Killer in High Heels (4 page)

By the time I’d finished off the last of the greasy fries and my shake had melted into dribbles of watery ice milk at the bottom of my cup, I’d narrowed the list down to two possible Larrys. One number rang and rang, and the other was answered by the mechanical voice that came with the answering machine. Either of these could belong to my dad.

What I needed now was some way to match the numbers with addresses. If I had an address, I could call the Vegas police and let them do a casual drive-by to see if either of the houses were occupied by conspicuous dead bodies with gunshot wounds.

I looked down at my digital clock. 4:15. Dana’s Prenatal Pilates class should be ending soon and if I hit the 405 now, I might be able to catch her before she started her Pole Dancing for Seniors session.

After slogging through the pre- pre-rush hour traffic (Okay, fine, in L.A. the freeways always look like rush hour. But I, for one, choose to hold on to the hope that there does exist a small window of time in which I might actually be able to get from the Citadel to the Beverly Center in under an hour. Never mind that the window is between 3 and 5 A.M.), I pulled my Jeep into the parking lot of the Sunset Gym, a huge concrete and glass structure that housed an Olympic-sized swimming pool, seven racquetball courts, and its very own Starbucks. I declined the valet parking, figuring the thirty-second walk from my car to the gym could count as my exercise for the day.

Today the front counter was manned by none other than Dana’s latest ex-boyfriend, No Neck Guy. No Neck had been one of Dana’s many roommates at the Studio City duplex she shared with a handful of other actor slash personal trainers. They’d been hot and heavy for about two weeks before Dana caught No Neck hitting on one of the gym patrons. He claimed he was just measuring the size of her pecs, but even Dana didn’t buy that one. She gave him the dreaded don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you and put an ad in the PennySaver for a new roomie. Currently residing in No Neck’s old bedroom at the Actor’s Duplex was Stick Figure Girl, who, rumor had it, had just landed a gig as Lindsey Lohan’s body double.

I fished my gym ID out from the deep recesses of my purse (shoved beneath a Snickers bar and an empty M&M’s wrapper) and gave No Neck a little wave before scanning the main floor for Dana. I finally found her in one of the group classrooms, leading a handful of pregnant women in cool-down stretches. I did a quick check to make sure I didn’t still have strawberry milkshake breath as the women waddled out and Dana jogged toward me, bottle of vitamin water in tow.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asked, taking a long sip. “You here for my pole dancing class?”

“Oh gee, I left my stripper clothes at home.”

Dana ignored my sarcasm. “Come on, it’s awesome on your glutes.”

“Maybe next time. I just ate.” Two hours ago.

Dana narrowed her eyes at me. “Are those French fry crumbs on your shirt?”

Self-consciously, I wiped at my top.

“Maddie, I thought we agreed you were going to take better care of your body. Do you know how bad French fries are for you? They’re like injecting fat right into your veins.”

I did a deep sigh. “I’ll come in tomorrow and do sit-up penance.”

“Promise?”

Reluctantly I nodded, feeling my stomach muscles clench around my Quarter Pounder in protest.

“So,” Dana said, sipping her water, “if you’re not here for pole dancing, what’s up?”

“I was wondering if you still have the number of that guy you dated at the phone company.”

“Verizon Ted? Yeah, sure. Why?”

I filled Dana in on my freaky phone message and subsequent calling quest as she downed the rest of her vitamin water, her eyes growing bigger as I talked.

“So you think he was shot?” she asked when I’d finished.

I bit my lip. “I don’t know.”

“I bet it was the Mob. Those Mob guys are all up in Vegas.” Dana bobbed her head up and down for emphasis.

“It wasn’t the Mob.”

“Rico told me the Mob uses forty-five-caliber Berettas for all their executions. Did it sound like a forty-five?”

Mental eye roll. “Look, I don’t even really know if he was shot. I just think…well, it might warrant a phone call to the police to check it out. Provided I can give them some idea of where to check.”

Dana shrugged. “Okay, sure. I’ll call Verizon Ted right after my pole dancing class and see if he can get us an address.”

“Thanks.” I handed Dana the numbers and she trotted off to the group of eighty-year-old stripper wannabes. I shuddered. Mostly because as they started dancing to the tune of “I’m Too Sexy,” I realized they were more limber than I was even after three margaritas. Depressing thought.

