Homicide in High Heels (30 page)

* * *

I stared at the "new voicemail" alert on my cell,
trying to ignore it.

Last night had gone off without a hitch. So well, in
fact, that after reviewing the footage with Danny, he'd taken off
for an early morning shoot in Malibu, and the girls and I had gone
out for mojitos to celebrate. Until two a.m. The resulting headache
this morning was a cruel reminder that I was no longer twenty-one.
And the last thing that mixed well with a killer hangover was an
early morning chat with
him
.

I shoved my cell into my bag.

Maya popped her head into my office. "You want to go
over your schedule for the day?"

I grunted in the negative.

She set a large Starbucks cup down on my desk. "How
about now?"

"I love you." I grabbed the cup, gratefully taking a
sip. It was so hot it burned my tongue. Perfect. "Okay, hit
me."

Maya recited the appointment book from memory.
"You've got an eleven-thirty phone conference with Mrs. Chen's
lawyer—they're withholding payment. Mr. Chen's lawyer said the
footage was too blurry to clearly make out Mr. Chen's face."

I rubbed my temples. "Fabulous."

"You have Maguire this afternoon, and the landlord
called about the rent check. Apparently," Maya averted her eyes,
"it bounced."

I cringed, trying not to picture Levine's pinched
face as he wagged his proverbial finger at me. "I'll take care of
it. Anything else?"

"Mrs. Waterston is waiting in reception."

I nodded. "Give me two minutes, then show her
in."

"Okay. Oh, and, uh," she bit her lip. "Derek left
two messages here last night."

"I figured. He left one on my cell, too."

"Do you want me to call him back?" Maya asked, even
though I could tell she dreaded it as much as I did.

"No, I'll call him later," I said. At least halfway
meaning it. "But thanks."

Maya's face brightened, visibly relieved. "Okay. Two
minutes then," she said, then left.

I drank the rest of my coffee as I pulled Mrs.
Waterston's file from my bottom drawer. It was, admittedly, slim.
My typed report on the evening, a couple of blown up stills—eight
by tens always added more drama when it came time to negotiate
settlement terms— and the copy of the footage Danny had shot last
night. Then I opened a fresh box of tissues and set it on the
corner of my desk.

Just in case.

I popped Danny's disk into my computer and pulled up
the media player just as Mrs. Waterston came into the room.

"Good morning, Miss Bond." Her voice was soft and
evenly modulated, hinting just the slightest of an indefinable
upper-crust accent. It reminded me of an old Hepburn movie, and I
wondered if it was natural or carefully cultivated.

She was young, slim, the obvious trophy wife. While
her husband had spent one too many nights in the pursuit of cigars,
scotch, and blondes, his wife looked to prefer spending her time at
the spa, the salon, and cruising Rodeo. She wore a simple cashmere
twin set and dark slacks, nervously twisting her hands together in
front of her.

"Mrs. Waterston, please have a seat," I said,
gesturing to the chair opposite my desk.

"Thank you. You have something I can take to my
lawyers?" she asked, the tension in her stiff posture almost
palpable.

I put on my best sympathetic voice. Which wasn't
very hard. After one evening with Judge Grabby Hands, I had
enormous sympathy for anyone who'd had to endure him for years.
"Yes, I'm afraid we do."

She nodded. "Alright, let's have it."

I nodded, hitting "play".

As the video began, she sat silently, both hands
clasped in her lap. Behind her poker face I had no idea what she
was thinking, but she didn't move a muscle.

I watched myself sidle up to Judge Waterston on the
screen. I giggled, touched his arm. He offered to buy me a drink,
leaned in just a little too close. It didn't take long before his
hand found its way to my thigh, and he was propositioning me for a
private evening of hide the gavel.

"I've got a room upstairs," I heard myself respond.
"Three-eighteen. Don't disappoint me." I slid off my stool with
practiced seductiveness, and Sam got the perfect shot of the judge
grabbing my ass as I walked away.

Then the screen went blank.

I cleared my throat, trying to clear the awkward
silence from the room with it.

"I'm sorry. I know this must be hard to watch."

