"No, honey, you do that all on your own."
I did a straight-arm point toward the door. "Out. I have to brush my teeth."
Ramirez sighed and shook his head again. "Look, just promise me you won't go to Vegas, Maddie?"
I fixed him with my best imitation of my Irish Catholic grandmother's evil eye. "Promise me you'll call?"
To which I got nothing but his cop face in return.
"That's what I thought."
And I'm proud to say that at that, I did, in fact, slam the door. Hard enough to rattle my front window in its frame.
Men. One minute they have their tongues down your throat and the next they're forbidding you from meeting your own father and criticizing your fashion choices. Forbid this, pal! I aimed a really unladylike hand gesture at the door.
I poured myself another cup of coffee, hoping the French roast would wipe the memory of Ramirez's kiss out of my mouth, and dialed Dana's cell.
"Hey," I said when she answered. "You busy?"
"I'm on my way to an audition for a baby food commercial. Why, what's up?"
"Did you get a hold of Verizon Ted last night?"
"Uh-huh. I'm actually just leaving his place," Dana said, giggling into the phone.
Great, was everyone getting some except me?
"And?"
"Did I ever tell you about that thing Ted does with his tongue when we—"
"What about the phone numbers?" I said, breaking off before I started to regret sending Ramirez away.
"Oh. Right. Uh…hang on a sec." I heard Dana flipping through her Day Runner. "Here they are. Ted gave me addresses for both numbers. One in Henderson and the other in south Vegas. You think we should call the police now?"
Actually, I'd had it with police that morning. Sure, that would be the logical thing to do. But if I had one more snide man with a badge humor me I think I was going to pop a blood vessel. Besides, after my encounter with Ramirez it was a wake up call that this was the sort of thing the cops would laugh at behind their donuts and coffee. They weren't going to take a maybe gun shot reported from a hundred miles away any more seriously than Ramirez took a lady in duck pajamas. If my dad really was in trouble, I had a feeling that by the time the cops got around to finding him, it would be too late.
"Dana, what does your schedule look like for the next couple of days?" I asked.
More Day Runner flipping. "I've got a class with Rico tonight – Your Body, the Ultimate Weapon."
Luckily Dana couldn't see my eye roll this time.
"But I'm pretty much free tomorrow. Why?"
I took a deep breath. Did I really want to do this? I weighed the idea of coming face to face with the man who'd been largely myth my whole life versus letting Ramirez think he could actually 'warn' me off. I scrunched my eyes up tight and hoped I was doing the right ting.
"Wanna go to Vegas with me?"
Dana did a high pitched squeal on the other end that I'm sure had every dog from here to San Diego howling in protest. "Ohmigod, road trip!"
I held the phone away from my ear. "I'll take that as a yes."
"Yes, totally! It's been like, forever since I went to Vegas. Last time I was there was for that Lil Dawg music video, and we totally spent the whole time out in the desert, and I didn't even get to play like one slot machine. Ohmigod, this is going to be so fun. I'm like totally bringing all my laundry quarters. I heard they even have slot machines in the gas stations, Maddie. The gas stations!"
"Meet me here tomorrow. Say nine?"
"Totally!" Dana yelled. "Vegas, baby! Ohmigod!"
Oh, my God was right. I just hoped I could do this.
* * *
As soon as I hung up, I booted up my laptop and scanned Cheap Rates dot com for a hotel room. I did an eenie meenie minie mo between the Venetian and the New York-New York. In the end, the $69.99 a night room special at the New York won out. I booked a double before I could change my mind. I then spent the rest of the morning cleaning my apartment (in case any other uninvited visitors showed up) and trying not to think about the look on Mom's face when I told her I was going to meet Larry. I was starting to feel bad about the way I'd left things with her, both of us squaring off like stubborn little Napoleons. And I did feel kind of sneaky taking off for Vegas without even telling her. So, after a lunch of a fairly healthy peanut butter (lots of protein, right?) and potato chip (potatoes are vegetables, which are totally healthy) sandwich, I hopped into my Jeep and made the trip back into Beverly Hills.
Marco was in the reception area when I walked in, stringing a row of plastic grapes across his desk.
"Ciao bella," he sing-songed as I walked in. "What do you think? Tuscany Chic?"
I nodded. "Very nice."
Marco beamed.
