Spying in High Heels (26 page)

Trying my best to appeal to Mr. Chesterton's human side (some lawyers have those, right?), I quickly outlined my mistress theory. I admit, after the less than appreciative reception it had just gotten with Ramirez, I was a little reluctant, especially with Jasmine hanging on my every word, but at this point, I didn't have much to lose. I was
so
not doing visitations at San Quentin.

Only when I finished, Mr. Chesterton's blank face gave way to the kind of patient smile one wore with whiney children or small, disobedient dogs. "That's all very… interesting. But I'll tell you what, why don't you just let me worry about how to get Richard out of this jam."

It was that leave-it-to-the-big-boys speech again. I was really beginning to get tired of all these
big boys
screwing with
my
life.

"I want to help," I insisted.

Mr. Chesterton put on a placating smile. "Well, honey, you know what you could do that would really help Richard the most?" he asked.

I bit my lip. "What?" So help me god, if he said go home and knit I was going to lose it.

"Be Richard's moral support in all this. He needs someone in his corner. A cheerleader, if you will."

I'm proud to say I didn't laugh out loud. Not even a little snicker.

"Should I go buy pompoms, too?"

Luckily my sarcasm was lost on Chesterton. "You just leave everything to me. We'll get Richard home soon."

I gave up. It was clear Mr. Chesterton cared even less than Ramirez about the growing list of women with a grudge against Greenway. And I'd had enough arguing with pigheaded men for one day. Instead I listened in silence while Chesterton informed me that Richard was being arraigned this morning and asking for bail. Unfortunately, since Richard had already run, it was more likely he'd remain in the custody of the State until trial.

He all but patted me on the head as he sent me on my way and disappeared into the back offices again. I resisted the urge to flip him the bird as he walked away. Men!

Althea lingered behind, biting her lip as she edged a little closer to me. "You really think maybe one of Greenway's girlfriends killed him?" she asked, her voice hushed as if just talking about murder might endanger her.

I sighed, watching out of the corner of my eye as Jasmine typed away. Despite her attempts at looking uninterested, I'd bet my favorite Gucci boots she'd been careful to overhear every word. "I don't know. Maybe. I know Greenway was careless where women were concerned."

"Have you gone to the police with this yet?"

I cringed, remembering Ramirez's mocking tone. "As far as they're concerned, the investigation is closed."

"Poor Mr. Howe." Althea's eyes dropped to the maroon carpeting and I swear they looked misty behind her Coke-bottle lenses. I had a feeling Althea might be the only other person on the planet who didn't think Richard was capable of shooting someone. I made a mental note to take her for a cut and color at Fernando's when this was all over.

"Don't worry," I said, surprising even myself. "I know he didn't do this. And one way or another, we'll prove it." I gave Althea a reassuring smile.

She sniffed, nodding. "Right. Well, I'll make sure Mr. Chesterton sets up a visitation with Richard for you. It will probably be sometime tomorrow. Is that okay?"

I nodded, thanking Althea even as visions of Richard in prison garb threatened morning sickness again. As I rode the elevator back down to my Jeep, I tried to feel reassured that Chesterton was doing all he could to free Richard. But all I felt was an overwhelming sense of pressure. If I didn't find Green-way's killer soon, Richard would stand trial for murder. I really hoped Carol Carter owned a .22. Because I was running out of options.

At exactly 4:02 I was circling the block between Fairfax and LaBrea on Hollywood Boulevard for a parking place that wasn't too blister-producingly far from the Platt Agency. I got lucky on my third try and parked between the Happy Time Go cleaners and Phat Chan's Hollywood souvenir shop. After reluctantly feeding the meter I clubbed my steering wheel and walked around the corner to the small white building that housed the Platt Agency. Blissful air-conditioning greeted me as I swung through the front doors and took in the de'cor. The reception room was done in a vintage theme a la Doris Day meets Rock Hudson. Big plastic flowers on the wall, retro square sofa and chairs, and olive green area rugs in geometric patterns on the polished floors. The nostalgia theme was reinforced by the occupants of the room. No less than half a dozen Marilyn Monroe lookalikes. I blinked, taking in the range from
Seven Year Itch
Marilyn to "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" Marilyn. Yikes. That was a lot of peroxide.

