Homicide in High Heels (5 page)

I immediately turned, putting my back to the
door and grabbing Ling by the arm. "Uh, look. We're very sorry to
have bothered you."

"Who are you?" Ratski asked, his gaze
pinging from me to Marco and back to Ling.

"I'm no one. No one, who will be on her way
now."

"I don't know what this is," he said,
addressing me. "But you can tell your whore friend here to leave me
the hell alone."

Ling sucked in a breath, her jaw tensing. "I
am a
dancer
. Not a whore," she ground out.

Ratski shook his head. "Whatever."

"You have no right to call me that! That is
big disrespect!"

I glanced at the door. Our altercation was
causing unwanted attention. Namely from the tall, dark, and
coming-dangerously-close-to-identifying-me-in-the-dimly-lit-strip-club
husband.

"Look, I'm sure he didn't mean it. Now let's
get out of here," I said, tugging on Ling's arm again.

But she was taking a stand. "You apologize
right now or else!"

Ratski scoffed, shaking his head. "You have
got to be kidding. I'm outta here."

"I no kidding!" Ling shouted, bouncing on
her toes to bar his way.

"Move it, chick," he warned.

I tugged on Ling's arm. But for a small
girl, she had crazy lower body strength, her legs planted firmly in
a stance that was not budging. I mentally made a note to try some
of those pole dancing exercises later.

"You say you're sorry," Ling demanded
again.

"Look," I jumped in, "I'm sure we can handle
this in a rational, speedy, fashion if we just—"

But that was as far as I got before Ratski
grabbed Ling's other arm, shoving her backwards. Ling let out a yip
like a terrier, stumbling back against the next table and falling
flat on her butt on the hard, linoleum floor.

"Hey, that was uncalled for," I said,
stepping toward Ratski as Marco rushed forward to help Ling up.

Ratski turned on me. "Listen, bitch," he
yelled, his voice getting louder now. "I don't know who you think
you are, but no whore is gonna tell me what to do." Then he grabbed
my arm, ready to do a repeat of the shove and run routine.

But before either of us could react further,
a large fist went flying through my field of vision, connecting
squarely with Ratski's nose, sending him reeling backward and
crashing hard into the booth behind him.

I looked up.

And realized the fist was connected to my
husband.

Ratski stumbled backward, his head smacking
against the edge of the table and bouncing off. But it only phased
him for a second before he was on his feet, turning toward Ramirez.
I watched as events seemed to play out in slow motion. Ramirez
cocked his fist back again. Ratski lunged at Ramirez. Marco
squealed and covered his eyes. Ling jumped on Ratski's back, and I
put all 110 pounds of myself behind the effort of holding my
husband's arm back. I might have been successful too, if I hadn't
been wearing adorable slingback heels which slipped on the slick
linoleum giving me the traction of a pony on an ice skating
rink.

"Stop! No! Don't hit him!" I yelled in vain,
appealing to both men at once.

Luckily, one thing the Glitter Galaxy did
not skimp on was security. A bouncer in a black shirt appeared from
nowhere, inserting himself between Ratski and Ramirez just as
Ratski managed to shake Ling off.

"Take it outside," the bouncer yelled, his
voice a deep rumble.

"LAPD," Ramirez spat back.

"I don't care who you are. There is no
fighting in the Glitter Galaxy."

While Ramirez could have argued with him, I
could see the fire dulling in his eyes, sanity returning. Clearly
beating up a ball player in a strip club was not going to get him
anywhere.

He turned, his eyes falling on me instead.
"You," he said stabbing a finger my way.

I did a dry gulp. "Me?"

"Outside. Now."

I nodded agreement, dread building in my
stomach as I made a beeline for the door. I felt Ramirez's breath
hot on my neck as he followed me, but it wasn't until we were
outside in the bright sunshine again that he spoke.

"What the hell were you doing in there?"

I bit my lip. "Having a drink." Which was
the truth. I had thoroughly enjoyed my one cosmo.

His eyes narrowed, and a vein in his neck
started to bulge. "Nice try, Springer. What were you really doing
there?"

"What? I can't enjoy a strip club in the
afternoon like any other L.A. housewife?"

