I nodded. “Dana’s with her right now,” I said, hoping it was the truth. “And,” I added, putting on my bravest face, “we found something that belongs to Becca, too.”
He slowly raised one eyebrow. “Did you, now?”
“Yes. Her dress. The one she was wearing the night Alexa died.”
“Interesting.” If the information unnerved him, he didn’t show it, his face as impassive as always.
“Want to know where we found it?” I asked, my confidence edging higher.
“I’m all ears.”
“Your bedroom.”
His jaw flinched, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as his shoulders tightened. It was an almost imperceptible physical shift, but his entire demeanor suddenly went from mildly amused to somewhere between menacing and downright dangerous.
“Another place I don’t believe you were invited to,” he responded, his voice an evenly modulated growl.
I licked my lips. “What was the dress doing there?”
But instead of answering me, he wrapped a hand around my upper arm. “I think it’s time for you to go,” he said, steering me out the door.
“Did Becca come here after the club?” I persisted. “Did she tell you what happened? Did she tell you Alexa was dead? Did she need your help cleaning up the murder?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Miss Springer,” he said, leading me around the side of the building, back toward the circular drive.
“You don’t answer very many,” I shot back.
“No. I don’t.”
“And it’s Mrs., by the way,” I corrected him.
I’m married.”
“Lucky man,” he mumbled, though I wasn’t entirely sure whether or not I detected a note of sarcasm.
“Look, we’re just trying to find out what happened to Alexa,” I said as the rows of cars came back into view. I could vaguely make out Marco’s form slouched in the passenger seat of Dana’s Mustang. “If you’re innocent, then you have nothing to hide,” I reasoned.
Sebastian stopped walking abruptly, turning me around to face him. His eyes shone eerily in the moonlight, making me involuntarily lean back.
“We all have something to hide, Mrs. Springer,” he said, his voice flat and low.
And with that, he turned and left me standing on the paved drive as he walked back through the mahogany front doors of his Castle of Creepiness.
Despite my disappointment at getting more questions than answers from him, I did a shiver of relief at being out of there, then quickly power-walked over to the car.
“Are you okay?” Marco hissed as soon as I had the doors open. “I saw you talking with the vampire. God, he was leaning so close to you that I was sure he was going to dig right into your neck.”
“I’m fine,” I answered. Even though a teeny tiny part of me might have shared his fear.
“Good. Here,” he said, passing me my tote bag again.
I took it, feeling a distinctly soggy spot at the bottom. “What happened to it?”
“I think your fake baby may have wet itself.”
I peeked inside. Sure enough, there was a wet stain in the front of Baby-So-Lifelike’s yellow onesie. Fab.
I was just drying off the tubes of lipgloss at the bottom of my tote with a fast-food napkin from the glove box when Dana pulled the door open, sliding into the driver’s seat, her breath coming hard.
“Did you catch her?” I asked, hoping at least our entire evening hadn’t been a bust.
She shook her head, panting as she tried to catch her breath. “No. She had too much of a lead.”
I felt my shoulders sag. “Did you see where she went?”
Dana nodded, sucking in big gulps of air. “Into a car. It was waiting at the bottom of the hill.”
“I don’t suppose you got the license plate number?” I asked.
Dana grinned, then reached into her purse and pulled out a slip of paper with seven numbers and letters written on it. “Now what kind of Cagney would I be if I didn’t?”
* * *
We agreed to meet the next morning to track down a name to go with the license number, and half an hour later Dana dropped me off in front of my house. Surprisingly, there was already a car parked in my driveway. A big, black SUV with a red police siren plunked on the dash. I raised an eyebrow. Could it be that my husband was actually home? Maybe my luck was turning around this evening.
“Honey, I’m ho-ome,” I sing-songed as I pushed through the front door.
Ramirez was on the sofa, a stack of papers in hand again. He looked up as soon as I walked in, took in my attire, and blinked hard.
“What is that?”
I looked down. “What?”
Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me. “The outfit, doll.”
“Oh. This?” I blinked innocently. It’s the latest-”
“And don’t tell me,” he said, cutting me off, “that this is the latest fashion trend.”
I shut my mouth with a click. Damn, he knew me so well. “Okay, fine. Dana and I were at a costume party tonight.”
The eyebrow didn’t lower. “Costume party, huh? What kind of costume party?”
“The kind where you dress up.”
“As?”
“Vamphrauhs.”
“Did you just mumble on purpose?” he asked, still giving me The Look.
“I did not,” I protested. Okay, honestly? I kinda did.
“Uh huh. What kind of party, Springer?”
I blew out a breath. “Fine. You win. We were at a vampire party.”
“Jesus,” Ramirez mumbled under his breath. “Please don’t tell me this has anything to do with your harebrained theory about Alexa’s death.”
“Okay.” I paused, letting silence settle between us.
“Well?” he finally prompted.
“You told me not to tell you.”
Ramirez clenched his jaw shut, and about ten really dirty words flashed behind his eyes. “Maddie, I love you.”
“I love you, too, honey,” I said, dripping with sweetness.
“But you drive me insane.”
“In a good way?” I asked, ever hopeful.
“In a way that makes we wish I’d married a woman who isn’t fascinated by murder.”
“I am not fascinated,” I protested.
“Just nosey?” he offered.
I swatted him in the arm. “Watch it, buster.”
“Look, just this once could you leave the investigation to the authorities?”
“I would love to,” I promised him. “But the authorities aren’t looking in the right places.”
Ramirez looked down at my outfit again. “And you are?”
“Yes! Look, someone went through a lot of trouble to make it look like Alexa was killed by a vampire. Don’t you think that’s significant?”
“I think the evidence will tell us what’s significant.”
“Well, did you know that Alexa actually worked as a vampire?”
“Yes.”
I shut my mouth with a click. “Oh.” That was not the answer I’d been anticipating. “You did?”
“Maddie, I’m a homicide detective. You think I wouldn’t look into where the victim worked?”
Right. He had a point. “Okay, well, do you know that her friend, the last person to see her alive and the girl who also worked with Alexa as a vampire, is now on the run?”
He paused.
“Ha! Gotcha.” I couldn’t help the triumph in my voice.
Ramirez shook his head, though I could see the faintest hint of smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Okay, Maddie, define ‘on the run.’”
“She took off from the club after Alexa died, and her clothes are all packed, and she’s been missing ever since.”
“So she hasn’t been in to work at her vampire job?”
“Well, yes, she was tonight, but then she took off. Running.”
The corners of his mouth quirked upward. “I see.”
“You’re humoring me
, aren’t you?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.
He held up his thumb and index finger. “Just a little.”
“You know, if I wasn’t aware that our baby already has ears, I’d have a few choice words for you right now, pal.”
“Okay, fine,” he said, holding up his hands in a mock surrender gesture. “I’ll admit the friend might be worth talking to. I promise I’ll look into it, okay?”
“Thank you,” I said, triumph nudging into my voice again.
“But don’t think this means I’m okay with you running around town with a bunch of crazy Moonlight wannabes,” he quickly added.
“Fair enough,” I agreed. Hey, he said he wasn’t okay with it, not that I had to stop. If he wanted to get bent out of shape over it, that was his prerogative.
“Where did you get that crazy outfit anyway?” he asked, that hint of a smile playing at his lips again as he eyed the black stockings peeking out of my Victorian ankle boots.
“The set of Moonlight II.”
That hint broke into the real deal. “I rest my case.”
“Come on,” I said, punching him in the arm again. “Don’t you think the whole vampire thing is just a little bit sexy?”
Ramirez looked down at my fishnets again and grinned. “Maybe. Just a little bit.”
“You know…” I said, taking a step closer. “I don’t have to give the costume back until tomorrow….”
