Killer in High Heels (21 page)

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “The worst has already happened. Mom saw it.”

“Maddie, I’m not worried about your mom,” he said, the vein staring to pulsate now. “I’m worried about Monaldo! If he sees this, how long do you think it will take before he puts two and two together? He saw you at the club. He knows your face and if he sees that paper he’ll know your name and where to find you.”

The thought sent a cold chill right up my spine. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Obviously.”

“Hey, it’s not like I asked to have my picture in the paper.”

“Yet somehow the other ninety-nine point nine percent of the population can manage to stay the hell out of things that don’t concern them.”

“Larry’s my father. It concerns me!”

Ramirez rubbed his neck again. “Look, just leave it alone, okay? Go home, design a few SpongeBob boots or whatever it is you do and let
me
do
my
job, okay?”

While his tone was way over the border of condescension, making me want to quote last quarter’s sales figures for my “whatever it is you do” shoes, I knew he was right. The best thing for me to do was get out of town before I messed up his investigation any more than I already had. The sooner he put Monaldo behind bars, the sooner I could breathe easily abut my father’s safety. So instead of taking a stand for shoe designers everywhere, this time I let the comment go.

“Fine. But,” I added, “just so you know, we’re doing it again.”

He paused, a blank look on his face. “Doing what?”

“Fighting. See?”

He took a deep breath, then looked toward the sky as if asking for patience from somewhere above. “I told you we should have just had sex.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Hmph.” It was the best response I could come up with because I was kind of thinking he might be right. “Look, I’ll go away and let you do your job, but just promise me you won’t let anything happen to Larry while—”

But he cut me off, shoving my head down in his lap.

“Um, hello? Ever heard of foreplay?” I mumbled against his thigh.

“Shhhh. Someone’s coming.”

I shifted my body down to a crouching position on the floor mats as someone knocked on Ramirez’s window. I held my breath, trying to make myself as small as possible.

Ramirez cracked the window open. “Yeah?”

“There you are, Bruno.”

That artic freeze tickled my spinal column again as I recognized the voice. Monaldo.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Ramirez answered, doing an Oscarworthy impression of cool, casual Goon Number Two. Even though I could feel his leg muscles tense beneath my palms.

“What’s going on in there?” Monaldo asked.

I scrunched my eyes tight, my fingers digging into Ramirez’s thighs as I willed the bad man to just go away.

“Nothin’,” Ramirez answered in a lazy drawl. “I just had enough of the bawling, you know?”

Monaldo was silent for a moment. And I was on the verge of wetting my pants when he finally said, “Fine. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

I did an internal sigh of relief.

“You’re the boss,” Ramirez responded, then I heard the sweet sound of the window being rolled back up.

I let out a long breath as Ramirez helped me back up onto the seat.

“Those are some claws you’ve got.” He rubbed his leg where I could see the distinct impression of my fingernails in his slacks.

“Sorry,” I said, still shaking a monster case of the heebie jeebies off me.

“No problem. Just promise me you’ll file those things down before our next ‘normal conversation.’”

And with that, he opened the door and gave me a little push out of the car, punctuated by a swat on the bottom, before shutting the door again behind me.

Sadly, it was the most action I’d gotten in months.

I straightened up and smoothed out my blouse, wiping the carpet lint off my skirt as I scurried across the dirt road lest Monaldo catch a memory-jogging glimpse of me.

The painted ladies were still chatting graveside with the reverend, most still leaking from the eyes, though I noticed as they lifted their veils, they’d invested wisely in waterproof mascara. I spotted Marco standing under a tree chatting up Madonna from the club—resplendent in knee-length black lace, leather ankle boots, jelly bracelets up both arms, and crimped hair that added a full six inches to “her” height. (Sigh. Part of me, the part that barely makes the height requirements on the Six Flags rides, still yearned for the bighair days of the eighties.) Dana was off to the side of the group, chatting with the Crew Cut bouncer from the club. Okay, maybe “chatting” wasn’t the right word. Shamelessly flirting might better describe the poutylipped, jutty-chest thing she was doing. After his noninterest the other night, I’d say Dana was on a mission to prove the powers of a 36 double D aerobics queen.