"Yes, it is," she agreed. She looked down, picking
at invisible lint on the arm of her chair. Her face was pale and
placid, but I was glad, at least, there weren't any tears. I hated
tears.

"If there's anything I can do?" I said, leaving the
vague offer hanging.

"No, thank you, Miss Bond. You've done enough." She
opened her clutch and slipped on a pair of small, calfskin driving
gloves, before pulling out a matching wallet. "What do I owe you
for your services?"

"We'll send you a bill later. You don't have to
worry about that now."

"No, I'd prefer to pay now, if you don't mind."

I nodded. Hey, if writing a check helped her work
out her grief, who was I to argue? "Then Maya will give you a
balance."

"Thank you." Mrs. Waterston stood up and stuck out
one small hand. I shook it, her gloves soft and cool against my
palm.

"The disk." She gestured to my computer. "May I have
a copy of that?"

"Of course. You can take this one." I popped the
disk out and handed it over to her. "Again, I'm sorry."

Mrs. Waterston slipped it into her clutch and stood
up. "No need to be. I've known he was a cheating bastard for years.
I thank you for finally giving me the proof I need to bury the
man." She paused and smiled at me. "In court, that is. Thank you
again, Miss Bond. It's been a pleasure doing business with
you."

With that, she turned and strode into the reception
area, where she paused only briefly to speak with Maya, then handed
over her balance in cash. Which was no big surprise. Most of the
women who came in here didn't want their husband finding a charge
to a P.I. firm on their monthly credit card or bank statements.
Cash was the common payment. Don't worry, I reported every cent to
the IRS.

I watched as Mrs. Waterston took her receipt, then
walked out the frosted front doors, painted with the single word
"Bond" in bold black letters.

"Derek called this morning."

Danny looked across the table at me. "And?"

"Five times. He called
five
times. Somehow I
get the feeling he doesn't trust me." I paused. "He thinks I'm too
girly to do this job."

Danny grinned, a crooked thing that made the corners
of his eyes crinkle, then let his gaze slowly rove my person,
taking in my silk blouse, pencil skirt, and pink high heeled pumps.
"Newsflash. You
are
girly."

I threw a tortilla chip across the table at him.

We were at Bosco's Cantina, a hole-in-the wall place
near the beach, munching on chips and salsa while waiting for
Maguire to make his appearance. According to the man's wife, he was
always "at the gym" lately. According to his credit card statement,
a dozen roses had been delivered to the pink apartment building
across the street last month. To a Miss Lula LaRue. It didn't take
a rocket scientist to figure out what kind of "work outs" Maguire
had been engaging in.

"So, how was the Malibu shoot this morning?" I asked
Danny, loading a chip with chunky salsa.

"Hot." He leaned back in his chair, clasping his
hands behind his head, a gesture that stretched out all 6'2" of
him.

I'd met Danny on my first professional photo shoot
when I was fifteen - all gangly legs, and scared shitless at the
thought of standing in front of all those cameras in nothing but my
itty bitty bikini. He'd immediately stepped into the role of big
brother, putting me at ease and showing me the poses that made my
ugly ducking shape instantly resemble a swan. The pictures had been
good enough to get me a three page layout in
Seventeen
, and
we'd been friends ever since.

Though I never actually asked his age, I figured
Danny was somewhere in his early forties. Old enough that fine
laugh lines creased his eyes, but still young enough to pull off
that rugged California guy thing. Natural outdoor tan, light brown
sun-streaked hair, just a little too shaggy to be fashionable, if,
in fact, too-shaggy weren't the current fashion. And exotic pale
eyes, sort of an indistinguishable color somewhere between blue and
green depending on the light. He'd once told me he got into
photography to meet chicks, and I can't remember a time when Danny
didn't have a bulging little black book.

"Malibu was hot," he repeated. "The sun was
shinning, the water was clear, and the bikinis were tiny.
Heaven."

I rolled my eyes. "It's all about the bikinis for
you men, isn't it?"

"That's what keeps you in business, babe." Danny
popped a chip in his mouth. "Speaking of which, how'd the footage
from last night work?"

"Perfect. The judge is toast."

"It was the dress. You were smokin' in the
dress."

