Dana and I clanked up the metal staircase to the second floor. The walls of the Moonlight Inn were thin and I could hear the sounds of "favors" being given out all over the place. "Oh baby," seemed to resonate in stereo from behind the thin wooden doors, mixed with a steady bass rhythm from warring rap and heavy metal stations playing at top volume.
And I'm not ashamed to say my heart was beating almost as loudly as the guitar riffs. Being on the phone with Greenway had been unnerving enough, but my teeth were starting to chatter at the thought of a face to face encounter. Our pace slowed as we neared two-ten. On the other side of that door was a murderer. I suddenly felt very vulnerable. And, I realized, thinking about Ramirez's big black gun, very unarmed.
Dana and I paused outside the door. The room had one window facing the parking lot. It was covered from the inside with a faded green curtain and, from the absence of light peeking between the ratty fabric, it looked like no one was home.
"Maybe he isn't here?" I whispered.
"Maybe he's sleeping."
"Maybe we shouldn't wake him up."
"Hey, this was your idea," Dana whispered.
I know. And it sounded good downstairs. But close up, I was having second thoughts. Before I could act on my newfound chickenhood, Dana rapped her knuckles against the wooden door. I bit my lip, resisting the urge to run and hide.
Nothing.
Dana knocked again, this time yelling, "Hello?"
Nothing. I heaved a sigh of relief strong enough to ruffle my fake bangs.
Then I heard it. A gun shot.
It cracked like thunder on the other side of the door, rendering both Dana and me paralyzed for one awful second.
If this were the movies, we would have rammed our shoulders into the door, busting it open and tackled the perp without breaking a nail. But, since neither of us was under contract with Warner Brothers, we did what all Los Angelinos are trained to do when confronted with real live gunfire. Run.
Dana and I turned as one, diving to the right amidst high pitched, "ohmigod"'s. We clacked back down the stairs as quickly as our insanely high heels would allow and made a mad dash for my Jeep, parked across the lot. Dana hiked her dress up and was charging with quarter back determination toward the car. I was a short step behind her, my arms flailing like a crazy woman for balance as we sprinted across the black top.
Metallica poked his head out of the office doors. "What was that? What the hell did you crazy ho's do?"
"Nothing," Dana yelled, reaching my Jeep.
"I heard a gun."
"No you didn't," I said. I know, world's lamest comeback. But at the moment speed was more my goal than wit.
We climbed in and were just pulling out of the driveway when I swear I heard a second gunshot. I didn't stop to make sure, instead pulling down Vanowen, going two blocks before circling back around toward the freeway.
I was still reeling from the adrenalin high when Dana voiced the obvious.
"We just got shot at. Can you believe someone just shot at us?"
No I couldn't. This was so not my life. Somehow I'd been transferred into Lucy Liu's body, I was sure of it.
"Do you think it was Greenway?" I asked.
"Uh… duh! Do you know any other homicidal maniacs that would shoot at us?"
Good point.
"So, do we call Ramirez now?" Dana asked.
I couldn't help it. The smart-aleck in me reared its ugly head. "Uh… duh!"
I pulled into the parking lot of a Denny's at Van Nuys and Oxford and reached into my little bag for the card Ramirez had given me. I'm not ashamed to say my hands were still shaking as I dialed the number on my cell phone. I let Dana do the talking on the off chance Ramirez recognized my voice. I knew he'd want to ask me all kinds of annoying questions like, how did I know where Greenway was staying? How did I get his room number? Why did he shoot at me? Questions I would much rather avoid altogether. So, Dana put on her Betty Boop hooker voice again and left the anonymous tip with the desk sergeant who answered the phone.
"I don't know about you," Dana said when she hung up. "But I could use a stiff drink."
"Me too." Only I couldn't drink. Not until I knew if that line was pink or blue.
"Want to start happy hour early?"
Honestly, all I wanted to do was go home and take about ten showers to wash the creep off me, but considering I was the one who'd dragged Dana out to North Hollywood in the first place, not to mention got her shot at, I felt like I owed her.
"Sure. You have someplace in mind?"
