going to be sick. I sat down hard on my futon as the reporter made appropriately concerned faces, then cut to a Doritos commercial.
Ramirez was going to arrest Richard. I knew Ramirez well enough to know that there wasn’t a whole lot I could do to stop that. Sure I could put on my Bond Girl outfit again and search Richard’s office for the umpteenth time, but what good would it really do? I had no idea what I was doing. I was the worst Nancy Drew ever. Every time I tried to help, another dead body showed up. I’d like to think it was coincidence but I made a mental note to go to mass on Sunday with my grandmother just in case.
On the other hand, the search to find Richard was an all out manhunt now. Every cop in the city would be looking for him. And not for whoever
Which is why even though I knew I should take Ramirez’s advice and leave this to the professionals, I grabbed a lined notepad and began scribbling.
I wrote the word “Suspects” at the top of the page in big bold letters. My pen hovered in the air, poised to write Richard’s name down on the list. But even though I was pretty pissed off at the cheating bastard, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, instead I made a compromise. I amended the “Suspects” with an “other than Richard.” There, that was a better starting place.
Only my mind was a blank when I tried to list them. I didn’t have any suspects. All I had to go on was a blonde hair and a stiletto impression. Which I was pretty sure Ramirez still thought were mine. I wrote “blonde in heels” on the list. Gee. That narrowed the field to 95% of L.A.’s population.
Obviously I needed more to go on. And it was equally as obvious that following Ramirez around town wasn’t a good idea anymore. Besides the fact that he’d be on the lookout for a red Jeep now, I had a feeling he’d been
So that meant Sherlock Fashion was on her own. I stared down at the notepad again. It was a pretty pathetic list. If I was going to convince Ramirez that Mystery Blonde was a suspect at all I needed more. Which meant going back to the Moonlight.
I picked up my cell and dialed Dana’s number, hoping she was up for playing Cagney to my Lacey again. (Never mind that the reality was more like an Ethel to my Lucy.) Unfortunately, No Neck Guy answered the phone at the Actor’s Duplex and informed me (through a serious of cave-man worthy grunts) Dana hadn’t come home yet. Still out hot tubbing with Liao no doubt. I said to have her call me when she got in and hung up.
As much as I dreaded going back into the bowels of the Valley alone, it was either that or draw kiddie shoes. And I was so not in a kiddie shoes place right now.
I grabbed my keys and purse and headed out to my Jeep, braving the afternoon traffic into North Hollywood.
There was an overturned big rig on the 405 and a police chase on the 101, so by the time I reached Vanowen again the Moonlight Inn was clear of reporters and CSI teams. In fact, save for the bright yellow crime tape still gracing the door of room two-twelve, it looked like business as usual. Radios blared, spandex clad women bade good-bye to their “gentleman callers,” and the parking lot pharmaceutical trade had resumed in full force. North Hollywood was quick to bounce back from one little shooting.
I parked the Jeep and avoided glancing in the direction of the green dumpsters as I made my way to the _ront O__ice.
I pulled open the smudged, glass doors and saw Metallica was on duty again. He’d changed into an AC/DC shirt, but his greasy hair betrayed that he hadn’t taken time to shower before coming back to work. He stared for a moment before recognition kicked in.
“Oh shit. It’s you!” He ducked down below the counter. “Please don’t shoot.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do I look like I’m carrying a gun?”
Metallica peeked his head up over the Formica. He did an up and down thing with his eyes, his gaze resting on my breasts. A grin broke out on his face. “Nope. You look niiiiice.” He nodded, drawing out the word.
Hmmm… maybe I should start carrying a gun.
“Get a grip. They’re just mammary glands.”
“Dude, I think the cops are looking for you. You chicks like totally messed that guy up.”
“We didn’t kill him.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You sure?”
“Yes!”
“‘Cause I wouldn’t tell no one. I mean, when you think of it, it’s actually kind of hot. Chicks with guns. Like a Laura Croft thing. Laura Croft is hot.”
I had a feeling any woman with a pulse was hot in Metallica’s world.
“Sorry to interrupt your wet dream, but we didn’t kill him. In fact, the police think my boyfriend killed him.”
“Dude!”
“I know!”
Metallica leaned in. I tried not to grimace at the scent of stale weed and breakfast burrito. “Did your boyfriend kill him cause he was your john?”
“No! God, no. I’m not really a hooker.”
Metallica looked me up and down again. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He grinned, showing off a mouth in serious need of some Crest White Strips. “You
I felt my left eye begin to twitch. This was getting nowhere.
“Did you see anyone else go up to room two-twelve last night?”
“Nope. Just you, your friend, and that dude they found in the dumpster.”
Damn. But, on the bright side, at least he didn’t say he saw a lawyer in tailored slacks.
“Could anyone have gone up when you weren’t looking? Like maybe you went ‘out back?’” I put my thumb and index finger up to my mouth in a smoking motion.
He giggled. “Hey, anything’s possible, babe.”
“How about the parking lot. See anyone suspicious hanging around?”
Metallica grinned. Right. Stupid question.
“Anyone who didn’t look like they belonged here? Anyone… with money?” Or the vaguest notion of hygiene.
Metallica chewed on his chapped lips, squinting off into space. “Nope.”
I was beginning to feel like I’d wasted a trip to the Valley for nothing. I tried one last angle. “How about this. Did you see any blondes last night? Wearing high heels?”
“Dude, that would have been hot.”
Great. He was like Beavis and Butthead all rolled into one. Well, what did I expect? The man’s brain probably looked like Swiss cheese.
Then a thought struck me. Dana and I had had to weasel Greenway’s room number out of Metallica. If Metallica hadn’t seen the blonde, that meant she already knew where Greenway was staying. Either she followed him, which I didn’t think was likely considering Greenway would be pretty careful about who he led to his hideout, or else Greenway trusted her enough to give her the room number. I mentally added another item to the Suspects list. Blonde in heels, Greenway’s trusted confidant. Maybe a mistress? I wouldn’t put it past him. During our short phone conversation, Greenway hadn’t seemed like the type to balk at extra-marital affairs.
So, I was looking for a blonde mistress in heels. All right, it wasn’t a Colombo moment, but at least it was something.
“Thanks a ton,” I said to Metallica.
“Thanks for what?”
“For not seeing anything.”
“Dude, I not see shit all the time.”
I didn’t doubt it.
