A Page 17

  No such luck. We merged onto the 5 and Ramirez moved into the left lane, settling in for a long drive. I groaned, making a mental note to always eat before tailing a cop.

  Just when I’d decided I was on a wild goose chase and going to faint from hunger if I didn’t have a Big Beefy DelDeluxe, Ramirez exited the freeway at Bear Street, toward the San Joaquin Corridor. My heart did a little jump as I realized he was taking me right into the heart of Orange County’s premier shopping district. Maybe Ramirez wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

  As we neared the South Coast Plaza, Ramirez pulled away from the shopping district and into the residential. He moved through streets lined with two-story California Spanish villas and faux Tudors until he pulled up to a large, modern home, all glass on one side. I could tell it was designed by some famous architect or other by the angular lines of the structure, looming as if it was ready to topple in the next 6.3 earthquake. The small yard was done in utilitarian bluegrass and decorative stone, which echoed the stark feeling of the glass structure.

  Ramirez parked his SUV and got out, approaching the house. I parked across the street, slouching down in my seat in case he glanced behind him. Luckily, he didn’t, because I’m sure my red Jeep stuck out like a sore thumb among the subdued Jags and BMWs lining the road.

  Ramirez knocked on the front door, then waited. Then knocked again. Apparently no one was home. My shoulders sagged at the possibility that I’d just drove all that way on an empty stomach for a nobody’s home.

  Ramirez looked over both shoulders, as if someone might be watching him. Good cop instincts… I was impressed. I slouched down further in my seat, just my eyes and nose peaking over the rim of the driver side window. Apparently Ramirez was satisfied, as he proceeded to walk around the back of the house, disappearing through a painted, wooden gate.

  I waited. Nothing.

  Shit. If he was doing some fancy breaking and entering I couldn’t see from this viewpoint. For all I knew he could have Richard in handcuffs back there. I opened the car door and slunk out, crouching as I ran cross the street. Then realized how ridiculous I must look. Gee, Maddie, that’s not suspicious. I straightened up, throwing my shoulders back and walked around the side of the building as if I owned the place.

  The backyard was much more lush than the front, the landscaping done in a mix of tropical birds of paradise, palms, and fat succulent bushes. Small levels had been carved out of the natural hillside, creating a barbecue area, a patioed terrace, and finally an Olympic sized swimming pool. Ramirez stood on the bottom level staring at the swimming pool. I couldn’t see what he was looking at, so I quickly picked my way through foliage to the next level above him. I straightened up to get a better look.

  Unfortunately, the uneven ground and my two-inch Choos made for a less than stellar combination. My foot slipped, my arms waving for balance that never came. I pitched forward and, before I could catch myself, let out a little scream.

  Ramirez turned just in time to see me flailing like a lunatic, falling right toward him.

  “Jesus…” he muttered, before collapsing with an “oof” as I landed on top of him.

  I had to admit, landing on him sure beat the ground, though I’m not sure which was harder. His muscled chest didn’t give way an inch. I wondered how many hours a day he spent at the gym.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, his nose inches from mine.

  I blinked hard, trying to ignore the rush of heat as his muscles wiggled beneath me. “I followed you.”

  “Hell, I knew that much. But I figured you’d stay in the car.”

  So much for my career as Maddie the fashionable stealth.

  I pried myself off of him, awkwardly regaining my footing. Note to self: real Bond Girls don’t wear Choos. “Sorry,” I mumbled, sure I sounded as sheepish as I felt.

  Ramirez grunted by way of response, standing up and dusting off the seat of his jeans. I tried not to stare. Much.

  “I’ll wear flats next time,” I said instead.

  “Smartass,” he muttered. But he didn’t go for his gun, now clipped conspicuously to his belt, which I interpreted as a good sign.

  “So, whose house is this?” I asked.

  Ramirez’s eyes darkened, the line of his jaw tightening until I could see a little blue vein starting to bulge in his neck. “Hers.” He gestured down to the pool.

  I peeked over the edge of the hill at the sparkling blue water, shimmering in the late afternoon sun.

