Free Undercover in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page B

mean, I can’t imagine Mia or Veronika inviting him in for a chat.”
    Dana nodded, her gaze straying only minimally to Biscotti Boy, who was leaning over the counter to squeegee off the bakery case. “So we’re back to the letters. Whoever has been writing them is our killer.”
    “Right.” I sipped at my coffee again, wondering if Ramirez had made any headway on that front. Not that he’d tell me. Not that he was even speaking to me at this point. A thought depressing enough to tempt me into a second mocha. With whipped cream. And a chocolate-chip muffin.
    “Did the guy sign them or anything?” Dana asked.
    I shook my head. “No name on the one I saw. Just, ‘your adoring fan.’ ”
    “Creepy.”
    “No kidding.”
    “Well, if there’s nothing terribly distinguishing about the letters themselves, we’ll just have to focus on the person delivering them.”
    I raised an eyebrow at her. “Meaning?”
    “Meaning find out who on the set has the biggest grudge against Mia.”
    I did a mental shiver at the thought. “Speak for yourself, but I’m not particularly crazy about the idea of interrogating this guy face-to-face.”
    In fact, I wasn’t even particularly crazy about the idea of going back to the set. Now that Ramirez’s assignment had been bumped up to homicide, every cop in town would be on the Sunset lot. Honestly, what could Dana and I do that they couldn’t?
    “Hey, ” Dana said, cocking her head to the side as she watched Biscotti Boy bend over to pick up a stray napkin off the floor. “You think he’d go for an older woman?”
    I shot her a look. “Seriously? I think he started shaving yesterday.”
    “Look at those glutes, Maddie. Don’t they make you just want to sink your teeth into—”
    “Down, girl. Remember your chip.”
    Dana bit her lip and moaned. “I think I need to go for another run.”
    After dropping Dana off at the gym for her noon Spinning to the Oldies class, I pointed my Jeep in the direction of my studio. Like a good girl, I was going home and staying the heck out of Ramirez’s way. (Imade a mental note to remind him of this the next time he accused me of butting in.)
    I took the 405 south until it merged into the 10 west to Santa Monica. I pulled my little red Jeep into my space just as Mrs. Alvarez from downstairs was letting her cat out. I gave her a friendly wave.
    “Morning, Mrs. Alvarez.”
    She nodded in my direction. “Someone left a package for you, ” she said, gesturing to the top of the stairs. I glanced up. Sure enough there was a brown box sitting on my doorstep. My heart lifted. The suede Michael Kors boots I’d ordered from Zappos.com? Maybe this wasn’t such a bad day after all.
    “Thanks, Mrs. Alvarez, ” I called, taking the steps two at a time.
    She nodded again before shutting the door and returning to The View .
    I picked up the package, not even waiting until I got in my apartment before tearing off the tape and peeking inside.
    “Ewwwwww!”
    I did a big girlie squeal and dropped the box at my feet, doing a jogging-in-place-waving-my-hands-in-the-air dance to shake off the cooties. It was so not my suede boots. Instead, lying inside the box was a squirrel. Or, more accurately, most of a squirrel. The poor little thing looked like he’d suffered a run-in with a Ford Bronco on the 101.
    I shut my eyes against the mangled image, now burned into my brain, and kicked the box down the steps with the toe of my Gucci pumps, willing myself not to vomit in Mrs. Alvarez’s azalea bush.
    I did a sweep of the street, searching for teenagers giggling behind trash cans at their prank. Nothing.The only sign of life was Mrs. Alvarez’s cat licking its privates on the hood of my neighbor’s Chevy. Doing one more icky squirm, I unlocked the door and quickly slipped inside my apartment.
    Instinctively, I dialed Ramirez’s number. Then, remembering how our last conversation had gone, I hung up after the first ring. The way we’d left things had been