Killer in High Heels (8 page)

I quickly filled Dana in on my redhead chase. She agreed; I needed to get to the gym more often.

“So what did you get out of Officer Baby Face?” I wheezed.

Dana grinned. “His phone number.”

If I weren’t so tired I might have rolled my eyes. “And?”

“And that guy in the street isn’t Larry.”

I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Spy, rock star or jerk. I guessed it didn’t matter. I still cared more about his well-being than I wanted to admit.

“The dead guy’s name,” Dana continued, “is Hank Walters. He performs here at the Victoria in their ‘Salute to Hollywood’ act. In drag.”

I raised one eyebrow.

“Uh huh. And get this. I asked around and guess what Hank’s stage name is?”

I shook my head.

“Harriet.”

“As in Sand Hill Lane Harriet?” I glanced at the tarp again.

“That would be my guess. Officer Taylor said he died from a fall off the roof of the club. They’re saying he jumped.”

I looked up at the roof. Then down at the body. He must have taken a hell of a leap to land that far out from the building. “No gunshot wound?”

She shook her head. “Nope. None that they’ve found so far. The only other thing he said was that the guy was naked.”

My eyebrows headed north again.

Dana shrugged. “I guess people do weird things when they’re suicidal.”

I watched the guy in the coroner jacket place the tarp on a gurney and wheel it to his black van. I wondered if Hank slash Harriet had anything to do with the gunshot on my answering machine. Did my dad know Harriet? He must know Lola if her phone was registered under his name. And I didn’t like the way Lola had run away. Not the actions of an innocent person. Innocent people stayed and talked to the police when their roommates jumped off rooftops.

Since Dana had gotten all she could out of Officer Baby Face, we decided to drive by Lola’s house on the off chance she’d run all the way to Henderson.

All the lights were off in the house as we idled at the curb, and the driveway was empty. Just for good measure, I jumped out and peeked in the garage windows. No car.

“What now?” Dana asked.

It was late, I was tired, and one dead body is really my limit in any given day. So we headed back to the hotel. Besides, now that the police were on the scene, I was feeling just the teeny tiniest bit better. If Larry were in trouble, the cops would get more out of Lola than I could.

If they could catch her.

By the time we arrived at the New York, New York, Dana was still itching to try her hand at the slots. So after we valeted the Mustang, I left her feeding quarters into a video poker machine and made my way up to our room alone. I promptly crashed into a deep sleep, punctuated by Amazon women in white go-go boots pushing people off rooftops.

Somewhere around five
A.M
., I was awakened by the sound of a foghorn blaring through the room. I opened one eye, peering through the darkness. Dana was spread-eagle on the rollaway, her long limbs falling off the sides. Marco was lying on his back in the other double bed, wearing a sleep mask that would have made him look like Zorro if it weren’t powder blue and trimmed in lace.

I blinked a couple more times and realized the foghorn was Marco. Snoring. I groaned and put a pillow over my head. It didn’t help. I got up and put a pillow over Marco’s head. Still didn’t drown out the sound. Good god, no wonder the man was still single.

I gave up and dragged myself into the shower instead. An eon under the hot water slowly woke me up. I followed a quick mousse and blow dry with mascara and lip gloss. I added a little concealer under my eyes to mask the fact that I’d been awakened before the sun, but I’m not sure it hid much. Instead I put on some extra high heels to compensate, my silver strappy sandals with the butterfly buckle, paired with a white knit dress and Bandolino jacket. When I slipped out of the room, Marco was still snoring and Dana had fallen off the rollaway.

I made my way down to the casino level in search of food. Even at this hour the place was full of people. Some were tourists getting a jump on the day, but most were still dressed for the previous night on the town. Whoever said New York was the city that never slept hadn’t been to Vegas. Vegas was the city on NoDoz.

I debated for about half a second between a protein-infused fruit smoothie at the Mango Hut or the $3.99 pancake feast at the American Restaurant. In all honesty, it was a no-brainer.

After three cups of coffee and a stack of buttery, syrupy pancakes tall enough to rival the Empire State Building, I was feeling a little bit better. Funny how sugar and caffeine can do that for you.

Better, that is, until my purse began singing the William Tell Overture. I dug around for my cell. “Hello?”

