"Well, just that we need to help Fernando."
"Why do I get the feeling you don't mean by sending him a sympathy muffin basket?"
Marco rolled his eyes so far I feared they'd pop out of their sockets. "No, silly goose, I mean with the investigation."
I narrowed my eyes. "What investigation?"
"Well, duh!" Ling jumped in. "That tan chick's murder!"
"You mean the death that the police are looking into?" I clarified.
Marco crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head at me. "Maddie Springer, you don't really mean to tell me that a murder practically falls into your lap, and you're not going to investigate?"
I shook my head from side to side, feeling my blonde hair whip my cheeks. "No, I am not. My husband is perfectly capable of figuring this one out on his own."
More eye rolling. "But your stepfather is counting on you!"
I shook my head again. "Oh, no. Don't you play the family card with me."
"But what about the salon?" he went on. "The press is kiiilling him." He drew the word out with a dramatic flair that could have won him a role on Broadway.
"I think he'll live."
"But will his business?"
I paused. I hated to admit that I'd worried about the very same thing.
"Here's the thing," Ling said, jumping in. "I got inside connections that the police don't have."
I paused. There was that uneasy feeling in my stomach again.
"Okay, I'll bite," I said, sipping at my coffee. "What kind of connections?"
"I happen to be good friends with one of the other players on the Stars."
"Define friends?" I said.
"He gets half priced lap dances."
I had to ask.
"Okay, so you have an…in with a player," I conceded. "I'm not sure that really helps us."
"Of course it does!" Marco said. "We can pump him for information."
"'Pump for information?' You have to stop watching Mark Wahlberg movies, Marco."
Marco grinned. "But he's so hot."
"John Ratski is the player," Ling continued. "He comes into the Galaxy all the time. I'm sure I can get all sorts of info from this guy."
I bit my lip. I knew that name. Ramirez had pointed him out to me at the ballgame the other day. He had a shaky RBI or BMI or BMX or something like that. But I was pretty sure it wasn't good.
"So what kind of info do we think Ratski has?"
"Ratski and Bucky are tight," Ling said. "Like thick Bromance tight. If Bucky confided in anyone about killing his girlfriend, it's Ratski."
"Whoa." I held a hand up. "Who said Bucky killed Lacey?"
Again I got the duh look from the double trouble. "Come on, you know it's always the boyfriend who kills the girl. Don't you watch CNN?" Marco asked.
My turn to roll my eyes. "Okay, even ignoring your complete lack of evidence other than television sensationalism, what makes you think that Ratski will talk to us?"
"Leave it to me," Ling said, sending me a wink. "I can soften him up."
I bit my lip. Knowing how Ling made her living, I wasn't sure soften was the right verb. On the other hand…Marco had a point. While normally all press is good press, the idea that Fernando's tanning booths were killing clients wasn't going to do much for his business. The salon was Faux Dad's life. I couldn't let the speculation take it down. While I had complete faith in Ramirez to get to the bottom of things, it couldn't hurt to just go talk to Ratski, could it?
"Okay. Let's go talk to the ball player," I conceded.
Marco let out a high-pitched squeal.
"But just talk," I emphasized. "No 'info pumping.'"
"Right." Marco nodded. "Just talk."
"He'll be in at four," Ling informed me.
I paused. "Be in…"
"The Glitter Galaxy."
Mental forehead thunk. "We're talking to him at the strip club?"
"Well it's not like he'd give me his home address," Ling said, rolling her eyes. "Duh! How would that look to his wife?"
Oh, boy. Why did I have a feeling I'd just aligned myself with Tweedle Diva and Tweedle Devious?
CHAPTER THREE
Once Marco and Ling left, I still had a few hours to kill before my strip club appearance and felt obligated to play domestic goddess. I did a round of dishes, loaded the washing machine, and even pulled the vacuum out of the closet. Luckily I was saved from actually using it when my cell rang, displaying my best friend, Dana's, number.
"Ohmigod, Maddie," she yelled in my ear as soon as I picked up. "I just saw it on the news. What happened?"