  “Eek!”

  My stomach clenched, the saltines threatening to make a repeat appearance as black spots danced before my eyes. The manicured landscape swayed in front of me and Ramirez’s arm, suddenly at my waist, was the only thing keeping me from crumpling back down on the rocky ground.

  In the pool was a tall, slim woman with clouds of flaming red hair.

  Floating face down.

  SPYING IN HIGH HEELS

  Available now on Barnes & Noble Nook!

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the exciting first book in the

  Hollywood Headlines Mysteries

  by Gemma Halliday:

  SCANDAL SHEET

  Chapter One

  TEEN SENSATION ON MORAL VACATION:

  LAST NIGHT THE INFORMER CAUGHT EVERYONE’S FAVORITE TEEN ACTRESS, JENNIFER WOOD, AT THE HOLLYWOOD MARTINI ROOM WITH A MEMBER OF A BOY BAND IN ONE HAND AND MARY JANE IN THE OTHER -

  “Shit!”

  “Tina!”

  I swiveled in my chair to face my boss, Felix Dunn, standing in the doorway to his office, hands on hips.

  “What?”

  “Swear Pig.”

  I pursed my lips. “That doesn’t count.”

  “I just heard you say ‘shit.’”

  “It was computer related. Everyone knows computer-related swearing doesn’t count.”

  He narrowed his eyes. Clearly my argument wasn’t cutting it.

  “It’s your own fault, you know,” I protested, changing tactics. I’d been typing up a juicy tidbit about the It teen actress, who’d been caught with a joint in her hand at last night’s after-party, when my backspace button stuck, taking out one very cleverly worded line, even if I did say so myself. “I mean, how many centuries old are these things anyway?” I went on. “Would it kill you to buy some new hardware once in a awhile?”

  He shook his head. “Swear Pig, Bender,” he repeated, then disappeared back into his office.

  “Shit.”

  “I heard that!”

  I stuck my tongue out at his door and dropped two quarters into the purple piggy bank on my desk. Somehow our newly appointed editor in chief was under the impression that yours truly swore too much. I have no fucking idea where he got that impression. But he’d set up the Swear Pig as a way to break my bad habit. Personally, I was fine with my bad habit. It’s not like I was shooting heroin or anything.

  Which brought me back to my story.

  I swiveled around, pushing my glasses back up onto my nose and put my fingers to keyboard, recreating my perfect line.

  IT MAY BE ONE JOINT TODAY FOR OUR FAVORITE FAIR-HAIRED TEENY-BOPPER, BUT WITH THE WAY HER LIFE IS SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL, CAN COCAINE, METH, OR EVEN HEROIN BE FAR BEHIND? HOW MANY BLONDES DOES IT TAKE TO SPELL “REHAB?”

  I sat back in my chair, surveying my work. Okay, so it was a little mean. And the truth was Wood claimed someone had thrust the “stinky cigarette” into her hand just before the paparazzi flashbulbs went off, after which she’d promptly threw it out. But, seriously, she played the perky “Pippi Mississippi” in a tween cable show. This was tabloid gold.

  I hit “send” letting my daily gossip column zip through the L.A. Infomer’s network to Felix’s inbox, then gave my knuckles a satisfying crack.

  I glanced at the clock. Quitting time. And somewhere there was a big beefy burrito dinner with my name on it. I grabbed my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox that doubled as my purse and made for the exit.

  Unfortun
ately, not before Eagle Eyes Dunn could catch me.

  “Bender?”

  I thought a dirty word and turned around to find him leaning against his office doorframe. “Did you want something, chief?”

  “You finish up that Wood piece yet?” he asked.

  “Just emailed it to you.” I loved it when I was one step ahead of the boss.

  “What about Pines?”

  “Pines?”

  Edward Pines was the director who’d recently been arrested when police found a stack of pornography under the seat of his car during a routine traffic stop. Not that naked bodies were a novelty in Hollywood, but these particular magazines had included photos of thirteen-year-old boys in the buff. I don’t care how much his last action pic grossed, that guy was total Hollywood roadkill now.

