“Just like she promised she would do,” I said.
“Okay, fine. I get that. The mother warned the kid to stay away, and he doesn’t stay away. That doesn’t explain how Miranda ends up here, in this sicko’s house, being sexually abused for the last two weeks.”
“I think he was following her,” I said.
“Then kidnaps her? Not even your bum claims he heard her resisting.”
“I say he approached her in the van as she came out of the store. Made it seem like a coincidence. Probably offered to buy her dinner. Maybe talk about a movie deal.”
“Not to mention her boyfriend had just been murdered,” said Colbert. “Maybe she was looking for a friend to talk to.”
“So he entices her inside his van. She has no problem getting inside, thinking of him as a friend, an ex-boss, the person who gave her her first big break.”
“So she gets in the van....” added Colbert.
“And he takes her back to his place. Maybe offers her a drink—”
“And the sick fuck slips her a roofie,” said Colbert.
“That’s the way I see it,” I said.
“Well, we’ll know more when she comes down from her high. Luckily nothing appears to be permanent. Physically, she’ll come out of this fine. Emotionally....”
“Emotionally, she’s going to need a lifetime of therapy.”
We were silent, contemplative. I had taken some pain killers that I found in Ladd’s cupboards. The pain in my ankle was still there, but it had been reduced to a dull throbbing. I can handle a dull throbbing.
I’ll take some Vicodins later. Knock it right out.
I said, “Some people obsessed over her, sometimes even for years. Some people just followed her around like lovestruck puppies.”
“And this sick fucker takes it a step further.”
“Yes,” I said.
We were silent some more. The purple was gone from the sky, and more stars came out. The crime scene crew was still going in and out of the guest house. I wondered if Ladd had any buried bodies out here, or if this had been a one-time thing? Hard to say, but I suspected Ladd had been obsessing about her for years. Much like Flip Barowski. And perhaps many other males Miranda came into contact with.
“You found her, King,” said Colbert.
“Not bad for an old man,” I said.
“Not bad for anyone.”
Chapter Sixty-four
The lights were bright, just the way I remembered them. The Pussycat was packed, just the way I remembered most of my concerts. The crowd was older, which was fine. So was I.
Seated in the back, behind the dance floor at a small round table, were four people. My personal guests for the night. Clarke was there, nearly drunk. I could just make him out. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me all night long. Kelly my on again/off again was seated next to him. She looked elegant and sophisticated and damn beautiful. I also noticed she had accepted a drink or two from some other men, talking to them, laughing with them, touching them, flirting with them. Sigh. It’s hell being in an open relationship, but there you have it. The gal sitting next to her often had my full and undivided attention. My therapist, Dr. Vivian. She kept her eyes on me and ignored the attention of the other men. I loved that about her. The last guest was, of course, Miranda. The young starlet looked beautiful and captivating, easily the most beautiful girl here tonight. Everyone knew it. But she seemed impervious to the attention, completely unaware. She also looked dead, lifeless, although once or twice I had caught her tapping her fingers and bobbing her head to the music. She was coming around, slowly, but the healing process would take a lifetime, if ever.
I had spent the weekend alone, trying to sober up. Now I was down to just five Vicodins a day, but I wanted more. Many more. It was a start.
Becky and I worked well together. Smooth transitions from one song to the next. She was a talented pianist, versatile, and I am an old pro, although a little rusty.
As I sang, as I did my groovy thing, I noticed a crowd was gathering at the nightclub’s main entrance. Someone was there. Someone important, obviously.
I used to be important. Maybe someday I would be again. Maybe. But then again, I had given all this up before. Did I really want it all back again?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Anyway, whoever was causing the commotion was now making their way towards the stage area, towards me. The crowd was following, forming and reforming, a sort of moving huddle. I kept singing, but I also kept my eye on whoever was approaching.
And when the crowd finally parted, when I saw for the first time who was causing all the ruckus, I gasped.
It’s nearly impossible for me to be star-struck, but I was this evening. It was the brightest star of them all.
My baby girl Lisa took a seat in a booth against the far wall, surrounded by a small entourage of men and women and bodyguards. She signed a dozen or so autographs before her bodyguards closed in around her. Most in the crowd got the hint and dispersed, although some still buzzed around her.
