Spying in High Heels Page 3

  I heard the wooden door slide on its tracks and eased one eye open, saying a silent thank you that he’d opened the other side of the closet and I was still in shadows. I held my breath, certain that my every inhale was as loud as a jackhammer in the silence.

  Mr. Nobody looked at the clothes hanging in the closet. He squinted his dark eyes at them almost as if he were mentally counting.

  “Shit.” He breathed the word on an exhale, then turned around and stalked out of the room. His boots continued to echo all the way down the hall and out the door, which he shut behind him with a crash that sent my teeth chattering. Or maybe they were doing that all on their own. I realized I was shaking and wrapped a wool sweater around myself as I sat in the dark closet for a full two minutes before venturing back out into the room.

  I don’t know what Mr. Nobody would have done had he seen me there, but the gun poking out of his Levi’s was not reassuring.

  I slowly ducked my head out the bedroom door. No sign of the bad man. I tiptoed as quickly as I could down the hall, slinked out the front door and sprinted across the street to my car as if I were dodging gunfire. Once inside I locked the doors, removed the club and revved up the engine, my hands still shaking as I adjusted the air conditioning controls.

  I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths as I took stock. I was in one piece. Mr. Nobody hadn’t seen me. No bullet holes and I hadn’t wet myself. All was well.

  Okay not all was well. Richard had obviously packed for a trip. That much was plain to both Mr. Nobody and me. A trip where? And why? Richard hadn’t mentioned a trip, and by the way an armed man had broken into his place, I didn’t envision it was a planned Club Med getaway. Was he hiding somewhere? Was he in trouble? Considering Richard thought claiming lunch with me as a deduction was unethical, I found it hard to believe

  I wondered if I should call the police. But I wasn’t entirely sure Mr. Nobody had actually committed a crime. Breaking into a man’s house and going through his underwear drawer. In fact, I wasn’t even entirely sure he did break in. Had I locked the door behind me? I’d been a little preoccupied to notice.

  God, I hoped Richard was all right. What would I do if he wasn’t? What about our potential unborn child? Again I felt that bout of possible morning sickness swell over me. I swear to God if Richard was just in the Bahamas, I was going to kill him.

  Just then my purse rang. I jumped so far into the air I almost hit the roof of my car, adrenalin pumping through every limb of my body. I reached into my bag and flipped open my Motorola. My mother’s number popped up on the caller ID. If it was anyone else, I would have ignored it. But knowing Mom, she’d send the National Guard looking for me if I didn’t pick up by the fourth ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Maddie, you haven’t forgotten have you?”

  “Of course not.” I racked my brain. Forgotten what?

  “Good. Because we made reservations for five and Ralph’s canceling his last appointment so he can join us.”

  Right. Ralph, a.k.a. Faux Dad, the owner of Fernando’s, the hottest place on Rodeo, and my soon to be step-daddy. I still wasn’t 110% convinced Faux Dad was straight, but I loved the discounted manicures.

  Mom had hooked up with Ralph when, after twenty-five years as a single parent, Mom had discovered the wonders of internet dating and signed up for Match.com. Desperate to make a big re-entry into the dating scene, she’d gone to Fernando’s for a full make-over, where Ralph chopped, styled and colored her hair into a near masterpiece. After three months of flirtatious cut and colors, Mom was surprised to learn that not only was Ralph straight (allegedly), but his interest in her went way beyond her curly locks. Five months later they were planning a beautiful ceremony in Malibu, overlooking the ocean cliffs for a week from Saturday. I was to be the maid of honor and tonight Mom was laying official duty number three thousand on me. Planning her bachelorette party.

  I debated fabricating an excuse to skip dinner. My hands were still shaking and, though my heart had slowed from NASCAR to L.A. freeway, I still had that jittery feeling in my chest like I was ready to fight or take flight any minute. However, knowing Mom (see National Guard reference) canceling dinner would lead to more questions than I currently had answers for. So I gave in.

  “Right. No, I’ll be there. Five thirty, right?”

  “Five!” my mother yelled into the phone.

