“Ooo… with your detective?”
“No!” Thanks to my stupid pride. “And he’s not my detective. He’s just a detective.” Who kept showing up in my dreams naked. Ugh.
“Too bad. So…” Dana got that wicked twinkle in her eyes. The one that through many years of friendship I’d come to associate with short-term men. “Ask me about my night with Sasha.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down.
“Would you hate me if I said I’d rather not?”
“It was fabulous! Maddie, the man is a machine.” She held up four fingers. “Four times. Four separate orgasms in one night. Can you imagine?”
I was ashamed to say, I almost couldn’t.
“I’m telling you, he’s like the Energizer Bunny. He just goes, and goes, and goes…”
“I get the point.”
“And the best part is…” She leaned in close, pseudo whispering. “…he has a friend. Micha.” She winked at me. “Wanna double date tonight?”
I admit, the Energizer Bunny aspect was tempting. “Dana, I have a boyfriend.” Sort of.
She cocked her head at me. “I thought you said he was married? And, like, in jail?”
I hated that she had a point. “Can we not talk about this right now?”
She shrugged. “Okay, whatever. Just, think about it, okay?” She held up four fingers again.
I rolled my eyes and quickly changed the subject. “Are those Prada?”
“Uh huh. You likey?” Dana wiggled her toes in a pair of camel colored calfskin boots.
“Likey? Honey, I’m in lovey. Can you afford Prada?” I asked.
“I wish. But I can afford to try them on.”
As if on cue a salesman emerged from the back room, carrying three more boot boxes that he deposited on the seat beside Dana.
“Thank you, David,” she said reading his name tag. “You’re an absolute doll.” Then she flashed him her biggest, flirtiest smile. “And would you mind checking if you have these,” she pointed to a pair of spike heeled Gucci’s, “in black?”
“No problem.” He then looked expectantly at me.
“Oh, I, uh…” I looked from the calfskin Prada to the salesman. What the hell. “And those in a seven and a half.”
Twenty minute later I was warring with my Visa over whether or not there was any chance in hell I could afford Prada. Maybe if I sold my car, and didn’t eat for the next six months I could swing them. And, I decided as I looked at myself in the mirror, it would almost be worth it. The soft tan leather felt as light and airy as silk against my legs and the soles were so finely crafted it felt like I was walking on clouds. Not to mention that the three inch heels made my calves look almost like Dana’s. Tiny precision stitching, perfectly molded contours, and that shiny little Prada logo zipper. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what shoes were meant to be. I twirled in front of the mirror and did a little sigh.
Unfortunately my Visa won the argument when I did the math on how many pairs of kiddie shoes I’d have to design to afford one pair of boots. It was not pretty. Reluctantly I put my own emerald slingbacks back on. Dana and I left Prada at Neiman’s and she settled on a pair of white, vinyl go-go boots for her reinvention of Mod Squad Chic.
Purchases in hand, we walked down the street to Leon’s where I ordered extra cheesy chili fries and Dana munched on a low fat cucumber and sprouts pita as I told her about my late night caller.
When I finished, Dana looked thoughtful, grazing on her sprouts. “So, who do you think it was?”
“I don’t know. Bunny maybe? She was pretty pissed when I ran into her at Charlie Platt’s.”
“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.