I quickly filled her in on all I knew, ending with my plans to question Ratski at the Glitter Galaxy later that afternoon.
"So you think the boyfriend did it?" she asked when I'd finished.
"I don't know," I told her honestly. "But there are only two possibilities. One—it's a total random killing."
Dana sucked in a breath.
"Or, two—someone close to her wanted her dead. Someone who knew her tanning schedule."
"Too creepy. I'm never going to look at a spray booth the same."
I'd ditto that. I just hoped Fernando's clients didn't feel the same way.
"Well, I wish I could go with you," Dana continued, "but I'm shooting until three."
"How's it going?" I asked, tucking my phone in the crook of my neck as I intervened between the twins. Livvie had grabbed Max's toy duck, causing tiny screams of protest. I picked up my little thief, hoisting her onto my hip.
"It's flippin' freezing here. They have me in a bathing suit on the Golden Gate Bridge. Can you believe? It's fog city."
"How many more days do you have?"
"Hopefully this is it. If we can get the sun to peek out enough to get the shots today."
"Well, good luck," I told her.
"Thanks. Hey, by the way, I got the invitation."
"What invitation?" I asked, switching the phone to the other ear as I deposited Livvie into her high chair along with another handful of Cheerios.
"To the twins' birthday party. It was adorable. Where did you get it?"
I groaned. "I haven't actually seen them. This is all Marco's doing."
"Oh, they're beautiful. Linen and gold embossed, with a light tissue overlay. Cute but super classy."
I felt myself mentally adding up the cost of that classiness as the guest of honor tried to stick a Cheerio up her nose.
"Anyway, I'll be there for sure," Dana told me.
I didn't have the heart to tell her I was still a maybe.
* * *
After I had fed, changed, burped, then re-changed the twins, I packed them and their diaper bag into my minivan and drove them to my mom's house. Mom had graciously agreed to watch them while I "took care of some business." I let her believe it had to do with my shoe designing business and not investigating business. I didn't want to get her, or Faux Dad's, hopes up that this trek to the strip club was going to yield any results. Personally, I still thought it was a leap to assume the boyfriend was guilty, and an even bigger leap to assume he might have purged his guilty conscience to his best friend.
"How are my babies?" Mom squealed as soon as I walked in the front door, attacking Livvie and Max in a round of perfume scented hugs.
"Fed and mostly clean," I answered for them.
"Oh, wait until you see what Grammy bought for you-oooo," Mom sing-songed.
I tried to hide my dread. While I loved my mother with all my heart, her sense of fashion had peaked somewhere around 1985 and stalled there like a Volvo with a car phone. She was the only person in the entire L.A. basin who still wore acid washed jeans with high-top sneakers. Today she'd paired them with a sweater featuring a koala in a shade of purple that exactly matched the heavy eye shadow extending from her eyelids clear up to her plucked brows.
"Oh, gee, Mom, you shouldn't have," I said, fully meaning it as she grabbed a bag from her kitchen counter.
"Oh, now, you know I love to spoil my
babies," she protested. I watched as she pulled out two little rompers: one in blue, the other in pink. She held them up to her chest so I could see the silk-screen design on the front. They both said "I'm 1," with a spotted giraffe contorting himself into the shape of the number.
While they weren't haute couture, it could have been worse. "Cute," I said, nodding my approval.
"Aren't they? They'll be perfect for the party."
I heard myself groan before I could rein it in. "Marco sent you an invitation, too?"
Mom nodded. "They were gorgeous, honey, but don't you think they were a bit much for a child's party? I mean, you can't just go throwing money around like that, Mads."
I opened my mouth to protest that it was someone else throwing my money, but before I could get it out, the front door opened again.
"Yoo-hoo? Anyone home?" a voice called. A beat later the woman who went with it appeared in the doorway, Mom's best friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt.
Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred pound Jewish psychic who looked like the Pillsbury dough boy had a love child with Lady Gaga. Her make-up was loud, her muumuus bright, and her ex-husbands numbering almost as high as her cholesterol count. She and my mother had become fast friends after a particularly enlightening reading Mrs. R had given my mom on the Venice Boardwalk one afternoon, saying she would meet a tall, dark stranger soon. Two days later, a chocolate lab had wagged his tail into Mom's life, and she'd been a believer ever since.
"Oy, bubbee," Mrs. R said, her eyes immediately going to me. "Come here."
I took a step closer as she squinted at me. "You got something right there," she said, waving her hand in the region of my forehead.
"Where?" I went crossed-eyed trying to see.
"There." She pointed.
"What is it?" I asked, swiping with my hand. "Baby food? Spit up? Smudged mascara?"
Mrs. R shook her head. "Nope. Aura flares."
Mental face palm. "Aura flares?"
"Maddie, your aura is a hot mess. You got any stress in your life?"
I thought of the pole dancer and the queen waiting for me at a strip club to interrogate a murder suspect. "Nope. None I can think of."
"Well, you gotta relax. Get some fresh air. Maybe a long, meditative walk."
A long walk sounded like heaven. It also sounded like someone else's life. The last time I had time for a walk, it was from my refrigerator to the babies' crib in the middle of the night with two fresh bottles.
"Listen, I'll be back at six by the latest," I told my mom. Then I planted a kiss on each of the twins' heads and slipped out the door before Mom and Mrs. R had a chance to interrogate me about my interrogation.
* * *
Glitter Galaxy was located in the City of Industry on Main, sandwiched between a John Deere wholesaler and a warehouse with the words "China-Co" printed on the sign. By six on a payday, it would be packed. Right now, the parking lot was mostly empty, only a smattering of late model sedans near the entrance. The building itself was a squat, one story affair that looked like any of the other warehouses in this part of town. Only this one had a ten foot tall naked woman rimmed in neon standing on its roof.
I spotted Ling and Marco in Marco's Fiat at the far side of the lot, and I pulled into the slot beside them. Marco scrunched his nose up as he got out of the car, studiously avoiding looking at the giant yellow nipples flashing above us. "This place always gives me the creeps."
Ling punched him in the arm. "Toughen up, Nancy."
"Ow," Marco said, rubbing his bicep.
"Look, let's just get in, get the interview, and get out," I said, not a huge fan of the place myself. While I was no prude about the human form in all its naked glory, something about men sitting with their hands under the tables threw my squick radar to a ten.
Ling led the way inside, pausing to wave to a girl on stage in alien antennae, pointy flashing neon ears, and nothing else. She had her leg wrapped around the top of the pole, hanging upside down and arching her back in a pose that clearly screamed "double jointed." Very impressive. I had a hard time tearing my eyes off her as I followed Ling through the club, which was dark, smelled like stale beer, and perpetually felt like last call. No windows, lots of walled off areas for private dances, and music so loud my feet were getting a massage through my slingbacks.
"He's not here yet," Ling shouted to me. She pointed to a booth near the back of the club which was currently empty. "That's his favorite spot."
"So what do we do?"
Ling shrugged. "I'm gonna make some tips while we wait. You do whatever you want."
Knowing what Ling cleared, I was tempted to join her. But instead Marco and I opted to take a seat at a table near the door. As soon as we did, a Princess Leia in Jabba servant clothes came up and asked if we'd like a drink. What the heck? It was almost five, and the kids were elsewhere. Marco and I ordered a pair of cosmos.
As soon as she arrived with them, I turned to Marco. "I heard that you sent out invitations to the twins' birthday?"
Marco nodded, beaming. "I did. And they were fab!"
"Fab as in expensive?"
Marco shook his head at me. "Maddie, how can you put a price—"
"—on my kids. I know, I know. Humor me for a moment and say I can. Would that price have one zero after it or two?"
Marco made a tsking sound between his lips. "Honey, those were custom designer label invitations."
"Which means?"
"Three zeros."
I grabbed my cosmo, taking a long swig as I pictured just how many pairs of shoes I'd have to design to pay for this "priceless" party.