Off to the side of the cemetery were a few mourners in pairs, talking quietly, consoling each other, some stopping to smell the fragrant bouquets of flowers flanking the grave site. I watched as one mourner leaned down to sniff a gardenia, her hat tilting ever so slightly forward on her head to reveal a hint of red hair beneath.

I froze. Larry.

My instinct was to sprint the short distance between us, but I didn’t want to scare him off. I already knew he could outrun me. Instead, I casually strolled across the lawn, adrenaline pumping through my veins with every step. I clenched my teeth together to keep from calling out his name as the closer I got the more sure I was it was him. The same tall frame, same slightly paunchy middle, and the same impossible shade of red hair, just barely visible beneath the long opaque veil covering his face.

I was a mere three steps away when a light flashed from the trees to my right. Larry saw it too, quickly straightening up like a deer in the headlights. The flash went off again.

Larry looked up, our eyes connecting for one brief second before he took off like a shot, disappearing behind a stone mausoleum.

“Wait!” I called, dashing after him. I rounded the stone building and saw a flash of black take the corner, flying through a grove of trees down to the road where the line of waiting cars sat. “Please!” I pleaded. I hated how desperate I sounded. I tried to tell myself it was for Larry’s safety but part of me just wished my father would quit darting in the opposite direction whenever he saw me. It was enough to give a girl a complex.

Instead of following him into the grove of trees, I cut across the lawn, taking a more direct route to the cars. I was almost to the road when another flash of light went off, this time so close it momentarily blinded me.

“Uhn.” I did a perfect ten-point face plant into the grass, my torso skidding like I was on a Slip ‘n’ Slide as my hands splayed out in front of me.

I heard a car engine turn over and regained my fuzzy vision just in time to see a beat-up Volvo pulling down the road.

Damn! I pounded one fist on the ground.

Then I saw that flash of light behind me again. I twisted around on the ground and looked up to find a pair of blue eyes smirking at me.

Felix.

“A bit out of shape, aren’t we, love?” he asked. He was dressed in the same rumpled khaki, today paired with a blue striped button-down, open at the neck as he casually leaned against a tree, his camera dangling from one hand. Though, I was satisfied to see, his blue eyes were rimmed in purple today, a white bandage taped across his nose.

“You!” I said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I should have known.” I stood up, trying in vain to wipe the grass off of me. I had a nice green skid mark down the front of my once-white shirt and a deep scratch punctuated the leather skirt, spanning from my hips all the way down to the hem.

“You all right, love?” Felix asked. Though I noticed he didn’t stop clicking that damn camera.

“I’m fine,” I said, blinking away the little points of light dancing across my vision. “No thanks to you.”

“Now, now. Don’t blame it all on me. You’re the one tottering about in those ridiculous shoes.”

I sucked in a shocked breath. “Ridiculous? I’ll have you know these are Roberto Cavalli, Italian calfskin pumps worth more than your monthly salary, pal. These are not ridiculous. They’re fabulous,” I said, with as much dignity as a woman in a ruined skirt and a grass-stained blouse could muster.

His eyes roved down to my feet. “They don’t look very fabulous to me.”

I looked down. He was right. One sad little heel was jutting out at an unhealthy angle. “Noooo!” I wailed. This day just kept getting better and better. I stood up and took my shoe off, inspecting the damage. There was a slim possibility it could be repaired by a professional, but it would require major surgery.

I was just contemplating whether my MasterCard had enough room on it for a replacement pair when Felix took a picture of the poor damaged victim.

“No pictures of my shoes!” I yelled.

“Shhhh,” Felix said, putting a finger to his lips. “Your boyfriend might hear us.” He gestured to “Bruno,” now lounging against the side of the Lincoln.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I argued. Which was, sadly, only too true. We couldn’t even have a conversation together, let alone a relationship.

“No? Because I could have sworn I saw you two making a little time in the back of that Lincoln there.”

Damn. This guy didn’t miss a thing.

“We weren’t making time. We were…” Arguing about reporters? Discussing an ongoing investigation? “I mean, he was…” Undercover? Ordering me back home? “Well, I was kind of…” Hiding from a mobster with my head in his lap?

