Spying in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries #1)

by Gemma Halliday

  The next was from Ramirez. I bit my lip trying not to picture the image from my dream as his voice filled my studio.

  "This is your boyfriend calling. Don't drive so fast next time, okay?" End of message. I couldn't tell if he was amused or annoyed by my antics with the CHP last night. I told myself it didn't matter. As long as the word "warrant" didn't enter into the picture, it didn't matter what Ramirez thought of me.

  But instead of deleting it, I saved the message, skipping on to the next one.

  It was from Dana, asking if a) she was a bad person for sleeping with Liao on the first date, and b) if I'd seen anything on the news about Greenway's arrest.

  It felt like I'd lived a lifetime since I'd left Dana at Mulligans and I wasn't at all sure I could relay the events of the previous evening to her with any amount of coherency. At least not before coffee.

  Too tired to hoof it to Starbucks, I flipped on my Mr. Coffee, dumping in two generous scoops of French Roast as I turned on the television, hoping to get the latest Greenway update on the noon news. Two carjackings in Compton, a mudslide warning in the Hollywood Hills, and one minor celebrity arrested for drunk driving. No news of Greenway or Richard. Which I guess should have been comforting. No news meant at least my boyfriend wasn't behind bars. But instead of relieved, the non-news made me feel antsy.

  I'll be the first to admit, I don't have a really great history of patience. I was one of those kids who always peeked in Mom's closet for a preview of my Christmas and birthday presents. After a first date, I can never wait for the guy to call (even though I read The Rules twice and managed to wait three whole hours once) and even though I really, really meant to wait until we'd been seeing each other for a couple weeks first, I slept with Richard on our second date. So just sitting by the phone, waiting for Richard to turn up in handcuffs, was producing a bite-your-fingernails, crawl-up-a-wall feeling that was so not working for me.

  I even debated calling Cinderella to see if she'd heard anything from him. Which should tell you just how desperate I was because calling Cinderella meant acknowledging that she actually existed, and that ranked below sucking up to Jasmine on the list of things I wanted to do this lifetime.

  My internal whining was cut short as the familiar blonde news reporter piped up from the TV.

  "Last night the body of missing business mogul, Devon Greenway, was found by authorities at a North Hollywood motel."

  I grabbed the remote and turned it up, watching images of the Moonlight Inn flicker across the screen. It was daylight now but the parking lot was still littered with police cars and yellow crime scene tape. I grimaced as Metallica's greasy face filled the screen.

  "There were two of them. These chicks. And they were like really buff, like pro wrestlers or something. I tried to fight them off, but they were like totally strong. I think they were on steroids."

  I rolled my eyes.

  The cameraman cut away to an image of a green Dumpster. The coffee churned in my empty stomach as I listened to the reporter remind the viewing public this was the same Greenway whose wife was found dead earlier this week.

  Then Ramirez's face filled the screen. My stomach rolled for a whole different reason. He seemed tired, like he hadn't slept, but I hated how sexy the five o-clock shadow dusting his jaw looked.

  A reporter from another station shoved a microphone at Ramirez, yelling questions from the mob of press. "Do you have a murder weapon?"

  Ramirez answered with a standard, "We're still in the process of recovering a weapon."

  "Do you have any suspects?" another reporter demanded.

  The mob went quiet as Ramirez answered. "We do."

  "Detective Ramirez," the first reporter shouted, "Are you prepared to name them at this time?"

  Ramirez looked squarely at the camera and I could swear he was talking directly to me. "Based on our current evidence, we've issued a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Greenway's attorney. Richard Howe."

  Chapter Twelve

  I stared at the television, my brain half listening and half screaming that this was some mistake. Richard wanted for murder? This couldn't be happening.

  A picture of Richard from the office Christmas party flashed across the screen. I'd bet anything Jasmine had furnished it to the press. They were probably descending on Dewy, Cheatum & Howe like vultures right about now. I had a mental image of Jasmine's Elvis smirk preening for the cameras on the six o'clock news. I think I was going to be sick. I sat down hard on my futon as the reporter made appropriately concerned faces, then cut to a Doritos commercial.

