Homicide in High Heels (7 page)

"So you're thinking they might be lying for
him?"

Ramirez shrugged. "It's a distinct
possibility. Ratski isn't saying anything, so I'd like to know what
Blanco says." He paused. "And more importantly, how he says it. If
it's a rehearsed sounding story, we'll know he's full of it"

"On it," I promised.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as
Livvie threw a block at Max's head, causing a chain reaction of
block tossing and crying. I moved to intervene, but Ramirez stopped
me with a hand on my arm.

"I'll take this one."

I cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Hey, they might as well get used to me
being in charge around here," he reasoned.

I stepped back, letting him step between the
babies. I was more than happy to pass the referee baton to him.

Besides, if I was going to be playing
detective tonight, I was going to need to call in backup.

I grabbed my cell, scrolled through my
numbers, and waited while it rang on the other end. Two rings in,
Dana picked up.

"Hey," I told her. "Want to crash a memorial
service with me tonight?"

* * *

The Marchmont Hotel was located in the heart
of Orange County. While Hollywood is the glamour capital of the
west coast, the money to finance that glamour comes from Orange
County. Originally a suburb for commuters, it had quickly grown to
be known as the ritzier, cleaner, swankier cousin to L.A. Even the
freeways here were clean. If you took the 5 south, the second you
entered Orange County the graffiti and battered medians immediately
gave way to wide, smooth pavement, art deco carvings on the walls,
and litter-free emergency lanes.

Dana and I valeted my mini-van and stepped
into the hotel lobby, where we were greeted immediately by the
scent of fresh flowers and the low hum of tasteful jazz music being
pumped in through hidden speakers. We took the gold elevator to the
third floor, where the Pacific Blue Ballroom was located, opening
up into a room that looked more decked out for a wedding reception
than a memorial service. A large bar extended down one side of the
room, a small stage area of sorts on the other end, where posters
of the team and the Stars insignia mingled with flower arrangements
and photos of Lacey. Though I noticed that all of the photos looked
recent, and all had been taken at the ballpark. There didn't seem
to be any hint of Lacey's life outside the Stars franchise.

The room was filled with players, managers,
and behind the scenes guys in suits and women in cocktail dresses
in tasteful muted colors. I fit right in, even if I did say so
myself, in a simple grey shift dress, embellished with a ruby,
teardrop pendant and a pair of black pumps in a snakeskin pattern.
Dana had gone with a black, floor length dress with an Angelina
Jolie worthy slit up one side that already had a couple of the guys
at the bar leering.

"So, which one is Blanco?" Dana asked,
grabbing a glass of white wine from a passing tray.

I followed her lead, grabbing one as well as
I let my eyes scan the room. Before I'd left the house, Ramirez had
pulled up the team's website, making me memorize the faces of all
the key players. Though, out of their uniforms, I was having a hard
time matching them up. I guess I could only be thankful he hadn't
made me memorize their stats, too.

"Dark hair in a buzz cut," I said, calling
up the picture in my mind. "Six-foot-two, slim. He's from
Argentina."

Dana nodded, craning her neck to scan the
crowd.

"Dana?" a voice sounded behind us.

We spun as one to find Kendra, a small frown
pulling at her cherry-red mouth. (Though I noticed that the Botox
prevented it from actually extending to her forehead.) "I didn't
know you were attending tonight?"

Dana and I did the appropriate air-kiss
greetings before pulling back.

"We felt it only right," Dana said, quickly
covering. "You know, here to represent the network and all."

Kendra nodded, as if she perfectly
understood the etiquette. "Of course. Well, I'm so glad you could
make it. I'm sure Bucky will be touched."

"Is he here?" I asked. While Ramirez had
sent me on a mission to get the alibi from Blanco, I figured it
wouldn't hurt to take the initiative and have a few words with
Suspect Number One.

Kendra nodded. "By the bar. He hasn't
detached himself from the tequila all night. Poor kid."

