Killer in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  I willed myself not to hyperventilate. I recognized that voice. It was the same one I’d heard arguing at the club with Monaldo. Unibrow.

  “Lar-ry,” he singsonged. “You here, buddy? Your front door was open, so I thought I’d come pay you a visit.”

  Liar. If Unibrow had come in the front he was a hell of a lot better at breaking and entering than I was. Not a totally comforting thought.

  “Larry!” Unibrow called up the stairs, his voice sharper now. “I’ve got something here for you. Don’t make me come up there looking for you.”

  Crap, crap, crap! I quickly scanned the room for a hiding place as Unibrow’s bulk thump, thump, thumped up the stairs. The closet would have been the obvious choice, had it not been filled to capacity with pumps. Bed, dresser, nightstand—none of which were large enough for me to hide behind. I lifted the leopard-print bed skirt. More boxes of shoes were stacked under the bed. Wow. Aside from myself and Imelda Marcos, I didn’t think anyone owned this many shoes. I quickly shoved a stack out of the way and wedged myself in with the shoeboxes and dust bunnies, just as Unibrow reached the landing.

  I could hear his labored breathing as he entered the room, but all I could see were his brown wingtips and the hem of his black slacks.

  His feet crossed the room to the dresser, then I heard the sound of him opening drawers and tossing the contents. Tubes of lipstick fell to the floor, along with three Styrofoam heads and a handful of costume jewelry. The long blond wig fluttered down from the dresser, the Raspberry Perfection lip gloss rolling out from under it, across the carpet, and coming to a stop just inches from my nose.

  Okay, why was fate taunting me like this? Can you cut a girl a little slack? I’m doing denial here!

  Unibrow grunted something and gave up on the dresser. I watched his wingtips move toward the closet, cringing at the thought of his big meat cleaver hands tossing Larry’s precious designer footwear aside. I heard one shoe rack meet its demise, collapsing with a crash, and felt a tiny piece of my heart break. I was glad now I’d put on the Mary Janes. At least they were safe.

  Apparently feeling he’d caused enough destruction, Unibrow’s wingtips moved away from the closet. I gave a little sigh of relief for the spared pumps.

  Then I held my breath as he turned toward the bed.

  I felt my eyes growing bigger as his shoes slowly came at me. One step after another until the tip of his right foot was inches from my face. I could smell the leather and pungent shoe polish he used, along with the faint scent of Odor-Eaters. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to the saint of bad hiding places that Unibrow didn’t sit down on the bed. With his bulk, I’d be an instant pancake.

  Someone up there must have heard me, because he didn’t, instead veering to the left and out the bedroom door.

  My sigh of relief was so big, the dust bunnies in front of my face danced. His footsteps lumbered back down the stairs as I scrambled out from under the bed. I waited until I heard the front door open and shut before kicking off the too-big Mary Janes, grabbing my kitten heels, and taking the stairs two at a time. I padded barefoot across the kitchen to the garage door and slipped inside just as I heard the front door open again. I slid my shoes back on and did a little tippy-toe across the garage in the dark, hoping I didn’t bump into anything but too chicken to wait until my eyes adjusted to get the heck out of Dodge.

  I only tripped once, over a sack of fertilizer or something that someone had left in the middle of the floor, before I made it to the outside door. I gingerly twisted the handle, cracked the door open and peeked my head out. No sign of Unibrow. I slowly shut the door behind me, trying to make as little noise as possible even though my hands were shaking harder than a 7.2, and jogged over to the side gate. I did another crack and peek. A black Lincoln Town Car was parked at the curb, the trunk popped open. I’d watched enough HBO to know this car had Mob written all over it. I craned my head to the left and right. No sign of its driver. I prayed he was still inside the house. I gave myself a three count, then darted out of the yard and across the street to the Mustang.

  It took two tries before I could keep my hands steady enough to fit the key into the ignition. But once I did I wasted no time in punching the gas and squealing my tires down the street, seriously appreciating the zero to sixty qualities of a muscle car with a V8 engine.

