Spying in High Heels
Page 29
“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. Providing I can give them some idea 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 as she downed the rest of her vitamin water and trotted off to the group of eighty year old stripper-wanna-bes. 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 all three Larry’s one more time for good measure. Same thing. Ringing at the first two and that mechanical voice at number three. I thought about leaving a message on the machine, 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 I the day before, but since there where probably only two people in the entire L.A. basin that would be caught dead driving a blue Dodge Neon, I figured it was an odd coincidence.
I walked back down the stairs, doing a causal stroll thing along the sidewalk toward the car. I was a couple 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 he was light haired, 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 was too many teen horror flicks) I checked under the futon, behind the bathroom door and in the closet. Predictably no boogie men hanging out 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 form the curb had nothing to do with the fact I was 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 take-out. Just in case. (Hey, I’m no dummy. The blonde always dies first in those horror movies.)
After I polished off my Chinese in record time, I spent the rest of the evening doing half hearted sketches of the Rainbow Bright 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. Finally 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 al 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. Only when I cracked one eye open the sun was up and my digital clock read 7:13 am. I groaned as my door vibrated with pounding again. What was it with morning people?
Reluctantly, I rolled over, throwing off the sheets and shuffling in that half-asleep-half-awake zombie walk of those who have stayed up much too late gorging on really excellent take-out.
“Coming,” I called as Mr. Impatience threatened to rattle my door off its hinges again.
I squinted one half-opened eye at the peep hole.
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.
KILLER IN HIGH HEELS
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Also available:
Spying in High Heels
Killer in High Heels
Undercover in High Heels
Christmas in High Heels (short story)
Alibi in High Heels
Mayhem in High Heels
Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)
Fearless in High Heels
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