I glanced in the direction she indicated,
seeing a fair-haired guy in his twenties hunched over a glass.
While I could clearly tell it was Bucky, he had lost all of the
swagger I'd seen from him on the field. It was as if in this
setting he looked just like what he was—a young guy from the
Midwest completely out of his element in a glamorous OC ballroom.
And, at the moment, he was either completely grief stricken or
doing a very good job of acting it.

"Would you mind if I excused myself to give
my condolences?" I asked.

"Of course," Kendra agreed, grabbing Dana by
the arm and steering her toward the two E's, parked at a table near
the windows.

I threaded my way through the growing crowd
toward Bucky. I was a couple of barstools away when I saw a tall,
pot-bellied frame coming toward the bar, empty glass in hand.
Ratski.

Immediately I ducked my head, turning my
back to him. While the Glitter Galaxy had been dark, I was pretty
sure he'd have no trouble recognizing me here. And not be overly
thrilled to see me. I feigned interest in a potted palm while
Ratski ordered a scotch, neat, downed it, and then had the
bartender pour him another before weaving his way back into the
crowd.

Unfortunately, by the time I thought it was
safe to turn around again, Bucky's seat was empty.

I frantically scanned the room for him and
felt my heart sink as I saw him taking the stage, chatting with a
couple of white haired guys in expensive suits. From their age, I
could only guess they represented the team's management, not
players.

Damn. So much for my initiative.

I was just about to concede that my skills
in no way measured up to Ramirez's faith in them, when I spotted a
dark haired, tanned guy with a buzz cut standing near the French
doors to the balcony. Bingo. Gabriel Blanco.

As I made my way toward him, a voice came
over the PA system. "Everyone, may I have your attention
please?"

All eyes shot to the front of the room,
where a paunchy, white haired man was talking into a
microphone.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming
tonight. It is heartwarming to see all of the support for our
Bucky. I can only imagine how hard this is for him," the man said,
glancing toward his star player.

Bucky's face was a blank slate, though his
eyes held dark circles beneath them, his skin a shade paler than
when I'd last seen it on the Jumbotron.

"But I'm sure that seeing all of your
friendly faces will help him get through these trying times."

I only vaguely paid attention as the guy
went on about how special Lacey was, keeping my eyes instead on
Blanco. I made it to his side just as Bucky stepped up to the mike
to say a few words.

"Thank you all for coming," he said, his
voice tight. "It means more than you know." Then he stepped back
again, relinquishing the mike to the white haired guy. Clearly
Bucky was not one for long speeches.

"Thank you all, again," the older man said.
"We will be donating a portion of the proceeds of the next home
game to the pediatric wing of Cedar-Sinai Hospital in Lacey's name.
If you'd like to add a contribution, please see Kendra Blanco for
more information."

With that, the crowd immediately went back
to murmuring amongst themselves and mingling, as if to cover the
awkwardness of thinking about a dead girl who none of them had
really known well.

I watched as Blanco looked down at his
glass, noticed that it was empty, and started to turn toward the
bar.

I jumped before he could. "Gabriel
Blanco?"

He turned my way, a pair of startling blue
eyes peering out at me from his tanned face. "Yes?"

"Hi. I'm Maddie," I said, sticking a hand
his way. "I, ah, I'm a friend of your wife's," I added, stretching
the truth just a little.

He nodded, shaking my hand. "Nice to meet
you."

"I'm so sorry about the loss. Were you and
Lacey close?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Bucky and I are."

"This must be very difficult for him."

He shrugged again. "It's not easy, that's
for sure."

"Were you with him?" I asked. "When he found
out about Lacey?"

Blanco shook his head. "No. We were at the
gym together earlier that day, but I'd gone home by then."

"Oh, how horrible," I said, putting a hand
to my mouth. "You mean you were actually together while she
was…being killed?" I did a stage whisper for effect.

Blanco shifted from foot to foot, looking
down at his empty glass again as if he really wished something
would materialize there. "Yeah. I guess."

"Then you're his alibi?"

"Bucky doesn't need an alibi," he quickly
shot back. "He'd never hurt anyone."

"Oh, right, of course," I backpedaled. "I
didn't mean to imply he would. Obviously he wouldn't hurt her. I
mean, he couldn't have. He was with you the whole time."

