Homicide in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

I shook my head. "Sorry, this time he and I are as out of the loop as anyone."

  Felix raised one eyebrow.

  Oops. I'd forgotten that I hadn't told him about Ramirez's suspension. "Anyway," I glossed over it, "it seems I need a press pass to get past the gatekeeper." I blinked my lashes and did my best innocent little smile at Felix.

  Felix raised the other eyebrow. "Are you asking for another favor, Maddie?"

  "Yes, I'm asking you for another favor. A small one," I clarified.

  Felix grinned again. "And in return I get…?"

  "The warm fuzzy feeling of helping out a friend?"

  "Hmm." He pursed his lips together and shook his head in the negative.

  "The satisfaction of helping to bring a killer to justice?"

  More head shaking.

  I sighed. "An exclusive interview with an eyewitness to the Ricky versus Ratski's altercation?"

  Felix's face broke into a wide grin. "Now we're talking." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a rectangular laminated pass on a lanyard emblazoned with the L.A. Informer's logo, identical to the one I noticed he was wearing around his own neck.

  I quickly snatched it from his hand before he had second thoughts and slipped it over my head, making tracks toward the gatekeeper. I triumphantly held it up and couldn't help feeling just a little gratification as he stepped aside and let us past him.

  Felix and I followed a thin but steady stream of reporters, anchor persons, various freelancers, and bloggers down a short corridor to the Stars press room. As soon as I stepped inside, I recognized the podium and back drop as having graced my living room TV screen on many an occasion as Ramirez either celebrated or grumbled about the night's game. The back wall was papered with the team's logo—a bright red star with the letters L and A in scrolling calligraphy—and in front of the wall sat a simple, long wooden table, outfitted today with several microphones and scattered pitchers of water.

  Right away I noticed Laurel and Hardy, sitting behind the table. Hardy was checking his teeth in the reflection of his microphone stand while Laurel guzzled water like it was going out of style, her deer-in-the-headlights eyes bouncing around the quickly filling room.

  Behind them, I could see several guys in suits, whispering to each other and shuffling papers back and forth. Whether they were publicists for the LAPD or the Stars, I wasn't sure. What I was sure of was that they were about to deliver some news that would cast both in a favorable light…though I had a sinking feeling that light would not extend to Fernando's.

  "Any chance they arrested a suspect?" Felix whispered to me, as we found two seats near the back of the room.

  "Unlikely," I mumbled back, ignoring the nervous flutter in my stomach.

  "Unlikely because?" Felix pressed.

  "Those two investigate a murder about as well as I catch a foul ball."

  Felix had barely covered his snicker when the owner of the Stars stood up behind the microphone, raising his hands to the room to signal quiet.

  "I want to thank the members of our esteemed local journalistic outlets for attending our conference today," he started.

  I barely concealed my snicker as I glanced around. Esteemed was probably the last word I would use to describe the assembled group. "Tabloids," "yellow journalists," "hacks," maybe.

  "I'll make this quick," the owner said. "And I'd like to turn the microphone over to detectives Laurel McMartin and Jonathan Hardy with the LAPD to give you a brief update on their investigation into the tragic death of a member of the Stars family, Lacey Desta."

  At the mention of Lacey's name there was a pall of simultaneous silence and eager anticipation that hit the crowd. I found myself jiggling my knee up and down and biting my lip as Hardy stood up, clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders as he preened for the cameras.

  "Thank you, Mr. Shwartzheimer," Hardy began. "And thank you to the esteemed members of the press."

  Oh, brother. My eyes rolled so far up in my skull I could almost see my brain.

  "After an exhaustive investigation where my partner, Laurel McMartin," he said pointing to his apoplectic deer, "and I have explored many avenues of inquiry, gathered ample evidence, and done exhaustive analysis, we are happy to come to the conclusion that none of the players of the L.A. Stars baseball team have any connection whatsoever to the death of Lacey Desta."

  The room immediately erupted into quiet murmurs, tapping keyboards, and rustling coats as members of the press tweeted, typed, and emailed this development to their respective editors.

