Fearless in High Heels Part 11

"I think we need more tea," Dana said, getting up to refill my mug.

I thunked my head down on the kitchen table, doing deep, Lamaze breaths, willing myself to come to terms with my whale-like status. It was just temporary, right? With enough hours on the Stairmaster after the baby came, I'm sure I could shrink my a.s.s back to normal size. Some pec-working push-ups, and my b.o.o.bs would perk right back up. A couple of sea-weed wraps, and I'm sure my thighs would smooth out. And if all that failed, I made a plan to start a mommy make-over fund as soon as my next paycheck arrived.

"You okay?" Dana said, setting my mug in front of me. "'Cause you kinda sound like you're hyperventilating."

I paused mid-deep breath. "I'm fine," I lied. "Look, let's just drop the whole subject and go look up that license plate number, okay?"

"Right," Dana agreed. "So, where's Ramirez's computer?"

"Spare room," I directed, grabbing my mug and leading the way to our guest bedroom slash storage room slash Ramirez's office slash the baby's room.

"Whoa," Dana said stepping through the doorway. "What happened in here?"

I watched her wide eyes take in the room. A stack of Tupperware boxes filled with holiday decorations took up one end and a wardrobe rack filled with overflow from my closet the other. A crib sat at the far side under the window, though it was filled to the top with baby items, still in their packages. Humidifiers, wipes warmers, bottle sanitizers, and about a million other things that I wasn't sure what they did but my mom had insisted that her grandbaby needed. There was a twin bed somewhere under a pile of baby clothes, and in the far corner was a desk where a laptop hunkered down amidst piles of papers.

I guess all the slashes in our room's use had kinda filled it to max.

"It's a little messy, I know," I admitted.

"Messy? Dude, I'm about to dial h.o.a.rders on you."

"I'm going to clear it out before the baby comes."

She looked down at me. Back up at the mess. "You sure you have enough time?"

"Let's just run the plate," I said, stepping over a baby excer-saucer and a package of diapers to get to the laptop.

I jiggled the mouse to life, pulling up Ramirez's desktop. In the top corner was an icon labeled CADMV. I clicked it, and the Department of Motor Vehicles program immediately popped up, a window appearing that prompted me for a pa.s.sword.

"You know the pa.s.sword?" Dana asked, watching the screen over my shoulder.

I shook my head. "Not exactly." I tried his date of birth, then hit enter.

The screen blinked at me, then displayed a line of text stating I had entered an incorrect pa.s.sword, prompting me to try again.

So, I did. I entered my date of birth. Our wedding date. Our address, phone number, and any other combo of numbers I could think of, before turning to words he might use. I started with "cop", moved on to "homicide" and even "lapddude", before finally drawing a blank.

"I'm stumped," I confessed.

"Here, let me try," Dana said, dragging the keyboard her direction. After a couple of combos of numbers and letters, she finally smiled, a light bulb going off behind her eyes. "Duh!" she said, her fingers flying. I saw her type in the word "Maddie", and hit enter.

And the screen switched to the database homepage.

I grinned sheepishly, feeling a flutter of warm fuzzies in my stomach. Okay, so maybe our s.e.x life wasn't making like rabbits lately, but my husband was thinking of me even when he was running bad guys' license plates. In a weird way, that was kind of romantic.

"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 a.s.sociated 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 a.s.sociates, 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 c.o.c.ked 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sess 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.