"Trust me, everyone has loved them so far," Marco assured me. "I've had tons of RSVPs already."
I paused. "Tons? Exactly how many people have you invited to this party?"
"Now that number only has two zeros."
I downed the rest of my drink, thinking what bad form it would be to wring his neck and spend my children's first birthday in jail.
Luckily for Marco's safety, the front door opened, blasting the interior with a bright light. Once it subsided again, I caught a tall, dark haired guy in jeans and a polo shirt standing near it. He wore at least a day's worth of growth on his chin, a six pack worth of beer belly hanging over his belt, and a ball cap pulled low over his ears as if hoping no one recognized him. Just like Ling said, he took a seat at the booth in the back, sliding low in his seat and signaling Princess Leia for a drink.
Ling must have spotted him too, as she quickly left the group of guys in cheap suits she'd been working and made her way to the back booth.
Ratski's eyes lit up as she approached, and I watched Ling lean in, whisper something in his ear, then giggle flirtatiously as the waitress returned with his draft beer.
"What did she say to him?" Marco asked, leaning in.
I shrugged. "Got me."
"Come on. We're missing the interrogation."
"Talk. We're just here to talk," I hissed back. Even though I knew it was a lost cause. Marco loved to play Nancy Drew like I loved a good sale at DSW.
I followed him as he slipped from our table, taking a spot instead at the booth next to Ratski. The backs were high enough that he couldn't see us, but we were close enough to overhear every word.
I put my finger to my lips as I heard Ling's voice float over the top of the booth to us.
"You must be so tense. I heard all about that dead girl on the news last night."
A grunt was the only response she got.
"You know her?" Ling pressed. "Lacey something?"
"Desta," Ratski responded, his voice low and raspy. "Lacey Desta."
"Yeah, that the one! She died terrible, no?"
Ling was laying the accent on thick. I figured it was her version of "playing blonde," a trick I'd admit to using myself once or twice. The less a person thought you knew, the more apt they were to tell you everything they knew.
"Terrible," Ratski agreed, and I heard him pause for a sip of beer.
"T
hat boyfriend of hers must be pretty upset."
"Yeah."
"They close? The boyfriend and the dead girl?"
I cringed. It wasn't the most finessed questioning.
"Of course," Ratski responded, a defensive edge to his voice now.
"No fighting?"
"No."
"They weren't having any relationship problems?"
"No!"
"You sure?"
"Look what is this?" he asked, and I heard him get up from the booth.
What it was, was a very poorly conducted talk on our part.
I slid out of my own seat just in time to see Ling pop up in front of him, her barely-taller-than-a-third-grader frame barring his way.
"You know what this is," she said, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed. "The boyfriend always guilty. So, fess up. He do it?"
"What the hell?" Ratski said, pushing past her.
I sighed. So much for her and Ratski being "good friends." This was going downhill fast.
And then it went into downhill in speed-skater mode.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the Glitter Galaxy open, blinding sunlight reflecting off a gold badge as a cop held it up to the doorman.
Oh, no.
The light faded, and as my eyes re-adjusted to the dark, I saw my husband and two other plainclothes detectives enter the Galaxy.
I immediately turned, putting my back to the door and grabbing Ling by the arm. "Uh, look. We're very sorry to have bothered you."
"Who are you?" Ratski asked, his gaze pinging from me to Marco and back to Ling.
"I'm no one. No one, who will be on her way now."
"I don't know what this is," he said, addressing me. "But you can tell your whore friend here to leave me the hell alone."
Ling sucked in a breath, her jaw tensing. "I am a dancer. Not a whore," she ground out.
Ratski shook his head. "Whatever."
"You have no right to call me that! That is big disrespect!"
I glanced at the door. Our altercation was causing unwanted attention. Namely from the tall, dark, and coming-dangerously-close-to-identifying-me-in-the-dimly-lit-strip-club husband.
"Look, I'm sure he didn't mean it. Now let's get out of here," I said, tugging on Ling's arm again.
Homicide in High Heels Page 3
