Killer in High Heels (16 page)

I started with the top of the nightstand, unfolding one small piece of paper after another. Mostly receipts from the grocery, drug store, some fast food restaurants. Nothing terribly telling except that he should be eating a lower-fat diet. I made a mental note to tell Dana my junk food cravings were genetic.

Coming up zero on the nightstand, I moved on to the closet—not sure my denial cocoon was strong enough yet to withstand the sight of the “intimates” that might be lurking in Larry’s dresser drawers.

I opened the closet door and gasped. Shoes. Dozens of beautiful, shiny, designer shoes. It was like looking in a boutique store window. I knelt down to examine a pair. Michael Kors’ last season black satin wedges with rhinestone detail and ballerina straps. If they hadn’t been five sizes too big, I would have been in heaven. I turned them over in my hands, letting the long silky straps run through my fingers as I took in every little detail. If these were fakes, I was a rugby player. Whatever Larry’s connection to the containers of counterfeit shoes, this wasn’t it. These were the genuine six-hundred-dollar-a-pair article. I did a little sigh and set them back in the shoe rack with all the reverence they deserved.

I stifled a little squeak as I spied the next pair. Jimmy Choo Mary Janes in fire-engine red with three-inch heels and gold-plated buckles. I had to hand it to Larry, he did drag with style. I pulled the Mary Janes out of the closet and held them up to the mirror. The light from the window shone off the patent leather like glass. I couldn’t help myself. I slipped out of my kitten heels and treated my toes to a moment in Choos. I’m pretty sure I moaned out loud. Okay, so I was a small seven and these were a big ten, but I didn’t care. They looked fabulous. Beyond fabulous. These were Sarah Jessica Parker-tastic! I did a couple of foot model poses, checking them out from all angles. I was just contemplating how many cotton balls I’d have to stuff in the toes to wear them on my date with Ramirez tonight, when I heard the sound of a door opening downstairs.

I froze.

“Hello?” a voice called out. “Larry? You here?”

I willed myself not to hyperventilate. I recognized that voice. It was the same one I’d heard arguing at the club with Monaldo. Unibrow.

“Lar-ry,” he singsonged. “You here, buddy? Your front door was open, so I thought I’d come pay you a visit.”

Liar. If Unibrow had come in the front he was a hell of a lot better at breaking and entering than I was. Not a totally comforting thought.

“Larry!” Unibrow called up the stairs, his voice sharper now. “I’ve got something here for you. Don’t make me come up there looking for you.”

Crap, crap, crap! I quickly scanned the room for a hiding place as Unibrow’s bulk thump, thump, thumped up the stairs. The closet would have been the obvious choice, had it not been filled to capacity with pumps. Bed, dresser, nightstand—none of which were large enough for me to hide behind. I lifted the leopard-print bed skirt. More boxes of shoes were stacked under the bed. Wow. Aside from myself and Imelda Marcos, I didn’t think anyone owned this many shoes. I quickly shoved a stack out of the way and wedged myself in with the shoeboxes and dust bunnies, just as Unibrow reached the landing.

I could hear his labored breathing as he entered the room, but all I could see were his brown wingtips and the hem of his black slacks.

His feet crossed the room to the dresser, then I heard the sound of him opening drawers and tossing the contents. Tubes of lipstick fell to the floor, along with three Styrofoam heads and a handful of costume jewelry. The long blond wig fluttered down from the dresser, the Raspberry Perfection lip gloss rolling out from under it, across the carpet, and coming to a stop just inches from my nose.

Okay, why was fate taunting me like this? Can you cut a girl a little slack? I’m doing denial here!

Unibrow grunted something and gave up on the dresser. I watched his wingtips move toward the closet, cringing at the thought of his big meat cleaver hands tossing Larry’s precious designer footwear aside. I heard one shoe rack meet its demise, collapsing with a crash, and felt a tiny piece of my heart break. I was glad now I’d put on the Mary Janes. At least they were safe.

Apparently feeling he’d caused enough destruction, Unibrow’s wingtips moved away from the closet. I gave a little sigh of relief for the spared pumps.

Then I held my breath as he turned toward the bed.

