Free Homicide in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page A

and 110 freeways. It was the kind of
neighborhood where you could pay a half-million for a two bedroom
cottage down the street from a massage parlor that offered "happy
endings" for twenty bucks. Transitional might have been the word to
describe it, only this neighborhood had been transitioning for the
last fifteen years. Its residents called it "eclectic," but Geico
called it "high risk."
    I pulled into the stadium parking lot,
driving around to the east side where the players' entrance was
located. Without a game today, the lot was a ghost town except for
a small section near the players' entrance where rows of sports
cars and luxury SUVs stood gleaming in the sun. I slipped my
mini-van into a slot near the back, hoping it didn't stick out too
badly, and made my way to a tall guy in a black security uniform
standing by the entrance.
    "Maddie Springer," I told him. "I'm a guest
of Kendra Blanco."
    "Just a moment," he told me, pulling up an
electronic tablet and gliding his finger over the surface. A moment
later he must have found my name on the list, as he nodded. "Mrs.
Blanco is already here. She said you could go on in." He moved
aside and held open the glass doors for me.
    I thanked him and stepped into an air
conditioned corridor.
    Like much of Los Angeles, the stadium was
built on a hill, the field and concessions above ground, while the
business offices and private areas were carved into the hillside as
an underground world. One large corridor ran the circumference of
the stadium with several smaller walkways and doors leading off to
the left and right. As I wound my way through the inner workings of
the Stars' world I spied break rooms, training areas with weight
machines, and a ton of offices housing the administrative arms of
the franchise. I was starting to worry that I'd be lost forever in
the maze of cool, white hallways when I finally spotted a ramp to
the field about halfway through my stadium lap.
    I took it and found myself once again in the
bright, warm sunshine, squinting at a scattering of guys in various
work-out gear tossing balls to each other on the field. Most were
working in groups of twos and threes, coaches shouting directions
as players worked out their kinks.
    But I spotted Bucky thankfully alone.
    Near the dugout, Bucky was swinging a bat at
a pitching machine. It shot a white blur toward him, and the crack
of his bat sent it back toward the far stadium seats, echoing in
the empty arena. I watched him hit three or four in a row, then
pause to sip from a Gatorade bottle as a young kid in a Stars
jacket emerged from the dugout to refill the machine.
    "Bucky Davis?" I asked, approaching him from
behind.
    "Yeah?" he answered, not turning around, his
attention still completely focused on the fake pitcher in front of
him as if staring the machine down.
    "Uh, hi. I was wondering if I could ask you
a couple of questions?"
    "Shoot," he told me, swigging his drink
again.
    I cleared my throat, having a hard time
broaching the subject of his dead girlfriend to the back of his
head. "Uh, it's about Lacey."
    I watched his back stiffen, then he spun
around, his blue eyes narrowing at me. "You a reporter?"
    "No," I shook my head quickly. "No, I'm…with
the salon. Where she was…" I trailed off.
    I watched Bucky's jaw clench. "What do you
want?"
    "I wanted to ask you a few questions about
Lacey."
    "Why?"
    Great question. I doubted that saying
because I thought he killed her was going to get me very far.
Instead, I went with a small half-truth. "For our insurance
purposes." I was pretty sure Faux Dad had some kind of
insurance.
    It seemed to work as some of the suspicion
drained from his eyes. "Oh. Right. Sure, what do you want to
know?"
    "We noticed that Lacey was coming into the
salon an awful lot," I started with.
    He nodded. "Yeah. I guess. I mean, she liked
to look pretty."
    "She was spending a lot of money there."
    He shrugged. "Hey, money spent on looking
pretty is money well spent in my book, right?" He