Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  Hurling herself to the floor, she pulled him with her, bracing a foot against his pelvis at the same time and kicking upward as hard as she could. It was a judo throw—the tomoe-nage—one of the sacrifice techniques she’d studied months ago in that filthy Hollywood motel. His own momentum working against him, Addison Brand had no defense when his body inverted, his legs and hips swinging up into the air. Flipping over Margo’s head, he sailed past her, screaming, into the hollow elevator shaft.

  She only saw the man’s eyes for a moment, realization dawning with a naked display of bright horror before the darkness snatched him and dragged him down, his voice flooding the alcove with a shrieking, terrified echo. Even after the sickening crunch-clang of meat against metal far below, his cry survived him—ringing up the empty column to underscore the sound of his grisly death—while Margo lay on the floor of the elevator bank and gasped through her tears.

  CURTAIN CALL

  May could be an ugly month in Los Angeles, temperatures spiking before the notorious lull of the June gloom; but the air-conditioning on the top floor of Manning Tower worked just fine, and the windows of the room where Margo was about to hold her first-ever press conference were thankfully tinted.

  Standing behind a podium that bristled with microphones, looking out at orderly rows of journalists waiting to hear her speak, Margo struggled to believe that only six weeks had passed since she’d struggled up the stairs past this very floor, desperate for her last chance to escape.

  She’d wept openly upon finding the helicopter still waiting when she reached the roof, its blades whipping the night air. Dangerous lights burned on the horizon, the LAPD and the media closing in on Bunker Hill with their own aircraft, and they took off with a nauseating lurch that left her sweaty and shaking in her seat. Arms encircled her—Axel, Joaquin, Leif, Davon—but no one spoke until after they’d landed again, at an anonymous airfield in San Bernardino County where a stolen truck was waiting to take them home.

  “I’d like to thank everyone for coming,” Margo began, and the microphones shrieked. Her hands shook a little, so she tightened them on her note cards. She was wearing four-inch heels, a short black dress and tailored jacket, her eyelashes false and her hair bleached platinum. Drag is armor, girl, Axel had insisted over her objections as he more or less styled her by force, and you need all the armor you can get. Clearing her throat, she channeled Miss Anthropy and started again. “Thank you all for coming. I know everyone here is aware—because you’ve been reporting on it for a month and a half now—that Manning is going through … you know, kind of a rough patch.” There was some awkward giggling from the gallery, and Margo began to relax. “I’d like to start things off by saying that the company is working in full compliance with the ongoing federal investigation into Addison Brand’s crimes, and that we are eager to earn back the public’s trust.”

  Beyond just the news-at-eleven bonanza spurred by Brand’s gruesome death and the dramatic infiltration of Manning Tower by a group of daring, still-unidentified women, the morning after the break-in brought a new shock: In the night, a secret informant had sent digital files to every media service in Southern California—as well as the FBI, the LAPD, and the State Attorney General—containing documents, photos, and email chains that spelled out a diabolical conspiracy on behalf of Addison Brand and other parties to commit an impressive array of criminal acts.

  “No one was more horrified than me to learn the truth behind my father’s death,” Margo continued, making eye contact with the reporters in the front row. They still called her Mad Margo; they still labeled her a socialite and a party girl. She was looking forward to shattering their low expectations. “I never anticipated taking a role in the family business this young, and I’m aware of the popular skepticism about my influence over the future of Manning. I’m also aware that our stocks have been jeopardized by recent events, by the revelations of Brand’s felonies and the involvement of Arkady Petrenko—a man with whom this company has collaborated for years on important international projects.”

  The prurient sensationalism of Petrenko’s involvement had proven irresistible to the media; a foreign national with untold wealth and a habit for making enemies, notorious for his rumored ties to organized crime, his name added star power to the ugly scandal. He had been apprehended by federal agents while trying to flee the country, and every day the news reports dug a little deeper into his sordid past.