  By the time I got back to the hotel room, my hands had finally stopped shaking, my teeth were no longer chattering together like castanets and, I realized with a stab of regret, I had missed my appointment at the Regis. Not only was I being followed by a stalker and cornered by Mob goons, I was stuck with my mustache until the Fran Drescher sound-alike could fit me into her schedule again. (Apparently when Bette was in town, not only were the low-rent rooms booked, but salon appointments were also in high demand.) After setting up a four-thirty appointment for tomorrow, I flopped down on the double bed and stared at the textured ceiling again, trying to make sense of all I’d seen that day.

  What had Larry gotten himself into? By now even I had to admit it looked like something just this side of legal. And from what Maurice said, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse two weeks ago. That’s when Larry and Hank had fought, and Hank had started carrying a gun. So what was it? And what sort of “something” did Unibrow have for Larry? Had it been in the trunk? Did it have anything to do with the counterfeit shoes? Or was “I have something for you” code for “I’m gonna snuff you out execution-style”?

  I wondered. In fact, I wondered so hard I fell asleep. By the time I woke up the sky had turned into a deep blue and there was a little puddle of drool forming at the side of my mouth.

  I rolled over and looked at my cell phone. The display told me I had two new messages. Still holding out a small hope that one of them might be Larry trying to contact me again, I keyed in my pin number and listened to the recordings.

  Unfortunately neither, it turned out, was from Larry. The first message was from Mom, telling me about this charming Mexican restaurant on Beach that I had to try. They served the best mojitos in Palm Springs. In fact, she said, she’d had so many of them last time she was there that she’d ended up seducing Faux Dad right there in the backseat of his Caddy in the parking lot. My mother: Queen of Too Much Information.

  The second message was from Ramirez. He said he was running late and would meet me at Il Fornaio downstairs at seven. I glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. 6:15. Yikes!

  I quickly hopped in the shower, then set to rummaging through my suitcase for something suitable to wear on my very first date with Mr. I-Wanna-Sex-You-Up. The only problem was I’d packed for a father-daughter reunion, not a Vegas seduction. Unless I wanted him to end the evening with a pat on the head and a bedtime story (which, considering my dry spell was already going into extra innings, I so did not,) I needed new clothes.

  I pulled open Dana’s suitcase. Lots of spandex and workout wear. All in size two. I’ve never considered myself a hefty gal, but there was no way I was going to be able to squeeze myself into her itty-bitties. I made a mental note to skip dessert tonight.

  I glanced at the digital clock. 6:45. Not enough time to go buy something in the boutique downstairs. That left only one option. I stared at the matching set of leopard-print bags. I quickly pulled one open, hoping to god Marco packed as girly as he shopped.

  Bingo.

  I found a pink and purple chiffon scarf that was the perfect accent to the low-cut, V-neck cashmere sweater tucked into bag number three. Paired with my black leather skirt and Gucci boots, it presented a pretty decent look even if I did say so myself.

  I did a smoky number on my eyes with lots of shadow and mascara. With a little blow-dry and a lot of mousse, I fluffed my hair into a sexy, just-got-out-of-bed look. (Never mind that I had, in fact, just gotten out of bed.) And, just in case, I slipped a couple of Altoids into my purse and put on my Vicky’s Secret black lace thong. If all went well, this would be a first date to remember.

 
Chapter Eleven

  Ramirez was waiting for me at the bar. And I had to admit, as I approached him my stomach did one of those loop-de-loop things like the roller coasters at Six Flags. He was wearing gray slacks, a blazer, and a white button-down shirt open at the neck to show off just a hint of his tan skin beneath. I realized I’d never actually seen Ramirez out of his usual jeans and T-shirt uniform. (If you didn’t count that one half-naked encounter, that is.) Bad Cop cleaned up good. Really good. I was glad I wore the thong.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, planting a little kiss just above my ear. He ran one finger lightly along the arm of my sweater. “Soft.” His mouth quirked up into a wicked half smile. “I like it.”

  “Thanks.” I didn’t tell him I’d stolen the outfit from my gay roommate.