Two folding tables were set up along one wall, stacks of headshots on one and coffee, Styrofoam cups and untouched doughnuts on the other. In the center of the room was a kidney-shaped reception desk. Behind it sat a dark-haired woman in tortoise-shell glasses who had the bored expression of someone who didn't appreciate having to work on a Sunday.

"Excuse me?" I said, wading through the sea of blond bombshells.

She looked up, giving me the once-over. "Are you here for the audition?" she asked in a voice with a New York edge to it.

"Me? No. Actually, I'm here to see Carol Carter. I understand she's a client of yours?"

"She is," the receptionist said. "But she's not here."

"Maybe you could give me her number?"

"Uh, hold on a sec," the receptionist gave the universal one finger wait sign as a Marilyn in a pink sweater and pumps pushed her way to the desk.

"I'm here for the—" the breathy blonde started.

Bored Receptionist cut her off. "I know, I know. The Lifetime movie. Sign in on the table, the sides are next to the sign-in sheet. Leave your headshot on the pile." She shook her head as Marilyn tottered off on two-inch heels, then mumbled something that sounded like, "I need a raise."

She turned back to me. "I'm sorry, who did you say you were?"

I took a deep breath, pulling out the speech I'd prepared in the car on the way over here. "I'm with Springer Productions. We saw Carol Carter's headshot and think she's perfect for our latest film. Do you think I could get her number from you?"

"I'm sorry," the receptionist informed me. "Miss Carter is on location in Toronto. She's there shooting a pilot for Fox."

"Canada? How long has she been in Canada?"

"Since last Wednesday."

I tried not to let my disappointment show. If Carol Carter had been out of the country all week, she couldn't very well have put the hole in Greenway's head. I was beginning to feel like I was on a wild goose chase.

"Would you like me to set something up for next week?" the receptionist asked, looking past me as another Marilyn came through the door.

"Uh, no, that's okay. We'll check back then."

"Excuse me," the new Marilyn said, brushing up beside me in saddle shoes, a pencil skirt, and a pink polka-dot blouse that was two sizes too small. "I'm here for the
Goodbye Norma Jean
audition, and I…" Newbie Marilyn trailed off as she trained her eyes on me.

It took me a second to realize why, but as I stared at those big blue eyes, then lower to those big round implants, recognition hit me like a smack in the head. Bunny.

"You!" she breathed, pointing at me. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh—" Again with the stumped thing. Irrationally I looked to the receptionist, who seemed to have perked up. Apparently her day was becoming more interesting.

Bunny planted her hands on her hips. "I hung around the studio all day yesterday and your photographer never showed up."

"Huh. Go figure." I tried to edge toward the door, but Bunny and her double D's were suddenly blocking my way.

"You know what I think?" she said.

I shook my head, glancing around the sea of blond bombshells for an escape route.

"I think you're not even a real reporter."

"Reporter?" Slightly Less Bored Receptionist narrowed her eyes at me behind her frames. "I thought you said you were with Springer Productions?"

"Uh…" I looked from Marilyn to the receptionist. Why did my cell phone never ring at times like this? Now would be an excellent time for Mom to call with a wedding emergency or for Dana to need break-up therapy. I looked down at my purse. Silent. Damn.

"Look, here's the truth," I said, breaking under the pressure of two pairs of glaring eyes, "I'm looking into the murder of Devon Greenway. And from what I understand, both you," I gestured to Bunny, "and Carol Carter dated Greenway."

"So?" Bunny challenged. "Devon dated lots of women."

"Which makes for lots of people with reasons to want him dead."

Bunny narrowed her eyes at me. "You think I killed Devon?"

I shrugged.

"This is better than
Desperate Housewives!"
Our receptionist was practically beaming out of her seat now. Two more Marilyns walked in, but she just waved them toward the coffee table, her eyes brighter than the Hollywood sign.

"Look, Devon may have been an ass," Bunny conceded. "But there's no way you're pinning his murder on me. Besides, didn't they arrest his lawyer?"

I cringed. "Sort of. But the police are still investigating."

Bunny put her hands on her hips, her implants jutting toward me, the buttons on her blouse straining against the pressure. "Are you the police?"

I bit my lip. "No."

