I stared at the television, my brain half listening and half screaming that this was some mistake. Richard wanted for murder? This couldn’t be happening.
A picture of Richard from the office Christmas party flashed across the screen. I’d bet anything Jasmine had furnished it to the press. They were probably descending on Dewy, Cheatum and Howe like vultures right about now. I had a mental image of Jasmine’s Elvis smirk preening for the cameras on the six o’clock news. I think I was going to be sick. I sat down hard on my futon as the reporter made appropriately concerned faces, then cut to a Doritos commercial.
Ramirez was going to arrest Richard. I knew Ramirez well enough to know that there wasn’t a whole lot I could do to stop that. Sure I could put on my Bond Girl outfit again and search Richard’s office for the umpteenth time, but what good would it really do? I had no idea what I was doing. I was the worst Nancy Drew ever. Every time I tried to help, another dead body showed up. I’d like to think it was coincidence but I made a mental note to go to mass on Sunday with my grandmother just in case.
On the other hand, the search to find Richard was an all out manhunt now. Every cop in the city would be looking for him. And not for whoever really killed Greenway. Because I was still relatively confident that Richard wasn’t capable of killing anyone.
Which is why even though I knew I should take Ramirez’s advice and leave this to the professionals, I grabbed a lined notepad and began scribbling.
I wrote the word “Suspects” at the top of the page in big bold letters. My pen hovered in the air, poised to write Richard’s name down on the list. But even though I was pretty pissed off at the cheating bastard, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, instead I made a compromise. I amended the “Suspects” with an “other than Richard.” There, that was a better starting place.
Only my mind was a blank when I tried to list them. I didn’t have any suspects. All I had to go on was a blonde hair and a stiletto impression. Which I was pretty sure Ramirez still thought were mine. I wrote “blonde in heels” on the list. Gee. That narrowed the field to 95% of L.A.’s population.
Obviously I needed more to go on. And it was equally as obvious that following Ramirez around town wasn’t a good idea anymore. Besides the fact that he’d be on the lookout for a red Jeep now, I had a feeling he’d been this close to hauling me downtown last night. And I didn’t want to tempt the man. Especially if he hadn’t slept. Lord only knew how grouchy Bad Cop got with no sleep.
So that meant Sherlock Fashion was on her own. I stared down at the notepad again. It was a pretty pathetic list. If I was going to convince Ramirez that Mystery Blonde was a suspect at all I needed more. Which meant going back to the Moonlight.
I picked up my cell and dialed Dana’s number, hoping she was up for playing Cagney to my Lacey again. (Never mind that the reality was more like an Ethel to my Lucy.) Unfortunately, No Neck Guy answered the phone at the Actor’s Duplex and informed me (through a serious of cave-man worthy grunts) Dana hadn’t come home yet. Still out hot tubbing with Liao no doubt. I said to have her call me when she got in and hung up.
As much as I dreaded going back into the bowels of the Valley alone, it was either that or draw kiddie shoes. And I was so not in a kiddie shoes place right now.
I grabbed my keys and purse and headed out to my Jeep, braving the afternoon traffic into North Hollywood.
There was an overturned big rig on the 405 and a police chase on the 101, so by the time I reached Vanowen again the Moonlight Inn was clear of reporters and CSI teams. In fact, save for the bright yellow crime tape still gracing the door of room two-twelve, it looked like business as usual. Radios blared, spandex clad women bade good-bye to their “gentleman callers,” and the parking lot pharmaceutical trade had resumed in full force. North Hollywood was quick to bounce back from one little shooting.
I parked the Jeep and avoided glancing in the direction of the green dumpsters as I made my way to the _ront O__ice.
I pulled open the smudged, glass doors and saw Metallica was on duty again. He’d changed into an AC/DC shirt, but his greasy hair betrayed that he hadn’t taken time to shower before coming back to work. He stared for a moment before recognition kicked in.
“Oh shit. It’s you!” He ducked down below the counter. “Please don’t shoot.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do I look like I’m carrying a gun?”
Metallica peeked his head up over the Formica. He did an up and down thing with his eyes, his gaze resting on my breasts. A grin broke out on his face. “Nope. You look niiiiice.” He nodded, drawing out the word.
Hmmm… maybe I should start carrying a gun.
“Get a grip. They’re just mammary glands.”