  “I’d like to thank the shareholders who have stood by Manning through this difficult time while we recover and forge ahead in the direction my father truly saw for his legacy.” Glancing aside, she blinked a few tears from her eyes, fighting the urge to wipe them away. Axel had put so much makeup on her, she’d end up smearing it all over her face and look like the Hamburglar in the press photos. “He should be here now. I stand in his place because his life was unfairly cut short, taken from him by two men he trusted.”

  In the immediate aftermath of the break-in, the outrageous conspiracy to arm the rebel uprising in Malawi dominated the airwaves. It was a diplomatic disaster, a crisis of international proportions, and the media had tweezed apart every detail it could for maximum exposure. Then, just as they began to run out of fresh material, another astonishing story emerged: the murder of Harland Manning and the substitution of an artificial will allowing Addison Brand to seize total control of the company.

  In another mysterious twist, ten days after Petrenko was arrested, two small packages were delivered—one to Interpol and one to the FBI—containing matching items: a pair of Czarist-era ruby earrings, which had gone missing from a Soviet vault in 1932. The Russian government immediately claimed them as property of the State, and was now demanding the extradition of Arkady Petrenko, whose fingerprints were the only ones found on the stolen jewelry.

  Overnight, Petrenko’s attitude toward the feds had gone from obstreperous to cooperative, realizing that he was far better off serving life in an American penitentiary than facing whatever fate awaited him back home. As for his daughter, Valentina had vanished altogether from the public eye, hiding out in Topanga Canyon to weather the storm. There was no way to tell how much information Arkady had shared with his family, and so Margo was privately keeping tabs on the girl and her mother, just in case. She didn’t want any ugly surprises.

  Meanwhile, an official search had begun for Nina McLeod, although odds were slim to none that the missing nurse would turn up alive—if she ever turned up at all. Brand had been confident enough to boast that Margo, even with all of her considerable resources, would likely never find the woman. So far, his prediction held true.

  Taking a breath, Margo flipped her index cards. “The last time I spoke to Addison Brand, he told me that my father had been an anchor holding Manning in the past. I don’t agree. But times do change, and companies must change with them, seeking bolder, younger, and more forward-thinking leadership.” Agitated murmurs spread through the crowd, and she waited them out before continuing. “For that reason, I have asked Manning’s former chief scientist, Dr. Nadiya Khan, to act as custodian of my controlling interest in the company stock until I have completed my education—per my father’s final wishes. I am delighted to say that she accepted, and as her first act as chairman of the board, she has confirmed Reginald Castor as acting CEO while a permanent replacement is sought.”

  Convincing Nadiya to accept the responsibility had been harder than Margo expected. As a scientist, the woman far preferred the lab to the boardroom, and argued like a skilled lawyer that she belonged downstairs. Put me back in the lab, she’d demanded, and let Castor be chairman like your father wanted! But Margo couldn’t trust Castor, not fully, and after much clashing of wills, she convinced Nadiya to accept the position at least until they could find a more suitable candidate, together.

  “I’m going to cede the floor now to Dr. Khan and Mr. Castor, both of whom have a few words to say,” Margo concluded briskly, stacking her note cards together. From a chair in the back row, a familiar
figure stood and moved silently for the exit, meeting Margo’s gaze a second before vanishing into the hall.

  With a quick thank-you, she left the room, hired security escorting her all the way to the elevator bank. One bay remained out of order, and she tried not to shudder as she boarded one of the working cars and rode it down to the lobby.

  He was waiting for her, as she knew he would be, leaning against one of the hefty support pillars. A smile spread across his stupidly gorgeous face as she crossed over to him, and when he wrapped his arms around her, she breathed in his scent for one long moment before pressing her lips to his.

  “Ow,” he said into her mouth, when her hands became a little aggressive, pawing at the muscles under his shirt.

  “Aw, poor baby.” Margo gave him a sympathetic frown. “Are you still sore?”

  “Am I still sore?” Dallas blinked with mock affront. “I got shot in the chest!”

