Killer in High Heels (31 page)

I screamed. A long, loud, roller-coaster-worthy scream that echoed in my own ears even after I ran out of breath to sustain it. I looked from the toppled giant to the doorway, expecting to see police, the Feds, Ramirez, the LVMPD and good old Detective Sipowicz.

Instead I saw a smoking black LadySmith attached to the shaky hands of my best friend. Dana.

I think I screamed again. Only this time it was more like the second time you ride the roller coaster, when you realize that as long as your harness actually does hold you in, those dips and rolls are actually kind of fun.

Behind Dana the cause of the commotion came pouring into the room—the Nanny Goat bartender from FlyBoyz, a whole army of bikers in black leather, Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt holding broken beer bottles out like weapons, Marco (cowering behind Nanny Goat), and a guy who looked like The Rock’s bigger brother. Rico.

He put a hand on Dana’s arm, lowering the Lady-Smith as she stared at the stain now seeping onto the concrete floor. Her eyes were as big as Maybelline compacts, her mouth dropped open into an “o” of surprise.

“Did I get him?” she asked, her voice cracking.

I nodded, tears of relief mingling with the tears of terror still staining my cheeks. “Yes, honey, you got him.”

Dana blinked, looking from the gun clutched in her white-knuckled grip to the big hole in Unibrow. She licked her lips. “Wow, Mac wasn’t kidding. This baby packs quite a punch.”

Chapter Twenty

For once I was glad to hear that Marco hadn’t been able to keep his big mouth shut. After he’d left me, he’d gone down to the casino where he’d found Mrs. Rosenblatt at the Big Apple Bar. One comment on his fishy aura and Marco had broken down like a ’73 Pinto going up a steep hill. He’d told her all about my plan to play Larry (which Mrs. Rosenblatt had immediately said was not a good idea for a person with karma like mine). Then Mrs. Rosenblatt had tracked Mom down at the craps table and told her. Mom had nearly fainted (which cost her thirty-two dollars when she’d hit the table for support and the dealer had mistaken this for a bet on a hard eight), but once she’d recovered, Mom called Dana to see if she was with me. Obviously, she wasn’t. Dana had been on her way to the airport to pick up Rico who had surprised her by flying in to personally hand deliver her new LadySmith and “compare hardware.” (And I wasn’t entirely sure we were talking guns here.) Dana did a few “ohmigods,” then told Rico, who then called his friend the bartender who had then gathered the entire patronage of FlyBoyz.

Long story short (I know, too late), Unibrow hadn’t been the only one following us into the desert. Twenty minutes behind him had been Marco riding with Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt in their rented Dodge minivan, Dana and Rico in the Mustang, and a whole slew of Harleys bringing up the rear. By the time they were traveling down Lone Hill Road, they passed a long, sleek Town Car speeding in the opposite direction. Dana had recognized it and, on instinct, followed him to the Victoria where her impeccable timing had just saved me from becoming fish food.

Once Rico pried the gun from her hands, Dana started alternating between crying and shaking, swearing she was never touching that thing again. And considering it was now evidence, it didn’t look like she’d have the opportunity anytime soon anyway. When the police finally did arrive, Dana’s hands were swabbed for gunshot residue, then she and Rico were escorted into one of the back rooms for questioning by Detective Sipowicz, though we were assured it was just a formality and that considering the circumstances no charges would be brought against them. Just in case, Mrs. Rosenblatt stood at the ready to call her dead second husband Carl’s law firm at the first sign of handcuffs or extraneous sodas.

Somehow in all the commotion, Felix had slipped away, no doubt rushing to summarize his version of event before the Associated Press picked up on the story. Mom, Mrs. R., Marco, Nanny Goat, the lot of burly-looking bikers, and the “girls” in feathers were all corralled onto the main floor of the club where they were called one by one to give statements to a team of uniformed police officers that now outnumbered the drag queens two to one. The room looked like some sort of weird costume party gone bad—leather chaps mixed with sequined leotards mixed with Mrs. Rosenblatt’s neon pink and blue spotted muumuu. I had a feeling this was what a bad acid trip was like.