  Ramirez was going to arrest Richard. I knew Ramirez well enough to know that there wasn't a whole lot I could do to stop that. Sure I could put on my Bond Girl outfit again and search Richard's office for the umpteenth time, but what good would it really do? I had no idea what I was doing. I was the worst Nancy Drew ever. Every time I tried to help, another dead body showed up. I'd like to think it was coincidence but I made a mental note to go to mass on Sunday with my grandmother just in case.

  On the other hand, the search to find Richard was an all out manhunt now. Every cop in the city would be looking for him. And not for whoever really killed Greenway. Because I was still relatively confident that Richard wasn't capable of killing anyone.

  Which is why even though I knew I should take Ramirez's advice and leave this to the professionals, I grabbed a lined notepad and began scribbling.

  I wrote the word "Suspects" at the top of the page in big bold letters. My pen hovered in the air, poised to write Richard's name down on the list. But even though I was pretty pissed off at the cheating bastard, I couldn't bring myself to do it. So, instead I made a compromise. I amended the "Suspects" with an "other than Richard." There, that was a better starting place.

  Only my mind was a blank when I tried to list them. I didn't have any suspects. All I had to go on was a blonde hair and a stiletto impression. Which I was pretty sure Ramirez still thought were mine. I wrote "blonde in heels" on the list. Gee. That narrowed the field to 95% of L.A.'s population.

  Obviously I needed more to go on. And it was equally as obvious that following Ramirez around town wasn't a good idea anymore. Besides the fact that he'd be on the lookout for a red Jeep now, I had a feeling he'd been this close to hauling me downtown last night. And I didn't want to tempt the man. Especially if he hadn't slept. Lord only knew how grouchy Bad Cop got with no sleep.

  So that meant Sherlock Fashion was on her own. I stared down at the notepad again. It was a pretty pathetic list. If I was going to convince Ramirez that Mystery Blonde was a suspect at all I needed more. Which meant going back to the Moonlight.

  I picked up my cell and dialed Dana's number, hoping she was up for playing Cagney to my Lacey again. (Never mind that the reality was more like an Ethel to my Lucy.) Unfortunately, No Neck Guy answered the phone at the Actor's Duplex and informed me (through a serious of cave-man worthy grunts) Dana hadn't come home yet. Still out hot-tubbing with Liao no doubt. I said to have her call me when she got in and hung up.

  As much as I dreaded going back into the bowels of the Valley alone, it was either that or draw kiddie shoes. And I was so not in a kiddie shoes place right now.

  I grabbed my keys and purse and headed out to my Jeep, braving the afternoon traffic into North Hollywood.

  There was an overturned big rig on the 405 and a police chase on the 101, so by the time I reached Vanowen again the Moonlight Inn was clear of reporters and CSI teams. In fact, save for the bright yellow crime tape still gracing the door of room two-twelve, it looked like business as usual. Radios blared, spandex clad women bade good-bye to their "gentleman callers," and the parking lot pharmaceutical trade had resumed in full force. North Hollywood was quick to bounce back from one little shooting.

  I parked the Jeep and avoided glancing in the direction of the green Dumpsters as I made my way to the _ront O__ice.

  I pulled open the smudged, glass doors and saw Metallica was on duty again. He'd changed into an
AC/DC shirt, but his greasy hair betrayed that he hadn't taken time to shower before coming back to work. He stared for a moment before recognition kicked in.

  "Oh shit. It's you!" He ducked down below the counter. "Please don't shoot."

  I rolled my eyes. "Do I look like I'm carrying a gun?"

  Metallica peeked his head up over the Formica. He did an up and down thing with his eyes, his gaze resting on my breasts. A grin broke out on his face. "Nope. You look niiiiice." He nodded, drawing out the word.

  Hmmm… maybe I should start carrying a gun.

  "Get a grip. They're just mammary glands."

  "Dude, I think the cops are looking for you. You chicks like totally messed that guy up."

  "We didn't kill him."

  He narrowed his eyes at me. "You sure?"

  "Yes!"

  "'Cause I wouldn't tell no one. I mean, when you think of it, it's actually kind of hot. Chicks with guns. Like a Laura Croft thing. Laura Croft is hot."

  I had a feeling any woman with a pulse was hot in Metallica's world.

  "Sorry to interrupt your wet dream, but we didn't kill him. In fact, the police think my boyfriend killed him."

  "Dude!"

  "I know!"