“What the hell are you doing in Vegas?”

I cringed. Ramirez. “Having a girls-only weekend?” I said. Only it came out more of a question.

“Jesus, Maddie, I ask you to do one simple thing. Couldn’t you listen to me for once? Just once.”

I elected not to answer. “How did you know I was in Vegas?” I asked instead.

He paused. “I didn’t for sure until just now.”

Great. Tricked by Bad Cop. I clenched my jaw, wondering why I thought him
not
calling was so bad again.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that Dana’s here with me. And we can take care of ourselves. She’s taken three of Rico’s Urban Soldier classes.”

He paused. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“I’m fine. She’s fine. We’re all fine.”

“Good. Great. How about you get out of Vegas while things are still fine, huh?”

“I don’t get it. What exactly do you think is going to happen to me in Vegas?”

Silence.

I got that weird prickly feeling on my neck again. “Do you know something about my dad?”

More silence.

Then Ramirez let out one of his big exasperated sighs. “Look, I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Maddie.” And I think he was making an effort to sound sincere. At least a little one.

“I can’t leave yet. I haven’t found my dad. And…” I paused, not sure how much I should share about last night with Ramirez. But I figured he was a hundred miles away, so what harm could it do? I told him about the house in Henderson, the Victoria Club jumper, and the bolting showgirl.

Ramirez muttered something in Spanish on the other end that sounded a lot like a dirty word. “Look, just humor me, okay? Go home.”

“Did you even hear what I just said? There’s something weird going on here.”

“Has anyone ever told you, you have a serious stubborn streak?”

I narrowed my eyes at the phone. “It’s one of my better qualities.”

Again with the Spanish cursing.

“What? What is this Spanish stuff? What are you saying?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

He was right. I probably didn’t.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m serious. I really don’t think it’s safe for you to be…”

But I had stopped listening. I’d been walking aimlessly through the rows of slot machines in the Central Park casino as Ramirez argued, and I now found myself just inside the front doors of the hotel. Outside I watched a blue Dodge Neon pull up to the curb, drowning out the rest of Ramirez’s speech. I quickly ducked behind a life-sized cutout of Bette Midler.

“Uh huh,” I said into the phone, my entire being focused on the Dodge.

“What do you mean, ‘uh huh’?”

I was vaguely aware of Ramirez starting up with the Spanish again, but I was too focused on the Neon to care. I watched the car park in front of the valet station. I couldn’t be sure it was the same phantom I’d seen stalking me but after last night, my belief in coincidences was about as great as my belief in finding an authentic Louis Vuitton on eBay. Nada.

A sandy-haired man emerged from the Neon. He was average height, wore a pair of khaki pants with Skechers and a wrinkled white button-down that looked like he’d slept in it. He didn’t look particularly dangerous. But as I’d learned last summer, looks can be deceiving.

He gave the valet his key and handed him some money. Probably not enough, as the valet made a rude hand gesture behind the guy’s back as he walked away.

“Maddie?” Ramirez yelled.

“Right. Sure,” I said absently into the phone.

Ramirez made a growling sort of sound and I could picture that vein starting to bulge in his neck. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course. Leave it alone. Go home. Yada, yada, yada.”

Neon Guy started walking toward the front door. I quickly skulked into a row of slots out of sight.

“Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later,” I said into the phone.

“Maddie? Maddie, I swear to god if you hang up on me—” But I didn’t hear any more as I quickly snapped my Motorola shut and shoved it back in my purse.

I watched Neon Guy make his way to the registration desk. I crouched down and duck-walked closer, peeking out between two Lucky Seven machines. Slim Jim was on duty again. He and Neon Guy exchanged a few words. Then Neon traded his credit card for a room key. Whoever he was, apparently he could afford more than a “low rent” room.

“Hey, you gonna play or what?”

I turned around to find a blue-haired woman in polyester with a players card dangling from her bony wrist. She glared down at me from behind thick bifocals.

“Oh sorry. I was just, uh, kind of watching.”

“Well, then move over, honey. This machine’s giving me nothing but zeros today.”

She edged me aside and planted her butt on the vinyl stool, then promptly fed her card into the machine.

“Right. Sorry.”

I moved over to the next machine, then glanced back up at the front desk. Empty.