  “I remember that. I was there when it happened,” she pointed out. “But that was, like, six weeks ago. Haven’t you healed yet?”

  Dallas narrowed his eyes. “This is about sex, isn’t it? You’re mad because the doctor said I should avoid strenuous activity, and that means we can’t bone.”

  “Your mouth did write a whole lot of boning checks that your ass has so far refused to cash,” she acknowledged, “but mostly I’m just sorry for you that it still hurts.”

  “Yeah. Turns out that cracking your ribs in, like, sixty places at once kinda sucks.”

  Margo gave him a smart look. “Bet you’re glad I made you wear the training wheels now, aren’t you?”

  Dallas shook his head. “You are the only person I know who would refer to bulletproof body armor as ‘training wheels.’”

  Her one condition for his joining the team had been that he wear a Kevlar vest the night they broke into the tower. Knowing that the two of them would be advancing on at least six armed men, down a long and narrow corridor with no decent cover, she wanted to do everything possible to increase their odds. The only reason she hadn’t worn body armor as well was because it was difficult to obtain untraceably.

  “If you hadn’t been wearing it, you’d be dead right now,” Margo reminded him. “And if you’d done what I’d told you, you wouldn’t have been shot in the first place.”

  “And if I hadn’t gotten shot, you would be dead right now,” he countered smugly. “So everything worked out.”

  What sucked is that he was right, and she couldn’t argue back. If he hadn’t come through the door exactly when he had, drawing Brand’s fire, Margo never would have managed to turn the tables. She still sometimes woke up at night in a cold sweat, heart pounding from a familiar nightmare: the bullet or the drop. Which would she have picked in the end?

  “You are the only person I know who could get shot in the chest and call it ‘everything working out,’” Margo retorted, but in a second she was kissing him again, his hands hot and firm on her waist.

  “So, Margo Manning.” His breath was soft against her bottom lip. “You just saved the world, avenged your father, and reclaimed your birthright. What are you going to do next?”

  “Well. Starbucks has this new Frappuccino I’ve been afraid to try,” she murmured back, earning a laugh.

  Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how to answer. She still had a lot of work to do with her tutor to finish her graduation requirements, and she’d decided to take a gap year once she’d earned her diploma. Even with Brand dead and Petrenko behind bars, she wasn’t fully out of the woods. There was no reason to assume the Russian billionaire had relinquished his private vendetta, and so—for a time, anyway—it made sense not to commit herself to an easily tracked schedule. Even under lock and key, the man could find a way to get to her.

  “Honest answer?” Taking Dallas’s hands, she stated, “I’m going to graduate, I’m going to spend some time with this cute guy I like, and I’m going to get to know a little bit more about Margo Manning. Starting with a volunteer stint at a certain clinic that doesn’t technically exist.”

  When Margo finally reached his side that night in the tower, Dallas’s skin had been ashen, his breathing labored, and she’d all but dragged him to the roof of Manning Tower. He’d lost consciousness in the helicopter, and it was clear he needed immediate medical help; but an emergency room would ask questions they couldn’t answer, and so there was only one person Margo could count on.

  Irina had been furious, frantic, and delighted to be called into action. Through her connections at the underground clinic, she managed to get Dallas through the back door at a small hospital, where he was examined and treated—his injuries officially attributed to “collision with the steering wheel” during a single-car accident.

  That made it twice that Irina and her clinic had come through when Margo needed help the most, and she wanted to repay their goodwill. Washing instruments and helping schedule appointments, or whatever she was asked to do, seemed like very little in return.

  “I definitely like that part about spending time with a cute guy,” Dallas told her, wiggling his eyebrows a moment before freezing. “Wait. You are talking about me, right?”

  “Obviously, you narcissist. I mean, I do spend a lot of time with other cute guys, but none of them are into me.” She gave a helpless shrug. Then her phone buzzed, and she straightened up, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “But before I do any of that stuff, I’m going on a short vacation, and I do believe my ride is outside.”