  Metallica leaned in. I tried not to grimace at the scent of stale weed and breakfast burrito. "Did your boyfriend kill him 'cause he was your john?"

  "No! God, no. I'm not really a hooker."

  Metallica looked me up and down again. "You sure?"

  "Yes, I'm sure."

  He grinned, showing off a mouth in serious need of some Crest White Strips. "You could be one. You'd make a really hot hooker."

  I felt my left eye begin to twitch. This was getting nowhere.

  "Did you see anyone else go up to room two-twelve last night?"

  "Nope. Just you, your friend, and that dude they found in the Dumpster."

  Damn. But, on the bright side, at least he didn't say he saw a lawyer in tailored slacks.

  "Could anyone have gone up when you weren't looking? Like maybe you went 'out back?'" I put my thumb and index finger up to my mouth in a smoking motion.

  He giggled. "Hey, anything's possible, babe."

  "How about the parking lot. See anyone suspicious hanging around?"

  Metallica grinned. Right. Stupid question.

  "Anyone who didn't look like they belonged here? Anyone…with money?" Or the vaguest notion of hygiene.

  Metallica chewed on his chapped lips, squinting off into space. "Nope."

  I was beginning to feel like I'd wasted a trip to the Valley for nothing. I tried one last angle. "How about this. Did you see any blondes last night? Wearing high heels?"

  "Dude, that would have been hot."

  Great. He was like Beavis and Butthead all rolled into one. Well, what did I expect? The man's brain probably looked like Swiss cheese.

  Then a thought struck me. Dana and I had had to weasel Greenway's room number out of Metallica. If Metallica hadn't seen the blonde, that meant she already knew where Greenway was staying. Either she followed him, which I didn't think was likely considering Greenway would be pretty careful about who he led to his hideout, or else Greenway trusted her enough to give her the room number. I mentally added another item to the Suspects list. Blonde in heels, Greenway's trusted confidant. Maybe a mistress? I wouldn't put it past him. During our short phone conversation, Greenway hadn't seemed like the type to balk at extra-marital affairs.

  So, I was looking for a blonde mistress in heels. All right, it wasn't a Colombo moment, but at least it was something.

  "Thanks a ton," I said to Metallica.

  "Thanks for what?"

  "For not seeing anything."

  "Dude, I not see shit all the time."

  I didn't doubt it.

  * * *

  My cell started ringing as I got back in my Jeep. I flipped it open as I pulled back onto Vanowen.

  "Hello?"

  "Mads, it's Ralph."

  "Hi Ralph. How's Mom doing?"

  "Better. She's still trying to get a Catholic priest to go bless the hotel gardens before the ceremony, but at least she's stopped eyeing her rosary."

  That was a start.

  "Anyway," he continued, "I was just calling to remind you about the bachelorette party tonight. Not that I thought you'd forget, but, well, I just thought I'd remind you."

  "I wasn't going to forget."

  "Right. Of course not." Faux Dad cleared his throat. "I knew you'd be there. I just…wanted to make sure."

  Okay, I had forgotten. What was it with this wedding that I seemed to be blocking it out of my memory?

  "Don't worry, Ralph. I'll be there. Cross my heart."

  I hung up with Faux Dad, ignoring the icky feeling that washed over me at the combination of Mom and male strippers, and dialed in my number to check my messages again. Only Dana, saying she was back from hot-tubbing. Nothing from Ramirez. Nothing from Richard.

  I called Dana back as I swung into an In-N-Out Burger, and filled her in on the latest developments over a double-double and fries. I also made her promise to go with me to Beefcakes tomorrow. I didn't think I could stomach it alone.

  As I hung up with Dana and dabbed at a spot of mustard on my skirt with a paper napkin (the burger was messy, but oh-so-worth it) I pulled out my Suspects list again. So, who was this blonde? The problem was I didn't know anything about Greenway, aside from the cliff notes version Ramirez had given me. What I needed was more dirt on Greenway's personal life. Like nosey neighbor or National Enquirer type dirt. Since I didn't see Greenway's neighbors gossiping with prime suspect number two (a.k.a. me! Ugh!) I figured a trip to the library was my best bet at ferreting out the gory details of Greenway's social exploits. If there was dirt to be gotten, I felt confident that back issues of the L.A. Informer were the place to find it.