I stopped singing. Hell, I couldn’t sing. Becky glanced over at me from the piano, eyebrows raised. I quickly gave her the thumbs up. She shrugged and went on playing.
And when I looked back at my daughter’s table, I saw her looking at me. No, staring at me. My breath caught. I think her breath caught, too. And then, slowly, slowly she smiled. A big, beautiful smile.
Did she know who I was? I think so. Recognition seemed to have dawned across her face. Perhaps she had known who I was before coming, and so the shock to her wasn’t so great.
I didn’t know, but I did know one thing: someone had set this all up. Someone who had known about her and me. Someone who had known where I lived. The anonymous watch. The CDs. The CDs that weren’t even available on the market yet. CDs that were privy to only a select few, including entertainment attorneys.
I finally put it all together.
I looked at Clarke. He was grinning like a schoolboy, or a drunkard. He winked at me, looking pleased as hell. I would kill him later.
No, I’m going to kiss him later.
I found my voice again, which came stronger and clearer. Becky nodded at me and continued hitting the keys and doing her groovy thing, and when the song was over, I spoke into the microphone.
“Ladies and gentleman, we have a special guest here tonight.” Most in the crowd stopped dancing or looked up from their tables. I continued, “She’s a beautiful little thing who makes her daddy so proud.” I sounded like Elvis. I knew it, but didn’t give a damn. “Lisa Marie Presley, ladies and gentleman.”
I pointed to her, and the crowd turned—especially those who were unaware of her entrance—and a massive cheer erupted. From her seat, she blushed mightily and waved, but never once did she take her eyes off me.
“Come up here, little lady, and sing a song with me.”
She didn’t budge. Not at first. The crowd cheered louder and urged her onward. She finally gave in, as I knew she would. She slipped out of the booth, smiling shyly.
With a bodyguard trailing behind, she made her way up to the stage. The big guy held out a hand and she used it to step up onto the stage. The crowd cheered harder.
She ignored them all and kept her eyes on me.
I ignored them, too, and held out my own hand. She crossed the stage and stepped into the light and she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. She took my hand, and I pulled her into me, as if we were dancing. There were tears in her eyes and I think she was shaking.
“Daddy?” she asked me, although I could barely hear her words. Mostly I read her lips, and, I’m sure, others did as well.
“It’s me, little darlin’.”
I looked over at Becky, whose mouth was hanging open. I motioned for her to play something, and she finally did, something by Elvis. “Love Me Tender.”
Bill the manager with his blue shades came running out on stage. He placed an extra mic in front of my daughter, sneaking a peak at the two of us
together, shock on his face. He quickly dashed off the stage. Those on the dance floor had quit dancing. Those drinking beer had quit drinking beer. A very surreal quiet descended over the Pussycat. I sensed all eyes on us, and I sensed many open mouths. And then I heard the whisperings of “Elvis.” And then the whisperings grew louder and louder, until they were chanting my name.
“Are you ready, baby?” I asked her.
“I’m ready, daddy.”
“Follow my lead,” I said. “Like old times.”
“Like old times,” she said.
The End
* * * * *
About the author:
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time in the Pacific Northwest. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams. Please visit him at http://www.jrrain.com.
* * * * *
OTHER BOOKS BY J.R. RAIN
VAMPIRE FOR HIRE
Moon Dance
Vampire Moon
American Vampire (coming soon)
THE JIM KNIGHTHORSE SERIES
Dark Horse
The Mummy Case
Hail Mary (coming soon)
THE RETURN OF ARTHUR
An Uncommon Quest (coming soon)
The Merlin Game (coming soon)
The Lost Ark
The Body Departed
Elvis Has Not Left the Building
WITH SCOTT NICHOLSON
Cursed
WITH AIDEN JAMES
Plague of Coins (coming soon)
SHORT STORIES
The Bleeder and Other Stories
Teeth and Other Stories
Vampire Nights and Other Stories
SCREENPLAYS
Judas Silver
Lost Eden
NOVELLAS
The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo
The Vampire who Played Dead (coming soon)
COLLECTIONS
Rain Dance
Rainy Nights
Black Rain
ANTHOLOGIES
Vampires, Zombies and Ghosts, Oh My!
