Fearless in High Heels (11 page)

“We’re in,” Dana announced, pulling the slip of paper from last night out of her pocket.  She quickly typed in the digits she’d written down, hit enter, and we waited a beat before the program spit back a name associated with the vehicle: Lawrence Goldstein.  I grabbed a Babies-R-Us receipt from the crib and wrote down the address displayed beneath his name on the back.  It was in downtown L.A., and, half an hour later, we were standing in front of it, looking up at a high-rise that gleamed against the bright morning sunshine. 

We entered the lobby, which was white marble floors, sleek modern chairs, and a bustle of people filtering past a large, cherry reception desk manned by four women in black headsets.

Dana and I approached, asking the first one where we could find Lawrence Goldstein’s offices.  She indicated the elevators, saying he was on the seventh floor.

We thanked her, rode the elevator, and got out at the law offices of Goldstein and Associates, Attorneys at Law, or so the gold plaque above a second cherry reception desk told us.  Like the first one, she was wearing another black headset.  “May I help you?” she asked as we approached.

“Yes, we’d like to see Mr. Goldstein, please,” I told her.

She nodded, glancing briefly down at a computer screen.  “Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh, no.  I’m sorry, we don’t,” I confessed.

“And what is this matter regarding?” she asked.

“It’s kind of confidential,” Dana jumped in.

The receptionist raised an eyebrow, but must have seen enough confidentially minded people filter into her offices that she didn’t ask.  Instead, she indicated a pair of chairs.  “Have a seat, and I’ll see if he can fit you in.”

We did, though I’d scarcely gotten through the first article in the
People
magazine on the coffee table before she told us to go down the hallway to the right and enter the last pair of doors.

We did, finding ourselves in reception number three. 

“May I help you?” asked a younger, blonder version of the first two women in black headsets. 

“We’re here to see Mr. Goldstein,” I repeated.

She nodded.  “Through the first door on the left,” she said, indicating another doorway.

I gingerly pushed through, wondering just how many gatekeepers Mr. Goldstein had.  Thankfully, instead of another headset, behind the low cherry desk in this room sat an older man that I hoped was Goldstein. 

He was in his fifties, if I had to guess, his salt and pepper hair turned mostly to salt at this point.  He was solidly built, though his cheeks had started to go slack around the jowls, giving his face a bulldog look.  Adding to the canine image, his eyes were small, set far apart in his face, and, at the moment, sharply intent on Dana and me.

“I’m Larry Goldstein,” he said, rising from behind his desk to shake our hands.

“Maddie Springer,” I offered.  “And this is my friend, Dana Dashel.”

“Very nice to meet you,” he said, sitting again.  “How may I help you ladies?”

“We wanted to ask you a few questions,” I started.

He raised one bushy eyebrow.  “Such as?”

“How well do you know Becca Diamond?” Dana blurted out.

He frowned, his forehead wrinkling.  “Who?”

“Don’t play coy with us,” Dana said, taking a menacing step forward.  Well, as menacing as a blonde in a mini skirt and three inch heels can be.  “We saw you pick her up in your car last night.”

The frown between his bushy eyebrows intensified.  “You mean Willow?”

I cocked my head to the side.  “I mean the redhead in the black dress and dark wig who jumped into your car outside Sebastian’s place.”

“Right,” he agreed, the confusion lifting.  “Willow Morte.”

“A stage name?” I asked.

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  All I know is she said her name was Willow.”

“Okay, fine.  So how well do you know Willow?”

“Why do you want to know about her?”

“We have some… issues to discuss with her. And we’re having a hard time reaching her.”

He sucked in his cheeks, nodding.  But whether he bought the line or not, he seemed curious enough to continue the conversation. 

“I knew her casually,” he said.  “I’ve seen her at a few parties.”

“Sebastian’s vampire parties?  So, you’re a frequent guest?”

His cheeks tinged red above his starchy collar.  “Well, I wouldn’t say frequent, but I do attend from time to time.”

“And that’s where you met Willow?”

He nodded.  “But I wouldn’t say I know her well.”

“Well enough to take her home last night,” Dana pointed out.

He paused, looking from Dana to me.  “What exactly is this about?”

“Alexa Weston,” Dana answered.  “Did you know her, too?”