Ramirez paused a moment, looked down at my dress again, going from the low neckline, to the healthy dose of cleavage the empire cut popped upward, to the touchably soft velvet trialing down my torso...
Then his eyes hit The Bump and immediately turned from dark chocolate to a flat brown.
“You know, I’m just not really in the mood tonight, Maddie.”
I blinked. Trying to process the words that had just come out of his mouth. My husband, the testosterone machine, the walking sex drive, was not in the mood. Not in the mood! What the hell was that supposed to mean?!
“What is that supposed to mean?” I blurted out before I could pause to decide if I really wanted to hear the answer to that question.
Ramirez cleared his throat and focused really hard on a non-existent piece of lint on his sleeve. “It just means that I still have a lot of paperwork to do tonight.”
“A lot of work.”
“And I’m kind of tired.”
“Kind of tired.”
“And I have a bit of a headache.”
“A bit of a headache,” I repeated doing a fabulous imitation of a parrot as my mind went nuts trying to read between his lines.
“Look, I’m gonna go call in this info about Alexa’s missing friend,” he said, looking everywhere but at me and my fishnets now.
“Uh huh. Sure. Great.” I watched his retreating back duck into the other room and close the door, not sure if I wanted to scream at him, cry, or just plain give up.
Chapter Twelve
“Ramirez thinks I’m fat.”
Dana gasped and put a hand over her mouth. “He did not say that!”
I shrugged. “He didn’t say it, but he won’t sleep with me,” I told her over what was fast becoming our morning chamomile ritual. “And I’m sure it’s because I’m fat.”
“You are not fat,” Dana said. “You’re pregnant.”
“Dana, you are a great friend. But there is not a baby in my ass, and my ass has grown to twice its size. That is a fat ass.”
Dana peeked behind me. She bit her lip. “It’s just to balance out the front. If your butt didn’t grow, you might fall right over forward.”
“Fab. So I’m exponentially expanding all over?”
“I’ve heard that breastfeeding makes the pounds melt right off,” Dana reassured me.
“So I might be able to lose the ass, but I’m trading it in for saggy breasts?”
“Don’t worry,” Dana said, waving me off. “There’s always plastic surgery for that. Oh, have you heard of the mommy makeover?”
I hated to ask… “What’s the mommy makeover?”
“Ohmigod, it’s great. They do your breast, tummy, and saddlebags all at the same time.”
“Saddlebags?” My eyes flew to my thighs. “I don’t have saddle bags, too, do I?”
Dana blinked at me. “No. Of course not,” she said, her eyes wide and innocent.
“Oh, God, that’s your lying face. I do have saddlebags!”
“I think we need more tea,” Dana said, getting up to refill my mug.
I thunked my head down on the kitchen table, doing deep, Lamaze breaths, willing myself to come to terms with my whale-like status. It was just temporary, right? With enough hours on the Stairmaster after the baby came, I’m sure I could shrink my ass back to normal size. Some pec-working push-ups, and my boobs would perk right back up. A couple of sea-weed wraps, and I’m sure my thighs would smooth out. And if all that failed, I made a plan to start a mommy make-over fund as soon as my next paycheck arrived.
“You okay?” Dana said, setting my mug in front of me. “‘Cause you kinda sound like you’re hyperventilating.”
I paused mid-deep breath. “I’m fine,” I lied. “Look, let’s just drop the whole subject and go look up that license plate number, okay?”
“Right,” Dana agreed. “So, where’s Ramirez’s computer?”
“Spare room,” I directed, grabbing my mug and leading the way to our guest bedroom slash storage room slash Ramirez’s office slash the baby’s room.
“Whoa,” Dana said stepping through the doorway. “What happened in here?”
I watched her wide eyes take in the room. A stack of Tupperware boxes filled with holiday decorations took up one end and a wardrobe rack filled with overflow from my closet the other. A crib sat at the far side under the window, though it was filled to the top with baby items, still in their packages. Humidifiers, wipes warmers, bottle sanitizers, and about a million other things that I wasn’t sure what they did but my mom had insisted that her grandbaby needed. There was a twin bed somewhere under a pile of baby clothes, and in the far corner was a desk where a laptop hunkered down amidst piles of papers.