After seeing Dana I felt just a little guilty about my zillion-calorie lunch and decided to do better for dinner. I made a quick stop at the Magic Happy Time Noodle for a double order of moo shoo chicken (chicken was a lean meat, right?) with rice noodles (’cause who can get fat eating rice?) before heading back home to my studio.

As I followed the trail of red brake lights down the 405, I tried calling the two Larrys one more time for good measure. Same thing. Ringing at the first and that mechanical voice at number two. I thought about leaving a message, but I still didn’t quite know what to say. Instead I did a fast hang-up before the machine kicked in and hoped that Verizon Ted was in a good mood tonight.

I pulled up to my building, parking my Jeep on the street, and started up the steps to my studio, fragrant bags of Chinese food in hand. I was halfway up the stairs when the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up and I had the oddest sensation of being watched. I slowly turned around and scanned the street, my eyes immediately narrowing in on a blue Dodge Neon with a dented fender parked in front of the building next door. I couldn’t be sure it was the same one that had been tailgating Dana and me the day before, but since there were probably only two people in the entire L.A. basin who would be caught dead driving a blue Dodge Neon, I figured it was an odd coincidence.

I walked back down the stairs, casually strolling along the sidewalk toward the car. I was a couple of feet away when it suddenly roared to life, squealing away from the curb like some bad cop movie from the ’seventies. I only got the vaguest glimpse of the driver—just enough to tell it was a guy—before he disappeared down the street, taking the corner so fast his tail spun out behind him.

If I’d believed in coincidences, I’d have said that was a doozy. Even though Mr. Neon was gone, I suddenly felt very exposed standing out in the open. I took the stairs two at a time up to my studio and locked the door behind me. Just for good measure (and because I’ve seen way too many teen horror flicks), I checked under the futon, behind the bathroom door and in the closet. Predictably, no bogey men in waiting. Which, of course, made me realize how foolish I was being. The Neon probably belonged to my neighbor’s son. Probably how fast he pulled away from the curb had nothing to do with me approaching him. Probably it was a totally different car I’d seen following Dana and me.

But I still felt I should probably keep my door locked and my Ginzu knife handy while I ate my takeout. Just in case. (Hey, I’m no dummy. The blonde always dies first in those horror movies.)

I polished off my Chinese in record time and spent the rest of the evening doing half-hearted sketches of the Rainbow Brite jellies in between calling the Larry numbers again. And again. With the same results each time. I hoped Dana was getting along better with Verizon Ted. After Letterman I did one more round of calls before calling it a night myself. I pulled out my futon and fell into a restless sleep, visions of the Mob a la Ray Liotta invading my dreams.

I could swear I’d only been asleep for five minutes when the sound of my door being pounded down woke me. But when I cracked one eye open I saw the sun was up and my digital clock read 7:13 A.M. I groaned as another knock sounded. What was it with morning people?

Reluctantly, I rolled over, throwing off my sheets and shuffling in that half-asleep, half-awake zombie walk of those who have stayed up much too late gorging on takeout.

“Coming,” I called as Mr. Impatience threatened to rattle my door off its hinges again.

I squinted one half-opened eye at the peephole.

The sight that greeted me woke me up faster than any grande mocha latte ever could. Dark, tussled hair. Dark eyes with one small scar cutting across his left eyebrow. Tightly set jaw, dusted with sexy day-old stubble and that black T-shirt fairly painted onto a body that instantly made me feel like a dog in heat.

Ramirez.

Chapter Three

Oh, shit! I immediately recoiled from the door as if he could see me through the little peephole. My gaze whipped around my apartment. Clothes on the floor, empty take-out cartons on the counters, lipstick, mascara and drawing pencils scattered everywhere—not exactly Martha Stewart ready for visitors. I hated people who showed up unannounced almost as much as I hated morning people.

Maybe if I stood really still he’d think I wasn’t home and come back later. Like, after I’d had a chance to straighten up. I did a quick sniff test of my person. Ugh. And a shower.

“I know you’re in there, Maddie. Your Jeep’s out front.”

Damn. I guess he didn’t make detective for nothing.