Shit. I’d lost him.

I tried to shake off the creepy feeling as I wondered whether I should mention to Ramirez that I had my very own stalker.

By the time I got back up to the room, Sleeping Beauty and Dana were both awake. Dana was rubbing her shin and Marco was just emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of post-shower steam.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he sang, folding his pajamas into a tiny square.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know, you snore like a lumberjack.”

Marco whipped around, his mouth dropping open into a neat little “o”. “I do not!”

I turned to Dana for confirmation, but she just shrugged. Apparently years of spending nights in unfamiliar beds had trained her to be a heavy sleeper.

“You okay?” I asked, gesturing to her leg. I could see a purple bruise starting to form on her shin.

“Yeah. I think I fell off the bed. This thing’s made for midgets.”

“I’ll take the rollaway tonight,” I selflessly offered. At least it was farther from the snoring wonder.

“Well, I slept like a baby last night,” Marco said, slipping his pajamas into a drawer.

I narrowed my eyes at him again, making a mental note to check the gift shop for some of those Breathe Right strips. Or a muzzle.

Marco informed us he’d done New York to the fullest last night and today was going to do Gay Paree! (Or at least it would be once he got there.) He planned to spend the day at the Paris hotel’s La Boutique using his la credit card. Dana was up twenty bucks from a productive evening of video poker and was ready to move on to the blackjack tables this morning. And, for lack of a better plan, I decided to go try Lola’s house in Henderson again.

How Lola and the deceased Hank slash Harriet tied in to my dad, I wasn’t sure. But they were the closest thing I had to a lead at the moment.

Half an hour later I was parked in front of the house on Sand Hill Lane again. Only this time a white Ford Taurus and a beat-up green Volvo were parked in the driveway. A good sign.

I took a deep breath and willed myself out of the car and up the front pathway. I rang the bell. I waited. Then rang again. Nothing. I peeked in the windows. Same suburban living room, no sign of anyone inside. I glanced around the neighborhood. Unfortunately, there was no helpful neighbor watering the lawn today. No sign of life at all, with everyone either at work or inside watching Regis and Kelly.

I walked along the edge of the rock garden to a wooden gate at the side of the house. With a quick glance around, I tried the latch. It opened right up. Feeling just the teeny tiniest bit intrusive, I slipped through the gate and walked around the side of the house. Two more windows faced this side, both with the blinds shut tight. Staying close to the wall, I rounded the corner into the backyard. More rock gardens, a small patio and a kidney-shaped pool lay beyond. A few dog toys were scattered across the patio. Nothing that screamed suicide. Or gunshot.

The back wall of the house was rimmed in green hedges, beyond which stood a sliding glass door. There I hit the jackpot. No curtains. The back door looked into a kitchen and family room, both immaculate and filled with more typical suburban-issue furniture. Flowers, chintz and lots of honey-oak wood. I wondered again if I had the right house. It hardly looked like a showgirl and a suicidal drag queen lived here. I was just about to try the latch to see if suburbanites kept their back doors locked when a man walked into the family room. (Scaring the bejesus out of me, I’m not ashamed to add.)

I quickly ducked down behind the hedge, hoping the meager leaves gave me cover.

The man was short, with a closely clipped crown of brown hair surrounding a bald palette. He wore a turtleneck, cords, and loafers with little tassels on them. He was either gay or needed to stop allowing his mother to dress him. I was too far away to actually see his eyes, but he seemed to be crying, the backs of his hands swiping at his cheeks as his chest heaved in and out.

Not two seconds later a tall redhead walked into the room. My heart sped up. Lola.

I scuttled a little closer, leaning into the hedge as the man walked into the kitchen. Lola followed, her back to me. I still hadn’t gotten a good look at her face, but she was wearing the same go-go outfit from last night. And she was waving her arms around at Turtleneck Guy. He buried his head in his hands and started crying again. Then he did a few arm waves back.

It looked like they were arguing about something, and I’d be hard pressed to say who was winning. Turtleneck Guy had stopped crying and was now yelling in earnest at Lola. I inched closer to the glass door, straining to hear what they were saying. No such luck. The thick glass not only insulated from the Vegas heat, but also from snoopy long-lost daughters. All I could hear was the muffled sound of raised voices.