  “Wait, you’re leaving for a vacation now?” he protested as she started for the lobby doors. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

  “Recuperate!” She flashed him a brilliant smile. “I expect a full subscription to Bone Appétit magazine when I get back.”

  “But when will that be? And where are you going?”

  Pushing the door open, sunlight streaming around her, she offered a coy response. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

  Blowing him a kiss, she turned and scampered down the shallow steps in front of Manning Tower, to a long, black limousine that waited at the curb. As soon she was inside, nestled into the leather cushions, the driver took off and pulled into traffic.

  The tinted windows were no match for the fierce sunlight beating on the glass. Margo squinted against the glare until a hand reached across from the bench seat opposite her, offering a pair of dark glasses. “Here you go, girl.”

  Margo slipped them on, sighing with relief. “Thanks.”

  Another hand reached out. “Champagne?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She accepted the flute with a smile.

  Yet another hand. “And here’s your giant fucking bag. Thing weighs as much as I do.”

  “Don’t be a bitch,” Margo replied good-naturedly. “It’s heavy for a reason.” She looked across at the four people sharing her limo—Joaquin, Leif, Davon, and Axel—and felt the current in the air. “There’s a few million dollars worth of Russian jewels in there.”

  With her father dead and her mother half a world away, Margo had finally realized something obvious: These four boys were her family. As were Irina, Georgia, and Jacinta. She didn’t know what she’d do without any of them. On impulse, she’d asked all of them to move into the mansion with her, and was giving them time to decide. It was a bold and weird idea, but somehow she knew it could work.

  “We’re still trying to move that shit?” Davon arched a brow from behind his own sunglasses, gesturing at Margo’s heavy bag. “Didn’t we decide it was too hot to handle?”

  “That was before Petrenko was in custody, and before I found a crooked jeweler in Geneva and fences in Paris and Málaga who can sell off at least some of the merchandise.” She took a sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose. “We’ll keep some of it in loose stones, of course. Better than currency.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Axel frowned.

  Simultaneously, Leif perked up. “We’re going to Europe?”

  “We’re going to Europe,” Margo confirm
ed, “and what it means is that we’ll have to obtain certain things while we’re over there, and cash won’t always be the best collateral.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Davon pointed out, “and you told us all to bring our ‘drag stuff’ on this little getaway, so I’m waiting for the other stiletto to drop here.”

  Margo turned to her window—watching people pass on the sidewalk, sunlight bouncing off high windows. “You’re right. I’m planning another job. This one’s also personal, so if you just want to hang out in Europe for a couple weeks and then bail—”

  “Please!” Joaquin interrupted. “You know we’re all in. Just tell us what the target is.”

  Her chest swelled. Of course they were in. They were family: Anita Stiffwon, Electra Shoxx, Dior Galore, Liesl von Tramp, and Miss Anthropy.

  “Somewhere in an offshore laboratory there’s a scientist who took money to design the poison that killed my father.” She lifted her champagne, watching as sunlight turned the bubbles into fireworks. “I want revenge.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In November of 2016, my editor at Feiwel and Friends, the incomparable Liz Szabla, replied to one of my emails with the following sentence: “I just peeked at the WIP doc and saw ‘jewel-thieving drag queens’—I might be all in based on that phrase alone!!” If it weren’t for her enthusiasm and willingness to take a chance, this book wouldn’t be in your hands. Thank you, Liz, from the bottom of my fabulous, kickboxing heart, for wanting this story as badly as I wanted to write it.

  I would truly be up a creek without a paddle if it were not for the perpetually steady hand and patient guidance of my agent, the magnificent Rosemary Stimola! You keep making my dreams come true, and I know exactly how lucky I am because of it—thank you. And on the subject of dreams coming true, I could not ask for a better publisher than Jean Feiwel. Every time we meet, you make me feel like family, and I hope the experience is mutual. Thanks for everything, and especially for letting me shout “I’m a three-times published author!” when I’m throwing my weight around.