Goldstein gave Dana a blank look.  Either he had no idea who she was talking about, or it was a fabulous poker face.

“You may have known her by a stage name, too,” I added.  “She was Willow’s friend.  Long black hair, pale skin, super skinny.”

Goldstein slowly nodded.  “I think I know the girl.  What about her?”   

I bit my lip.  Apparently he hadn’t heard.  “Alexa was murdered three nights ago.”

I could see Goldstein would be a champion in the courtroom.  His face was a total blank, any emotion he may have felt at the passing of the “immortal” Alexa was completely hidden.  For a second, I wondered if he’d even heard me.

Finally, he spoke again.  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said, his voice a flat monotone. 

“When was the last time you saw Alexa?” I asked, trying to pull something out of him.

He paused, choosing his words carefully.  “Last week.  Sebastian had a party, and I attended.”

“And both Alexa and Becca were in attendance, too?”

He nodded.  “Yes.”

“Where did you take Becca last night?” Dana asked.

I watched Goldstein mentally try on several different answers before he finally settled on, “Why do you want to know?”

“Becca was the last person seen with Alexa before she died.”

“And we think she knows something about Alexa’s death,” Dana added. 

Goldstein shook his head.  “No.  You must be mistaken.  Becca is not that kind of girl.”

“So you
do
know her well,” I said. 

He paused, looking from Dana to me, trying to assess just how much he should tell us.  Finally he nodded.  “Fine.  Yes.  I knew Becca well enough to know she would never kill someone.  She was a sweet girl.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.  “Sweet” was not exactly the kind of word I’d expect anyone to use when describing the girls I’d met at Crush.  Which made me wonder…

“Were you sleeping with her?”

Goldstein’s cheeks immediately went screaming red.  “I’m a married man,” he said holding up his left hand clad in a thick, gold band on the ring finger.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’ll have you know that I love my wife very much.”

I nodded.  “But you were sleeping with Becca?”

“This is preposterous.  I don’t have to answer these kinds of questions,” he said, shaking his head so that his bulldog jowls wiggled like Jell-o.

Honestly?  His lack of denial already kind of had.  “Okay, let’s go back to Alexa,” I said, backing away from the touchy subject.  “When did you say the last time you saw her was?”

For once, he seemed glad to answer a question, gratefully jumping on the subject change. 

“Last week.  Alexa came up to me at the party saying she needed some legal advice.”

“About what?” I asked.

He shook his head.  “I never found out.  I told her to drop by my office, but she said that was too risky.  She said she’d meet me at the party last night.  I was there, but she never showed up.”

“But Becca did,” I broke in.

He nodded.  “She came running up to me and said she needed to leave right away.”

“Why?  What was she running from?” I asked, even though if I had to guess a murder rap would be at the top of my list.

Goldstein shrugged.  “She didn’t say.  But she was shaken up enough that I agreed to drive her home.”

“So, you went back to her place?” Dana asked.

Goldstein paused again, licking his lips.  I could tell he wasn’t the kind of person who said a single thing without first deliberating.  A great courtroom skill, but it made for an annoying interview process.

“Not exactly,” he finally said.

“What do you mean?” I pressed.

“Well, she was antsy.  Kept looking out the back window, like she thought someone was following her.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t say.”

“So, what happened?”

“As soon as we turned onto Victory, she said she’d walk the rest of the way and got out of the car.”

“Victory?” I asked, hearing the confusion in my own voice.  That was a good ten miles from Becca’s place off Sunset.  “Did you see where she went?”

Goldstein slowly shook his head.  “She headed east, toward Lankershim.  I figured she lived nearby.”

Only we knew for a fact that she didn’t. 

Meaning, once again, Becca was in the wind.

Chapter Thirteen

I tried dialing Becca’s number again, but there was, predictably, no answer.  Just for kicks, Dana and I drove by her building again, but there was no sign of her.  And after Dana climbed the four flights of stairs (thankfully she let me hang in the lobby as backup), there was no sign that Becca had been back to her trashed place, either. 

After circling the block a couple of times for any sign of a redhead in a black wig, Dana dropped me off back at home.  Where I was surprised to find not only Ramirez’s black SUV in the drive (before 5 PM even!), but also a shiny, silver mini-van with an “I heart my hairdresser” sticker on the bumper.

