"Okay, so it's a big deal game show," Ramirez teased. "How did Ralph do?"
"He did great." I sipped my wine. "He won. He's officially a finalist." I paused. "Shoot. We're not supposed to tell anyone until after it airs."
Ramirez grinned. "Don't worry. I won't tweet the spoiler to all my followers," he joked.
"You know, lots of people love Jeopardy!"
Ramirez nodded. "Sure."
"Anyway, Ralph killed it. He and Mom are celebrating at City Walk tonight."
He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't want to go with them?"
"What, and miss all this?" I asked, gesturing to the cardboard box our dinner had come in.
Ramirez grinned, coming in close again and nuzzling my neck. "Pizza, beer, a playoff game, and a night off with my family. What more could a man ask for?"
I giggled, the Chardonnay kicking in. "What is 'A Beautiful Wife, Alex?'"
Ramirez laughed and kissed my lips. A long, lingering one that left me breathless and suddenly counting the minutes until the twins' bedtime.
Only, before I got too far into that fantasy, his phone went off at his hip.
"Ignore it?" I suggested.
He gave me a look that said he was having the same fantasy, but he was too good a cop to take my advice. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the text.
"Lemme guess. Work?" I took a disappointed sip (gulp?) of wine.
"Sorry, babe," he answered, setting his beer down and swiping to call in. He ducked into the living room as I pulled our dinner out of the oven and began searching drawers for a pizza cutter. Which should have been in the drawer by the sink, but when Max and Livvie helped put away the dishes, all bets were off.
I finally found it in the cupboard full of Tupperware and had just cut the pizza into triangles when Ramirez came back into the room.
"I'm on my way," he said into the phone before stabbing it off.
I must have groaned out loud, as my husband shot me a sympathetic look.
"Sorry," he repeated.
I shook my head. "No, it's fine. I know. Duty calls." I was proud of how supportive I sounded, even if I had to shove pepperoni into my mouth to keep the sarcasm out.
"I'll make it up to you later," he told me, grabbing a slice to go.
"You'd better." I handed him a paper plate. "Do you think you'll be very late?"
He shrugged into his jacket. "Not sure. Sounded like a high profile case."
"Dead celebrity?" I read between the lines.
He nodded. "Before you ask—no idea who yet. Unresponsive in their home. Sounds like a possible drug overdose."
I felt a pang of sadness for whoever it was, even though the phenomenon was not uncommon in LA.
"Wake me when you get home," I said, imagining he wasn't looking at an early evening.
He nodded, gave me a quick kiss, and grabbed one more slice of pepperoni pizza to go before heading out the door.
I tried to look on the bright side—the twins and I could have some precious Mommy & Me time together instead. Given my husband's line of work, I'd learned to expect nights like this. And while I didn't love them, they came with the territory and I was used to making the best of them. I loaded pizza onto a couple of plates that I took into the living room, where we all watched Woody and Buzz together. Then I cleaned up the kitchen and shuttled the kids into the bathtub for an extra sudsy and bubble filled bath time. After they were all clean and snug in their footed pajamas, I read them Green Eggs and Ham and Clifford Goes to School, two of their favorite books. I was all ready for a third book, but they were sound asleep before I could start it. My watch said eight o'clock. I wandered into the living room and tried to decide what to do for the rest of the evening.
Ramirez hadn't texted, so I assumed as expected, he'd be home late. I sat down on the sofa with a second glass of wine. In theory, it would be a good time to work on the latest sketches for a pair of vintage inspired two-toned pumps I was designing, but I wasn't feeling motivated that night. I flipped on the TV and indulged in a couple reality shows my husband wouldn't be caught dead watching. After I'd had my fill of romances between yacht crews and long-distance fiancés, I switched to the local news to see if Ramirez's drug overdose had hit the media yet.
A blonde, perky-looking reporter in a pound of makeup chatted about the upcoming election, the price of gas, and the rising temperatures for the weekend. I was only half paying attention, the long day and the wine doing their thing to make my eyelids feel heavy.
Until the perky woman said, "And in other sad news today, we've just gotten word about the death of a Los Angeles icon."
I sat up, suddenly fully awake as a picture of a man flashed on the screen beside the newscaster. It was a face I knew well—having spent the better part of the afternoon looking at it.
Unshaven, craggy wrinkles, glassy stare.
Doggy Z.
CHAPTER THREE
I flicked back and forth between news channels for a while, hopping from one story about the dead rapper to another. The details were scant, so I picked up my phone, checking social media for more. From what I could glean, Dog had left the Jeopardy! taping and been dropped off at home by his son. A few hours later, he'd ordered Chinese food, and the delivery driver said he'd found the front door unlocked and Dog lying on the floor a few feet away. Dead of an apparent drug overdose.
I thought back to Dog's behavior during the taping. I'd suspected he was high then, though I'd half thought it was just him perpetuating the persona his fans expected of him. I felt a pang of guilt that we'd all seen him acting funny but no one had intervened. Of course, there was a big difference between looking like he'd indulged in a couple puffs of legal marijuana before the show and dying of an overdose afterward, so how could we have known?
Two hours later, I'd scoured everything there was to be seen on Doggy Z's death. Which was not much more than the initial info. Though as the night wore on, more and more fans left their condolences and comments on social media. I finally went up to bed around midnight, where I quickly drifted off to sleep. I halfway remembered Ramirez kissing me and getting into bed at some point, but when I awoke the next morning, I was once again alone.
I dragged myself into a very hot shower, dressing quickly as I heard the twins waking up in their bedroom down the hall. I opted for a pair of skinny jeans, a cold-shoulder top in a pale yellow, and a pair of strappy blue sandals with a three-inch heel. I was just adding a swipe of lip gloss and some mascara as the sounds of Paw Patrol told me the twins were not only up but also in possession of the TV remote.
After I'd served them cereal and juice in front of the television, I found the message Ramirez had scrawled for me on a Post-it Note, next to the coffeemaker.
Messy case. Media frenzy. Call you later. Love you.
I tucked the Post-it away in one of the kitchen drawers as I grabbed a cup of coffee and contemplated his word choice. Messy case. I could well see where a high-profile death like Dog's could be a messy media frenzy, especially if illegal drugs were involved. Or, for that matter, even enough prescription ones to cause a deadly overdose. I wondered if Dog had taken them on purpose or if it had been accidental. He hadn't seemed particularly unhappy at the taping, even if he had been kind of out of it. It was clear he'd tanked on Jeopardy!, but as much of a joke as that would be in the press, it hardly seemed worth ending your life over. On the other hand, I could easily see how an out-of-it Dog might have forgotten how many pills he'd taken and accidentally added one too many to the mix.