I felt my eyes get hot, and it was suddenly hard to swallow. I guess I must have looked pretty bad, because Sgt. Darleen’s expression softened. “Are you all right, honey? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No,” I said, not managing to keep the quaver out of my voice. “And I promise you I didn’t come here to do the necking. I just wanted—”
Her walkie-talkie crackled, and she put up a hand. I heard something through the static about a “Code 6 in progress at American Idol.” Sgt. Darleen said, “Not another one. I have to go take this call. Guess I’ll just have to let you go without writing a report. You be careful now and stay out of trouble.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“I mean it.”
I nodded, but only like a robot. I was a mere shell of my former self. I’d never realized it was possible to feel fine and not fine at the same time. I was completely alive. But I felt dead inside. The only time I remembered feeling anything close to this was after my mom died, when my dad threw away all her fingerprints.
It was so stupid, too, because it was not like I even knew Jack. He was just a guy I had a crush on, right? I’d had crushes before. Crushes that ended, well, badly. But nothing that made me feel like this.
Because I felt totally betrayed. Jack had made my body tingle. He’d looked at me with those eyes in a way I thought only a guy who liked me could. I would fully have done the necking with him if the opportunity arose. But he didn’t care about me. He was only using me.
When he wasn’t trying to kill me.
I should have known he was evil. Only someone who had made a pact with the devil could make my body do the things he made it do without even touching me.
And, on the up side, he hadn’t killed me. Because by now it was clear that I was alive, whether I liked it or not. This led to other interesting questions like: What had stopped him from finishing me off?
And: Did the Thwarter need to find out that something else had “happened” to me?
If he did, would he kill me? Would it go better for him if I wrote a letter to the police explaining that it wasn’t his fault? That I was a trial as a daughter? Or would Sherri!’s testimony be adequate?
And finally, where was my crack reconnaissance team? My I-got-your-back squad?
Committing a Code 6 Statue Violation on American Idol judges, I soon learned. Which, translated, meant putting their fingers up Simon Cowell’s wax nose. Or rather, one of their fingers. And getting it stuck there.
Who could resist a temptation like that? Apparently not Alyson.
“We’re really sorry we were late, Jas,” Veronique said from the corner where she and Alyson were consulting over what repairs would be necessary to Alyson’s newly replaced acrylic nail tips. “But Polly told us we didn’t need to be here until five thirty. We would totally have been on time. It wasn’t Alyson’s fault.”
“Yes,” Roxy agreed solemnly. “Nostrils on the statues may be smaller than they appear.”
Alyson, never one to have dampened spirits for too long, said, “Did you have Mexican food for lunch, Jas? It stinks in here.”
“Gee, Allie, thanks so much for caring,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I am feeling a bit queasy. The reason it smells like this is because while you were busy picking Simon’s nose, I was getting shot at.”
“Exaggerate much?” Alyson sneered. “I’m sure this isn’t the first time a guy stood you up, Jas. If there even was a guy.”
But Polly, Roxy, and Tom knew better. Now they crowded around me, all concerned for my welfare. I shrugged the whole thing off, playing down how bad I felt inside, because even with your closest friends, you still do not want to look like the idiot who fell for the cute but EVIL boy. With the British accent. And the Adidas that matched his eyes.
Polly gave me an up-and-down look. “There’s no blood on your outfit, anyway,” she assured me, getting her priorities SO straight. “But you did snag the hem of the skirt.”
“I’m sorry, next time someone SHOOTS at me in the dark, I’ll be certain to look before I dive for cover to make sure there are no nails protruding.”
“How could you do that if it was dark?” Veronique asked.