  I narrowed my eyes at the detective, wondering exactly what sort of exhaustive analysis he'd done. So far all I'd seen him analyzing was his B-roll from Baseball Wives.

  "We have officially cleared all members of the team and their spouses," Hardy emphasized, nodding toward Mr. Schwartzheimer, "of any suspicion whatsoever in this tragic death. It is our conclusion that persons unknown and unaffiliated with this baseball family perpetrated a random crime upon the unfortunate Miss Desta."

  It was all I could do to keep myself from jumping up and shouting, "Not true!" Random crime at Fernando's salon was exactly the sort of thing that would shut him down for good. Who knew when the next random tanning salon killer would show up, right?

  "I assure you that myself, detective McMartin, and the entire LAPD will continue to tirelessly look for this unknown individual. However, I would just like to repeat they have nothing whatsoever to do with the Stars family."

  I crossed my arms over my chest, glaring at the detective and wondering just what sort of season tickets the owner had promised him in exchange for this declaration of "not under cloud of suspicion."

  "Quite interesting," Felix said beside me.

  "Interesting is one word to use for it."

  "I take it your husband doesn't agree with this assessment?"

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say that my husband thought that Laurel and Hardy were the two biggest losers on the LAPD. However since I was talking to a tabloid reporter, I chose my words carefully.

  "My husband would prefer to focus on the persons unknown rather than the Stars publicity."

  Felix gave me half a grin. "You realize that gives me nothing printable."

  "Thank God for small favors."

  * * *

  Felix left me in the parking lot with a promise to check in with Cam about those photos of Ratski as soon as he got back to the Informer's offices. Once I got back to my car I looked down at my cell and saw it was just past noon. I had a brief thought of going home for lunch, but it faded as soon as I spotted the enticing beacon of the Del Taco sign down the street from the stadium. A Macho Burrito was just what I needed to plan my next move. I hit the drive-through and parked under a tree in the lot as I dug into my cheesy, spicy, heaven on a tortilla, letting the flavors dance on my tongue as my mind wandered over the case.

  While Laurel and Hardy had cleared the Stars and their wives, I had exactly the opposite feeling. It was clearer than ever to me that Lacey had been blackmailing someone in the team "family," and that someone had wanted her dead. My favorite suspect was still Ratski. He was dating somebody; that much was clear. "Who" was another question, but if Lacey had somehow found out and was blackmailing him over the sort of affair that his wife couldn't ignore, it gave Ratski good motive to want to shut her up.

  Then there was Beth herself. Lacey had been seen having dinner with Ratski. Maybe Lacey had been the one having the affair after all, and Beth wanted her out of the picture.

  Of course it could have just as easily been one of the other players who wanted Lacey out of the picture. If someone was using performance enhancers, say someone like Gabriel Blanco, that would've been excellent fodder for blackmail as well.

  I paused to take a near orgasmic bite of my burrito, chewing thoughtfully as my mind worked over the rest of my list. In addition to the players there were the other two wives. Liz had been Lacey's former employer, and they'd been seen fighting over money. If Liz's boutique really w
as in such financial dire straits, Liz wouldn't have been able to keep up with the designer-label-wearing blackmailer's demands for much longer. Getting rid of Lacey would've been a faster solution to her problem. And then there was Kendra. She wanted Lacey gone for reasons that had nothing to do with blackmail, but if she really was worried about her husband's contract not being re-upped due to seemingly poor performance on the field, she had an excellent reason for wanting to keep Bucky's head in the game. Hadn't it been Kendra who had told me Bucky was eager to get back to work? Maybe keeping his mind in the game, and off his girlfriend—dead or alive—had been Kendra's main goal all along.

  I mentally went through my list of suspects as I wiped a dab of guacamole from my chin. The problem was any one of them could've wanted Lacey gone. They all had excellent reasons, and they all had shaky alibis. I could see why detectives with an aversion to work might rule this case the way Laurel and Hardy just had.