Uh oh.  Mom was here.

I cautiously walked through the door, only to find Ramirez being held captive in the kitchen by my mom and her best friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt.  He was holding a hot water bottle in one hand and a tennis ball in the other.  Mom had Baby-So-Lifelike in her arms, and Mrs. Rosenblatt was holding a stopwatch.

“Do I even want to know?” I asked, already knowing the answer to that question.

“Madison Louise Springer,” my mother said, immediately turning on me.  “Do you know where I found my grandbaby this afternoon?”

I blinked.  “Uh… hi.  Nice to see you, too.”

“He was on the floor.  Face down.  Under a pile of shoes!”  She held Baby-So-Lifelike to her chest.  “The poor dear could have suffocated.”

“He’s plastic.”

“He’s a practice baby, and so far you are indicating that you need a whole lot more practice before you can be trusted with a real baby.  Maddie, you left him alone in the house all day.  You can’t leave a baby alone!  This is the ficus all over again.”

Oh, brother.

I looked to Ramirez for help, but found him edging himself slowly out of the room.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mom asked, turning on him.

Ramirez froze like a deer in the headlights of a GMC barreling down the 15.  “Uh… I thought we were done?”

“Done with what?” I asked, my gaze pinging between the tennis ball and Mrs. Rosenblatt’s stopwatch.

“Timing your exit strategy to the hospital,” Mrs. R explained. 

Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred pound, five-time divorcee who talked to the dead.  She did a weekly astrology column for a local tabloid and ran a psychic reading booth down on the Venice boardwalk on the weekends.  She spent weekdays alternating between a booth at Ira’s Deli on Highland and my mom’s living room, sipping coffee and gossiping about the neighbors.  Her wardrobe consisted of a never-ending supply of brightly colored muumuus and Crocks.  Today’s offering was a hot pink tent with neon yellow daisies printed all over it.  Which perfectly matched the neon yellow eye shadow extending clear to her painted-on eyebrows.  To say Mrs. Rosenblatt was a bit eccentric was like saying Lindsey Lohan was a bit of an alcoholic.  However this was Hollywood, so honestly, she didn’t stick out all that much.

“So far,” she informed me, looking down at the stopwatch, “your husband is at just under twenty minutes.  Though we took off ten minutes because he had to go looking for the tennis ball in the garage.”

“I’m confused.  Tennis ball?”

“In case you have back labor,” Mom said.  “It’s very common in our family.”

“We’re aiming for fifteen minutes flat to get you out of here,” Mrs. R said, resetting the stopwatch.  “So the big guy here’s gotta pick up the pace.”

“And even fifteen isn’t that much time when you take into consideration travel time,” Mom added.  She paused.  “You do have your travel route to the hospital planned out, right?”

I blinked.  “Uh…”

“Good lord, Maddie!  You don’t know how to get to the hospital?”  My mom’s face went white.  “My first grandson is going to be born in traffic on the 405.  I just know it.”

“Mom,
she
’s not due for another four months.  We have time,” I argued.

“Babies come early, you know,” Mom said, wagging a manicured fingernail at me.

“Like Kyle Morganthwait,” Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed, nodding sagely.

“Who?” I asked.

“My third husband’s cousin’s daughter’s kid,” Mrs. R explained.  “Little Kyle was born three months early.  Only weighed a single pound.”

I looked down at my belly.  Could it really be that The Bump only weighed a pound?  Good lord, where had the other fifteen I’d gained gone? 

“Don’t panic,” Mom said, putting up a hand.  “I’ll find a route to the hospital.”

“You’re the only one panicking, Mom,” I pointed out.  “And I really think Ramirez and I are capable of finding the hospital.”

But she completely ignored me, making for the spare room and Ramirez’s laptop.

I followed a reluctant step behind, watching her navigate around the diapers, jiggle the mouse to life and pull up Google Maps.

“Okay, so if you take the 405 to Santa Monica to Beverly, it should only take you twenty minutes.”

“If there’s no traffic,” Mrs. Rosenblatt interjected, coming into the room behind us.  “If it’s past 3 PM, you’re gonna want to take surface streets all the way.”