I ripped open the box, skimming over the instructions again for good measure, then did the whole five second urine test thing. I sat down on the rim of the bathtub to wait, gnawing my fingernails so badly Marco was sure to shriek in horror when I came in for my next manicure. Seconds crawled as I watched Dana’s Betty Boop shower clock tick off the three minutes until I saw lines. Or line – singular. God I hoped it was line. Finally Betty’s little red second hand did three full rotations and I jumped up as if I was sitting on springs. Resisting the urge to cover one eye, I peeked at the little windows. Nothing. Huh?
I picked up the instructions again, re-reading them. Pee on the cotton swap, leave stick on flat surface, check for lines. I did all that. I stared at the empty windows again. What the hell? I picked up the box, turning it over to look at the expiration date. January 15, 2008. Ugh. Mental forehead smacking.
I threw the useless test in the trash, too emotionally drained to even curse Dana for keeping an expired test around and flopped myself back onto the sofa, wishing Dana had something more comforting than low carb Newton’s and Diet Snapple Iced Tea to gorge myself on. I so needed a box of double stuffed Oreos right now. Instead, I settled for Judge Judy reruns.
By four I knew how to stuff a game hen, six signs you need a sexy makeover, and that Bo’s brother was really Hope’s secret lover. I was sufficiently vegged out. Flipping off the TV, I decided Jasmine was probably packing it in for the day and it was safe to resume the next phase of operation Free Richard. I grabbed my purse and called a cab, hoping I timed my trip downtown so I’d miss Jasmine.
Unfortunately, the 101 was clear of accidents and my cab driver was an eager little beaver in a blue turban, so the first face I saw as I walked into Dewy, Cheatum and Howe was, predictably, Jasmine’s.
She looked up as I walked through the front doors, her eyes narrowing like a cat’s. “What do you want?”
“Are you always this friendly?”
She scrunched up her nose, squinting at my face. “What happened to your eye?”
“Some receptionist gave me lip. We tussled.”
She took a hand on hip stance. “Listen, you, I don’t have time for this. I have a date. Why don’t you just go home and make an appointment to see Chesterton tomorrow.”
“I’m actually here to see Althea.”
Jasmine’s eyes narrowed again beneath her drawn in brows. “Althea? What do you want with her?”
“Well, I think that’s between Althea and me, don’t you?” I gave her my best fake smile, showing teeth and everything.
She scowled. Well, tried to scowl. It was more like a lopsided squint. That Botox was really working. “Fine. I’ll get her. Wait here.” She walked around the reception desk, her lipo shrunk butt wiggling in her barely-there skirt. I didn’t know how she got away with wearing that kind of stuff to work. Honestly it was the kind of outfit I’d have to borrow to make another midnight run to the Moonlight Inn. The only decent thing about it were her knock off Prada boots, the perfect made in Taiwan replicas of the pair I’d tried on yesterday. Cute, but, like everything else about Jasmine, fake.
A few minutes later Jasmine came back through the frosted doors, Althea in tow. Althea was dressed in a striped jumper that reminded me of a private school uniform. Boxy and shapeless. She shuffled toward me, talking in hushed tones.
“Maddie, what’s wrong? Has something happened to Richard?” she asked, genuine concern lacing her voice. Then she paused. “What happened to your eye?”
“Nothing. Bar fight. Tripped. Whatever.” I waved the question away. “Anyway, Richard’s fine. I actually just want to ask you…” I paused, glancing behind me at Jasmine.
I’d hoped she’d leave for her date, but she suddenly seemed in no hurry, picking up a nail file and trying to look like she wasn’t listening in.
I sighed, resigned to her eavesdropping and pulled the newspaper photos of Bunny and Andi Jameson out of my purse. “I wanted to know if you’ve seen either of these women come into the office.”
Althea took the photos, pursing her thin lips together as she studied them. I could feel Jasmine leaning over the desk to get a better look.
“No,” Althea shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t recognize either of them. Who are they?”
I tried not to sound too disappointed. “Women Greenway dated. I thought maybe one of them could have slipped in and gained access to Richard’s files.”
Althea gave me an apologetic look. “I really wish there was something I could do to help Mr. Howe. We all miss him around here.” She bit her lip, then turned awkwardly and shuffled back through the frosted doors.
I put the photos back in my purse, trying not to feel defeated. I mean, just because Althea hadn’t seen anyone, didn’t mean no one had snuck in. I looked up at Jasmine, still tying to appear uninterested behind her desk. Did I dare ask her?
I watched her for a second, filing her nails, her legs crossed so one Prada knockoff stuck out from behind the desk. They were pretty good knockoffs actually. I resisted the urge to ask her where she’d bought them. I looked closely, taking in the details. Unlike most knockoffs, the metal zippers were clearly embossed with the Prada logo and the stitching was tiny and precise, not puckered. And, as Jasmine uncrossed her legs, I noticed they had that soft ease of movement unlike the usual stiff imitations. In fact… I took a step closer, openly staring at her shoes now.
Oh my God. Those weren’t knockoffs. Those were a genuine pair of five hundred dollar Prada boots.
And suddenly it hit me. Where did Jasmine get the money for Prada?
Chapter Twenty
I stared, my gaze riveted to the imported calfskin. I felt like a Jeopardy contestant, suddenly faced with all the answers if only my brain would catch up quickly enough to find the right questions to ask. The blonde hairs in the motel room. Access to Richard’s files. One expensive cosmetic surgery after another on a salary that made mine look decadent. Ohmigod. Jasmine was mistress number four.
I swallowed hard, realizing I was still staring. Then looked up to find Jasmine watching me. Our eyes locked and I felt my blood turn cold.
“Are you still here?” she asked, her voice oddly flat.
“Me?” I squeaked out. “Nope. No, I’m done. I’m gone. I mean, I’m leaving now. See, here I go.”
She cocked her head to one side, looking at me funny as I turned and all but ran out the door. I didn’t wait for the elevator, instead taking the stairs two at a time, hoping I didn’t fall and break my neck as theories swirled through my brain at an alarming pace. Had Greenway met Jasmine on one of his visits to Richard’s office? What if he’d had an affair with her? With Jasmine’s eavesdropping habit, she was sure to have overheard something of Richard and Greenway’s less than legal money shuffling. And she had easy access to all Richard’s files. Including bank account numbers. Jasmine had shot Greenway, I was sure of it.
Breathing heavily, I ran outside into the heat and got halfway to the parking garage before I remembered I didn’t have my Jeep. Crap.
I paused on the sidewalk between Bernie’s Pawn Shop and Starbucks. I pulled my cell phone out, poised to call Ramirez and tell him what I’d learned. But I hesitated. As sure as I was that Jasmine had done it, I didn’t have a shred of proof. And I had a feeling that when Ramirez heard about my latest shoe clue, he’d have a good chuckle and I’d get the Big Boy speech again. Add to that my promise to leave the whole thing alone (never mind I’d had my fingers crossed) and I wasn’t really excited about facing Bad Cop again.
What I needed was proof. Anything that definitively tied Jasmine to Greenway. Something more than a designer shoe. I had to get to her computer. It hadn’t escaped my notice that her computer screen closed with lightening speed whenever I walked into the reception room. I’d bet my favorite slingbacks that the numbers to an offshore account, recently twenty million dollars richer, were buried somewhere between her solitaire games. Ramirez and his crew had no doubt torn Richard’s hard drive inside and out, but who would have bothered with the receptionist’s computer?