Homicide in High Heels (15 page)

Dana didn't look convinced. "But what if
your wife sees them?"

"Huh?"

"Your. Wife." Dana clearly enunciated,
trying to break through his intoxicated fog.

"Oh. Her. Yeah, well, you know I wouldn't
worry about her too much…" Ratski trailed off.

At the table just to my right another person
whipped out a cell, and I heard a whisper of "Dana Dashel" followed
by more soft clicks.

Uh-oh.

Dana shot a panicked look my way. I did a
curt half nod toward the front door.

Unfortunately we hadn't gotten much from
Ratski. But if we didn't get out now, there was a bad chance we'd
be hearing from his wife tomorrow.

"You know, I'm not really comfortable," Dana
said, rising from the table. "I've got to go."

"I tell you what, honey," Ratski said,
wrapping a hand around Dana's arm. "How about we go somewhere a
little more private?"

"Private?" Dana asked

"How about my place?"

Double uh-oh.

Unfortunately, that was all I heard of their
conversation as my server arrived with not only my martini, but a
plate of chicken, mushrooms, rice, and a side of vegetables. I
couldn't help the groan that escaped my lips as I took in the
humongous meal. After the tamales I'd already eaten there was no
way I could even make a dent in this.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ratski
throw a few bills down on their table then steer Dana toward the
door. And not a moment too soon as three more cell phones flew out
of back pockets, snapping shots of the two escaping from the
restaurant.

"Is anything wrong, ma'am?" the server
asked.

"Uh, yeah," I rushed. "Can you wrap this up
to go?"

By the time I finally got the slowest server
in the entire L.A. basin to wrap up my gargantuan meal, paid my
bill, and rushed outside, both Dana and Ratski were nowhere in
sight. I cursed my timing. Had I just sent Dana out alone with a
murderer?

I was just about to start freaking out when
my cell buzzed in my pocket. I looked down and heaved a sigh of
relief when I saw Dana's name flash across my screen with the
text:

Ratski drunk. driving him home.

An address was listed below it. I quickly
typed out a response as I walked to my car.

Two minutes behind you

I jumped behind the wheel of my minivan and
pulled into traffic with such force that my tires squealed. While
it was nice of Dana to drive Ratski home, I was pretty sure Ratski
had an agenda other than avoiding a DUI.

Luckily, traffic was light at this time of
night and only fifteen billboards and two freeways later I was
pulling into a trendy neighborhood in Brentwood filled with
multimillion dollar homes, gated manicured lawns, and so many
celebrities people practically used their Golden Globes as lawn
gnomes.

I spotted Dana's sports car crawling up the
circular drive of a colonial flanked by tall cypress trees halfway
down the street. I cut my lights and waited at the curb until I saw
her shiny silver dress exit the car, walk around to the passenger
side, and pull an unsteady Ratski out beside her. It took him three
tries to shove his key into the front door.

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel,
waiting in the dark, wondering what I should do next. If Dana was
in trouble, I wanted to be close. But it would totally blow our
cover if I went busting through the front door. After five
agonizing minutes of silence, I finally texted Dana.

You okay?

Almost immediately a reply came back.

Fine. Ratski passed out.

I raised an eyebrow. Iiiiiinteresting.
Ratski was out, and we had free access to his house? Me thinks me
felt some snooping coming on.

front door
, I texted back, exiting my
car and jogging toward the house.

A beat later Dana opened the door and
quickly ushered me in with a finger to her lips. I tiptoed inside
and softly closed the door behind me. Though as I peeked into the
parlor off the foyer, I could tell there was very little that was
going to wake Ratski. He was flat on his back on a petite floral
sofa, snoring like a bear with a sinus infection.

"You get anything good from him before he
passed out?" I asked.

"Maybe," Dana said, leading me away from
Sleeping Ugly. "I didn't get Ratski to say one way or another if he
was using, but he did tell me something interesting about
Bucky."

"I'm dying here. What?" I prodded.

"Well, Ratski said that just last month
Bucky was caught with something he shouldn't have had."

"No! PEDs?"

"Sort of. ADD meds."

I nodded. "Right, Ramirez said that some ADD
meds contain amphetamines."