Blanco nodded vigorously. "Right."

"At the gym, you said?"

"That's right," he agreed again.

"So, you two worked out together the whole
time. Like, side by side?"

His dark eyebrows drew together. "Well, no,
not the whole time. I mean, he didn't follow me to the john or
anything. It's not like we were joined at the hip."

"So, you didn't have eyes on him the whole
time?" I pounced, wondering just how far from the salon this gym
was.

He spun on me, frowning again. "Look, we
arrived together, we worked out, we left together. That was good
enough for the cops, so I'm not sure what you're implying."

I bit my lip. Ramirez was right about Laurel
and Hardy. They obviously hadn't dug too deeply into Bucky's alibi.
"I'm not implying a thing," I said, pulling out my most charming
smile. "Except that Bucky is lucky to have friends like you at such
a trying time."

Blanco grunted a noncommittal response, but
the frown eased some. "I need a drink," he said, pushing past me
toward the bar.

I watched him slip away and sipped at my own
glass, mingling through the crowd, trying to catch any little
snippets of conversation I could that pertained to Bucky, Lacey, or
her death. Though mostly I just heard people murmuring polite
condolences, admitting they hadn't known the deceased very well and
expressing sympathy for Bucky.

I wandered over to the display of photos
near the stage. Bucky and Lacey at the ballpark, at charity events,
hand in hand as he received some award. The wives had been right
about Lacey's designer label fetish. In every one Lacey was wearing
an obvious designer piece. A Channel logo bracelet, a Gucci branded
jacket. I had to admit, they might have been knock-offs, but she
knew the hot labels.

I sipped at my drink, honing in on another
photo of Lacey, this time cheering for Bucky from the stands at a
Stars game. She had her feet up on the empty seats in front of her,
doing a diva pose for the cameras with a sassy smile.

But it wasn't the playful smirk on her face
that caught my eye. It was her shoes. They were black ankle straps
with a gold clasp on the side fashioned into the familiar "BR" logo
of one of my fave designers, Berto Raul. I knew those shoes. I knew
them because I had an order in for a pair, but they weren't out yet
until next month. Meaning there was no way a made-in-China
knock-off could have been put into production yet. The only way
Lacey could have gotten a pair of those shoes was by purchasing at
a runway show directly from the designer.

My eyes quickly scanned the rest of the
photos, squinting at the details of her other outfits as I realized
the Baseball Wives were wrong. Lacey was not wearing knock-offs.
This wardrobe was the real deal.

So where had Lacey gotten the money for
it?

I knew something was wrong as soon as I got
home. The house was quiet. And it smelled like…I paused, sniffing
the air in my foyer…Windex? Alarm bells immediately went off in my
head.

"Jack? You guys okay?" I called out.

Ramirez popped his head in from the kitchen,
putting a finger to his lips. "Shhh. The little ones are down."

I glanced at the clock above the mantel.
"Already?"

He grinned. "We had a lot of playtime. They
were tuckered out."

"Huh," I said, wandering into the living
room, expecting to see the toy explosion that normally accompanied
playtime. Only I felt my feet freeze as I scanned the room. The
play yard was spotless, the toys all tucked neatly into the toy box
in the corner. The floors were crumb-free, and even the babies'
blankets had been folded into tidy little squares on the sofa.

"You…cleaned?" I asked, choking out the last
word.

I felt Ramirez come up behind me, his arms
wrapping around my waist. "Well, don't sound so surprised."

I swallowed. "I'm not," I lied. "I'm
just…how did you manage the time to do this?"

He turned me around and blinked at me as if
not understanding the question. "I told you the twins went to
sleep."

I tried to shove down a tiny feeling of
suddenly being outshined in the parenting department. Most nights
that Ramirez worked late, I barely survived the twin's two-pronged
assault of play time, dinner time, and
trying-to-get-two-crying-babies-to-sleep time. I couldn't think of
a single night I'd had them down early and had energy left to fold
blankets, let alone Windex.

"How was the party?" Ramirez asked, pulling
my thoughts away from Mr. Mom's surprising performance as he led me
to the sofa.