Killer in High Heels Read Online Free PDF Page A

visions of that dead-in-a-ditch thing were going to haunt me. I took a deep breath and punched in the first number.
    I got an answering machine. In fact, at the first six numbers, I got machines, most of which I weeded out immediately. The first Larry Springer sounded about eighty and the next two machines featured a college kid and a man with a heavy Spanish accent.

    I was halfway through the L. Springers when my stomach grumbled loudly enough to make me jump in my seat, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything since my B&J’s binge last night. I revved up the Jeep and hit the McDonald’s drive thru on Beverly and Wilshire, ordering a Quarter Pounder, large fries and a strawberry milkshake. Then I threw in an apple pie for dessert. Hey, I figured this was my breakfast and lunch.
    By the time I’d finished off the last of the greasy fries and my shake had melted into dribbles of watery ice milk at the bottom of my cup, I’d narrowed the list down to two possible Larrys. One number rang and rang, and the other was answered by the mechanical voice that came with the answering machine. Either of these could belong to my dad.
    What I needed now was some way to match the numbers with addresses. If I had an address, I could call the Vegas police and let them do a casual drive-by to see if either of the houses were occupied by conspicuous dead bodies with gunshot wounds.
    I looked down at my digital clock. 4:15. Dana’s Prenatal Pilates class should be ending soon and if I hit the 405 now, I might be able to catch her before she started her Pole Dancing for Seniors session.
    After slogging through the pre- pre-rush hour traffic (Okay, fine, in L.A. the freeways always look like rush hour. But I, for one, choose to hold on to the hope that there does exist a small window of time in which I might actually be able to get from the Citadel to the Beverly Center in under an hour. Never mind that the window is between 3 and 5 A.M.), I pulled my Jeep into the parking lot of the Sunset Gym, a huge concrete and glass structure that housed an Olympic-sized swimming pool, seven racquetball courts, and its very own Starbucks. I declined the valet parking, figuring the thirty-second walk from my car to the gym could count as my exercise for the day.

    Today the front counter was manned by none other than Dana’s latest ex-boyfriend, No Neck Guy. No Neck had been one of Dana’s many roommates at the Studio City duplex she shared with a handful of other actor slash personal trainers. They’d been hot and heavy for about two weeks before Dana caught No Neck hitting on one of the gym patrons. He claimed he was just measuring the size of her pecs, but even Dana didn’t buy that one. She gave him the dreaded don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you and put an ad in the PennySaver for a new roomie. Currently residing in No Neck’s old bedroom at the Actor’s Duplex was Stick Figure Girl, who, rumor had it, had just landed a gig as Lindsey Lohan’s body double.
    I fished my gym ID out from the deep recesses of my purse (shoved beneath a Snickers bar and an empty M&M’s wrapper) and gave No Neck a little wave before scanning the main floor for Dana. I finally found her in one of the group classrooms, leading a handful of pregnant women in cool-down stretches. I did a quick check to make sure I didn’t still have strawberry milkshake breath as the women waddled out and Dana jogged toward me, bottle of vitamin water in tow.
    “Hey, what’s up?” she asked, taking a long sip. “You here for my pole dancing class?”
    “Oh gee, I left my stripper clothes at home.”
    Dana ignored my sarcasm. “Come on, it’s awesome on your glutes.”
    “Maybe next time. I just ate.” Two hours ago.
    Dana narrowed her eyes at me. “Are those French fry crumbs on your shirt?”
    Self-consciously, I wiped at my top.
    “Maddie, I thought we agreed you were going to take better care of your body. Do you know how bad French fries are for you? They’re like injecting