  I hopped back on the 405, making a quick stop back at home to change out of my mustard spotted clothes and into my version of library wear—tweed skirt, white silk blouse, and low heeled loafers—before heading to the Santa Monica library. I was on a mission to view every bit of microfilm they had on Devon Greenway.

  Which turned out to be a lot. Apparently Greenway was not only a frequent story in the gossip columns, but also in the business section, due to the new micro chip innovations of his company, Newtone Technologies. I scanned through page after blurry page of microfilm, the constant hum of the machine my only companion. This was the side of detective work they didn't show on HBO. The no-frills-and-even-less-glamour side. It made the kiddie shoes look tempting again.

  If I'd hoped for a headline that read "Greenway Spotted with Blonde, Homicidal Mistress at Charity Gala" I was sorely disappointed. What I found instead was page after page of ribbon cuttings, IPO filings, and company prospects analysis.

  Two hours later my eyes were permanently stuck in squint mode and my nose was itchy with dust, but I knew every detail of Greenway's life, business or social. And unfortunately, a lack of blondes hadn't been one of Greenway's problems. In fact, through the course of the press's two year infatuation with all things Greenway, it was speculated he'd had no less than three mistresses. Andi Jameson, Carol Carter, and, get this, Bunny Hoffenmeyer. All blonde. (My money was on Bunny. Who could grow up with a name like that and not be homicidal?)

  I wrote all three names down on my suspects list, ignoring the fact that they didn't get me a whole lot closer to earning Richard that get-out-of-jail-free card. Sure I had the names of Greenway's known mistresses, but who knew how many had slipped by the press? Greenway struck me as the slick type.

  But, just to be thorough, I looked up all three blondies in the library's yellow pages before heading home. Andi Jameson was easy enough to find, listed in a condo in Encino. Otherwise known as Silicone Valley. I called her number, but she wasn't home. So I left a message saying I was a friend of Greenway's and wanted to ask her a few questions.

  There were about fifty Carol Carters, so I reluctantly wrote her address down as "un
known."

  Bunny Hoffenmeyer, as it turned out, was an adult film star, number unlisted. I did, however, find the production company she worked for. Big Boy Films in Sherman Oaks. Great. Back to the Valley.

  It was late afternoon and hitting that day's high of 96 degrees according to the bank on the corner of Westwood and National. I cranked my air conditioner as far as it would go as I hopped on the 405 and reluctantly made the trip back over the hills. A thick layer of smog held tight to the curves of the mountains, covering the Valley with a sickly gray color that made me wonder why anyone would live here by choice. On the other hand, it did strengthen Bunny's motive. Twenty million dollars would go a long way toward buying her way into the Beverly set.

  Another ten minutes of fighting freeway traffic and I was cruising down Sepulveda, a street lined with warehouses that passed themselves off as production studios for rent. Large, gray, and rusty, they didn't resemble Universal Studios in the least. And, I ventured to guess, neither did their films. Most were straight to video or foreign market pictures. Or, in the case of Big Boy Productions, tailored for a more mature audience. (Read: kinky.) Big Boy was located in a gunmetal gray building covered in corrugated metal siding. I parked in the lot beside a lunch wagon and stared at the building.

  K—here's the thing. I'm not really a porn kind of girl. I mean, I've seen porn. Once. When my college boyfriend tried to convince me it was hot to see close-ups of strangers' privates while we made love. (Needless to say I broke up with Voyeur Boy soon after.) But honestly the closest I'd ever come to knowing the insides of the adult film industry was Marky Mark's performances as Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights. And that was as close as I wanted to come.

  Damn Richard. This was all his fault.

  I took a deep breath and forced myself out of the car and across the two yards of parking lot to the unmarked door of Big Boy Productions. I almost covered my eyes as I walked in.

  If I'd been expecting a lava lamp induced orgy, I was disappointed. The room I stepped into looked like just about every office reception area I'd ever been in. In fact, with the exception of a bright red light bulb flashing over the door, it bore an unnerving resemblance to Dewy, Cheatum & Howe's front office. Only instead of one Jasmine, there were three. Three women behind expensive looking desks, all blonde Anna Nicole Smith look-alikes, all Double D's barely concealed by itty, bitty pink crop tops with the words "Big Boy" stretched across their implants, and all three staring up at me.