I guess all the slashes in our room’s use had kinda filled it to max.
“It’s a little messy, I know,” I admitted.
“Messy? Dude, I’m about to dial Hoarders on you.”
“I’m going to clear it out before the baby comes.”
She looked down at me. Back up at the mess. “You sure you have enough time?”
“Let’s just run the plate,” I said, stepping over a baby excer-saucer and a package of diapers to get to the laptop.
I jiggled the mouse to life, pulling up Ramirez’s desktop. In the top corner was an icon labeled CADMV. I clicked it, and the Department of Motor Vehicles program immediately popped up, a window appearing that prompted me for a password.
“You know the password?” Dana asked, watching the screen over my shoulder.
I shook my head. “Not exactly.” I tried his date of birth, then hit enter.
The screen blinked at me, then displayed a line of text stating I had entered an incorrect password, prompting me to try again.
So, I did. I entered my date of birth. Our wedding date. Our address, phone number, and any other combo of numbers I could think of, before turning to words he might use. I started with “cop”, moved on to “homicide” and even “lapddude”, before finally drawing a blank.
“I’m stumped,” I confessed.
“Here, let me try,” Dana said, dragging the keyboard her direction. After a couple of combos of numbers and letters, she finally smiled, a light bulb going off behind her eyes. “Duh!” she said, her fingers flying. I saw her type in the word “Maddie”, and hit enter.
And the screen switched to the database homepage.
I grinned sheepishly, feeling a flutter of warm fuzzies in my stomach. Okay, so maybe our sex life wasn’t making like rabbits lately, but my husband was thinking of me even when he was running bad guys’ license
plates. In a weird way, that was kind of romantic.
“We’re in,” Dana announced, pulling the slip of paper from last night out of her pocket. She quickly typed in the digits she’d written down, hit enter, and we waited a beat before the program spit back a name associated with the vehicle: Lawrence Goldstein. I grabbed a Babies-R-Us receipt from the crib and wrote down the address displayed beneath his name on the back. It was in downtown L.A., and, half an hour later, we were standing in front of it, looking up at a high-rise that gleamed against the bright morning sunshine.
We entered the lobby, which was white marble floors, sleek modern chairs, and a bustle of people filtering past a large, cherry reception desk manned by four women in black headsets.
Dana and I approached, asking the first one where we could find Lawrence Goldstein’s offices. She indicated the elevators, saying he was on the seventh floor.
We thanked her, rode the elevator, and got out at the law offices of Goldstein and Associates, Attorneys at Law, or so the gold plaque above a second cherry reception desk told us. Like the first one, she was wearing another black headset. “May I help you?” she asked as we approached.
“Yes, we’d like to see Mr. Goldstein, please,” I told her.
She nodded, glancing briefly down at a computer screen. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh, no. I’m sorry, we don’t,” I confessed.
“And what is this matter regarding?” she asked.
“It’s kind of confidential,” Dana jumped in.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow, but must have seen enough confidentially minded people filter into her offices that she didn’t ask. Instead, she indicated a pair of chairs. “Have a seat, and I’ll see if he can fit you in.”
We did, though I’d scarcely gotten through the first article in the People magazine on the coffee table before she told us to go down the hallway to the right and enter the last pair of doors.
We did, finding ourselves in reception number three.
“May I help you?” asked a younger, blonder version of the first two women in black headsets.
“We’re here to see Mr. Goldstein,” I repeated.
She nodded. “Through the first door on the left,” she said, indicating another doorway.
I gingerly pushed through, wondering just how many gatekeepers Mr. Goldstein had. Thankfully, instead of another headset, behind the low cherry desk in this room sat an older man that I hoped was Goldstein.
Fearless in High Heels Page 8