"Apparently Bucky's cousin has ADD, and
Bucky popped a couple of pills before a game to give him a
pick-me-up."

"But he wasn't suspended? It wasn't in the
news."

Dana shook her head. "No. Ratski said the
coaching staff swept it under the rug. They didn't want to risk
taking Bucky out and potentially losing games. So everyone involved
was told to forget it ever happened."

"Did Lacey know about this?" I asked,
suddenly wondering if maybe the person she'd been blackmailing had
been none other than her boyfriend.

Dana shrugged. "I didn't get a chance to ask
Ratski before he went comatose."

"What did he tell you about Bucky's
alibi?"

Dana grinned. "Only that it's shaky. Look,
all three guys
did
go to the gym together that day. But they
didn't work out together. He told me Bucky wanted to get in a
basketball game, Blanco was in the weight room, and Ratski spent
most of the time at the pool and sauna. But when Lacey died and the
police started asking questions, they all agreed to alibi each
other out."

"Just like Ramirez thought." My husband
really was a good detective. I cursed Ratski again for getting him
suspended. "So Bucky has no real alibi
and
had access to the
murder weapon. The only thing he's missing is a motive." I paused.
"Let's face it, even if he and Lacey were on the outs, the simplest
thing to do would have been to dump her, not kill her."

Dana nodded. "Unless she was blackmailing
him over his PED use."

I pursed my lips together. "Possibly. But
Bucky doesn't have the kind of money Lacey was depositing.
However…" I glanced around myself at the decorator-designed
opulence in Ratski's foyer.

"…Ratski does," she finished for me.

I nodded. "He's also got the same shaky
alibi."

"But we still don't know if he was even
using PEDs or not."

I grinned. "Well, there's no time like the
present to find out." I glanced around the marble tiled entry.
Rooms led off in all directions in a semicircular pattern, with a
sweeping staircase going up the center. A landing stood at the top,
off of which I could see more doorways. To say this place was
massive was about the same understatement as calling my place cozy.
"Which room do you think holds his medicine cabinet?"

"Upstairs?" Dana suggested.

We tiptoed up the stairs as quietly as we
could in our heels, trying not to clack them against the polished
hardwood floors. Once we got to the top of the landing we both
paused trying to instinctively feel our way toward the master
bathroom. We poked our heads into the first room. It looked like a
home office, a desk sitting in the center and sports memorabilia
framed on the walls. The next one was a guestroom, if I had to
guess from the lack of personal touches and pristine floral quilt
on the queen-size bed.

One hall bath, two more unused guest rooms,
and one work-out room later, we finally hit upon the master. A set
of double doors led into a large room decorated in tasteful pale
grays and lemon yellows. Two nightstands flanked the bed—a four
poster, mahogany item in California King size. The walls were
covered in wainscoting, the bed in a contemporary designed duvet,
and the floors in plush wool rugs that spanned from the bed to a
large reading nook on the other side of the room. Beyond that stood
an arched doorway leading into the master bath.

"I'll take the bathroom," I told Dana. "Want
to see if you can dig up anything in here?"

Dana shot a reluctant look to the
nightstands. "Okay, but if I find anything kinky, I'm outta
here."

I quickly crossed to the master bath. An
oversized jetted tub sat on the far end of the room under a massive
bay window. A glass-enclosed shower was to the right and two large
vanity sinks to the left. Above the second was a built-in medicine
cabinet. I made a beeline for it, quickly opening the craftsman
inspired cabinetry (Did these guys know how to mix their
architectural styles or what?) and peered inside.

If I'd hoped to find some sort of
prescription bottle, I'd hit the mother load.

Three small shelves filled the cabinet, all
of them lined with little orange bottles with prescriptions written
on them. I blinked, momentarily overwhelmed before quickly scanning
the labels. All of them were prescribed to Ratski. Unfortunately,
most of them seemed benign enough: Propecia, Viagra, Zoloft, a
couple of different painkillers. I pulled my phone out and took
photos of a couple of labels I didn't immediately recognize, but I
didn't see anything that mentioned ADD, "speed," or "greenies."

