Gemma Halliday - Spying in High Heels

“Uh huh.” Dana popped a cucumber into her mouth, chewing as she nodded.

“Or maybe Andi. She did sound like she had a vicious streak to her.”

“You know,” Dana said, licking her fingers, “I’m wondering, have you thought about the wife?”

“Celia?” I asked. “She’s dead.”

“No, I meant Richard’s wife.”

I froze, chili fry halfway to my mouth. “I thought we weren’t mentioning his marital status.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, waving her napkin in the air. “It’s just…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

I gave in. “What? What about Richard’s wife?”

“Well, we’ve been going on the theory that the murders are tied to Greenway’s infidelity. But what about Richard’s infidelity?”

I cringed. “Go on?”

“Well, maybe his wife found out about you and was pissed. What if she used Greenway to frame Richard? Seeing your cheating ex on death row would be one hell of a revenge.”

I popped a chili fry in my mouth as I chewed on this new angle. I had to admit, I liked it. “If she was planning on divorce, twenty million dollars would make a nice parting gift. And as Richard’s wife, Cinderella could have easily gained access to his files.”

“Right. And women do get a little crazy when they discover they’ve been lied to.”

You’re telling me.

Dana shrugged. “It’s something to think about anyway.”

It certainly was. The only question was, would Cinderella really kill two people in cold blood just to get revenge on Richard? I shuddered. I always knew there was something creepy about those Disney characters.

“Well,” Dana said balling up her napkin, “this has been fun, but I’ve got to be in Hollywood in twenty minutes.” She held up her go-go boots. “Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg,” I said as she gave me an air kiss and made her way back down Wilshire. As I watched her round the corner toward the parking structure, my mind was still digesting the Cinderella theory. I scooped up the last of the chili with a soggy French fry and popped it in my mouth. I had to admit, the more I thought about it, the more I really, really wanted the killer to be Cinderella. Why not? Ramirez said that the gun was hers in the first place. Who better to use it? And the blonde hairs in Greenway’s room could have easily come from her. Heck, maybe Cinderella was even having an affair with Greenway? I mean, what did I really know about her anyway? Not much. Just that she drove a brand new roadster.

And was married to my boyfriend. The bitch.

I looked down at my watch. Two-ten. Visiting hours at the prison started ten minutes ago. No time like the present to drag a few answers out of Richard. I quickly threw away the remains of my calorie splurge lunch and headed for my Jeep.

The L.A. county lock-up was about the same as you’d see in any prison movie. Bleak and square, a series of cement blocks painted a dull orange sometime in 1976. The inside wasn’t much better, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and smelling like Pine-Sol and cigarettes. An indefinable feeling of tension hung in the air and no one quite looked me in the eye.

I had to stop at the desk to have my purse examined inside and out for anything that could be used as a weapon (they held my nail file hostage) and was patted down twice by a woman who looked like John Goodman before being sent into the gymnasium like room full of tables and chairs where weepy women sat across from men in orange jumpsuits. All of them looking like they could use a good bath and a dose of antibacterial soap.

The stony faced guards flanking the room did little to sooth my nerves, so I took a place at a table near the door. Five minutes later Richard was led through the self locking door on the far end of the room. I almost felt pity for him as he sat down across from me. His eyes were rimmed in dark circles like he hadn’t slept and his chin was covered in pale, blonde stubble. Only it didn’t remind me of a Schick commercial. More Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

I nodded, not really sure what to say.

“Chesterton tell you I wouldn’t make bail?”

I nodded again. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” He looked around himself as if still not believing he was here.

I admit, I was having a hard time believing it too. But, I tried to remind myself why I’d come here.

“Richard, I need to know about your wife.”

He looked down at his hands, avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her, Maddie. I never meant to hurt you.”

“You mean, you never meant for me to find out?”

“No. I… we’re separated.” He sighed, still not quite looking at me. “I’ve been living in the condo and she’s got her life in Orange County. I just haven’t filed for divorce yet because I don’t want some lawyer of hers nosing through my assets right now.”

I bit my lip. Did I believe him? I wasn’t sure. “And what about the roadster?”

“God, how do you know about…” He trailed off, his eyes meeting mine. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair so it stood up in little tufts. I guess hair gel wasn’t standard prison issue. “Look, I bought Amy the roadster to put her off for a while. She wanted to file now, but I couldn’t risk it. Her lawyer would have wanted detailed accounts of every penny that ever went through my hands. With everything going on with Greenway… well, I didn’t think that would be a good idea right now.”

“So, she’s after your money?” The Cinderella theory was looking better.

“No. No, Amy’s not like that. She’s not about money.”

Yeah right.

He shook his head. “The roadster was my idea.”

“Richard, did Amy know you were seeing me?”

He looked guiltily from side to side, his eyes looking everywhere but at mine. “No. I didn’t tell her.”

Which didn’t mean she didn’t find out on her own. And go completely postal over it. I wondered what Richard would think of Cinderella if she was the killer. Would he file for divorce then? Take back the roadster? Because it was kind of bothering me that he was defending her even as he talked about how they were separated. What did he mean Cinderella wasn’t into money? Who wasn’t into money?

I truly intended to continue grilling him about his possibly homicidal wife. I meant to be the unemotional fact finder, on a mission to nail her itty bitty butt to the wall. But the more I thought about perfect Cinderella and her perfect Z3, the more that other-woman insecurity got to me. I’d like to blame it on hormones that while I meant to ask, “Do you think your wife’s capable of murder?” something entirely different popped out of my mouth instead.

“Are you still in love with her?” I bit my lip, loath to admit just how much his answer meant.

“No. God, no. Do you really think I would do that to you Maddie?” His blue eyes searched mine as he reached across the table and took one of my hands in his. He began to draw little circles on the inside of my wrist with his thumb as his eyes pleaded with me. “I swear, pumpkin, you’re the only woman in my life.”

I’ll admit, I was starting to waiver. He really did look sincere. “What about the condom wrapper on your desk?”

“What?” To his credit he looked genuinely confused.

“I searched through your office and found a used condom wrapper wedged beneath the calendar on your desk.”

Richard’s jaw dropped open, shocked that I’d have the audacity to search through his office.

I raised both eyebrows in a challenge, daring him to say something about it now. Go ahead punk, make my day.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“You didn’t have sex with your wife at work?”