Felix raised one eyebrow. “Indeed.”

“Look, it’s not important.”

“It’s not?”

“No. He’s nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody.”

“You routinely hop into the backseat with nobodies?” he asked.

“No! Look, maybe I kind of know him, but not like that. Not like you’re thinking. He’s not…and we’re not…and there’s nothing going on. I mean, we haven’t done anything. I haven’t done anything in months. So long that I’m three weeks overdue with
Joanie Loves Chachi
and at this rate Blockbuster’s going to make me pay for a new one.”

Felix raised the other eyebrow. “Indeed.” Then he snapped another picture of me.

“I swear to god if you take one more picture of me, I’m going to kill you.”

He grinned, showing off his slightly crooked teeth. “Can I quote you on that, love?”

I felt my left eye starting to twitch. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then counted to ten again. I was pretty sure that strangling him with his own camera strap would be bad funeral etiquette.

“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked instead.

Felix shrugged. “Paying my respects.”

“You didn’t even know Hank!”

“Did you?” he asked, leaning in.

I narrowed my eyes. “Oh no. No. You’re not getting a story out of me, pal.”

“Too late.” He grinned. Then shot another picture.

“Stop that!” I yelled, waving away the little flying specks of light. “I’m going to go blind.”

He cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes as he stared at me. “You’ve got a little something…” He trailed off, pointing to his upper lip.

“Yes, I know! I’m growing a mustache. Okay? So freaking what? You want to make a story out of that? Oh I know, how about calling me the hairy yeti woman of Los Angeles, that oughta sell copies for you. Hey, maybe you’ll even be up for a Pulitzer. Go ahead, take a picture of me with my big fat hairy lip. I dare you.”

Felix’s lips quivered, threatening to explode into full-blown laughter any second.

“Uh, actually, I think it’s grass.”

“Huh?” I put my hand to my lip. Sure enough, I came away with three little blades of green grass. Mental forehead smack.

“Oh.”

The laughter broke free, and Felix shook with it, his entire body spasming as he clicked away, taking a series of pictures he’d have to caption, “Woman dies of embarrassment—police investigating the role of lip hair in her untimely demise.”

Before I could make any more of a fool of myself in front of the press, I turned and hobbled over to where Marco was chatting up his Material Girl.

“I have to go,” I whispered. “
Now!
”

I waited while Marco and Madonna exchanged phone numbers, hugs, jelly bracelets, and a series of air kisses, then dragged him and Dana back to the Mustang where we all piled in. (Me behind the wheel this time as I still had an indentation of cardboard Elvis’s microphone on my tush.) I pulled the car back onto the main road and out to the 15. True to my word, we were leaving Vegas. But…I had one quick little stop to make first. The Regis Salon. I had a four-thirty lip waxing and after the embarrassing monologue I’d given Tabloid Boy about my yeti lip, there was no way I was going to miss it this time. I glanced down at my watch. 4:22. I eased the gas pedal just a little farther down, zipping by a sports car in the left lane.

“Slow down,” Marco whined. “Dahling, this car is a classic. She’s not a dragster.”

I ignored him, passing a pickup on the right. It may be a classic, but I was on a mission.

“Seriously, Maddie, slow down. Elvis keeps falling in my lap,” Dana whined from the backseat.

Nothing doing. We were two exits from the Strip with a minute and a half to spare. I could make it this time. The next time Ramirez pulled one of his surprise lip-locks, I was going to be smooth as a baby’s behind.

Then the unthinkable happened. Blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror.

Marco turned around. “Uh oh.”

“Uh oh” was right. I spun my head around. “Shit!” A police car was glued to my bumper. He turned on his siren and motioned for me to pull over.

“I told you to slow down,” Macro said.

I gave him the death look as I eased the car over to the right shoulder.

The police car parked behind me. I looked at my watch. 4:29. Shit, shit, shit!

The highway patrolman motioned for Marco to roll down the passenger-side window. He was in his late thirties with a pronounced midsection and wore mirrored aviator glasses and a little brown Magnum P.I. mustache. He placed his hands on his hips and popped a piece of gum between his teeth. “License and registration, ma’am.”