  “Right.” I looked down at my watch. Four forty-seven. Considering traffic on the 134 at this hour, I’d be cutting it close. “I was just getting in the car, Mom. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Good. And don’t be late.”

  I pretended not to hear that last comment. “You’re breaking up, Mom. Sorry, gotta go.”

  * * *

  At exactly five twenty-nine I pulled up to Garibaldi’s restaurant in Studio City. I might have been on time had I not spent the entire drive over looking in my rearview mirror for any sign of Mr. Nobody lurking behind me. Thankfully, I saw none. But, paranoia lesson number one, that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.

  I found a spot on the street and parallel parked between a Jag and a Dodge Dart on its last leg. Luckily I was wearing my ready-for-anything Spiga slingbacks, so the block and a half hardly even hurt my feet at the near sprint. Faux Dad was outside talking on his cell phone, a frown of concentration on his tanned face. Faux tan of course. When he hit Beverly Hills Ralph transformed himself from mid-western farm boy into Fernando, the European hair sculptor. He figured the chances of 90210’s elite frequenting a salon called “Ralph’s” were slim to none. Unfortunately, Ralph’s family was Swiss German, so to keep up with faux Spanish roots he indulged in magic tan sprays twice a week.

  Ralph’s face broke into a smile when he saw me and he lifted a hand in greeting, gesturing inside.

  The hostess, dressed in all black right down to her black eyeliner and gothic chic black lipstick, directed me to a linen sheathed table in the middle of the room where my mother sat, looking down at her watch and pursing her thin lips.

  “Maddie, you’re late.”

  I wished people would stop pointing that out.

  I leaned down and gave her an air-kiss. “Sorry, Mom, there was traffic.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. While they were the same hazelish green as mine, hers were framed in that familiar pale blue eye-shadow she’d been wearing since before it became fashionable again. She had on a pair of black stirrup pants straight from 1986 and a sweater tank embroidered with a calico kitten on the front. I silently thanked the gods I hadn’t inherited her fashion sense.

  “You completely forgot, didn’t you?” she said.

  “I would have remembered.”

  “Right.” Neither of us was truly convinced. “Anyway,” she continued as I sat down, “I have a preliminary seating chart I want you to take a look at. And,” she added, her eyes taking on an evil twinkle, “I found the perfect place for my bachelorette party.”

  Uh oh.

  “Where?” I asked, truly fearing the answer.

  “Beefcakes.”

  The fear was justified.

  “Beefcakes?”

  “It’s full of…” Mom leaned in close, whispering. “Male strippers.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down in a way that made me queasy again.

  “You sure you don’t want to have a spa day with the girls instead?” I pleaded.

  “Oh come on, Maddie. Lighten up. It’ll be fun. Besides, I’m getting married, I’m not dead. I can still appreciate the male form in all its glory.”

  Yep. I was going to throw up.

  “Oh, and we need a final count for the reception. I only ordered one tent for the buffet so I only pray it doesn’t rain.” Mom made a little sign of the cross.

  “This is L.A., Mom. It never rains.” Slight exaggeration on my part, but since Los Angelinos considered three inches a monsoon, we were probably pretty safe. Not to mention this was July. The weather gods wouldn’t dare dump rain in the middle of tourist season. Charlton Heston would be after them w
ith his shotgun.

  “So,” Mom asked, scanning the patrons behind me, “where’s Richard.”

  That’s what I’d like to know.

  “He couldn’t make it tonight,” I answered instead. Hoping she’d leave it at that. I still wasn’t sure what to think about Mr. Armed and Dangerous in Richard’s apartment, but I knew I didn’t yet have an edited-for-Mom version.

  “Oh that’s too bad,” she said.

  Luckily I was saved further comment on my boyfriend’s dubious whereabouts as an aproned waiter brought three plates of salad to the table.

  “What’s this?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t eaten since this morning and was suddenly famished.

  “Ripe summer pears and crumbled gorgonzola over fresh baby greens,” Mom quoted.

  I took a bite. Delicious. Okay, so maybe I had to hear about the dreaded bachelorette party, but at least this beat the Hamburger Helper sitting in my kitchen cupboard.