It was a sad, sad day when the only person tracking was Veronique. I gave Polly a pointed look to indicate this fact, but she and Roxy were leaning against the boxing ring, completely ignoring me and talking intently. Most likely about how my brush with death scarred them and how they were trying to put on a brave face for me, but they were trembling deep inside.15
I should explain that you get into the Sports Stars room by going down some metal steps from a catwalk. In the middle of the room is a boxing ring, and it’s in there that Mohammad Ali is standing (and there that I took refuge when the shoot-out started). Roxy was now walking around the ring like she was searching for aliens (which she probably was), but Polly was just sitting there frowning. I looked to see what she was frowning at and saw Tom who, no doubt savoring the freedom from the Henches that Alyson’s broken nail tip was giving him, had wandered up to the catwalk. He had been leaning down, but now he stood up and his expression was not cheery.
He said, “Jas, I think you should get up here.”
Veronique was on her befringed feet heading for the stairs. “What is it, TommySalami?”
“News flash for Veronique: He asked for Jas, not you,” Alyson hissed. Oooh, trouble in Evil Hench Paradise over a boy. Of course that had to happen right then, when I didn’t have time to enjoy it.
Instead of staying to watch the carnage, I clomped up the metal stairs and went to where Tom was standing. The smell of sulfur was stronger there. He pointed to a pile of ash and red paper. A long piece of wire was coiled around it.
“I thought it might be evidence,” he said. “Do you have any idea what it is?”
“Yes.” I did. It was evidence. Evidence of what a dorkus maximus Jack was. And me, too, for ever liking him, and even being a little scared. King and Queen of the Dorki people is what we were. “They’re firecrackers,” I said. “Like from a joke store.” The popping noises I’d heard weren’t shots at all. Jack hadn’t been trying to kill me—he’d only been trying to terrify me.
But I had news for him. He’d picked the wrong girl. I’d been terrified when I thought someone was aiming a gun at me. But now? Now I was pissed. Pissed at Jack for toying with me. Pissed at L. A. “You Are Only Young Once” Curtis for not taking me seriously.
And really, really pissed at myself.
I wanted answers. Only I had no idea what questions to ask.
And then I heard Roxy saying, “Hello, clues! Come to Auntie. Jas, I think I’ve got something else over here.”
Seventeen
“When I didn’t see any bullets or bullet holes downstairs, I came up here to look around,” Roxy explained. “And I found this.”
She was standing in front of a light switch and pointing at the floor. I bent down to look and saw two matches ripped out of a matchbook.
“You said it was dark, so I figured he must have turned out the lights. It looks like there was a fuse that ran from here, at the light switch, to the firecrackers.”
“And he lit it right here,” I said, picking up the two matches and putting them into my Sephora bag.
“What are you going to do with those?” Roxy asked.
“If we’re lucky, he’ll still have the matchbook when we find him, and we can show these matches were taken from it and prove he was the one who was here. So we can confront him and make him tell the truth. Of course, first we’ll have to find him.”
Polly had come to join us. She said, “You probably want that too, then,” and pointed to a cellophane mint wrapper partially crushed on the catwalk. “Hang on, I have tweezers in my bag to lift it with so we don’t destroy any evidence.”
“I doubt there is any to find now,” I said, but I emptied out the box one of my eye shadows came in and slipped the mint wrapper into it.
“I think I saw mints like those at the taquer
ía inside the mall,” Polly said. “Maybe he had a snack before coming to meet you and paid with his credit card or told his life story to the waitress. We can go check.”
“And have dinner?” Roxy asked brightly. “Because it would be bad to investigate on an empty stomach.”
“Yes,” Veronique agreed. “I’m starving.”
Which meant that she and Alyson ate an order of salsa with forks while the rest of us had tacos like normal people. None of the waitstaff or the hostesses remembered seeing anyone like Jack, but the place was really big, they pointed out, and he could have taken a mint without them noticing.
“So,” Polly asked, trying unsuccessfully to wrangle some salsa from the Evil Hench Hogs, “are you going to call Mr. Curtis and tell him what happened?”
“Let me see,” I said. “Hmm. No, that does not seem to be on the menu this evening. I think he’s already had enough belly laughs at my expense.”
“Yes, you don’t want to tax his heart,” Roxy agreed.