Dana flipped down the visor and began touching up her makeup again. "I know a guy who bartends at Mulligans. It's just a couple blocks over on Van Nuys."
I pulled out of the Denny's and drove down Van Nuys, following her directions until we pulled up to a brick building with a blue neon sign above the door, blinking the word "Mulligans." A steady stream of people in business casual attire filtered through the door. I looked down at my spandex. Silently making bets on how many propositions I'd get before the day was out.
The lot was packed, so I found a place on the street and after reluctantly feeding the meter, Dana and I emerged into the dimly lit interior of Mulligans. I immediately recoiled as the sounds of bad karaoke echoed from a small stage in the corner where a pudgy, middle aged man was belting out a Shania Twain song.
Dana immediately ordered two vodka martinis with extra olives from her bartending friend, a Bruce Lee look alike dressed all in black. If any day of my life ever called for a martini, today was it. However, counting selfless act number two, I promptly changed my order to a Diet Coke. Once they arrived, Dana only had time to munch one olive before Bruce Lee grabbed her hand and dragged her over to the karaoke machine for a duet of American Pie.
I sat at the bar by myself and sipped my Diet Coke. Generally, I'm not much one for the happy hour crowd. I prefer places where you can actually hear your friends talk, like Starbucks or Nordstrom. For me a night on the town consisted of dinner and a Julia Roberts movie at Citywalk. But something about the loud, crowded, anonymity of Mulligans was oddly soothing at the moment. Like a huge, badly sung escape from my real life.
My hands were only slightly shaking as I took another sip of my Diet Coke. It really was a poor substitute for a martini.
I was dying to know what was going on back at the motel. Had Ramirez gotten the tip? Was he arresting Greenway right now? I wondered if there was a big shoot out with the cops when they arrived. God, I hoped nobody got hurt. Well, I guess I wouldn't mind Metallica taking one in the ass, but I really didn't want anyone to get killed. Least of all me, which is why even though I was dying of curiosity, I made myself stay right where I was and sip my Diet Coke. I'd give it two hours, then I'd call Ramirez's number again and nonchalantly ask if there'd been any new developments. I would, of course, leave out the part where I gloated about finding Greenway when the whole police force couldn't. Ha, who's girly now?
Dana jostled up beside me, diving for her drink again and took a long sip. "Ohmigod. I forgot what an awesome singer Liao is." She drained her glass and crunched down hard on an olive. "Come up with us. We're gonna do 'I've Got You Babe' next."
"No thanks. I'm not really in a karaoke mood."
Dana cocked her bobbed wig to one side. "Hey,are you okay?"
No, I was not okay. I'd just been shot at!
But Dana had been nice enough to come all the way to the Valley with me, even though I'd almost gotten her killed, so there was no reason to ruin her evening with Bruce Lee.
"I'll be fine," I said. Eventually.
"You sure?"
I fake smiled. "Yeah. Fine. Really."
"Okay. Well, in that case, you wouldn't mind driving home alone would you? See, Liao's house sitting for this guy in the hills and he says he's got a hot tub that looks out over the Hollywood sign."
I looked down at her outfit. I hoped the invitation didn't have anything to do with the mini skirt. Then again, knowing Dana, she probably hoped it did.
"Yeah, go. I'm fine."
"Cool. I'll call you tomorrow and we'll read all about the arrest over bagels." She gave me co-conspirital wink before disappearing back into the ever-growing mob of happy hour patrons.
Right. The arrest. I just hoped there was one. Again I got that itch to see what was going on at the motel. Was Greenway in custody? If he was, I was sure Perky Reporter Woman would be singing all about it on the evening edition. If Richard saw news of the all clear, he might even be back in his condo tonight. I took another sip of my Diet Coke, wondering just how I felt about that.
Now that Cinderella was in the picture, I wasn't a hundred percent sure I knew how things stood between Richard and me anymore. I mean, of course I was pissed at him, he was married to a freaking Disney princess. But, as I'd learned from Mrs. Rosenblatt's parade of husbands, there were all kinds of married. Maybe they were separated, estranged. So what then?