  I was just finishing up the last of my churro (Hey, I needed something sweet to chase the burrito with!) and wiping cinnamon sugar crumbs off my black capris when my phone pinged with an incoming email. I scrolled down to find that, true to his word, Felix had sent me a file full of photos.

  This is everything Cam could pull from the past two months, Felix texted.

  thanks, I wrote back before quickly opening the file. I turned my car on, letting the AC run as I scrolled through. Some of the photos seemed vaguely familiar, like I'd probably seen them on the Informer website when they'd gone live. Others were untouched, and I could tell they were raw footage Cam had taken that never made it to publication. Many of them were of Ratski at various Stars functions, press conferences, and charity events. A couple were candid shots of him coming out of the club or going into a trendy restaurant. I squinted down at the screen, wishing I had a larger device as I zoomed in and out with my fingertips, trying to catch the faces of Ratski's companions, scanning for anybody who seemed to appear more often than they should. I found a couple of photos where Beth was present. A few featured his teammates, a guy with a headset and a tablet wearing horn rimmed glasses that I pegged as a publicist, and a dark-haired woman with an L.A. Stars jacket. The woman in the jacket was interesting. Could it be Ratski was sleeping with someone on the Stars admin team? I quickly whipped through the photos for any other sign of the brunette. But as far as I could tell she only appeared in the press event pictures. The only recurring character in the candid about-the-town photos was the publicist with the horn rimmed glasses.

  Wait.

  I paused, flipping back to the first photo, then looked at the pictures one by one. In almost every photo the publicist was there—even in places where I wouldn't assume Ratski would need his publicist's attention, like shopping at the 3rd Street Promenade and grabbing a bite to eat on Sunset. What was it Felix had said about publicists? Anyone who was anyone in Hollywood had a gay publicist.

  I did a happy dance in my seat, the burrito jiggling around in my belly. Was it possible that I'd found the salacious affair just too scandalous to let public? The fans would forgive Ratski for being a womanizer. Heck, they might even eat it up, boosting both the Baseball Wives ratings and his ticket sales. But it was another thing to ask the fans of America's favorite sport to embrace a gay baseball player.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The first thing I did was google "John Ratski publicist." I quickly came up with the name of Theodore Schwimmer of Image Public Relations, who had offices on Highland. If Lacey had somehow found out about Ratski and Theodore, it would have been perfect blackmail fodder. The last thing Ratski would want is for his wife to find out. However, if Lacey really was about to be on the Baseball Wives show with Beth, it was about to become much harder for Ratski to keep his secret life from his wife. Unless, of course, Lacey was out of the picture.

  It was a great theory, but what I really needed was proof—proof that Lacey had somehow found out Ratski's secret and was using that information to her advantage. And if there was one person Ratski would have confided in about the blackmail, I had a feeling his offices were on Highland.

  Unfortunately there was a wreck on the 405, meaning it took me over an hour before I reached the offices of Image Public Relations. I parked on the street a block down and fed the meter before hoofing it in my new pewter kitten heels back toward the office. I pulled open the glass doors to a blast of welcome air conditioning and rode the elevator to the third floor offices of Image.

  "May I help you?" a blonde woman behind the desk asked in a pleasantly efficient voice.

  "Yes, I was wondering if Theodore Schwimmer was available?" I replied.

  "Do you have an appointment with Mr. Schwimmer?" The woman consulted a screen behind her desk.

  I shook my head. "No. But it's relating to one of his clients. John Ratski of the L.A. Stars."

  "And you are?"

  "Maddie Springer," I replied. "I'm with the L.A. Informer." I reached into my purse and pulled up the press pass I'd borrowed from Felix.

  The receptionist nodded, and, to my surprise, instead of calling back to Schwimmer's office, she got up and made the trek down a short hallway to a closed-door near the back herself.

  I only had to wait a few minutes before she returned and informed me, "Mr. Schwimmer will see you now."

  I nodded my thanks to her and made my way down the hall.