  With a hand at the small of my back, Ramirez steered me to a table near the back. A handful of other diners filled the cozy, intimate room, holding hands and feeding each other forkfuls of pasta. Soft instrumental music played over the sound system and small, drippy candles at every table completed the air of Northern Italian romance. All in all, the perfect restaurant for a perfect first date. Score one for Bad Cop.

  The maitre d’ sat us at a table next to an older couple with silver hair and matching shirts that read “World’s Cutest Couple.” And I had to agree. The man was holding the woman’s hand in both of his and gazing at her like a newlywed. I looked across the table at Ramirez. I wondered if we had any chance of making it that far.

  Ramirez caught my gaze. “You look really nice tonight,” he said, his eyes taking on that X-ray vision look as they roamed my body.

  I went warm in places I’d forgotten existed.

  “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

  That dimple made an appearance in his left cheek as he pulled out his sexy lopsided grin. He leaned forward, his eyes intent on mine. “What do you say we skip dinner…” His eyes dipped a little lower to my neckline. “…and go right to dessert?”

  I gulped. I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the tiramisu. And I was one second away from agreeing when the waiter appeared at my elbow, asking for our drink order. After a quick perusal of the wine list, Ramirez picked out a bottle of Rutherford Hill merlot. Nice. I snuck a look at the price. Wow. Very nice. Score point number two for Bad Cop.

  Once our waiter disappeared into the back, we both picked up our menus.

  “Decided what you want yet?” Ramirez asked.

  “I’m not sure.” I looked down at the list of entrees. “Everything looks so good. How about you?”

  “Oh, I know what I want.” I looked up to find him staring right at me. Or more accurately, at the hint of cleavage my Wonderbra was lifting out of Marco’s sweater. I did one of those dry gulp things again and hoped I wasn’t blushing too hard.

  “So,” he said, folding his cloth napkin onto his lap. “How was your shopping trip today?”

  “Shopping?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes, shopping. You were supposed to go shopping today, right?”

  I bit my lip. Oh yeah. Right. “I, uh, kind of took in some of the local sights instead.” I quickly buried my nose in the menu, pretending I was concentrating really hard on the ingredients of the linguini marinara so he didn’t see the guilty look in my eyes.

  No such luck. Ramirez put a hand over the top of my menu, slowly lowering it. “Local sights?”

  “Uh huh,” I said in a tiny voice. Frighteningly like the one I used to use when my Irish Catholic grandmother caught me sneaking cookies before dinner.

  He narrowed his eyes further. “Such as?”

  “Um…Larry’s house and Maurice’s condo.”

  “Maurice?”

  “Hank’s boyfriend.”

  Ramirez muttered a curse. The world’s cutest couple turned and gave us a look.

  “What exactly were you doing at Hank’s boyfriend’s house?” Ramirez asked.

  “Just, you know…asking a few questions.”

  “You don’t give up, do you?” he asked, rubbing at his temple in exasperation.

  “You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It is a bad thing when we’re talking about the Mob!”

  The cutest couple gasped.

  “Keep your voice down,” I whispered.

  Ramirez clenched his jaw. He took a couple of deep breaths and I could see him mentally counting to ten. Though instead of getting calmer, I think that vein in his neck was starting to bulge.

  Luckily I was saved by the waiter appearing with our overpriced merlot. He uncorked our wine and poured us each a glass. Ramirez downed his in one big gulp.

  “Do you realize you just inhaled about twenty dollars worth of wine?” I whispered as the waiter walked away.

  Ramirez fixed me with a stare that could stop a charging bull. Then poured another glass. “Okay, Sherlock Fashion,” he said through clenched teeth. “What did Maurice have to say? Spill it.”

  So I did. I told him what Maurice had said about the three Manolo-keteers working on the side for Monaldo. I told him about Larry and Hank’s blow-up, Hank’s propensity to carry a gun, Bobbi’s disappearance, and Larry’s skipping town. I was just about to tell him about my dust bunny encounter with Unibrow’s wingtips when the waiter returned to take our order.