"Hey, is my mom around?" I asked, giving a wary glance to the back room.
"Sorry, doll, she and Fernando just went to lunch," he answered.
Chicken that I am, I breathed a little sigh of relief.
"Would you mind giving her a message when she gets back?"
"Sure thing, dahling." Marco pulled out a grape shaped pad of paper. "Shoot."
I filled Marco in on my search for Larry Springer, the Houdini of dads, and my upcoming trip to Vegas. When I mentioned where I was staying he did a deep, wistful sigh that could have earned him a Tony on Broadway.
"I always wanted to go to New York."
"Hmm. Well, it's actually in Vegas."
Marco gave me a blank stare. Sometimes Marco had a problem distinguishing fantasy from reality.
"Any-hoo," I continued, "If you could just give my mom the message. And tell her that she can call if she, well, wants to talk or anything…" I trailed off.
Marco patted my hand. "Don't worry, honey. I'll break it to her gently."
I thanked him and left, trying not to picture how tightly Mom's lips would clamp once she found out. But, with any luck, I'd be on the road by then.
* * *
I made a quick detour on the way home, stopping at the Beverly Center for the perfect I'm-going-to-meet-my-dad-for-the-first-time outfit on the chance that a) we did find him, b) he wasn't shot or wounded or… worse, and c) I actually had the courage to go up and introduce myself to him. That last thing was kind of a long shot considering my past record of chickenhood, but I figured I'd play the Girl Scout and be prepared.
Only for the first time in my life, I hadn't a clue what to wear.
As a kid I'd always fantasized about the kind of person my dad might be. When I was six I was certain that he'd left Mom and me to join the circus as a lion tamer. He was brave, strong, and loved animals—an all around great guy if you ignored the fact he'd left his family behind.
By the time I was ten he'd moved on to an illustrious career as a CIA spy, the kind that spent his life overseas drinking martinis that were shaken and not stirred. I figured that was a really good reason for not sending your daughter a birthday card, because of course, if I knew where he was, I'd be in danger. Really he was staying away for my own protection.
When I turned fifteen I was absolutely certain my father was Billy Idol. Of course he couldn't be there helping me with my homework; he was touring the world with his rock band, which everyone knows was no place for kids. Poor Billy. I think I sent him a copy of every one of my high school report cards.
But now, by the age of twenty…somethingish…I had finally accepted the reality that my father was just a jerk who had abandoned his family to get it on with a showgirl.
A jerk I was driving to Vegas to meet tomorrow.
I bit my lip as I stared at a pair of Jimmy Choo slingbacks in teal green. Yet somehow I still wanted him to have the perfect impression of his little girl. I wondered if I should make some more copies of the report cards.
A first for me, I walked away from the Beverly Center empty handed. Instead, I swung by the local Auto Club and picked up a map of Las Vegas before heading home.
I was happy to find only one message waiting for me at my s
tudio. Blockbuster was still on me about not returning Joanie Loves Chachi. Yeah, like they had a long wait list for that one.
Instead, I popped it in my DVD player, losing myself in puppy love instead of thinking about what might be waiting for me in the desert tomorrow.
* * *
At seven-o-one I was awakened by a beeping sound that rivaled Mariah Carey's last album in the shrill department. I bounced out of bed, arms flailing, wild bed hair whipping around my face as I fought through my sleep haze for the source. Fire? I blinked a couple times. Didn't smell smoke. I finally realized it was my alarm clock. The one I'd set the night before. I smacked the damn thing with the palm of my hand, thinking for the hundredth time just how wrong it was that mornings had to start so early.
I dragged myself out of bed, made a couple thousand pots of coffee and took a long, hot shower, trying to work the sleepless kinks out of my neck. I threw on a pair of jeans and a long sleeved, white DKNY logo top and my favorite pair of Gucci boots. The ones with the supple black leather finish and teeny tiny hand stitching along the top that only the most discerning eye (which of course, mine was) could see. By the time Dana arrived, knocking on my front door, I was feeling human again and had almost lost my sarcastic morning edge.
I opened the door and took in her outfit. "Who threw up on you last night?"
Hey, I said almost.
Dana was dressed in a classic A-line skirt, black pumps, and a white blouse. Covered with green and orange stains.
"Baby food commercial," Dana said, trudging into my apartment. "I had to audition with five different munchkins yesterday, all of whom, apparently, have an aversion to carrots and peas. Got anything to eat?" Dana started going through my cupboards.