“Dude, I think the cops are looking for you. You chicks like totally messed that guy up.”
“We didn’t kill him.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You sure?”
“Yes!”
“‘Cause I wouldn’t tell no one. I mean, when you think of it, it’s actually kind of hot. Chicks with guns. Like a Laura Croft thing. Laura Croft is hot.”
I had a feeling any woman with a pulse was hot in Metallica’s world.
“Sorry to interrupt your wet dream, but we didn’t kill him. In fact, the police think my boyfriend killed him.”
“Dude!”
“I know!”
Metallica leaned in. I tried not to grimace at the scent of stale weed and breakfast burrito. “Did your boyfriend kill him cause he was your john?”
“No! God, no. I’m not really a hooker.”
Metallica looked me up and down again. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He grinned, showing off a mouth in serious need of some Crest White Strips. “You could be one. You’d make a really hot hooker.”
I felt my left eye begin to twitch. This was getting nowhere.
“Did you see anyone else go up to room two-twelve last night?”
“Nope. Just you, your friend, and that dude they found in the dumpster.”
Damn. But, on the bright side, at least he didn’t say he saw a lawyer in tailored slacks.
“Could anyone have gone up when you weren’t looking? Like maybe you went ‘out back?’” I put my thumb and index finger up to my mouth in a smoking motion.
He giggled. “Hey, anything’s possible, babe.”
“How about the parking lot. See anyone suspicious hanging around?”
Metallica grinned. Right. Stupid question.
“Anyone who didn’t look like they belonged here? Anyone… with money?” Or the vaguest notion of hygiene.
Metallica chewed on his chapped lips, squinting off into space. “Nope.”
I was beginning to feel like I’d wasted a trip to the Valley for nothing. I tried one last angle. “How about this. Did you see any blondes last night? Wearing high heels?”
“Dude, that would have been hot.”
Great. He was like Beavis and Butthead all rolled into one. Well, what did I expect? The man’s brain probably looked like Swiss cheese.
Then a thought struck me. Dana and I had had to weasel Greenway’s room number out of Metallica. If Metallica hadn’t seen the blonde, that meant she already knew where Greenway was staying. Either she followed him, which I didn’t think was likely considering Greenway would be pretty careful about who he led to his hideout, or else Greenway trusted her enough to give her the room number. I mentally added another item to the Suspects list. Blonde in heels, Greenway’s trusted confidant. Maybe a mistress? I wouldn’t put it past him. During our short phone conversation, Greenway hadn’t seemed like the type to balk at extra-marital affairs.
So, I was looking for a blonde mistress in heels. All right, it wasn’t a Colombo moment, but at least it was something.
“Thanks a ton,” I said to Metallica.
“Thanks for what?”
“For not seeing anything.”
“Dude, I not see shit all the time.”
I didn’t doubt it.
My cell started ringing as I got back in my Jeep. I flipped it open as I pulled back onto Vanowen.
“Hello?”
“Mads, it’s Ralph.”
“Hi Ralph. How’s Mom doing?”
“Better. She’s still trying to get a Catholic priest to go bless the hotel gardens before the ceremony, but at least she’s stopped eyeing her rosary.”
That was a start.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I was just calling to remind you about the bachelorette party tonight. Not that I thought you’d forget, but, well, I just thought I’d remind you.”
“I wasn’t going to forget.”
“Right. Of course not.” Faux Dad cleared his throat. “I knew you’d be there. I just… wanted to make sure.”
Okay, I had forgotten. What was it with this wedding that I seemed to be blocking it out of my memory?
“Don’t worry, Ralph. I’ll be there. Cross my heart.”
I hung up with Faux Dad, ignoring the icky feeling that washed over me at the combination of Mom and male strippers, and dialed in my number to check my messages again. Only Dana, saying she was back from hot tubbing. Nothing from Ramirez. Nothing from Richard.
I called Dana back as I swung into an In-N-Out Burger, and filled her in on the latest developments over a double-double and fries. I also made her promise to go with me to Beefcakes tomorrow. I didn’t think I could stomach it alone.