"Thank you. I thought so, too."

"You give it to the wife?"

"This morning."

He lifted his beer in the air. "Then cheers to a job
well done."

I lifted my water glass and clanked against the side
of his bottle.

"So," Danny said, eyeing me as he took a slow,
deliberate sip. "Last night. What did you do with the number?"

"What number?"

"The one Ken Doll slipped you. Got the feeling he
thought you were pretty smokin' too."

"Seriously?" I pinned him with a look. "I tossed it.
The guy was hitting on girls at a charity event. How hard up is
he?"

"Huh." Danny picked his camera up off the table and
lifted it to his eye, shooting off a couple pictures of the peeling
pink paint across the street.

I hated it when he did that. Masking his expression
with photographic equipment was conversation-cheating as far as I
was concerned.

I nudged him with my foot. "'Huh' what? What's the
'huh' supposed to mean?"

He kept shooting as he answered. "Nothing. I just
thought he looked like your type."

Oh, this was going to be good. "And exactly what
type would that be?"

He shrugged, setting the camera down on the table
between us. "Polished,
GQ
, hair sprayed into place with
lacquer."

"Hey, it moved when he nodded."

Danny grinned.

"And, I'll have you know, that is so
not
my
type."

"Oh yeah?" He leaned both elbows on the table and
trained his eyes – green now in the bright afternoon sun – on me.
"What is your type then, Bond?"

Luckily, I've known Danny long enough that I didn't
take the bait. "I'll let you know when I see it," I mumbled
instead, lifting my drink to my lips.

"Good." Danny leaned back in his seat. "Then I still
have a chance."

I threw another tortilla chip at him.

"Soooo," I said, drawing out the word, "tell me more
about your bikini shoot. Did
you
get a phone number?" For
those of you paying attention, yes, that was my attempt at a clever
conversation change.

Danny got a wicked look in his eyes. The same one
that the pirated-out Johnny Depp had in Maya's screensaver at the
office. Total ravage and plunder.

"Numbers. Plural." He held up two fingers, his grin
stretching.

"Never mind. You've told me enough."

"I think they were twins. And, man, were they a
flexible pair. The one could wrap both legs around her-"

"You are
such
a pig."

"I'm a pig, you're girly—we're the perfect
pair."

A glimpse of blue metal flashed over Danny's
shoulder, and I sat up in my chair as Maguire's vintage Mustang
pulled up in front of the apartment building.

"Oh yeah? Well, watch and learn, Porky. This is how
Girly gets her mark."

Danny swiveled in his seat just in time to see
Maguire—tall, wide, and all veiny muscles—slip into the third unit
on the bottom row. I threw a twenty on the table, Danny grabbed his
camera, and we sprinted across the street.

"I'll take the back," I called over my shoulder as
Danny slid with his back against the wall toward the third door. He
nodded once, then aimed his camera at the front window.

Trying to do a mix of nonchalance and speed, I
rounded the corner of the building, counting the tiny, fenced-in
patios until I found Maguire's gal's. With a quick look over my
shoulder, I hiked up my skirt and hoisted myself up and over the
fence, landing on a cracked cement patio that looked into the back
rooms of the apartment. A sliding glass door with a ripped screen
led into the living room. Next to it was a high window emitting
tell-tale moaning sounds.

"Right there, baby," a woman's voice encouraged.

Maguire grunted in response.

I slipped a slim digital camera from my pocket and
stepped on tip-toe, lifting my lens just above the window sill.

Maguire was naked, his steroid pumped ass pounding
into an African American woman in a pink negligee.

"That's it, do it to me, baby," she moaned.

I popped off a series of shots in rapid succession.
This was almost too easy. I shifted under the window, getting three
more incriminating photos of full frontal Maguire, and was just
about to slink away and do a victory dance when a car horn sounded
somewhere behind me.

And Maguire looked up.

Our eyes locked for a full two seconds before the
light bulb moment hit him, and his face contorted with rage.

"Oh. Shit."

I shoved the camera in my pocket, and ran for the
fence, grabbing on and hoisting myself up as adrenaline surged from
my belly. I had one leg over before Maguire's naked form burst
through the back door.