“Besides,” I said, “I doubt he can help me. I mean, all I know is the guy’s name is Jack.”
Polly shuddered. “I can’t believe you almost shared germs with a guy who’s last name you don’t even know. That’s so gross. Of course, discernment has never been your strong suit with guys.”
“I resent that.”
“Remember that last one? The one who wore his cell phone on a hand strap? And those cargo pants that were so tight you could see—”
“EATING HERE,” I said, gesturing wildly to the plates of food.
Polly raised an eyebrow. “Oh, now you’re squeamish. Anyway, you know who I mean.”16
“He was Italian!” I complained. “They were high-fashion trousers. Giacomo was making a fashion statement.”
Polly frowned. “I don’t think those words mean what you think they mean.”
I looked at Roxy, but instead of coming to my aid she said, “Polly has a point. I mean, you are the only person I know who dated a guy on probation.”17
“Two guys,” Tom corrected her. “There was that one with—what did you call it, Jas? The clunky bracelet.”
Okay. So he’d been under house arrest. How was I supposed to know he was only allowed out to go to his job at the library? He had the sweetest smile and was so knowledgeable about the latest developments in law enforcement technology. “He said he got it at the Renaissance Faire.”
“Never date guys who wear jewelry,” Veronique looked up from the salsa long enough to say. “It’s a sign of vanity.”
“Thanks.” It was hopeless. I was surrounded on all sides by enemies. I looked down at my hands in my lap, figuring that at least they would not start cracking wise about my love life, but I was wrong there too. Because I was looking at the wrist He had touched.
Your hand, my wrist: Why
do I still burn from your touch?
I think you scratched me.
“I think he scratched me,” I said aloud. That was it! I turned to Polly. “If I describe a shirt to you, could you figure out where it came from?”
She shrugged. “Of course. How will that help?”
“Today, in the gondola. The shirt he was wearing still had that plastic thing attached, the kind that holds a price tag. Maybe it was new. And maybe if he bought it here in Vegas…”
Before I’d even finished talking, Polly pulled a napkin toward her, grabbed my new purple eyeliner out of my bag, and said, “Button-down collar or flap? Channel buttonholes or exposed? French cuffs or regular?”
It only took five minutes for her to get it right. When it was done, she looked down, then nodded with a little smile. “Maybe your luck is changing, Jas. For once you’ve chosen a guy with taste. This shirt is from John Varvatos’s fall line. Brand-new, and for now available only in his stores.”
Say there’s one in Vegas say there’s one in Vegas say there’s one in Vegas, I prayed silently.
“And,” Polly went on, “I’m pretty sure there’s one at the Forum Shoppes at Caesars Palace.”
Gotcha, sweet lips, I thought. You can run but you can’t hide.
“How are you going to find out where a guy is by knowing where he buys his clothes?” Veronique asked.
“I have an idea,” Polly said, looking intently at Alyson and Veronique. “But I need the two of you to help me.”
“Us?” Veronique gasped. “For real? Cool!”
“Stop sign, Veronique,” Alyson said, holding up her palm. She looked around the table. “You guys are so gullible-slash-stupid. You know there probably wasn’t even a guy. Jas makes things up all the time.”
Polly’s eyes lit up in a way they almost never did, and I saw her kind of enlarge herself to come to my defense, but I didn’t need it. In fact, for once Alyson’s skepticism did not bum me out at all.
“Maybe Alyson is right,” I said. “Maybe it wasn’t Jack at all. The security guard didn’t see anyone specific.”
“Jas, sweetie—” Roxy began.
“No, I’m serious. We have no proof it was Jack.”
“We have no proof it was human,” Alyson snorted.
“Proof?” Veronique said. “Like on CSI?”
And then, all at once, I figured out how to get it. I grabbed another napkin and the eyeliner from Polly and started making a shopping list.
When Polly saw what I’d written, she gave me an approving smile. “You get to work here. I’ll take the Children of the Squaw over to Caesars to see what I can find out.”