  I was stabbing a second pear and making little yummy sounds when Ralph finally joined us. He stooped down and deposited a kiss on my cheek before taking the seat beside me. “Sorry ladies, I had to take that. Perm emergency.”

  “Perm emergency?” Mom asked.

  “I told Francine not to re-color her hair for forty-eight hours after her set, but did she listen to me? No. Now she looks like an auburn haired French Poodle. She’s coming in tomorrow morning for damage control.”

  Mom and I both nodded appropriately.

  “So,” Mom said, folding her hands in front of her and sitting up straighter in her chair. “Now that you’re both here, I have an announcement.” She looked pointedly at me. “Guess who’s pregnant?”

  A ripe summer pear stuck in my throat.

  There was no way she could possibly know, could she? Was I showing a belly already? Were my boobs swelling? Did I have that rosy pregnant glow? I knew I should have powdered in the car before coming in.

  Luckily before I could blurt out that I was just a little late, Mom ended the guessing game. “Molly!”

  I swallowed the pear, relief washing over me. Of course. My cousin, Molly. Or as she was known in our family, The Breeder. She’d already popped out three rug rats in four years. I think she was going for some sort of record. Which of course made my grandmother very happy. There’s nothing an Irish Catholic family loves more than a prolific breeder.

  “That’s really great,” I said with about as much enthusiasm as a lithium addict.

  “Great? It’s fabu!” Faux Dad shouted.

  Okay, so I was 80% sure he was straight.

  “Oh,” he said, waving his hands in the air, “One of my clients does the most darling little baby baskets. She takes a bassinet and fills it with organic teddy bears and hand knitted little booties. Stuff so sweet it makes your teeth rot.”

  “Oh, that sounds perfect! We have to get her one of those,” Mom gushed. “What do you say, Maddie? Want to go baby shopping with me?”

  Actually I didn’t. In fact this whole conversation was making me break out in hives. The more I thought about Molly and her three and a half little munchkins, hand knitted baby booties, and most of all the unopened pregnancy kit sitting on my kitchen counter I wanted to bolt out of the room and scream some choice obscenities at my boyfriend for buying defective condoms. Only I couldn’t. Because I had no idea where Richard was and more likely than not I’d just be leaving more messages on his answering machine that Mr. Nobody would later play for his own personal amusement.

  “Hey, aren’t we missing someone?” Faux Dad asked, looking across the table at the empty seat. “Where’s Richard?”

  That, as I was about to find out, was the million dollar question.

  Chapter Three

  Somehow I survived dinner even with Faux Dad getting all googly eyed at the thought of a new baby and Mom getting all googly eyed at the thought of shoving twenties in some young stud’s G-string. I still wasn’t sure which scenario made me more nauseated.

  I took the 405 home, checking the entire way for signs of bad guys, and slowly climbed the flight of stairs to my studio apartment, where I promptly collapsed on my velvet upholstered futon. I didn’t even glance in the direction of the EPT. Much. Instead, I called Richard’s machine one more time for good measure. I didn’t mention that I’d been there earlier or the man with the gun.

  I flipped on Seinfeld and vegged out as Jerry and George tried to come up with a plot about nothing. I fell asleep fully clothed, trying to fight images of black tattoos, shiny silver 38 specials, and my mother holding a basinet full of pink baby booties.

  The next morning I awoke with a renewed sense of purpose. It appeared I wasn’t the only one looking for Richard, which meant I had to step up the search. I was his girlfriend, which theoretically meant I should have the edge, knowing him better than anyone. The trouble was Richard and I mostly just did couple stuff when we were together – dinner and a movie at the Dome, cruising the Venice boardwalk hand in hand, snuggling under the stars on symphony night at the Hollywood Bowl. Honestly, I didn’t really know any of his friends and now that I was thinking about it, I didn’t really know what he did outside of “us” time either. It was a troubling thought.

  So, I started with the short list of people in Richard’s life I did know. Namely, his mother. The only problem was I didn’t know her number, and didn’t even know her first name to call information. Chances were good it was back at Richard’s condo somewhere, but after the run in with Mr. Nobody that wasn’t a place I was especially looking forward to visiting again.