I moved on to the vanity drawers. Like the
medicine cabinet, they were a treasure trove of bottles. Hair
products abounded, and it took me a moment to realize these were
men's
products. Geeze, Ratski was high maintenance. Hair
straighteners, hair curlers, nail growers, nail trimmers,
exfoliators, moisturizers, acne creams, and wrinkle creams. I
shuddered to think what Ratski might look like
without
this
stuff.

I was just about to give up on the idea that
Ratski had kept his murder weapon in his house when I spied a
walk-in closet to my right. With a quick over-the-shoulder, I
tiptoed in, switching on a light.

The thing was the size of my frickin' living
room. Drawers, cupboards, and racks of clothes filled every wall,
all of it lined in cedar that smelled like pure fashion heaven.
Rows of slacks and dress shirts lined one wall, blouses and skirts
the other. And the back wall held shoes…dozens of pairs of
beautiful shoes in tidy little rows of cubby holes. I couldn't help
myself. I ran my fingers over a pair that I knew were in the
four-digit price range. I suddenly had a good idea why "poor Beth"
stuck it out with a guy like Ratski. Heck, these might make
me
consider a guy like Ratski.

I think I let out a little gasp when I saw a
pair of vintage Martin Margiela pumps on the bottom row, and
crouched down to get a better look.

That's when I saw the duffle bag.

Shoved behind the legs of some hanging
trousers on the clearly "man" side of the closet, a bit of blue
nylon peeked out. I gingerly reached under and tugged at it,
extricating a gym bag that smelled suspiciously like Ratski's
locker at the Stars stadium. Saying a silent prayer to the gods of
not-touching-icky-things, I stuck my hand in and rummaged around.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much in the bag other than the usual
water bottle, running shoes, and ear buds.

I was about to concede this whole trip had
been a bust when I heard Dana cry out from the bedroom.

"Eep!"

In three quick strides, I was by her side.
"What? Are you okay?"

Dana blinked at me, holding up a pair of hot
pink silk bikini briefs in a leopard pattern.

I felt my heart rate immediately slow down.
"Geeze you scared me."

"And these don't?" Dana argued.

"Well, they're a little wild for Beth—"

"They were in Ratski's drawer."

"Eep."

"Thank you!" Dana said, tossing the panties
back into the open drawer in front of her.

"Find anything else interesting?" I asked,
peeking into it.

"Not really. There were some letters in the
nightstand. They started getting dirty, though, so I put them back.
Who'd want to 'shtup schmoopy'?"

"Ick," I agreed.

"You find anything?"

I was about to answer in the negative when a
noise from the first level made me freeze in my tracks.

I immediately cut my eyes to Dana's.
"Ratski?" I mouthed to her

Dana shrugged. She opened her mouth, about
to respond when the answer came floating up the stairs to us loud
and clear.

"John? Johnny I'm home," came Beth's
voice.

Oh snap. The wife.

Instinctively, I ducked, even though I was
pretty sure that she couldn't see us all the way up here. Something
that wouldn't hold true for very long.

"Johnny?" I heard her walking farther into
the house. "Whose car is that outside?"

Dana's eyes went big and round. "What are we
going to do?" she whispered to me, the panic I felt rising in my
stomach clear on her face.

I quickly whipped my head around the room,
looking for an escape route. Unfortunately the only way out was the
way we'd come up. I grabbed Dana by the hand, speed tiptoeing out
of the master bedroom as quickly as possible. When we reached the
landing I peeked out.

"Great. Passed out again," I heard Beth say
out loud. She stood in the doorway to the parlor, narrowing her
eyes at the sleeping Ratski.

I flattened myself against the wall as she
turned around. She paused at a credenza in the foyer, shuffled
through some mail, then grabbed her handbag and started up the
stairs.

Oh, crap.

Dana squeezed my hand tighter as we crabbed
walked as silently as we could down the hall toward one of the
guestrooms, slipping into the dark doorway just as Beth hit the top
landing. I held my breath, crouching behind the guestroom door. I
heard feet padding along the carpeting toward the master and held
my breath, praying she didn't notice anything out of place. I
couldn't be 100% sure I'd put everything back in exactly the spot
I'd found it.