  Ramirez ordered the steak. Rare. I hemmed and hawed over the linguini marinara or the lasagna with cream sauce, figuring the longer I took the more time Ramirez had to get that bulging vein under control. No such luck. As soon as the waiter left again, Ramirez pinned me with one of his unreadable stares.

  “What?” I asked.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I’m trying to decide whether to put you on the first plane back to L.A. or take you back to my place, tie you up, and make you forget this whole thing.”

  I blinked a couple of times. “Do I get a say in this?”

  He leaned forward, his face serious. “Maddie, the last thing I want to do is get called in to identify your body. Which is exactly what will happen if you don’t leave this alone. Guys like Monaldo will hurt you like they’re swatting a fly, and not think twice about it. Please go home.”

  I had to admit, his concern was actually kind of touching. “But what about Larry? I can’t just leave him to be hunted down by Monaldo.”

  “And what exactly do you propose to do about it? You can’t even squish a spider without freaking out.”

  I bit back a smart reply as a teeny tiny part of me kind of agreed with him. I was in so far over my head that I could see blond roots. But Ramirez on the other hand did this kind of thing every day…

  “Nothing. But you could do something.”

  His eyes narrowed into catlike slits. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “You’ve got to put Larry into some kind of protective custody.”

  “What, I should just lock him up? Maddie, do you know how hard it is to get a legitimate witness into protective custody? Let alone some guy who may or may not know anything, and who, I might add, may or may not even be willing to tell us what he does know?”

  “But I think he might be in danger.”

  “You think he might be.”

  “What about Hank?” I asked. “You said yourself that wasn’t a suicide.”

  Ramirez blew a big sigh up at the ceiling. “Look, unless your father turns himself over to the police with information about a crime, there’s nothing I can do.”

  “This is because you want me to leave, right?” I asked, planting my hands on my hips. “You’re just trying to discourage me so I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “No,” Ramirez said, his voice going tight like he was really trying to restrain himself from lapsing into Spanish swearing again. “I’m telling you the same thing I would say to any concerned citizen.”

  “But I’m not asking you as a citizen, I’m asking you as your—” I paused, biting my lip. His what?

  Ramirez raised an eyebrow, interested to see how
I finished that thought.

  “Your…girl you’re on a first date with.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Maddie, but unless Larry turns himself in, there’s nothing I can do. Besides, wherever he is, I’m sure he’s fine. I know Larry. He can take care of himself.”

  I paused and stared at him. My heartbeat sped up as his last comment sank in. “Wait a minute—what do you mean, you know Larry?”

  “I’ve been undercover at the club for the last six weeks, Maddie. I’ve gotten to know the employees.”

  I don’t know why it hadn’t dawned on me sooner, but comprehension suddenly smacked me upside the head. “Oh. My. God. You’ve known about my dad all along, haven’t you? You knew he wore go-go boots and didn’t tell me?”

  He fidgeted in his seat. And to his credit he even looked a little sheepish. A very little. “Maddie, I didn’t say anything because I knew you’d react this way.”

  “What way?” I said, my volume quickly rising into a range that had the world’s cutest couple glancing our way again. “How exactly am I reacting? Like I’ve been lied to? Like the person I’m supposed to be able to trust is keeping secrets from me? Like everyone else knows about my dad’s high-heel fetish but me!”

  “Maddie—”

  “No, don’t you ‘Maddie’ me.” I banged my hand on the table, making the cutest couple jump in their seats. They were openly staring now and, I’d wager, taking bets to see who won. “How long have you known?”

  Ramirez sighed. “Larry had talked about a daughter, but I didn’t know for sure it was you until I heard the message at your apartment.”

  “That was days ago! I can’t believe you knew and didn’t tell me.” My fingers clenched around my butter knife and it took all my willpower not to reach across the table and stab him in his no-good, lying heart with it.

  “Maddie, I was undercover. I couldn’t tell you.”

  “I’m sorry, being undercover isn’t an excuse for being an asshole. Dammit, Jack, I can’t believe you did this. You lied to me!” I paused. “And do you want to know what’s even worse than that?”