, sorry.” I started sniveling again. “It’s just… I’m dressed like a hooker. And I really, really hate spandex. And Ramirez’s mother saw me in this. And she’s right, I’ve always liked my legs. But if I’m having Richard’s baby they’re going to be all shot to hell. And then it started raining. Rain is very bad for purples.”
The officer just stared at me. “Have you been drinking tonight ma’am?”
