Undercover In High Heels

Ricky shrugged again. “Nothin’ much. We saw a movie out in West Hills, near where she lives. But, you know, we just didn’t really hit it off.”

Despite my earlier decision to leave it alone, I couldn’t help asking, “How about Mia? Do you know if she’s seeing anyone?”

Ricky shrugged. “I dunno.” Then he paused, his eyebrows puckering together. “Why?”

“It’s possible the killer mistook Veronika for Mia, ” I said slowly, watching his reaction. “She was in Mia’s trailer, after all.”

Ricky’s eyes went big, his mouth dropping open. “Wow. Heavy.” He paused, churning this bit of info over in his head. “Well, I don’t know if Mia’s with anyone now, but a while back she was dating Blake.”

I took a sip of my coffee to cover my surprise. Nervous Blake was the last person I’d expect a control freak like Mia to be attracted to. “Really? Any idea why she stopped seeing him?”

Ricky shook his head. “Nope. But I know that it was right before Blake checked himself into the hospital. And when he came back, Mia had convinced the producers to put him in a coma.”

“The coma was Mia’s idea?”

“That’s what Blake told me. He was kind of ticked off because it’s cut his screen time in half.”

Iiiiinteresting. I sipped my coffee again, wondering if being in a coma were enough motive to want Mia out of the picture. I’ll admit, I had a hard time picturing the shaky Blake actually strangling a woman without having a panic attack, but stranger things have happened.

A PA with a headset glued to his ear ducked his head around the corner. “Maddie?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re wanted back in wardrobe.”

Great, what now? I had a terrible vision of Margo bargaining to put the Crocs back on again. “Be right there.”

I gulped down the rest of my coffee, praying that it was just a loose seam. Of course, the fact that I haven’t been to Mass since my Irish Catholic grand-mother dragged me to the midnight all-you-can-pray Christmas Eve service was probably why God ignored this request. Instead, I could almost hear him giggling at his own private joke as I walked through the door of the wardrobe room to find two uniformed officers going through the racks as a guy in a rumpled suit with a gun bulge at his hip looked on.

And, in the corner, arms crossed over his chest, Bad Cop face firmly in place, Ramirez.

I made a mental note to go to Mass more often.

Taking a deep breath, I did a little one-finger wave in his direction.

No reaction. Oh boy.

“Miss Springer, would you please have a seat?” The guy with the gun bulge indicated a folding chair beside him. He had graying hair and a face that looked like it had been left out on the Venice boardwalk during a heat wave-tan, wrinkled, and in serious need of some moisturizer.

I sat down, giving a tentative glance to Ramirez. Still no reaction.

“I’m Detective Rodgers, ” Prune Face said. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the events of the last few days.”

I nodded, gulping down a dry lump.

“Where were you between midnight and 3:00 A.M. the night of the thirteenth?”

The night Veronika had been killed. That lump grew, and I nervously cleared my throat.

“We have to ask all the cast and crew, ” Rodgers reassured me, a fatherly smile parting his wrinkles. Though I watched enough Law & Order to wonder whether it was sincere.

“So, you think the killer was someone on the set?” I asked.

Ramirez narrowed his eyes at me, his jaw doing that jutting, granite thing again.

“Please, just answer the question, Miss Springer, ” Rodgers said.

I gulped. “Right.”

“Where were you on the night of the thirteenth?”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

I glanced at Ramirez. “Very alone.”

He pretended not to notice.

“Can anyone verify this?”

Wait, what did he mean, verify? “Am I a suspect here?”

“Please just answer the question.”

I turned to Ramirez. “You can’t possibly think I’m a suspect here.”

“Maddie, ” he warned, his voice tightly restrained.

“Like I said, we’re asking everyone, ” Rodgers repeated.

“Then why are they going through the clothes?” I asked, gesturing to the uniforms.

“The nylons came from the wardrobe room, ” Ramirez said.

Rodgers shot him a look that clearly said, “Ix-nay on the info-ay to the uspect-say.”

“Well, anyone could have walked in and taken them. The room’s not locked during the day.”

“What about at night?” Rodgers asked, flipping open a notebook and jotting something down.

“Yes, it’s locked. But I don’t even have a key!” I sputtered. “I’m just the assistant.”

“Who does?”

I paused. “Dusty.”

The detective exchanged a glance with Ramirez.

“But she wouldn’t do this!” I protested.

“How well do you know Dusty?”

“Semi-well, ” I hedged.

Another glance exchange.

“But I’m telling you, she wouldn’t do this. She’s my college roommate’s best friend’s cousin! Plus, her best friend’s ex-boyfriend’s mother plays canasta with the producer’s aunt!”

Rodgers gave me a blank look. “Isn’t it true that she and Mia had an altercation yesterday? Over the color of her shirt?”

I leaned forward. “So, you think Mia was the target?”

“Just answer the question!” Rodgers had dropped the fatherly tone, doing a full-on exasperated-cop thing now-a routine that, thanks to Ramirez, I was all too familiar with.

“Mia has altercations with lots of people. Just now she had one with Margo, Ricky, and Steinman.”

“I’m only interested in the one she had with Dusty the day Veronika was killed. Did Mia threaten Dusty’s job?”

I bit my lip. “Um, I’m not really…I mean…”

“Well?”

I looked to Ramirez for help. Nothing. It was starting to piss me off that he was just standing there, letting this guy grill his almost-girlfriend.

Clearly I was on my own here.

I crossed my arms and puffed out my chest as far as it would go (which, sadly, wasn’t very far). “I don’t think I want to answer any more questions without an attorney present.”

Ramirez lifted one eyebrow, then muttered, “Jesus, ” under his breath.

Rodgers gave me a hard stare and flipped his notebook shut with an audible thud. “Fine. We’ll be in touch.”

“So I can go?”

He nodded. Then to Ramirez, “Escort her back to the set.”

“I don’t need an escort.”

Ramirez stood up and grabbed my arm. Hard. “Oh, yes, you do, ” he said under his breath.

Ramirez steered me out the door and down the hallway. “This is police brutality, ” I hissed as his grip on my arm tightened. He opened a door and pulled me into an empty storage room. Then he spun me around with enough force that I feared whiplash.