And, to make matters worse, I couldn't stop thinking about that heated panty thing that Ramirez seemed to inspire in me, which I'm sure was just a bad case of not getting laid in awhile, but was a little unnerving all the same.
I took another sip of my Diet Coke, really wishing it had a higher vodka content. Which was a sad commentary on my life. Fashion designer wanna-be yearns to get drunk after being shot at by her lying, cheating ex-boyfriend's murderous client. While thinking really unwholesome thoughts about annoying, yet oh-so-sexy, homicide detective.
"Excuse me," a voice said behind me, catching the attention of Liao's replacement behind the bar. "I'll have a Coors."
I froze.
Have you ever noticed that some people have a tendency to show up just when you're thinking of them? Mrs. Rosenblatt would undoubtedly say it was the cosmic thread that bound us all together. Personally, I think it's just dumb luck. And my luck seemed to be really bad tonight.
I resisted the urge to slink away into the dancing crowd (Because he'd probably find me anyway, after all he was a cop.) and turned around to face him.
"Well," Ramirez said, a sly grin creasing his features, "Fancy meeting you here."
Chapter Nine
All I could do was stare. Damn, did this guy have a homing device or what?
Ramirez just smiled, casually depositing himself onto the stool beside me as the bartender slid him a bottle of Coors.
"Love the outfit," he said.
"Thanks." I tugged at the hem of my dress, suddenly very aware of my bunching grannies again.
His smiled widened, showing off that too-sexy dimple. "Something about a woman in spandex gets me all hot and bothered."
"You're mocking me aren't you?"
"Just a little."
"It's supposed to be a disguise."
"From whom?"
I paused. "No one."
"Hmm." He studied me, his hands idly picking up a swizzle straw from the bar and drawing little circles with it.
"What?" I asked.
"The wig is a nice touch."
"Real classy huh?"
"I think I prefer you as a blonde."
I hated that somewhere inside me a pleased little voice screamed, "He likes your hair!"
"So, what are you doing here?" I asked, squelching the little voice.
"Working." He fixed me the kind of stare Superman used when switching on his X-ray vision. "What are you doing here?"
I bit my lip. I wasn't sure how much to spill. Worse, I'd told so many versions of the truth lately, I wasn't entirely sure which version I'd last given Ramirez. But considering Greenway was likely on his way to County right now and Richard would be home soon, I figured I didn't have much to lose.
"I was looking for Greenway but I got shot at, so I needed a drink."
Ramirez looked down at my Diet Coke and raised an eyebrow. Luckily he didn't say anything. I wasn't sure I could explain that on top of everything else.
"Okay," he said, shaking his head. "Because I like you and I've haven't got time to do all the paperwork, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that shooting thing."
Did he just say he liked me? Damn, that little voice was perking up again.
"Look, Maddie," he continued, "this is a homicide. Bad men with big guns. This is not children's shoes. Don't you think maybe it's time you went home and let the big boys handle this?"
He had a point. I wasn't thrilled about the guys with guns. And getting shot at again was way, way low on my list of to-do's. I'd neglected the Strawberry Shortcake shoes, I'd dragged my best friend into the Valley, I'd very nearly gotten Althea fired, and I was in neon spandex of all things. And in all honesty, I had planned on finishing my drink, going straight home, and gluing my butt to my futon as I watched for any sign of Greenway's arrest on the news.
But the way Ramirez said "big boys" made my spine straighten, my jaw clench, and my eyes narrow into cat-like slits as I flipped my fake hair over one shoulder.
"Listen, 'big boy', I may have ovaries, but I'm not going to just sit at home and knit while Richard is out there being hunted down by a killer. Even if he is married to Cinderella."
'Kay—not a good idea to spout off to a cop. Ramirez stared at me, pinning me with his best Bad Cop face. I said a silent prayer that he didn't reach for his cuffs. On any day, spending a night in a county cell wasn't my idea of a good time. And dressed like this, it would probably rank below wearing the Purple People Eater down a Milan runway on the fun scale.
Just as I was about to throw myself on the mercy of the law, Ramirez's eyes crinkled at the corners. His lip jerked up.