"And you're still wearing it because…?"
"I spent the night at Rico's last night. After the audition I needed to get a little aggression out so he met me at the gun range." She paused, scrunching up her nose at my Cap'n Crunch and frosted Pop Tarts. "You know how much refined sugar is in these things?"
"Tons."
She shrugged and put them back on the shelf, taking out a box of Wheat Thins and popping a couple in her mouth as she talked. "Anyway, Rico asked me if I wanted to see his private collection…"
Rico, the master of the double entendre. I did a mental eye roll.
"…and of course I said yes."
"Of course."
"And one thing led to another, and I haven't had time to go home and change yet. You mind if we swing by my place on the way out of town?"
"Fine with me."
After another cup of coffee—which Dana insisted on after the puke comment—we were ready to go. I was giving my studio a last once over for locked windows and irons in the off position when a sound like a dying goose singing Cabaret erupted outside my building. Dana and I rushed onto the porch.
"Hell-oooo dahlings!"
I blinked. Marco was at the wheel of a nineteen-sixties mint condition Mustang convertible, seafoam green with white tires. He had on big Donna Karan sunglasses and a scarf tied over his hair circa Miss Hepburn's black and white days. An effect that would have been a tad more classic if he hadn't paired it with a rainbow striped turtleneck and leather pants.
"Are we ready to road trip, girls?"
Dana looked at me, raising one eyebrow. I shrugged.
"Uh, I didn't know you were coming with us," I finally said.
"Well, I just couldn't let the opportunity to go to New York pass me up, now could I?"
Dana raised the other eyebrow at me. More shrugging on my part.
"Don't worry," Marco plowed on, "you'll hardly know I'm there. Besides, I told your mom a much better story than the one you gave me. You're going on a weekend getaway to Palm Springs with that hunky cop. So, shall we?"
I stood there with my mouth hanging open. He'd lied to my mom? I had to admit, though, it was a pretty good lie. Half of me kind of wished I'd come up with it myself.
And he had a point. Mom would be much happier with this version. But, most of all what he had was a nineteen-sixties, vintage Mustang convertible. What girl could resist the allure of riding through the desert al la vintage starlet?
"Let's get a move on," Mizz Hepburn called from the front seat, "traffic's backing up on the 10 already." He punctuated this by laying on the horn, bringing the singing goose back from the dead again.
"On one condition," I said.
"Yes?" Marco raised his shades.
"Don't touch that horn again."
"Fine, fine." He turned to Dana. "Geeze, she's a little pissy in the morning, huh?"
I gave him the evil eye.
* * *
Two hours later we'd stopped at Dana's for a change of clothes, and at Starbucks for a grande mocha latte that Dana insisted I needed after I threatened to castrate Marco if he played one more Madonna CD.
I sipped in silence as we drove through La Puente and Ontario, finally merging onto the 15 north as we left the city behind us for Joshua trees, sagebrush, and the occasional trailer park. We stopped in Barstow for lunch, and I felt only minimally guilty watching Dana eat her fat-free protein bar and fruit smoothie as I wolfed down a Big Mac and fries. And a chocolate shake. And two apple pies. But, everyone knows that traveling calories don't count, right?
As we were merging back onto the freeway I was settling nicely into my fast-food coma when I caught a flash of blue behind a semi-truck to our right. I whipped my head around, that weird tingling sensation breaking out on my neck again. I could swear I saw the dented front bumper of a Dodge Neon disappear behind the truck as we merged into the fast lane.
"Did you see that?" I asked.
"What?" Dana craned her neck.
"A blue Neon. Back there."
"No." Dana shook her head. "Why?"
I bit my lip. I had a sinking suspicion I was becoming paranoid. "Nothing."
Marco peered at me in the rearview mirror. "You okay?" he asked.
"Fine. Dandy. Just peachy," I lied. I peeked behind me again. Just in time to see the Neon dart out from behind the semi truck, exiting the freeway at a rest stop on the right.
I stifled a gasp.
Things had officially just been upgraded from coincidence to creepy.
KILLER IN HIGH HEELS
Available now!
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
Honeymoon in High Heels (novella)
Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)
Fearless in High Heels
Danger in High Heels
Homicide in High Heels
Spying in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries #1) Page 29
