“What?” she asked, one hand on her hip.
“Nothing. I’m just amazed at how much you get done around here.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Sarcasm isn’t a very attractive trait.”
“Neither is bitchiness.”
Jasmine scowled at me. At least, she tried to scowl. Her eyebrows just kind of just twitched.
“Your eyebrows are twitching.”
Jasmine’s hands immediately went to her forehead and I had a moment of glee myself as she self-consciously pulled out a compact.
“For you information I’m frowning at you. It’s the Botox. Dr. Bradley says I can’t frown for another three days.”
Ugh. Mental forehead slap.
“Well, you look very placid.”
Jasmine snapped her compact shut again. “Thank you.”
I refrained from pointing out that it wasn’t a compliment.
I was spared further conversation about Jasmine’s cosmetic procedure number five thousand and one as the frosted doors opened and Mr. Chesterton ambled up to me.
“Miss Springer, we’re so sorry to hear about Richard’s legal troubles,” he said, taking one of my hands in both of his. Mr. Chesterton reminded me of an over sized teddy bear, tall with fuzzy cheeks and large hairy hands. He had a loud, deep voice that sounded like Raymond Burr, which, I’m told, he used to full advantage in front of a jury. I felt a little better knowing he was in charge of Richard’s defense.
Right behind him was Althea, looking especially dowdy today in a checked cardigan, corduroy A-line that reached mid calf and low heeled loafers. Her eyes never strayed higher than knee level as she stood meekly beside her employer.
“I can’t tell you how eager we all are to get this whole unpleasantness cleared up,” Chesterton continued. “We’re sparing no expense on Richard’s account.”
Althea nodded beside him like a bobble head.
“Thank you,” I said. “I feel better knowing someone’s on Richard’s side. I was kind of worried that the police aren’t looking at any other suspects now.”
Mr. Chesterton tilted his head. “Other suspects?”
“Well, if Richard didn’t do it, someone else had to,” I reasoned.
Mr. Chesterton gave me a blank look. Like the thought of Richard’s innocence hadn’t even occurred to him. Or, perhaps closer to the mark, just didn’t interest him. Dewy, Cheatum and Howe, like most attorneys outside of a television sound stage, had no time for such trivial matters as guilt and innocence. It was all about probable cause, technicalities, loopholes, and very large retainers.
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 Jasmine type away out of the corner of my eye. 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 Greenway’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 four-o-two 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 décor. 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 look-alikes. 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 and the bored expression of someone who didn’t appreciate having to work on a Sunday.
“Excuse me?” I said, wading through the sea of blonde 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.