  That left Richard’s office. I knew he kept a complete address book on his palm pilot and another on his computer at work. The only obstacle to getting that would be Jasmine. But I was confident I could come up with some way to get around her. The woman had the IQ of a squash.

  So, I put on my kick butt clothes. Black DKNY cargos, ice blue baby T, and my prize black two-inch Jimmy Choos with the rhinestone details. I capped it all off with some thick, black eyeliner and I could have doubled for a Bond Girl.

  I parked in the garage and by nine-fifteen I was standing in front of Jasmine’s desk pleading my case.

  “I think I left my cell phone in one of the conference rooms last time I was here. Can I go in and get it? Please? I’ll just be a minute.”

  Predictably Jasmine was enjoying this, her penciled in eyebrows twitching with amusement. “I’m sorry. But I can’t let you go in there.”

  “Please? I’d ask Richard, but I can’t seem to get a hold of him. Really, I’ll be super quick.”

  “I’m sorry, but only lawyers and clients are allowed back there,” she said, pointing to the frosted doors. “We can’t have just anyone roaming around.”

  “But I really need that phone,” I whined. Jasmine shrugged her shoulders as if to say, tough luck, chickie.

  I pouted, then faked a thoughtful face as I stared at the frosted doors. I paused, counted to three Mississippi, then opened my eyes wide as if I’d had a light bulb moment. “I know! Jasmine, you could go get it for me.”

  She looked doubtful, glancing at her computer screen. Before she could argue the importance of her solitaire game, I rushed on. “Oh please, Jasmine? I really, really need that phone. You’d be doing me such a huge favor. I’d really owe you one.”

  She bit her oversized lip and stared at me so long I thought maybe she’d forgotten the question. Finally she let out a long suffering sigh. “Fine. I’ll go check. But stay right here.”

  I held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  That was almost too easy.

  I waited until she’d disappeared into one of the conference rooms before bolting through the frosted doors and fairly sprinting down the hall to Richard’s office. I quickly slipped inside and closed the door after myself.

  As expected, there was no sign of Richard. Though the scent of his Hilfiger aftershave still hung in the air. I inhaled deeply, suddenly all the more desperate to find him.

  The office held three bookcases,
filled with impressive looking volumes, and Richard’s honey oak desk, situated in the center of the room. His desktop held an oversized, leather bound calendar, a computer monitor, a telephone with about a gazillion little extension buttons, a penholder, and a stack of bulging file folders. The message light on his phone was blinking double time. Not a good sign.

  I gingerly sat down behind the desk, flicking the monitor on. Luckily, Richard hadn’t logged out of the system the last time he’d been here, and it only took a couple minutes of clicking around until I found his address book with his mother’s phone number in Palm Springs. I pulled a sticky pad out of the desk and wrote the number down, slipping it in my back pocket. I flipped the monitor off again and stood up. Mission accomplished. I was actually pretty good at this cloak and dagger stuff.

  I pushed the chair back in, put away the sticky pad and was just about to leave when I caught sight of the stack of files again. Bulging with forbidden documents. I took a quick look over both shoulders in a totally unnecessary move that somehow made me feel safer. Nope. Nobody watching. Just me and the files. Alone.

  I tried to resist… but I was only human.

  I picked up the one on top, knowing that if Richard ever saw me looking at these he’d have a cow, then give me an endless lecture about client-attorney confidentiality. But this was an emergency. I was late. And there was no way I was going to take that damn test and deal with the results without him. He got me into this mess, he was damn well going to be there while I peed on the stick.

  So, fully justified, I opened the first file.

  Worthington v. Patterson. To my disappointment it contained one legal sized document after another that I could have sworn were written in a foreign language. The only words I understood were “the” and “party.” So much for juicy stuff.

  I dropped that one back in the pile, hoping that at least one of these included a blackmail demand, death threat, or secret cover up. I hated to think my snooping was just nosiness.

  I picked up Elmer v. Wainsright.