Killer in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  “Ha, ha. Very funny. It was one boob, okay? I popped one freaking implant and suddenly I’m Calamity Jane.”

  His mouth quirked up again. “Why don’t you just tell me about this phone call, huh?”

  I hesitated. Yes, I had called him in the first place, but this whole smirky slash sexy slash casual-and-not-even-hinting-at-the-fact-that-we’d-been-nearly-naked-together thing he had going on was starting to irritate me.

  But the way I saw it, I had two options. One, tell him to go to hell for not calling once in six weeks, then having the nerve to show up while I’m in ducky jammies. Or two, swallow my pride, make a pot of coffee, and play the message for him. (I ignored the voice in my head screaming to go with option three: Jump his bones right here and now, you idiot! Before he disappears again for god knows how long.)

  As much as telling him to go to hell sounded fun, I figured option two was the most productive. So I set my Mr. Coffee to perk, tossed in some French roast, and played the message for Ramirez.

  He listened, his face unreadable. I bit my lip, half hoping he’d say it was obviously a car backfiring, even though the more I listened to it the more likely Dana’s theory of forty-five Berettas seemed.

  “So?” I asked. “What do you think?”

  He sat down on my futon and rubbed a hand over his face. “He said his name was Larry on the tape. Larry what?”

  “Springer. Why?”

  Ramirez sighed deeply, his face still a solid wall of Bad Cop. “Nothing. Look, it’s probably a prank phone call.”

  “But we should check it out, right?”

  “We?” He gave me a look like I’d just proposed a June wedding, all trace of his previous humor gone. “No, you shouldn’t check out anything. If you hear from him again, have the police check it out.”

  “But if he’s dead, he can’t very well call again. Don’t you think someone should investigate?”

  “Someone, maybe. You, definitely not.”

  I was beginning to take this personally.

  “I already have his number narrowed down to two possible Larry Springers in Vegas.” I showed him my list. “Dana’s checking addresses for me.”

  “Addresses?” Ramirez’s volume shot up about three notches. “Wait, you’re not actually thinking of going to Vegas to look for this guy, are you?”

  “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, but he is my fa—”

  “No! No, no, no, no.” Ramirez stood up, shaking his head. “You are staying right here. Look, if that is a gunshot on the tape, I don’t want you getting involved. The Vegas PD will handle it. I absolutely forbid you from setting foot in Las Vegas.”

  I blinked. “Forbid me?”

  Okay, so here’s the thing: I hadn’t, in fact, been planning a Vegas trip. As much as the thought of my father lying dead in a ditch bothered me, I wasn’t exactly ready to come face to face with the man who’d abandoned me without so much as birthday card for the last twenty-six years. I’d figured once I had a couple of addresses for the police to check out, I would hand the whole thing over to the Las Vegas cops and hope for the best. But the sight of Ramirez towering over me, having the unmitigated gall to forbid me to do anything after pulling a disappearing act for the last six weeks made visions of blackjack tables dance before my eyes.

  “I’m sorry; did you just say you forbid me from going to Vegas?”

  Ramirez rubbed a hand over his face and muttered a curse. “I am asking you very nicely to stay home. And since I’m a police officer, I think you might want to listen to me.”

  “Well, I’d say that since the message is on my machine, it is my father who called, and last time I checked it wasn’t illegal to visit one’s own father, I can pretty well decide if I’m going to Vegas or not—all by myself.”

  “I’m warning you, Maddie…”

  “Warning me?” I took a step closer, jutting my chest out in a display of mock bravery. “And what exactly are you going to do to stop me?”

  He grabbed me by the shoulders. He looked me square in the eye. Then he planted his lips on mine.

  For about half a second I was in total shock. I’d like to say I pushed him off, smacked him across the face as I’m pretty sure he deserved, and told him where he could stick his “warning.” But considering I’d been practicing unintentional celibacy longer than any woman should have to, I melted into a puddle of spineless jelly instead. I suddenly really, really wished I’d had the presence of mind to wear some sexy negligee to bed last night.

  Once he’d thoroughly engaged my hormones into overdrive, he stepped back, giving me the puppy dog eyes. “Maddie, please stay away from Las Vegas.”

  “No fair.”

  He grinned.

  “That was a really dirty trick.” I cleared my throat. “And I’m not falling for it.” Much.

  Ramirez sighed, shaking his head at me. “Okay, tell you what, I’ll make a couple of calls to the Vegas PD. If anything turns up, I’ll let you know. Okay?”

  “Now you’re just trying to humor me, aren’t you?”

  He sighed again. “A little.”

  “It’s the duckies, right? They make me seem a little crazy, huh?”

  “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 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 asked, 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, calling them would be the logical thing to do. But if I had one more snide man with a badge humor me, I was going to pop a blood vessel. Besides, my encounter with Ramirez was a wake-up call that this was the sort of story the cops would laugh at behind their donuts and coffee. They weren’t going to take a possible gunshot reported from a hundred miles away any more seriously than Ramirez took a lady in duck pajamas. If my dad really were 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 up my eyes 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 bring 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 CheapRates.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 in 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 grapeshaped 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 made 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 that 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 who spent his life overseas drinking martinis that were shaken, 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. 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 studio. 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 into my DVD player, losing myself in puppy love instead of thinking about what might be waiting for me in the desert tomorrow.

  At 7:01 I was awakened by a shrill sound that rivaled Mariah Carey’s last album. 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-sleeve, 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 knocked 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. Apparently they all 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. 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 Captain 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 stove burners 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 Audrey 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 a 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. “Geez, 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.