As I hung up with Dana and dabbed at a spot of mustard on my skirt with a paper napkin (the burger was messy, but oh-so-worth it) I pulled out my Suspects list again. So, who was this blonde? The problem was I didn’t know anything about Greenway, aside from the cliff notes version Ramirez had given me. What I needed was more dirt on Greenway’s personal life. Like nosey neighbor or National Enquirer type dirt. Since I didn’t see Greenway’s neighbors gossiping with prime suspect number two (a.k.a. me! Ugh!) I figured a trip to the library was my best bet at ferreting out the gory details of Greenway’s social exploits. If there was dirt to be gotten, I felt confident that back issues of the L.A. Informer were the place to find it.
I hopped back on the 405, making a quick stop back at home to change out of my mustard spotted clothes and into my version of library wear – tweed skirt, white silk blouse, and low heeled loafers – before heading to the Santa Monica library. I was on a mission to view every bit of microfilm they had on Devon Greenway.
Which turned out to be a lot. Apparently Greenway was not only a frequent story in the gossip columns, but also in the business section, due to the new micro chip innovations of his company, Newtone Technologies. I scanned through page after blurry page of microfilm, the constant hum of the machine my only companion. This was the side of detective work they didn’t show on HBO. The no-frills-and-even-less-glamour side. It made the kiddie shoes look tempting again.
If I’d hoped for a headline that read “Greenway Spotted with Blonde, Homicidal Mistress at Charity Gala” I was sorely disappointed. What I found instead was page after page of ribbon cuttings, IPO filings, and company prospects analysis.
Two hours later my eyes were permanently stuck in squint mode and my nose was itchy with dust, but I knew every detail of Greenway’s life, business or social. And unfortunately, a lack of blondes hadn’t been one of Greenway’s problems. In fact, through the course of the press’s two year infatuation with all things Greenway, it was speculated he’d had no less than three mistresses. Andi Jameson, Carol Carter, and, get this, Bunny Hoffenmeyer. All blonde. (My money was on Bunny. Who could grow up with a name like that and not be homicidal?)
I wrote all three names down on my suspects list, ignoring the fact that they didn’t get me a whole lot closer to earning Richard that get-out-of-jail-free card. Sure I had the names of Greenway’s known mistresses, but who knew how many had slipped by the press? Greenway struck me as the slick type.
But, just to be thorough, I looked up all three blondies in the library’s yellow pages before heading home. Andi Jameson was easy enough to find, listed in a condo in Encino. Otherwise known as Silicone Valley. I called her number, but she wasn’t home. So I left a message saying I was a friend of Greenway’s and wanted to ask her a few questions.
There were about fifty Carol Carters, so I reluctantly wrote her address down as “unknown.”
Bunny Hoffenmeyer, as it turned out, was an adult film star, number unlisted. I did, however, find the production company she worked for. Big Boy Films in Sherman Oaks. Great. Back to the Valley.
It was late afternoon and hitting that day’s high of 96 degrees according to the bank on the corner of Westwood and National. I cranked my air conditioner as far as it would go as I hopped on the 405 and reluctantly made the trip back over the hills. A thick layer of smog held tight to the curves of the mountains, covering the Valley with a sickly gray color that made me wonder why anyone would live here by choice. On the other hand, it did strengthen Bunny’s motive. Twenty million dollars would go a long way toward buying her way into the Beverly set.
Another ten minutes of fighting freeway traffic and I was cruising down Sepulveda, a street lined with warehouses that passed themselves off as production studios for rent. Large, gray and rusty, they didn’t resemble Universal Studios in the least. And, I ventured to guess, neither did their films. Most were straight to video or foreign market pictures. Or, in the case of Big Boy Productions, tailored for a more mature audience. (Read: kinky.) Big Boy was located in a gunmetal gray building covered in corrugated metal siding. I parked in the lot beside a lunch wagon and stared at the building.
K – here’s the thing. I’m not really a porn kind of girl. I mean, I’ve seen porn. Once. When my college boyfriend tried to convince me it was hot to see close-ups of strangers’ privates while we made love. (Needless to say I broke up with Voyeur Boy soon after.) But honestly the closest I’d ever come to knowing the insides of the adult film industry was Marky Mark’s performances as Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights. And that was as close as I wanted to come.
Damn Richard. This was all his fault.
I took a deep breath and forced myself out of the car and across the two yards of parking lot to the unmarked door of Big Boy Productions. I almost covered my eyes as I walked in.