I felt my eyes growing bigger as his shoes slowly came at me. One step after another until the tip of his right foot was inches from my face. I could smell the leather and pungent shoe polish he used, along with the faint scent of Odor-Eaters. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to the saint of bad hiding places that Unibrow didn’t sit down on the bed. With his bulk, I’d be an instant pancake.

Someone up there must have heard me, because he didn’t, instead veering to the left and out the bedroom door.

My sigh of relief was so big, the dust bunnies in front of my face danced. His footsteps lumbered back down the stairs as I scrambled out from under the bed. I waited until I heard the front door open and shut before kicking off the too-big Mary Janes, grabbing my kitten heels, and taking the stairs two at a time. I padded barefoot across the kitchen to the garage door and slipped inside just as I heard the front door open again. I slid my shoes back on and did a little tippy-toe across the garage in the dark, hoping I didn’t bump into anything but too chicken to wait until my eyes adjusted to get the heck out of Dodge.

I only tripped once, over a sack of fertilizer or something that someone had left in the middle of the floor, before I made it to the outside door. I gingerly twisted the handle, cracked the door open and peeked my head out. No sign of Unibrow. I slowly shut the door behind me, trying to make as little noise as possible even though my hands were shaking harder than a 7.2, and jogged over to the side gate. I did another crack and peek. A black Lincoln Town Car was parked at the curb, the trunk popped open. I’d watched enough HBO to know this car had Mob written all over it. I craned my head to the left and right. No sign of its driver. I prayed he was still inside the house. I gave myself a three count, then darted out of the yard and across the street to the Mustang.

It took two tries before I could keep my hands steady enough to fit the key into the ignition. But once I did I wasted no time in punching the gas and squealing my tires down the street, seriously appreciating the zero to sixty qualities of a muscle car with a V8 engine.

By the time I got back to the hotel room, my hands had finally stopped shaking, my teeth were no longer chattering together like castanets and, I realized with a stab of regret, I had missed my appointment at the Regis. Not only was I being followed by a stalker and cornered by Mob goons, I was stuck with my mustache until the Fran Drescher sound-alike could fit me into her schedule again. (Apparently when Bette was in town, not only were the low-rent rooms booked, but salon appointments were also in high demand.) After setting up a four-thirty appointment for tomorrow, I flopped down on the double bed and stared at the textured ceiling again, trying to make sense of all I’d seen that day.

What had Larry gotten himself into? By now even I had to admit it looked like something just this side of legal. And from what Maurice said, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse two weeks ago. That’s when Larry and Hank had fought, and Hank had started carrying a gun. So what was it? And what sort of “something” did Unibrow have for Larry? Had it been in the trunk? Did it have anything to do with the counterfeit shoes? Or was “I have something for you” code for “I’m gonna snuff you out execution-style”?

I wondered. In fact, I wondered so hard I fell asleep. By the time I woke up the sky had turned into a deep blue and there was a little puddle of drool forming at the side of my mouth.

I rolled over and looked at my cell phone. The display told me I had two new messages. Still holding out a small hope that one of them might be Larry trying to contact me again, I keyed in my pin number and listened to the recordings.

Unfortunately neither, it turned out, was from Larry. The first message was from Mom, telling me about this charming Mexican restaurant on Beach that I had to try. They served the best mojitos in Palm Springs. In fact, she said, she’d had so many of them last time she was there that she’d ended up seducing Faux Dad right there in the backseat of his Caddy in the parking lot. My mother: Queen of Too Much Information.

The second message was from Ramirez. He said he was running late and would meet me at Il Fornaio downstairs at seven. I glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. 6:15. Yikes!

I quickly hopped in the shower, then set to rummaging through my suitcase for something suitable to wear on my very first date with Mr. I-Wanna-Sex-You-Up. The only problem was I’d packed for a father-daughter reunion, not a Vegas seduction. Unless I wanted him to end the evening with a pat on the head and a bedtime story (which, considering my dry spell was already going into extra innings, I so did
not,
) I needed new clothes.

I pulled open Dana’s suitcase. Lots of spandex and workout wear. All in size two. I’ve never considered myself a hefty gal, but there was no way I was going to be able to squeeze myself into her itty-bitties. I made a mental note to skip dessert tonight.