“Open the door, Maddie, or I’ll have to break it down.”

I was ninety-nine percent sure that was a bluff. But from the way he was pounding, I didn’t think it wise to risk the one percent. Reluctantly, I slipped off the security chain and opened the door.

For a full two seconds we both just stood there staring at each other. He was wearing his trademark faded jeans, work boots, and gun bulge tucked at his side. A tattoo of a panther flirted with me from beneath the sleeve of his shirt, and his dark eyes did a slow sweep of my body that made me very aware I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet. I did a dry gulp thing while I tried to decide whether I hated him for not calling or loved him for finally showing up on my doorstep.

Finally he broke the silence. “Nice outfit.” The corner of his mouth jerked up into a half smile.

I looked down. Just my luck he’d show up the day I throw on yellow duck pajamas.

“Thanks,” I said with as much dignity as a grown woman wearing duckies could.

“Can I come in?”

I stepped back, hesitating only a minute. The way we’d last left things was somewhere in that vast limbo land of maybe relationships. I mean, he’d seen me one inch from naked and I already knew his condom size. We weren’t exactly strangers. Though the fact that he hadn’t called me in weeks didn’t exactly make us a hot item either.

So I opted for a cool, casual air of indifference, leaning against my kitchen counter and crossing my arms over my ducky jammies as I pretended his sexy stubble and Russell Crowe build had no effect on me whatsoever.

“So what are you doing here?” I squeaked out, wishing my voice was just a wee bit better at pretending.

“You didn’t return my call.”

“Me?
Me? Me!
” I sputtered. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks!”

He shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Too busy to make a piddley little phone call?”

“Work.” He spit out the single syllable, then tightened his jaw, doing his silent cop routine. I imagined it was a really effective look for interrogating a suspect, but it wasn’t winning him any brownie points with me.

“Uh-huh. And so, what, your schedule just suddenly freed up this morning so you thought you’d pop over and harass me about my choice of sleepwear?”

“You know, you’re kind of grumpy in the morning.”

My eyes narrowed into fine slits. “You should see me after coffee. I really hit my stride then.”

He grinned, his face creasing into his big bad wolf smile. The one that made me worry my panties might be across the room with one little huff and puff. I shifted my stance, reminding myself this was the man who had driven me to rent
Joanie Loves Chachi.

“Actually,” he said. “I took a personal day. Someone,” he gave me a pointed look, “left a message about gunshots and dead bodies on my voice mail. Kind of makes a guy worry. Especially knowing you.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny. It was one boob, okay? I popped one freaking implant and suddenly I’m Calamity Jane.”

His mouth quirked up again. “Why don’t you just tell me about this phone call, huh?”

I hesitated. Yes, I had called him in the first place, but this whole smirky slash sexy slash casual-and-not-even-hinting-at-the-fact-that-we’d-been-nearly-naked-together thing he had going on was starting to irritate me.

But the way I saw it, I had two options. One, tell him to go to hell for not calling once in six weeks, then having the nerve to show up while I’m in ducky jammies. Or two, swallow my pride, make a pot of coffee, and play the message for him. (I ignored the voice in my head screaming to go with option three:
Jump his bones right here and now, you idiot! Before he disappears again for god knows how long.)

As much as telling him to go to hell sounded fun, I figured option two was the most productive. So I set my Mr. Coffee to perk, tossed in some French roast, and played the message for Ramirez.

He listened, his face unreadable. I bit my lip, half hoping he’d say it was obviously a car backfiring, even though the more I listened to it the more likely Dana’s theory of forty-five Berettas seemed.

“So?” I asked. “What do you think?”

He sat down on my futon and rubbed a hand over his face. “He said his name was Larry on the tape. Larry what?”

“Springer. Why?”

Ramirez sighed deeply, his face still a solid wall of Bad Cop. “Nothing. Look, it’s probably a prank phone call.”

“But we should check it out, right?”

“We?” He gave me a look like I’d just proposed a June wedding, all trace of his previous humor gone. “No,
you
shouldn’t check out anything. If you hear from him again, have the police check it out.”

“But if he’s dead, he can’t very well call again. Don’t you think someone should investigate?”

“Someone, maybe. You, definitely not.”