  While Schwimmer's office wasn't overly large, it was clean and furnished in a contemporary style that exuded impeccable taste. A small black sofa graced one wall, flanked by wooden bookcases, and a dark wood desk sat in the center of the room. Behind the desk sat the man from the pictures with the horn rimmed glasses. In person he was shorter than I had anticipated, though slightly chunkier. He had dark hair and a pale complexion that said he didn't spend much time in the California sunshine drifting in through his window. He was dressed in pressed slacks, a starched shirt, and a tie that lay across his chest straighter than an arrow. His appearance gave off an air of tidy organization. If I had to pick someone to be the opposite of Ratski, I couldn't have gotten closer than this.

  His blue eyes blinked at me with anticipation behind his lenses. "My client has no comment on the celebrity battle being played out in your tabloid, Ms. Springer," Schwimmer started.

  I nodded. "Actually, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions of a different nature about John Ratski."

  He raised an eyebrow at me, but indicated that I sit in the leather chair opposite his desk. "Don't you think that you people have done enough to him this week?"

  I bit my lip, thinking fast back to the partial conversation I'd overheard earlier in Stars parking lot. "That's why I'm here, Mr. Schwimmer. The Informer doesn't want any legal trouble. We realize every story has two sides, and there's a possibility that photo of Ratski and Ricky was taken out of context. I'd like to do a piece on Ratski to set the record straight and get the real story"

  Schwimmer raised his dark eyebrows at me again. Clearly he wasn't used to members of the tabloid press asking for a real story. "All right," he said slowly, as if choosing his words like a witness on the stand. "What can I tell you about John?"

  The way he said Ratski's first name only heightened my suspicions.

  "We ran a picture of Ratski with Dana Dashel the other day, implying that they were on a romantic date." I watched Schwimmer's reaction carefully.

  But like the pro he was, he kept his poker-face in place. "Yes, I'm aware of this inference."

  "But Ratski didn't have any romantic intentions toward Dana, did he?" I pressed.

  "No," Schwimmer answered slowly.

  "In fact, Ratski doesn't have any romantic intentions toward any of the women he's been rumored to be interested in, does he?" I said pointedly.

  Schwimmer paused before answering. "Ratski is happily married," he replied.

  "He's married, all right. But I'm not sure it's exactly what you call a happy marriage."

  "I'm sorry, Ms. Springer, I'm not really clear about what you're implying
. But if you are looking to help clear Ratski's name in your tabloid…" he trailed off, standing.

  I knew when someone was about to give me the boot out of his office, and this guy was close. Time to pull out the big guns.

  "Ratski's gay, isn't he?"

  Schwimmer paused about halfway up from his seat. He gave me a long look, and I could tell it was on the tip of his tongue to deny it. But instead he sat back down and steepled his fingers, giving me an assessing stare.

  "What makes you think that?" he asked.

  "Sorry, I can't reveal my sources," I hedged, not quite ready to confess that I'd been going through Ratski's things and found his love letters. But I charged on, hitting Schwimmer with all I had before he had a chance to come up with a good denial.

  "Lacey Desta knew it. She had proof that Ratski was batting for the other team, so to speak. She blackmailed Ratski, and when he got tired of paying, he killed her."

  Schwimmer jumped up from his seat. "That's completely false! John would never do such a thing. He doesn't have a violent bone in his body."

  "But Lacey was blackmailing him?" I pressed.

  Schwimmer looked from me to the door of his office. He quickly crossed and shut it before turning back to me.

  "This is all off the record, and I swear to you if I see this in print in your newspaper, I'll not only deny it, but I will sue you for slander."

  Since I clearly had no intention to print any of this, I nodded my agreement.

  Schwimmer crossed back to his desk and sank into his chair, his shoulders slumping as if all the fight had just drained out of them. "Yes, it's true, Ratski is gay."

  "Not only gay, but the two of you are involved, aren't you?" I said.

  Schwimmer looked at me in surprise for moment but didn't bother to deny it. Instead he nodded slowly. "We have been for a few years now. But if there's one thing that America can't forgive a sports hero for being it's a homosexual. Take all the drugs you want, train dogs to maul each other, heck, even beat your girlfriend. But heaven forbid you should fall in love with a man."