I glanced at the digital clock. 6:45. Not enough time to go buy something in the boutique downstairs. That left only one option. I stared at the matching set of leopard-print bags. I quickly pulled one open, hoping to god Marco packed as girly as he shopped.

Bingo.

I found a pink and purple chiffon scarf that was the perfect accent to the low-cut, V-neck cashmere sweater tucked into bag number three. Paired with my black leather skirt and Gucci boots, it presented a pretty decent look even if I did say so myself.

I did a smoky number on my eyes with lots of shadow and mascara. With a little blow-dry and a lot of mousse, I fluffed my hair into a sexy, just-got-out-of-bed look. (Never mind that I had, in fact, just gotten out of bed.) And, just in case, I slipped a couple of Altoids into my purse and put on my Vicky’s Secret black lace thong. If all went well, this would be a first date to remember.

Chapter Eleven

Ramirez was waiting for me at the bar. And I had to admit, as I approached him my stomach did one of those loop-de-loop things like the roller coasters at Six Flags. He was wearing gray slacks, a blazer, and a white button-down shirt open at the neck to show off just a hint of his tan skin beneath. I realized I’d never actually seen Ramirez out of his usual jeans and T-shirt uniform. (If you didn’t count that one half-naked encounter, that is.) Bad Cop cleaned up good. Really good. I was glad I wore the thong.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, planting a little kiss just above my ear. He ran one finger lightly along the arm of my sweater. “Soft.” His mouth quirked up into a wicked half smile. “I like it.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t tell him I’d stolen the outfit from my gay roommate.

With a hand at the small of my back, Ramirez steered me to a table near the back. A handful of other diners filled the cozy, intimate room, holding hands and feeding each other forkfuls of pasta. Soft instrumental music played over the sound system and small, drippy candles at every table completed the air of Northern Italian romance. All in all, the perfect restaurant for a perfect first date. Score one for Bad Cop.

The maitre d’ sat us at a table next to an older couple with silver hair and matching shirts that read “World’s Cutest Couple.” And I had to agree. The man was holding the woman’s hand in both of his and gazing at her like a newlywed. I looked across the table at Ramirez. I wondered if we had any chance of making it that far.

Ramirez caught my gaze. “You look really nice tonight,” he said, his eyes taking on that X-ray vision look as they roamed my body.

I went warm in places I’d forgotten existed.

“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

That dimple made an appearance in his left cheek as he pulled out his sexy lopsided grin. He leaned forward, his eyes intent on mine. “What do you say we skip dinner…” His eyes dipped a little lower to my neckline. “…and go right to dessert?”

I gulped. I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the tiramisu. And I was one second away from agreeing when the waiter appeared at my elbow, asking for our drink order. After a quick perusal of the wine list, Ramirez picked out a bottle of Rutherford Hill merlot. Nice. I snuck a look at the price. Wow. Very nice. Score point number two for Bad Cop.

Once our waiter disappeared into the back, we both picked up our menus.

“Decided what you want yet?” Ramirez asked.

“I’m not sure.” I looked down at the list of entrees. “Everything looks so good. How about you?”

“Oh, I
know
what I want.” I looked up to find him staring right at me. Or more accurately, at the hint of cleavage my Wonderbra was lifting out of Marco’s sweater. I did one of those dry gulp things again and hoped I wasn’t blushing too hard.

“So,” he said, folding his cloth napkin onto his lap. “How was your shopping trip today?”

“Shopping?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes, shopping. You were supposed to go shopping today, right?”

I bit my lip. Oh yeah. Right. “I, uh, kind of took in some of the local sights instead.” I quickly buried my nose in the menu, pretending I was concentrating really hard on the ingredients of the linguini marinara so he didn’t see the guilty look in my eyes.

No such luck. Ramirez put a hand over the top of my menu, slowly lowering it. “Local sights?”

“Uh huh,” I said in a tiny voice. Frighteningly like the one I used to use when my Irish Catholic grandmother caught me sneaking cookies before dinner.

He narrowed his eyes further. “Such as?”

“Um…Larry’s house and Maurice’s condo.”

“Maurice?”

“Hank’s boyfriend.”

Ramirez muttered a curse. The world’s cutest couple turned and gave us a look.

“What exactly were you doing at Hank’s boyfriend’s house?” Ramirez asked.