As for myself, I was parked on a vinyl barstool, wrapped in an ugly green blanket, wondering when my teeth would stop chattering. The paramedic who first arrived on the scene told me I did, in fact, have a mild concussion, but other than that I was physically okay. Mentally, however, was another story. It wasn’t every day a girl saw her best friend blow a hole the size of a softball through someone’s chest. And while I wasn’t mourning the loss of a scumbag like Unibrow any, the sight of gooey red stuff pooling around his head was permanently etched in my brain. Trust me, the real deal was a lot more disturbing than a
CSI
episode.

“Maddie!”

I turned to see Ramirez hailing me from the front doors. He flashed his badge to one of the uniformed LVMPD, then pushed through them, making a beeline toward me. I quickly swiped a finger under my eye to check for black smudges. With the way I’d been crying that night I was sure I had mascara streaks clear down to my chin. I swiped the other eye and fluffed my hair a little. Hey, I was shaken up, not dead.

“Maddie!” he said again, then grabbed me in a hug so fierce I thought he might crack a rib. He held me there for a long minute, not saying anything. “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again,” he finally whispered into my ear. Only this time there was no Bad Cop in his voice. This time it was, dare I say, almost tender.

“Sorry,” I mumbled against his chest.

He released me and stood back to get a good look at me, doing a quick check of my person for broken bones with his hands. Though I admit as his palms skimmed over my thighs, I went warm in a totally inappropriate way, considering the circumstances. “Are you okay?” he asked, his fingers moving upward to gently probe the goose egg at the back of my head.

“I’m fine.” I paused. “Okay, maybe fine is a bit of a stretch. But I’m not dead.”

He blew out a big breath, running one hand through his black hair. He looked down at my outfit, taking in the platforms and drag-queen-chic bustier. “Jesus, Maddie, what were you thinking? You know, I almost had a heart attack when LVMPD called me.”

“You did?” I asked, my body doing that inappropriate thing again at the concern lacing his voice. “Really?”

“Yeah, I did.” He reached a hand up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his knuckles brushing softly against my cheek. “I hate it when I miss all the action.” His mouth quirked up at the corner.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny, tough guy.”

He grinned, though his hand lingered in my hair, making little goose bumps break out on the backs of my arms.

As my body continued to equate near-death experience with horny-teenager-worthy hormones, I cleared my throat and forced myself to ask after the one person conspicuously absent from the night’s activities. “So…what happened to Monaldo?”

Ramirez stopped doing the hands-in-hair thing and I could see him mentally switching back into cop mode. “He’s been taken into custody.”

I let out a long breath I’d been holding since I first stepped into Larry’s shoes.

“The Feds picked him up a few minutes ago outside his penthouse and he’s being processed as we speak,” Ramirez continued. “No formal interviews have been conducted yet, but the minute he heard he’d been under surveillance, he started squealing like a stuck pig, naming at least three Marsucci family members in the counterfeit shoe ring. He even said he’d cop to killing the customs agent and Bob Hostetler if we pleaded down to manslaughter and promised him protective custody. The Feds are so happy I think I saw one do a cartwheel.”

“What about Hank?” I asked.

Ramirez shrugged. “Monaldo still says he had nothing to do with Hank’s death, but I think he’s just holding out for a better deal. Honestly it doesn’t really matter. Any way you look at it, the Marsuccis are going down and Monaldo’s going to jail for a long, long time. Everybody wins.”

Except Unibrow, I thought, remembering the sickly red stain.

“So what now?” I asked.

He took my hand in both of his, his voice taking on that tender quality again. “Now you go home and get some sleep. You’ve been through a lot tonight; you need some rest.”

I felt the heat of his touch pulse through my palm. I licked my lips. “And you?”

He looked down at me, his eyes like two melted pools of Hershey’s Special Dark. But instead of promising to spend the night showing me a hundred and one new uses for those handcuffs of his, he glanced at the front door. “I’ve spent the last six weeks living this case, Maddie. I’d really like to be there when they question Monaldo.”

I felt my heart sink. Work. Again.

But considering I had a personal stake in seeing Monaldo disappear into maximum security for a very long time, I didn’t complain. Much.

“You’re leaving?” I whined.

He glanced from the door to me. “Look, if you need me to stay, I will,” he said. Which I took as a small victory. At least he was
pretending
he’d put me before work. That was a start.

“Go. I’m fine,” I lied.

“You sure?” he asked. Though he was already pulling away.

“Yes. Go. I’ll be okay, really.”