If I’d been expecting a lava lamp induced orgy, I was disappointed. The room I stepped into looked like just about every office reception area I’d ever been in. In fact, with the exception of a bright red light bulb flashing over the door, it bore an unnerving resemblance to Dewy, Cheatum, and Howe’s front office. Only instead of one Jasmine, there were three. Three women behind expensive looking desks, all blonde Anna Nicole Smith look-alikes, all Double D’s barely concealed by itty, bitty pink crop tops with the words “Big Boy” stretched across their implants, and all three staring up at me.
I gulped, suddenly feeling like Granny Prude in my library attire.
“Uh, hi,” I said to the Double D closest to the door. “I’m looking for Bunny Hoffenmeyer.”
The Double D shifted in her seat and I resisted the urge to look away in case an implant escaped her crop top’s precarious hold. “And you are?” she asked in a breathy, Marilyn Monroe sort of voice.
“Um. Maddie.”
She looked at my prim tweed skirt and frowned. “Are you doing a scene together?”
“No!” I said a little more loudly than I’d intended.
“Right.” She looked me up and down again. “I didn’t think so.”
I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or insulted.
“I actually wanted to talk to her about a mutual acquaintance of ours. Devon Greenway.”
Double D’s face softened. “Oh. Right. That guy she was dating. I heard about him on the news. Really sad.”
“Very sad,” I agreed, nodding and mimicking Perky Reporter Woman’s appropriately concerned faces. “Did he ever come in here with Bunny?”
Double D smiled, showing off a row of slightly crooked teeth. “Actually, her name’s Myrtle. Bunny’s just a stage thing.”
Myrtle Hoffenmeyer? I think I liked Bunny better.
“And, sure, he was here a few times. He was really cute. And rich.” Blondie sighed. “Myrtle was real lucky to meet him.”
Lucky. Right. Lucky she wasn’t swimming face down right about now. Which brought me back to her current whereabouts…
“So, is Bu – uh, Myrtle here today?”
“Oh, sure. She’s just finishing a scene in studio two.” Blondie indicated a pair of doors to her right.
I cut a look to the doors. I had an unnerving feeling that was where the orgies took place.
“Um, do you mind if I wait here until she’s done with her, um… scene?” I asked.
“Sure, no prob.” Double D grinned and indicated a pair of padded chairs along the wall. I sat down, glad that the front office seemed to be soundproofed.
Ten minutes later the red light above the door shut off and a sound like a fire alarm blared through the building. I must have jumped as Double D reassured me, “That means they’re done shooting. It should be safe to go back there now if you’d like.”
“Thanks.” I stood up and pushed through the double doors, hoping Bunny had robed.
The studios of Big Boy weren’t pretending to be anything other than a Valley warehouse. Walls were covered in rusted metal (and not the chic rust of Fernando’s, but the real kind caused by years of corrosion), large pipes ran along the ceiling and the floor was a cracked concrete. The only break in the industrial look were the three-walled rooms made of painted plywood that were supposed to resembled bedrooms. At least that was my guess by the enormous beds scattered through the warehouse.
A group of people were huddled around one. Luckily, they seemed to be dispersing, men winding up lengths of cable and women wearing silky looking bathrobes, with slightly mussed bedroom hair. I felt my cheeks growing hot as I averted my eyes.
I recognized Bunny right away from her photographs with Greenway in the L.A. Informer. She was sitting on a stool by a plywood bedroom, cigarette between her acrylic nails as she watched the grips check the camera. She was my height, but about five pounds slimmer and filled with enough silicone that she might topple over at any second. I had a hard time picturing her hauling Greenway’s body all the way downstairs and out to the Moonlight’s dumpsters. Still, no stone unturned.
“Bunny Hoffenmeyer?” I asked.
She looked at me with a disinterested stare. “Yeah?”
“Hi. I’m Maddie, uh… Ramirez.” Okay, why I gave her that name, I didn’t know. But for some reason I didn’t want her to know who I was really was. At least not until I knew if she owned a gun.
“Hi,” Bunny said, blowing smoke up toward the ceiling.
“Hi. I, uh, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about Devon Greenway?”
Her eyes clouded. “Why?”
Why. Very good question. “Well, I uh, I’m from the L.A. Informer and, uh, we’re doing a story on Greenway’s death. We wanted to include some interviews from those close to him.”
Bunny still looked dubious, so I tried to sweeten the pot. “We’d love to include some pictures, too. It would be great exposure for you.” No pun intended.