  “What about him?” I asked.

  “Being arraigned today. It’s your story, right?”

  Damned straight. My headline the morning after Pine’s arrest had read: PINES PINES AFTER PINT-SIZED PRE-TEENS. What can I say? I have a thing for alliteration.

  But as much as I was relishing the story, I wasn’t thrilled with the timing.

  “He’s being arraigned now?” My stomach growled. “It’s dinner time.”

  “The news waits for no one, love. Cam’s meeting you at the courthouse,” he said, ducking back into his office.

  So much for my burrito. “Shit.”

  “Bender…”

  “I know, I know.” I reached into Strawberry Shortcake, pulled out another quarter, and dropped it into the ceramic pig on my way out.

  At this rate, I’d be broke by Christmas.

  * * *

  The Beverly Hills courthouse was located on Burton, just a block south of Santa Monica. An unimpressive building, it had a sixties glass-and-concrete esthetic going on that made me think of a Doris Day movie. Totally outdated, totally utilitarian, totally at odds with the rows of Jags and Beemers in the parking lot.

  I slipped my Honda Rebel into a space near the entrance. Yep, that’s right, I ride a motorcycle. A bitchin’ hot pink motorcycle. With yellow flames. I’ll admit, it was no Harley, but for a gal my size, 5’3” on a good day, it fit just right. And with L.A. gas prices shooting through the roof, it was the only way I could afford my rent and my regular Swear Pig deposits.

  I pulled off my helmet, locked it to the handlebars with a metal chain, and shook out my hair. Luckily when your hair is as stick straight as mine helmet head isn’t much of a problem. I gave it a good fluff and felt the shag cut fall back into place. Currently it was auburn with deep purple highlights. Though, I’ve been through so many shades in my lifetime, I’m not even really sure what my natural color is anymore.

  I grabbed Strawberry Shortcake and made my way inside, the cool air-conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside. Even in fall, the temp in So. Cal never goes much below 70, and this week we seemed to be hitting Indian summer in spades. After sending my purse through the conveyor belt and stepping through a pair of metal detectors, I made my way up to the second floor where Pines was scheduled to be arraigned.

  A towering blonde in jeans and sneakers, holding a big, black Nikon, leaned against the drinking fountain outside the room.

  “Hey, Tina,” she said, raising a hand in greeting.

  “I see Felix gave you late shift too, huh?” I said, gesturing to her camera.

  She nodded. “Caught me in the middle of the dinner rush at Mr. Chow. And Britney had reservations today, too.”

  Cameron Dakota was the Informer’s only full-time photographer. Most of the time Felix found it cheaper to pay freelancers by the picture, but Cameron had a knack for not only capturing celebs with their pants down (literally, if she was lucky) but also providing clear, quality shots that kept readers coming back time and time again to the Informer’s pages. And, oddly enough, she actually seemed to enjoy being stuck on Brit watch. Personally, if I had to follow Hollywood halfwits to Starbucks every day, I’d shoot myself.

  Lucky for me, I only had to cover them in court.

  “Pines in there yet?” I asked, gesturing to the large, oak doors.

  Cam shook her head, long blond hair whipping at her cheeks. “He’s up next. Right now he’s in the room next door with his lawyers. No cameras allowed in the courtroom so I’m waiting for a walk-of-shame shot.” She gave me a wink.

  “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

  I pushed through the doors and slipped into the back of the courtroom.

  Contrary to the world of L.A. Law, there was nothing glamorous, sexy, or exciting about sitting in L.A. County Court. The rooms were squat, square boxes filled with metal-framed tables, hard wooden chairs, and depressingly beige walls. Think DMV décor. Only worse. Since this was only an arraignment, no jury was present, just a bunch of people sitting in the gallery, family members who’d likely be putting up bail for the various guys in orange jumpsuits being paraded through the room. Currently up was a guy with earrings the size of nickels stuck in his ears, apparently pleading no contest to a drug possession charge.

  Yawn.

  I shifted in my seat, pulling my digital recorder from my back pocket as they let Mr. Meth out the side, telling a skinny brunette with tattoos that she could post his $50,000 bail downstairs.

