Spying in High Heels

tongue.

“Back to Carol Carter,” I interrupted. “You don’t happen to have her number, do you?” I asked.

“No, sorry. But I do know who her agent is. Charlie Platt. He’s in that big building on the corner of Le Brea and Hollywood.”

“Dana, you’re a goddess.” I could have hugged her if she wasn’t covered in gym sweat.

“You sure boob is fake?” Sasha was still staring at the photo of Carol Carter. “Is very bouncy looking.”

“Trust me, nature does not come in those sizes,” I said.

He nodded. “Yes. Maybe true. Not so curvy, like Dana.”

Dana giggled and kissed Sasha again. This time I definitely saw tongue. Ew.

“Well, I’ll, uh, leave you two to your workout…” I trailed off as I backed away, but I was pretty sure no one was listening to me anymore.

I ran back to my Jeep and called information for the number of the Platt Agency. Unfortunately I got a recording saying they would be closed until four. I glanced down at my dash clock. Noon. I decided Mc Donald’s was as good a place as any to wait it out and put my Jeep into gear, hitting the drive through. Fifteen minutes later I was making my way through a Big Mac, large fries and a strawberry milkshake. Which unfortunately reminded me of Strawberry Shortcake. And my ever more tenuous employment with Tot Trots. I still hadn’t called them back and I had a feeling if I didn’t get those high top designs done soon, unemployment would be edging its way closer to the top of my list of problems.

With a sigh, I finished off my fries and pointed my Jeep toward home. If I put in a good hour of drawing before going to find Carol Carter, at least I could call Tot Trots back with a clear conscience. I even made myself stop by Rite Aid on the way home and bought a new pregnancy test. This time I got the deluxe digital version, which the pharmacists assured me was virtually indestructible.

Only as I pulled up to my studio, there stood the one thing in the world I wanted to see even less right now than two baby pink lines. Ramirez.

Chapter Seventeen

His arms were crossed over his chest and his hair was wet, like he’d just showered, as he lounged against my front door. I had a bad feeling that if I got too close I’d smell that fresh Ivory and aftershave mix that had me sniffing my futon cushions like a bloodhound last night.

I told myself not to breathe any of it in as I got out of my Jeep. I’d pretend that he had no effect on me. He didn’t. So what if he’d seduced me, met my family and then used me to get to Richard. I was not going to lose it. I was not an emotional girly girl. I was tough. I was Demi Moore in G.I. Jane. I was Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. I was cool. Calm. In control.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi? Hi!? Don’t you dare ‘hi’ me. You arrested my boyfriend! After feeling me up. And you have the nerve to make my grandmother like you. You know how long I’m going to have to hear her ask about that nice Catholic boy now? So don’t you dare ‘hi’ me, you… you… pig!” Cool, in control Maddie. Yep, that’s me. Ugh.

“I had a warrant.” His voice was infuriatingly calm. Which of course made mine rise that much more.

“You used me!”

“Me? Maddie I’m not the one who got you pregnant then ditched you for a flea trap in Riverside.”

“Look, I know you think Richard did this, but I’ve been looking into Greenway’s past-”

Ramirez rolled his eyes. “Jesus, didn’t I tell you to leave this alone?”

I gritted my teeth and ignored him. “Do you want to know what I found out or not?”

“Fine. Can we go inside first?”

I gave him the evil eye, but had to agree that Richard’s status as a felon was not high on the list of things I wanted to share with my neighbors. I unlocked the door to my apartment, marching in ahead of him and laying my new EPT on the kitchen counter. Ramirez didn’t wait for an invitation before following me in. He leaned against the door frame counter, arms still crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised in anticipation.

“So? Let’s hear it,” he said with a this-oughta-be-good expression on his face.

I ignored the look, instead sharing my brilliant mistress theory and filling him in on my chats with Greenway’s string of big breasted girlfriends. “And all three are blonde and might own stilettos,” I finished. “I’m not sure. I haven’t gotten access to their closets yet.”

Ramirez rolled his eyes again. “Wonderful. The great shoe detective.”

“Hey, you were the one who told me about the shoe clue.” Okay, put like that it did sound like it belonged in a Scooby-Doo episode. But I stood my ground, putting my hands on my hips and doing my best don’t-mess-with-me face.

“So, you want me to believe there’s some mysterious thong wearing woman going around killing people?”

“Not people, just Greenway. And maybe his wife.”

Ramirez shook his head. “This is ridiculous. The investigation is closed.”

“How can it be closed? You don’t even have a murder weapon yet.”

Ramirez went silent.

I felt that lead weight settle in my belly again. “Do you have a murder weapon?”

“The report came back from ballistics. Greenway was shot with a.22, the same caliber weapon Richard bought for his wife last year. She says he asked to borrow it before he left town and now it’s missing.”

I bit my lip. “That doesn’t mean Richard pulled the trigger.”

Ramirez threw his hands up. “I don’t understand how you can possibly think this guy’s innocent.”

“What makes you so sure he’s not?” I countered, my voice starting to rise again.

“Because he’s an asshole! He lied to you, Maddie. He lied to the police, he lied to his wife. He’s a criminal.”

“But he’s not a murderer.”

“What, because some porn star found a thong?”

“Hey, if you’d get your head out of your macho man ass for two seconds, you’d see that there were other people with plenty of motive to want Greenway dead. You were the one who said there was a stiletto impression and blonde hairs in the room.”

“For God’s sakes, Greenway probably had a hooker in his room.”

“Metallica said we were the only hookers he saw.”

“Great, so your witnesses are a porn star and a stoner. Gee, you’re really building a case, Nancy Drew.”

“Hey, I don’t appreciate your tone of voice.”

“I don’t appreciate you sticking your nose into my investigation.”

“I thought you said your investigation was closed.”

“It is!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

We paused for a breath, both our nostrils flaring, glaring like two prize fighters about to start round three.

Then Ramirez glanced down at the kitchen counter. “Taken that test yet?”

“Get out!” I pointed a straight arm at the front door. “Get out, get out, get out!” Okay, so I’d become a scene out of Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. But he was hitting below the belt now.

“Fine,” he yelled one more time before Bad Cop turned and slammed the door behind him.

I picked up the new EPT and threw it across the room at the closed front door. It bounced on the floor with a little plop. Which wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. So, I picked it up and jumped up and down on it a few times. My heel hit the little plastic window with a satisfying crunch. Apparently “virtually indestructible” didn’t take into consideration a pissed off woman with spiky heels.

I stared at the ruined pile of plastic. Damn. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t take a simple pregnancy test without becoming Calamity Jane? Did everything I touched have to fall to pieces? That’s it. I seriously needed therapy.