Bunny straightened in her chair at the mention of pictures. “What do you want to know?”
Did you kill him? But I figured blunt wasn’t the way to go. They always finessed the suspects a little first on Law & Order. I put on my best finessing voice. “I heard you and Greenway were close.”
She smirked. “You could say that.”
I had a feeling I was going to regret this next question. “How close?”
Bunny raised an eyebrow. “I fucked him occasionally, if that’s what you’re asking.”
At least she didn’t mince words.
“Right. So, when was the last time you, uh… saw Greenway?”
She took a long drag from the cigarette. “Last Thursday.”
I perked up. Thursday had been the night Richard canceled dinner with me to meet Greenway. I wondered if Bunny had been there.
“What did you do?”
“We had dinner at Le Petite’s. This totally expensive French place on Ventura. Then he had to meet his lawyer. Some Ken Doll in a suit.”
Hey! That was my Ken Doll she was talking about. But, I had to admit, now that she mentioned it, Richard did resemble Ken a little. Perfect plastic façade – hollow on the inside. Ugh.
“Do you know what the meeting was about?”
She tiled her head and scrutinized me. “I dunno. Some business shit. What did I care?”
I felt my bubble of hope deflating. Even if Porn Star Barbie had been present at Richard and Greenway’s meeting, I doubted any of it would penetrate her silicone filled head.
“So, you haven’t seen him since Thursday?”
She blew out a slow stream of smoke at the ceiling. “No. I broke it off with him.”
“Really? Why?” Honestly Greenway and Bunny seemed like a perfect fit.
“Cause I found some chick’s thong in his pocket.”
“His wife’s?”
Bunny smirked again. “Honey, wives don’t wear shit like this. This was a leopard print, mesh thong. He was fucking someone else.”
I’m pretty sure my eyes strayed to the bed where Bunny had just finished her scene. I had a hard time believing she was a stickler for monogamy.
“Hey, this is just work,” she defended. “I fake it at work. What Devon and I had was the real deal. And if he was sticking his real deal to some other chick, I didn’t want any part of it.”
Fair enough.
“Any idea who the thong belonged to?”
Bunny smirked again. “Some slut. I think he was meeting her for nooners, ‘cause he never answered his phone around lunchtime.”
“So, just for the record, where were you last night?” Even though Bunny was slipping down my list of suspects I figured it didn’t hurt to be thorough.
“Here. Shooting a scene for Babes in Boyland.”
Ugh. A porn pun. “Okay. Well, I, uh, don’t want to take up any more of your time.” I reached out to shake her hand, then thought better of it, not knowing where that hand had been. Instead I waved a little good-bye as I turned and headed for the reception area.
“Hey wait a minute!”
I spun around. “Yeah?”
“What about the pictures?”
Right, pictures. “The photographer will be out tomorrow,” I lied. Gee, I was getting better at this. “Thanks again.”
Back in my Jeep, I pulled out my Suspects list again. I wasn’t entirely convinced Porn Star Barbie wasn’t my blondie, but I was having a hard time picturing her hacking into Greenway’s accounts and transferring twenty million to unknown whereabouts. She hadn’t struck me as the sharpest crayon in the box. I added, “leopard thong, nooners” under “blonde in heels.” Hmmm… Bunny was right. She did sound like a slut.
I was just merging back onto the 405, watching the sun sink into a hazy, glowing orb below the hills, when my cell phone rang. I glanced down at the number. Faux Dad. Oh crap, what did I forget now?
“Hello?”
“Where are you?”
“On the 405. Why?”
“Good. Cause your mom’s at Beefcakes already and she’s starting to worry about you.”
D’oh! I slapped my forehead with my palm. Beefcakes. “Right. I was just on my way there.”
Faux Dad heaved a sigh of relief into the receiver. “Good. ‘Cause for a minute there, I thought maybe you’d forgotten again.”
“Who me? Never.”
Faux Dad paused. “Mads, you seem a little distracted lately. Is there something on your mind?”
I resisted the urge to break out in manic laughter.
“I’m fine.” Ha! “Sorry, Ralph, I gotta go. I’m going through the canyon.”
I hung up and made a quick maneuver into the right lane, merging onto the 2 East toward Beefcakes.
This was turning out to be quite a week for me. Hookers, and Porn Stars, and Strippers. Oh my!