His eyes turned into fine slits. "And
Marco?"

I swallowed hard. "He was…enjoying the strip
club too?"

Ramirez closed his eyes. His nostrils flared
with the effort of taking deep breaths. I could feel him mentally
counting to ten. When he opened them again I couldn't see much
difference in his expression, but the vein in his neck had stopped
pulsing.

"Please tell me why I just punched a guy for
calling my wife names in the middle of a strip club?" he said, his
voice treading that fine line between controlled calm and explosive
anger.

"Sorry," I said.

"For?"

"Look it was Marco's idea."

He sighed. "Go on."

"I didn't even want to come. But Ling said
that she knew Ratski, and that the boyfriend is always guilty, and
that Bucky is best friends with Ratski, so maybe Ratski had some
inside info about Lacey's death. Which, I know, seemed like a long
shot but…" I trailed off as a teeny tiny light bulb went off in the
back of my mind. "Hey, exactly why are
you
here?"

Ramirez sighed again. "Turns out there were
rumors that Bucky and Lacey
were
having some issues."

"Shut the front door! Ling was right? Bucky
killed his girlfriend?"

Ramirez held up a hand. "I wouldn't go that
far. But they'd been heard arguing lately. Bucky said he was with
Ratski and another player when Lacey was killed, so I was checking
up on his alibi."

I glanced at the door of the club. "I don't
suppose Ratski's gonna be in the mood to talk to you now."

Ramirez sighed again, expelling the last of
his air, and ran a hand through his dark hair, making it stand up
in little tufts. "No. He's not."

"Sorry," I said, as much for my part in the
scuffle as his. "But, if it makes you feel any better, that whole
defending my honor thing? Kinda sexy."

The ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of
his mouth. "A
little
better."

"Tell you what," I said, taking a step
toward him, "the kids are at my mom's for another hour, and I just
picked up this move in there where you hang upside down from the
pole and arch your back, and…" I trailed off seductively.

A full-fledged grin took hold of his
features. "Now that might make me feel a
lot
better."

* * *

Ramirez was up before the sun again,
muttering about doing some "damage control" in a sleep-filled voice
as he rolled out of bed. I vaguely registered the shower turning
on, smelled fresh aftershave and coffee, then heard the front door
slam shut. I rolled over and went back to sleep until Max let out a
cry over the baby monitor.

Two bottles, one shower, and three diaper
changes later, I was in my kitchen contemplating my breakfast
options when Dana walked in, a Starbucks cup in each hand.

"Location shoots are ridiculous. You know
how much easier it would have been to pop a poster of the Golden
Gate behind me and shoot here in L.A. than trying to wait for the
sun to peek through the frickin' permanent fog layer at the actual
Golden Gate?"

"Hi," I said. "Good to see you."

"It would have been so much easier," she
continued, answering her own question. "I swear they were just
looking for excuses to blow their budget." She paused and handed me
a cup. "Hi. Good to see you too."

I grinned, taking a sip. Mocha latte with
extra whip. She knew me so well.

"So the shoot was a total bust?" I
asked.

Dana shook her head, downing her own drink.
"No, we got the shots. I just nearly got pneumonia in the process.
I mean, it's spring for heaven's sake. Doesn't San Francisco know
that?"

"Maybe it didn't get the memo?"

She shot me a look that said it was too soon
for levity about her ordeal. "Anyway, I'm so glad to be home.
And…you owe me some deets. How did the interrogation go yesterday?"
she asked, taking another long sip from her cup. Filled with a
non-fat, soy, decaf latte, if I knew her as well as she knew
me.

I groaned. "Worse than your shoot," I said,
filling her in on all of the gory details, including my husband
decking a sports celebrity.

"Ouch," she said when I was done. "Sounds
like that lead is a dead end now."

I nodded. "No kidding. I feel terrible."

She took another sip. "Hey, it's not like
you
punched the guy."

I nodded. "I know. But I didn't help the
situation any. And now Ratski is about as hostile a witness as they
come. I think the words 'sue' and 'your ass' were even shouted as
the bouncers dragged Ramirez off of him."

"Sucks," Dana agreed. She paused to sip.
"Well, maybe we can help him get the dirt on Bucky another
way."