And then he laughed out loud.
It should have pissed me off, but instead I found my fighting stance fading. Man, he had a great laugh. It was rich and full and totally transformed his face. For a second I got a glimpse of the cover model he could have been in another life.
"Fine," he said, finally recovering. "I'll make you a deal." He leaned in close enough that I could smell his brand of soap. Ivory. I inhaled. I'd always liked that brand.
"What kind of deal?"
His eyes locked on mine and in a voice that was way too intimate said, "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."
Yikes. I hoped he was talking about the case. Okay, well I mostly hoped he was talking about the case. There was one teeny tiny little corner of my brain that flashed on Dana's "animal sex" phrase again.
"What do you want to know?" I squeaked out.
His gaze didn't waiver. "Everything."
That covered a lot of ground. I decided to go for the cliff notes version. "Okay. I was at Richard's office yesterday and a call came in from Greenway. I traced the call to the Moonlight Inn and my best friend, Dana, and I dressed as hookers to try to get Greenway's room number out of the night clerk. Only when we go to the room, someone shot at us, so we bolted."
Both Ramirez's eyebrows headed north this time.
"You traced the call?"
"Okay, I didn't so much trace it as I bribed his receptionist with a manicure to look up the number for me."
"Jesus." He rolled his eyes.
"What?"
"You really are girly."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Hey, it worked didn't it? I showed you mine, now show me yours. What are you doing here?"
Ramirez took another sip of his beer and looked at me. I feared he might renege on his deal.
"Okay. Someone called in an anonymous tip that Devon Greenway was staying at the Moonlight in North Hollywood. We traced the call to your cell number. And I mean traced, as in using technology, not manicures."
My turn to roll my eyes.
"So, I sent a couple uniforms to check it out. Imagine my surprise when on my way there, I spot your red Jeep parked on the street."
I ignored the sarcasm. "So, did they arrest Greenway?"
"No."
"What do you mean 'no?!'" My voice took on that high, screechy quality again as panic grabbed me by the hair and whipped my head around the room. Suddenly the safe anonymity of Mulligans felt very much like a room full
of strangers. Any one of which could be wielding a gun.
"I mean the motel room was empty. No one was there."
For the second time in as many days I willed myself not to hyperventilate. I wrapped my shaking hands around my glass and downed the last of my Diet Coke. Too quickly. It went down the wrong pipe and I started to choke, quick unproductive coughs that sounded like a hyena in heat. Ramirez smacked me on the back, bringing tears to my eyes as I finally got a hold of myself.
Ramirez just shook his head at me, a little half smirk on his lips as he took another sip of his Coors.
"He was there," I said. "I swear he was there. He called from there yesterday. You can check the call log at Richard's office. We had a long conversation about how Richard calls me pumpkin."
"Pumpkin?" Ramirez smirked again.
"It's his pet name. I didn't pick it out."
"And pumpkin was the best he could do?"
"It's cute!" In all honesty, I'd never really liked pumpkin. It always reminded me of something my grandfather would call me. But I wasn't going to admit that to Ramirez.
"You're more like a fregadita, if you ask me."
"A what?"
Ramirez smiled. "You figure it out."
I think I hated him.
"You're sure Greenway's not at the motel?"
"If he was, he's gone now. And if he's smart he's on a plane to the Caribbean. I've got a couple CSI going over the motel now just in case he left a calling card."
I bet my hook-nosed CSI Guy was having a field day lint rolling Metallica.
"You think they'll find anything?"
Ramirez shrugged. "My guess? He's long gone."
Great. Back to square one. Only now I felt this irrational need to look over my shoulder every three seconds for angry gunmen. And Richard was still out there somewhere. Still hiding. Still not returning my calls. Still married to Cinderella.
I seriously needed something stronger than Coke.
"So," Ramirez said, draining his Coors, "now that we're on the same page, it's time for you to go home."
"Will you tell me if they find anything at the motel?"
Ramirez's expression was suddenly serious. "Look, this is a murder investigation. It's not shoe shopping. Go home."
Spying in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries #1) Page 10
