Gemma Halliday - Spying in High Heels

“Put Richard on,” he demanded.

“Uh…” I looked around the police-ransacked office. “Richard’s not here right now.”

“Where the hell is he?”

Pal, I wish I knew.

On the one hand, disappointment welled inside of me as I realized this wasn’t the great break in the Where’s Waldo game my life had suddenly become. On the other, if Richard was hiding out from Greenway (as the dead wife now convinced me he was) he was doing a good job of it. I halfway hoped he stayed hidden. Something about Greenway’s voice had the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. Like he’d almost enjoy strangling someone.

“Look, Richard’s girlfriend, I don’t have all day. Where the fuck is Richard?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “He hasn’t been here since Friday.”

Greenway said a few colorful words, breathing heavily into the phone.

“Can I take a message?” I squeaked out, hoping if I kept him on the phone long enough my pulse might return to normal and I could think of something clever to say.

“You mean to tell me,” he smirked through the receiver, “that prick took off? Without even telling his girlfriend ?”

Even though I was pretty sure Greenway was being sarcastic with me now, but put like that Richard did sound like a prick.

I thought about not answering. I certainly didn’t want to help Greenway get any closer to bumping off witness number two, a.k.a. The Prick. But, since I really didn’t know where Richard was, I figured it could hardly hurt. “That’s right. He didn’t.”

“Son of a bitch.” And Greenway hung up.

I stood there for a full minute, staring at the receiver, willing my heart to stop pounding like a Latin conga drummer. I took a deep breath. Then another. And another. Then began to fear I was hyperventilating and sat down in Richard’s leather desk chair to think.

If I were Ramirez, I could have traced the call. I’d probably have black and whites squealing up to wherever Greenway was right now, arresting him so my boyfriend could come out of hiding and I could pee on a stick. Unfortunately, I wasn’t Ramirez. In fact, I wasn’t turning out to be much good at this spy thing at all. I’d had the prime suspect in a murder investigation on the phone and I hadn’t even thought to ask where he was! I thunked my head against the desk. I had no idea where to go from here.

I looked down at my watch. 12:28. Jasmine was due back from lunch any minute.

I pried myself out of the chair and willed my legs not to buckle under me. They didn’t, which I took as a good sign, and I quickly slipped out the door, down the hall and into the reception area.

“You find what you needed?” Althea called to my retreating back.

“Yep. Great. Thanks!” I gave a half wave as I plowed through the front doors at Flo Jo speed. 12:29. I hit the down arrow on the first bank of elevators, nervously tapping my foot as I waited. “Come on, come on,” I coaxed the elevator.

Finally it arrived and I slipped inside, just as the second bank of elevators to my left slid open and Jasmine exited. I put my head down and hoped she didn’t look back.

She didn’t, wiggling her size two behind to the reception desk with purpose as the elevator doors slid closed in front of me. Whew. Close one.

Two minutes later I was racing across the street to the safety of my little red Jeep. I hopped in, locked the doors, and flipped on the radio, letting Blink 182 fill the unnerving silence as I yoga breathed my pulse back to normal. Even though I knew Greenway wasn’t going to reach through the phone and strangle me via AT &T, the conversation had left me with a serious case of the heebie jeebies. Until recently my biggest fear in life was spiders with hairy legs. The sudden jump into wife killer territory had me sweating and shivering all at the same time.

I tried to console myself with the thought that Greenway hadn’t known where Richard was any more than I did. This was good. It meant the chances of finding Richard swimming were down considerably. (Something I was relieved to hear, because the more I thought about that condom wrapper the more Iwanted to be the one to strangle him.)

So, what now?

I glanced across the street again, my eyes searching out the windows of Richard’s office on the sixth floor. No sinister shadows, no cops to follow, no bad guys in black.

That’s it, I needed reinforcements.

I grabbed my cell and punched in Dana’s number. She answered with a groggy, “Hello?” on the fourth ring.

“It’s me,” I said. “You busy?”

Dana giggled, then I heard a muffled male voice in the background.

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe the more appropriate question is, are you alone?”

Dana giggled again. “Not entirely. Why, what’s up?”

“I’m kind of having a crisis here.”

“Another one?”

Tell me about it. “Never mind, I can hear you’re busy.”

“No, no. Sasha was just leaving. He’s got pyramid practice.” She giggled again and I thought I might throw up. “Tell you what, I’ve got an audition later this afternoon, but you wanna meet me at Fernando’s in, say, twenty minutes? I could use a pedi first anyway.”

My day definitely screamed for a pedicure. “I’ll be there in ten.”

Fernando’s was located in the center of Beverly Hills’ Golden Triangle, at the corner of Brighton and Beverly Boulevard, just one block north of Rodeo. Faux Dad started his career as the great Fernando in a strip mall in Chatsworth, but through word of mouth, and a few fabulous mentions in the L.A. Times , Fernando had primped and permed his way out of the Valley and into the playground of the rich and Botoxed.

In addition to being a wizard with hair, Faux Dad also had an innate flair for interior decorating. (Okay, so I was 75% sure he wasn’t gay.) Fernando’s went through a yearly metamorphosis, keeping up with the “in” theme of the moment. This year the look was Modern Industrial. The walls were covered in a rusted finish with a metallic over-glaze, causing them to shimmer in the light coming through the all-glass front wall. Exposed copper pipes overhead and unframed modern art canvases on the walls added to the look, while a dozen blow dryers, rinse sinks and cutting stations hummed with activity down on the concrete floor. In Watts this would have been a warehouse, but on Rodeo, it was Warehouse Chic.

“Maddie, Dahling!” Marco, the receptionist, came at me with an air kiss on both cheeks. Marco was slim, Hispanic, and wore more eyeliner than Tammy Faye. “How are you?” he asked in an accent that was pure San Francisco.

“I’ve been better,” I answered truthfully. “Is Ralph in?”

“ Fernando ,” Marco reminded me, “is doing a color weave on Mrs. Spears.” Then he added in a low whisper. “Britney’s mother.”

“Oh,” I whispered back, suitably impressed. I looked to the back of the salon and saw Faux Dad weaving red extensions onto a fiftyish brunette in Chanel. He caught my eye and gave a little wave.

“So,” I said, turning back to Marco, “I’m just having one of those days. Any way you can fit me in for a pedi?”

“For you, sweetie, anything.” Marco grabbed his big black book off a desk that looked like it was made of aluminum siding. He flipped through the pages.

“Think you could fit Dana in too?”

Marco frowned.

“Pretty please?”

“Maddie, you gotta stop doing this, dahling. You throw me all off schedule.”

I blinked my eyelashes at him. “Oh, pretty, pretty please with Brad Pitt on top.”

“No fair, you know my weakness. Okay. Chia can do you both in fifteen. Why don’t you go soak?”