He placed a quick kiss on my forehead. “Get some sleep and I’ll call you as soon as I’m done. I promise.” Then he spun around and stalked back out of the club with purpose.

I watched his denim-clad butt walk away, my inappropriately charged body sighing in disappointment. Then I slapped both hands over my eyes. Hey, I had promised Saint Jude, hadn’t I?

The sun was rising over the horizon by the time Detective Sipowicz finally told us we could go home. But considering home was 100 miles away and the New York, New York was just a few blocks, Mom, Mrs. Rosenblatt, Marco, Dana, Rico and I caravanned back to the hotel instead. We were making our way across the casino floor, the ding, ding, ding of the slot machines making my goose egg throb like a trombone in my ear, when Slim Jim caught my eye.

“Hey!” he called. Then he pointed at Dana as he rounded the reservation desk and advanced on our merry little group. “Hey, where were you last night? I waited over an hour for you to show up. I completely missed Bette’s opening act. I can’t believe you stood me up!”

Mental forehead smack. With everything else that had been going on I’d totally forgotten that I’d pimped my best friend out to Mr. Walking Acne Commercial for the night.

Dana looked from me to Slim Jim, then to Rico, whose eyebrows were angling downward.

“What do you mean she stood you up?” Rico asked.

Slim Jim crossed his arms over his sunken chest. “I had a date to see Bette Midler with this chick and she totally blew me off.”

Rico’s eyes narrowed as he turned on Dana. “You had a date with this pencil neck?”

“Hey!” Slim Jim yelled.

“Uh…” Dana said, biting her lip. “Well, kind of…”

“You’re not here one week and you’re cheating on me with
this
guy?”

“Hey!” Slim Jim said again. “What’s wrong with
this
guy?”

“You know,” Mrs. Rosenblatt piped up, “this is just like the time my third husband, Rory, thought I was foolin’ around with the dry-cleaning guy. Only that time—”

But she didn’t get to finish. Before anyone could stop him, Rico swung one meaty fist in the air, missing Slim Jim’s jaw by millimeters.

“Holy crap!” Slim Jim yelled, ducking. Rico came in for another try, swinging his left fist this time. Slim Jim crouched behind a Lucky Seven slot machine. “Holy freakin’ crap!” he yelled.

“Rico, no!” Dana cried, grabbing on to the back of Rico’s shirt. It ripped as he lunged for Slim Jim again, looking frighteningly like a scene from
The Incredible Hulk
as Rico’s bared muscles flexed, his fist making another dive at Slim Jim. Jim skittered behind a fake tree.

“Somebody call the police!” Marco shouted.

Dana pulled out her cell and dialed 911. But before she could even get the call out, two security guards came rushing up. They each grabbed one of Rico’s arms, which was almost effective in holding him back. Almost. Hey, the guy was about a thousand pounds of pure muscle. He charged at Slim Jim again, a security guard dangling from each arm like a puppet. Slim Jim ducked behind a street sign, one of the guards called for backup, and Marco screamed for Dana to call the police again.

She did. And this time they arrived. Five minutes later I was treated to my second Vegas PD encounter of the evening as three uniformed officers pushed their way through the growing crowd of onlookers. Much to the relief of Slim Jim, who was starting to look tired of bobbing and weaving. I didn’t blame him. Actually, I was kind of impressed he’d lasted three rounds with the Jolly Green-with-jealousy Giant.

The first two uniforms helped the two security guards restrain Rico. The third stared at Dana, uncomprehendingly. Because, of course, with our luck, the LVMPD had sent us Officer Baby Face.

“Dana?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

Dana looked like a deer caught in the headlights, her gaze whipping from Rico to Slim Jim then back to Officer Baby Face.

“Uh…”

Ever helpful, Marco stepped in. “See, Dana had a date with this guy Jim, but she totally forgot about it because Maddie set it up for her and then her boyfriend, Rico, got into town—”

“Boyfriend?” Officer Baby Face yelled, clearly hurt. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Uh…” Dana said again.

I elbowed Marco in the ribs. “Not a
boyfriend
boyfriend. More like someone she just dates occasionally.”

“You went out with me when you were dating someone else?” Officer Baby Face asked, and I feared he was on the brink of tears.

“You went out with this guy too?” Rico growled, his face going red, steam starting to pour out of his ears.

“Uh…” Dana looked from Rico to Marco and me. “A little help here?” she pleaded.