Gemma Halliday - Spying in High Heels

I tried to read Ramirez’s expression in the flickering glare of the Moonlight’s neon sign. No luck. I couldn’t tell if I was currently being questioned as a suspect, witness, or just a cute little pain in the ass.

I’d watched enough TV dramas to know that when the cops put on their we’ve-got-to-talk face, the first thing you do is call your lawyer. But considering my lawyer was currently nowhere to be found, I cracked under Ramirez’s steady gaze and told him everything, right down to the look in Dana’s eyes as she’d grabbed a handful of Metallica’s shirt.

Ramirez’s gaze didn’t waiver. He didn’t crack a smile or blink an eye. Nothing. Not even call me girly. I bit my lip again, hoping I’d done the right thing in talking.

“So, what now?” I asked.

“What now is you go home and let me handle this. I don’t want to see any more hookers, red Jeeps, or designer shoes until this whole mess is straightened out. Got it?”

I nodded meekly.

“And if, for any reason, Richard gets in touch with you, you are to call me right away. Not go for a manicure first. Right away.”

I nodded again, though I felt the manicure comment was uncalled for.

CSI Guy emerged from room two-twelve, a handful of black bags in tow as he clomped down the metal stairs.

“Wait here,” Ramirez commanded, stalking out the glass doors and intercepting CSI Guy at the bottom of the stairs.

For once, I did as told, wrapping my arms around myself as I strained to hear what CSI Guy and Ramirez were talking about through the open doors. Unfortunately, all I got was a “… hair fibers,” “…ridge detail,” and a “…back to the lab for processing.” Which put together could mean just about anything.

Ramirez finished with CSI Guy and walked over to a group of men standing around a black van with the word “coroner” on it. I shuddered.

Okay, so I had no great love for Greenway. But just yesterday I’d been on the phone with the man. It was unnerving to think of someone being here, and then suddenly not being here. Like at any moment I could not be here. Again I had that creepy feeling of being the dimwitted blonde in the horror movie who the entire audience knows will end up getting chased across the lawn in her underwear by the ax murderer at the end of act two. Only I didn’t have a face for my ax murderer now.

Obviously Greenway hadn’t shot himself. It’s a little hard to dispose of one’s own body in a dumpster. But I really couldn’t put Richard’s face there either. Richard wasn’t a killer. He was an attorney. Yes, I know, not the highest of life forms, but not a murderer either. There had to be another explanation.

Only I wasn’t entirely sure Ramirez was going to look for it. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Richard was no longer a “person of interest.” In fact, I had a sinking feeling as CSI Guy joined Ramirez and the ME, that Richard’s status had just been upgraded to full-fledged suspect.

Ramirez broke away from the group and crossed the cracked macadam to the office again. He paused in front of me, his eyes calculating as he stared down.

“You sure you didn’t go into Greenway’s room?”

A wave of dread rolled through my stomach.

“Yes. Why?”

He didn’t answer, just crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, I know you’ve been less than honest with me in the past, but now’s the time to come clean.”

“I never went in Greenway’s room. I told you, we knocked, then we heard shots and ran. Why? What did he tell you?” I tried to look past him to CSI Guy, honestly a little hurt that my evidence collector would turn on me like this after my intimate encounter with his lint roller.

“We found blonde hairs in Greenway’s room and impressions in the carpet that CSI thinks came from a stiletto heel.”

I looked down at my shoes. “For your information these are not stilettos. They are platform heels.”

His eyes narrowed, the Bad Cop face not budging.

“You don’t seriously think I had anything to do with this? That I actually killed him?”

“Look, I don’t know what to think. Your boyfriend, whom you seem to know nothing about, disappears along with twenty mil and this guy,” he gestured to Metallica, “this guy here says he saw you and your friend go up to Greenway’s room tonight. And apparently a woman with blonde hair and a thing for high heels was in his room recently enough that the shoe impressions are still in the carpet.”

“Ask CSI Guy,” I sputtered. “He has a bunch of my hair. He’ll tell you it’s not mine. You’ve got to believe me, I had nothing to do with this.”

Ramirez sighed. “I want to believe you, but you’re not making it real easy. What the hell am I supposed to tell my superiors? Let alone the press?”

“Tell them whatever you want. I did not shoot Greenway.”

Ramirez sighed again, then began rubbing his temple. “Will you go home now?”

“Gladly.” I was on the verge of tears but I’m proud to say I kept them at bay. The last thing I wanted to do was bawl like a baby in front of Bad Cop.

“Good. And don’t take this the wrong way, but stay way from me, okay?”

“No problem.” I spit the words out a little more harshly than I meant to, banking on my anger to keep the tears from flowing down my cheeks.

I turned and stalked across the parking lot with as much dignity as a hooker in four-inch heels can muster. And wouldn’t you know it, the second I began fumbling in my little purse for my keys, I felt a big fat drop hit the back of my neck. I looked down to see more drops hitting the blacktop with an acrid smell of wet motor oil. It was raining. Great. One more thing I can say I was wrong about tonight.

I was wrong to let Dana talk me into dressing like a hooker, wrong to think I could find a murderer on my own, wrong to ever trust Ramirez. And last but not least, I was apparently wrong about the weather too. I cursed the weather gods right along with Ramirez’s superior attitude as I found my key and got in my Jeep. I made it all the way out of the driveway and down the street before I finally let the tears run loose.

I think I’d been a pretty tough chick up until now. I’d managed to keep my cool even when under threat of gunfire, arrest, and pregnancy. But suddenly it all came rushing at me and once the tears started I couldn’t make them stop. Maybe it was because I’d heard a man get shot, or because my cheating ex-boyfriend was now the prime suspect in a murder investigation, or because for half a second Ramirez actually thought I had something to do with this even when his mother thought we were making like rabbits. Or maybe it was just all of it. The whole ridiculous, awful evening. Everything was spiraling out of control and I was powerless to stop it. I felt very alone, very vulnerable, and, I hated to admit, oh-so-very girly as I cried my guts out down the 405.

I was crying so hard it took me a minute to realize what the flashing lights in my rearview mirror were. I blinked, wiping away the tears and saw a CHP glued to my back bumper. Oh shit. I looked down at the speedometer. Seventy-five. Oh really shitty shit.

I tried to pull myself together as I slowed and pulled off to the side of the road. I flipped down my mirrored visor, wiping at the mascara streaks running down my face. Eeek. I looked like Tammy Faye’s evil twin. I was still doing hiccup sobs as the officer came around to the passenger side and motioned for me to roll down the window.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, leaning his elbows on my driver side door. He was clean shaven and looked about twenty, with clear blue eyes and pudgy cheeks that warned he may never lose his baby fat. A radio was clipped to his shirt beside a CHP badge that looked like he polished it nightly.