“Tommy, are you coming?” Veronique asked, holding out her arm.
“No, I, um, have to stay and help out Jas,” Tom answered quickly.
“Do we need to change?” Alyson asked Polly. “Because I am not changing.”
“Are you kidding?” Polly said. “Your outfits are the key to my plan. They’re totally front row.”
Veronique gave a little clap. “For real? I designed them myself! I got the pattern from Sewing for Dummies.”
“You used a pattern? Wow,” Polly said, and led them away.
As we watched them get lost in the crowd, Roxy frowned. “They won’t hurt her, will they? Push her in front of a bus or anything?”
I tried to look confident. “Probably not.”
“I’m not worried,” Tom said. “Polly can do anything.”
And I thought, not for the first time, that one day I would like to have someone look at me the way he looks at Polly. For even, like, just half a second.
But that day was not this day. This day we had shopping to do.
Roxy picked the list up from the table and read it over as we waited for the bill. “Superglue, shoe box, Diet Coke, coffee warmer, mug, paper clips.” She looked up. “The only thing I could build with those is a shortwave radio. Am I hot or cold?”
“Brrr, freezing.”
Eighteen
Roxy was a little depressed that none of her guesses about what we were making (lie detector, mousetrap, diorama) were right, but she got over it when I bought her a churro and let her choose which shoes we’d buy to get the box. By 7:30 we were back in my suite with everything we needed to make an at-home latent fingerprint fumer, and we hadn’t even had to leave the Venetian.
Little Life Lesson 26: Las Vegas is an EXCELLENT place to engage in amateur crime fighting.
We spread everything out on the desk. I handed Roxy the Diet Coke and said, “Drink this.”
“I thought it was for our project.”
“Drink. I need the can.”
Tom came over and frowned at everything on the desk. “Okay, I get what the shoe box is for, but how does it work?”
I got a piece of thread from Polly’s sewing kit, put Roxy’s new clear plastic four-inch-heel mules on the floor, and centered the box on the desk. “We run the thread across the middle of the box and hang the mint wrapper from it using the paper clip. This second mint I’m doing has my prints on it, so I’ll be able to see if the fuming worked.”
Roxy handed me the empty Diet Coke can. “What’s this fo
r?”
Using the sharp edge of my flower ring, I cut the bottom half-inch off the can and flipped it over. “We drop a little of the superglue here, into this indentation, then place it on the coffee warmer in the box. The coffee warmer heats the glue and makes it fume, and the fumes make hidden fingerprints come up.”
“Cool,” Roxy said.
“Totally Visa,” Tom agreed. “But if we’re putting glue on the coffee warmer, what is the mug for?”
“We need a container of hot water in the box because humidity makes the prints come up better.” I put the mug in, made sure everything was in place, plugged the coffee warmer in, then put the lid on the shoe box.
“How long does it take?” Roxy asked.
“Ten minutes.”
“Can we peek?”
“No, the lid has to stay on.” But in my mind I pictured what happened, the way I’d seen it demonstrated in glass tanks. It was amazing—one minute there’s nothing there, the next you can see all the prints of the people who touched something.
I wished you could do the same thing with people. Fume them and find out who had touched them to make them what they were. Like Jack. If he was evil, probably someone had done something to make him feel bad about himself. Or even Polly. Every guy she dated was like a less cute, less cool version of Tom. It was so clear to everyone but her that she and Tom were made for each other, but she refused to even think of him that way. There were some people, though, like the Thwarter and Alyson, who weren’t influenced by anyone and who just did what they wanted and lived in their own worlds. They would not be so interesting to fume.
But Jack…
Stop thinking about him, I told myself. Bad Jas. But even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t. Because our do-it-yourself fuming chamber worked great, raising a beautiful print on the mint wrapper. It looked like a thumbprint and had a tented arch, which is rare. And it matched the larger of the two partial prints on the note signed by him telling me to meet him at Madame Tussauds. So there was no question that it was his.
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