While part of me was pretty sure I'd
helped
my husband enough already, there was a teeny tiny
part of me that perked up at the idea of making it up to him.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well, Ramirez said there were rumors that
Lacey and Bucky were having problems. I happen to know where all
good baseball rumors start."

"I'll bite. Where?" I asked

"
Baseball Wives
!"

I cocked my head to the side. "Right. The
show is gossip central. And…?"

"And maybe we can get the 411 on the rocky
relationship for Ramirez. The show airs on the same network as
Lady Justice
, and I did a promotional spot with some of the
ladies in the cast a couple of months ago." Dana pulled out her
cell and started scrolling through her contacts. "I think I still
have Kendra's number."

"That would be Kendra Blanco?" I asked,
recalling from the show a tall blonde with a serious shopping
addiction.

Dana nodded. "Her husband is Gabriel Blanco.
The pitcher. Ah! Got it." She held up her phone, displaying a local
number.

"You think Kendra can help?" I asked.

Dana shrugged. "It's worth a try. If the
couple was having issues, maybe Bucky talked to Kendra's husband or
one of the other players. Kendra is in the know for anything that
happens on that team."

"I don't know…" I hedged.

"Come on, Maddie. You know you want to help.
Besides, you really think that Kendra, or anyone associated with
that team, is going to gossip to a cop the way she would over a
mimosa with us at lunch?" Dana reasoned.

She had a good point. "I could really use a
mimosa," I agreed.

* * *

Kendra Blanco was as beautiful in person as
she was on the show. Tall, blonde, and slim, with skin that had
been exfoliated, waxed, and Botoxed within an inch of its life. She
was dressed in a white, linen pant suit that on anyone else would
have shown off every teeny ripple of cellulite. Of course,
cellulite didn't dare deposit itself on Kendra's thighs, so she
didn't have to worry. She'd paired the suit with a hot pink cami
and a pair of pink, pointy-toed, leather pumps that somehow
screamed kick-ass and total girly-girl all at the same time.

She was seated at a table on the patio of
Bando Café on Sunset, a pitcher of the promised mimosas already in
front of her. To her right sat a shorter, more curly-haired version
of her blonde fabulousness, and to the left a brunette with her
hair sleeked back into a tight ponytail. I easily recognized both
from the TV show. Elizabeth Ratski and Elizabeth DeCicco—the two
"E"s.

"Dana!" Kendra called, hailing us from her
table as we approached. I noticed that her manicure matched her
heels in a beyond put-together look. I was suddenly glad I'd opted
to change into a slim, a-line skirt and loose blouse before
dropping the kids at my mom's again. I prayed both items of
clothing were still baby food free.

"Kendra, it's so good to see you again,"
Dana said, doing an air-kiss greeting before introducing me. "This
is my good friend, Maddie Springer, the shoe designer."

Kendra nodded my way and introduced the two
E's.

"Beth Ratski," the curly-haired blonde said,
sticking her hand out. "My husband plays first base."

I shook her hand, glossing over the fact
that I knew very well who her husband was and how he'd gotten a
black eye yesterday afternoon, quickly moving on to the brunette
who did a repeat of the hand shake.

"Liz," she told me. "Right field."

"I know," I admitted this time. "I watch the
show."

Turns out I could not have come in with a
better intro as all three beamed at me as if the cameras were on
them right then.

"Oh, I'm so embarrassed," Kendra said. "They
completely take things out of context in the editing room, don't
they?" she asked the two E's.

Both women nodded in vigorous agreement.
"Completely," they said in unison.

"I mean, they make it look as if we're 24/7
drama queens," Kendra went on.

"Speaking of drama," Dana said, lowering her
voice. "I couldn't believe it when I heard about Bucky's
girlfriend."

An instant pall came over the wives, their
expressions shifting to appropriately morose. "A terrible tragedy,"
Kendra agreed, sipping her drink.

The E's did a repeat of their nodding
routine. "Terrible," they said in freaky unison again.

"Did you ladies know her well?" I asked.

Liz snorted, then quickly tried to cover it
in a cough.

"We knew her," Kendra said, carefully. "But
she was not one of us."