  But I sat up straighter as the side door opened and the next defendant shuffled in.

  Edward Pines was in his fifties, though he looked about seventy-five today. Apparently jail did not agree with the man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his jowly features softer and flabbier than the last photo Cam had snapped for our front page. He walked with his head down, as if already playing contrite despite the absence of jurors. Beside him stood his attorney—tall, pressed suit, pasty complexion. I didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. High-profile pedophiles didn’t make legal careers.

  “Mr. Pines, you’ve been charged with possession of child pornography,” the judge boomed from his bench. “How do you plead?”

  The pasty attorney took his cue. “The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Pines had been caught red-handed by police. I wondered just how his attorney planned to tap dance out of that.

  “Very well. Prosecution on bail?” The judge turned to the pencil-thin district attorney, who, with the exception of his slight height, could have been a carbon copy of the pasty defense attorney. Didn’t any of these guys ever see the sun?

  “Your Honor, the People request bail be set at ten million dollars.”

  “Sonofa-” I sucked in a breath and heard a round of gasps ripple through the courtroom at the exorbitant amount.

  Pines might have been a public figure and a creep, but it wasn’t like he’d killed anyone. Even murder charges rarely topped a million in bail. I leaned forward in my seat. This was about to get juicy, I could feel it.

  “Your Honor, that’s outrageous,” the defense attorney argued. His cheeks actually showed some color now. “My client is an upstanding member of society, highly regarded by his peers. He has deep ties to the community, and, quite frankly, I feel the D.A.’s bail request is ludicrously out of proportion to the crime at hand.”

  The judge raised his bushy eyebrows. “You think child pornography isn’t a big deal, counselor?”

  “Of course it is, Your Honor,” he quickly backpedaled. “But the D.A.’s request is…severe,” he finished, this time choosing his words more carefully.

  Severe. Good way of putting it. I made a mental note to use that word in my copy.

  “Mr. Atwood?” the judged asked, addressing the D.A.

  “Your Honor, the defendant has considerable means, dual citizenship in the U.S. and Canada. He is a flight risk. And,” he said, shooting Pines a withering look, “considering the defendant is a director with access to all manner of photographic equipment, we feel it is our duty to protect the children of the community by requesting ten million in bail.”

  “That’s insane, Your Honor,” defense argued. “My client is being
persecuted by the D.A. because of his fame.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” the judge said, holding up his hands.

  The entire courtroom, myself included, went silent, holding our collective breath as the judge chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze going from one attorney to the other. No doubt wondering just how this would play out in the press.

  Finally he seemed to come to some conclusion.

  “Mr. Pines, if you think celebrity is an excuse for immoral behavior, you’ll be sorely disappointed in my courtroom. Bail is set at ten million dollars.”

  I let out a low whistle as the judge banged his gavel. The D.A. gave a triumphant lift of his chin, almost exactly proportionate to the slump in Pines’s shoulders as the bailiff accompanied him out of the room.

  I slipped my recorder back in my pocket. An interesting development indeed. Whether Pines actually had ten mil in change for bail or not, I had no idea. But a Hollywood director stuck in jail for days? This was almost as good as Paris Watch ’08. What do you want to bet he’d be claiming mental anguish in under a week?

  I mentally rubbing my hands together with glee as I slipped back out the door to find Cam waiting for me. After all, one pedophile director’s mental anguish meant front-page coverage for yours truly.

  God, I loved Hollywood.

  Chapter Two

  After the arraignment, Cam and I hit the Del Taco on Santa Monica. I got my steaming hot burrito, ordering a second to go just in case, and Cam did a taco salad before we parted ways - her to camp out on Sunset for the evening club crowd and me to home.

  Which, for me, was South Pasadena, a sleepy little suburb wedged between Glendale and the San Gabriel Valley. Wide streets, palms on every corner, and strip malls with Trader Joe’s and Pier One at all the intersections. Pretty typical American every-suburb, except for the fact that Nicole Richie lived just over the freeway.