"Then I don't have to answer anything."

"She's right," the receptionist said. "I saw it on
Law & Order
. She doesn't have to answer you."

"In fact," Bunny went on, advancing on me, "I think maybe it's time
you
answered some questions. Who are you, anyway?"

"Me? I'm, uh…" I'm cornered.

Thinking fast, I reached into my purse and flipped my Motorola open. "Sorry, I have to take this." I pretended to push the on button and held it to my ear. "Hello?" I said into the silence.

"I didn't hear it ring," Helpful Receptionist said.

Bunny crossed her arms over her chest. "Me neither."

"Vibrate," I mouthed to them as I nodded and made appropriate listening noises. "Uh huh… sure… right…"

I'd like to think my acting skills would have been pretty convincing if my phone hadn't picked that moment to start ringing the "William Tell Overture."

Bunny smirked. "I think your phone is ringing."

Damn. Note to self: I sucked at undercover work. "Uh, I gotta go." I made a break for it, through the front doors and down the street. All the while being serenaded by the "William Tell overture" still trilling from the cell in my hand. I rounded the corner and made it to my Jeep, quickly locking the doors against any killer Marilyn Monroes before I picked up my call.

"Hello?" I breathed into the phone, the unexpected sprint causing me to pant like a golden retriever.

"Hey, it's me," Dana's voice came through. "Listen, I just remembered something else about Carol Carter."

"What?"

"She's on location in Canada right now."

Does my friend have timing or what? "Yeah, I just found that out."

"Oh. Sorry. Well, listen, I got a call for an audition tomorrow and I was wondering if I could come over in the morning and borrow something to wear. It's a campy sixties thing, kinda modern
Mod Squad
and none of my clothes are right for the part."

"Sure.
Mi
closet
es
su closet."

"Thanks, hon. Oh, Sasha's calling me, gotta go." And Dana hung up.

I flipped my phone shut and took a moment to get my breathing under control again before hopping back on the 10 toward Santa Monica. Unfortunately, my day had been a bust and I was no closer to knowing who killed Greenway than Ramirez was. All I'd done was alienate a pissy porn star and discover that Richard's lawyer was an old-school chauvinist. I wasn't even fully prepared to cross Carol Carter off my list of evil girlfriends. Sure she had an alibi, but what if she'd hired someone to bump Greenway off? I know, I was grasping now, but I was desperate.

I stopped at Von's on the way home to pick up a frozen pizza and another two-liter of Diet Coke. Then somehow a dozen Krispy Kremes jumped into my cart, along with another pint of Chunky Monkey. I didn't fight it. I figured my dismal encounter at the Platt Agency called for major calorie comfort.

It was dark before I pulled up to my studio. I wasn't sure whether I was relieved or disappointed not to see Ramirez's SUV gracing my driveway again. As much as I hated the fact that we fought over everything I did, at least it beat the silence I knew was waiting for me inside.

I opened my door and flipped on the lights. Then tripped over something on the floor.

"What the—?" I looked down. It was the crushed EP T.

God I hated that thing. It had started this whole mess. I had an ex(ish)-boyfriend sitting in jail, a sexy cop showing up at my apartment at all hours, a killer Barbie running around shooting people, and
I
had to deal with a freaking pregnancy test!

And the worst part was, I still didn't even know how I felt about it. A baby. I mean, I guess I wanted a baby someday. Who didn't like babies, right? Babies were cute, soft, cuddly. I mean, I'd be a monster not to want a baby, right?

The awful thing was, I kind of did want a baby. I got this warm Florence Henderson feeling when I thought about it that scared the crap out of me. But Florence had had a loving husband, a house in the suburbs, and Alice. I didn't have any of those things. I wasn't sure I could do family right now. At least, not alone.

For some odd reason, the image of Ramirez's family popped into my head. The big backyard filled with laughing children. Mama's soft, smiling face. The battered pinata hanging from a tree limb. Ramirez holding his little niece on his lap, his pants sticky with lollipop fingerprints. The air thick with the scent of empanadas and sugar cookies. Then music. And dancing. And the feel of Ramirez's body against mine as we close danced…

I groaned. I picked up the EPT and threw it in the trash can under my sink. There. One less thing to think about.