(edited by Eve Paludan)
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the first
High Heels Mystery
by Gemma Halliday:
SPYING IN HIGH HEELS
* * * * *
Chapter One
I was late.
And I don’t mean the kind of late where I spent too much time doing my hair and was now stuck in traffic. I mean I was late late. The kind of late where the 99% effective warnings on the side of condom boxes flashed before my eyes as I white knuckled my way down the 405, silently screaming, why me? Why, oh why me? I’m a new millennium girl. I took copious notes in 6th grade Sex Ed. I carry just-in-case condoms in the zippered section of my purse. And, after that first singularly awkward experience in the back of Todd Hanson’s ‘82 Chevy after junior prom, I have been meticulously careful. Me. I was late. And I was not taking it well.
“Dana?” Silence. “Dana, I need to talk to you.” Silence. “I swear to God if you are screening me I am never speaking to you again.”
I switched my cell phone to the other hand as I changed lanes, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pick-up that had “wash me” carved in opaque dust, before continuing my desperate pleas into my best friend’s answering machine.
“Dana, please, please, please pick up? Please?” I paused. Nothing. “All right, I guess you really aren’t there. But please, please, please call me back as soon as you get this message. I mean pronto. This is a serious code red, 911 emergency. I need to talk to you now!” I punctuated this last word by laying on my horn as a bald guy in a convertible cut me off then had the audacity to give me the finger. Welcome to L.A.
I flipped my phone shut, breaking a French tipped nail in the process, and counted to ten, trying to remember some of that calming yoga breathing from the one class Dana had dragged me to last month. Unfortunately, at the time I’d had my full attention focused on not falling flat on my face during a downward facing dog, and I think I was beginning to hyperventilate.
I merged onto the 10 freeway, glancing down at the digital readout on my dashboard clock, and realized with a twist of irony that I was now not only late, but late. As in not on time to meet my boyfriend, Richard Howe, for lunch. He’d made one o’clock reservations at Giani’s and it was now twelve fifty-eight. I eased my suede ankle boot (which had maxed out my Macy’s card, but was so worth it!) down just a little harder on the accelerator, after checking the rearview mirror to make sure the highway patrol was nowhere in sight. Not that I was speeding. Much. But considering the day I’d had so far, an encounter with the CHP was not on my list of to-do’s.
As I checked for motorcycle cops, I also gave myself a quick once over in the mirror. Not bad considering I was having the freak out of my life. My ash blond hair was still tucked into a flattering half twist, a few flyaways but the messy look was in, right? I pulled out a tube of Raspberry Perfection lip-gloss and applied a thin swipe across my lips, ignoring the obscene gestures from the guy behind me. Hey, if a girl in a crisis doesn’t have her lipstick, what does she have?
I’m proud to say I only got flipped off two more times before pulling my little red Jeep (top up today as a concession to my hair) into the parking garage on the corner of 7th and Grand. I fastened The Club securely on my steering wheel and prepared to hoof it the two blocks to my boyfriend’s firm where I was supposed to meet him… I looked down at my watch… damn. Twelve minutes ago. Well, on the up side, as soon as I told him about being late, I had a feeling he’d forget all about my being late.
A conversation I was seriously dreading. In my mind it went something like this: Hi Richard, sorry I’m late, by the way I may be having your child. Insert cartoon sound of Richard hitting the door at roadrunner-like speeds. Ugh. There was just no good way to ease into information like that. We’d only been dating for a few months. We hadn’t even made it to the shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond stage yet, and suddenly we had to have this conversation? I adjusted my bra strap as I walked, tucking it back under my tank top, trying like anything to present the appearance of a woman with it all together. And not a woman trying to remember which pregnancy test commercial touted early results with digital readouts.
Exactly fourteen minutes behind schedule I walked into the law offices of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. In reality the firm was called Donaldson, Chesterton, and Howe. But I couldn’t resist the nickname. Considering the type of clientele they represented (the Chanel and Rolex crowd) it fit like an imported, calfskin glove.
Beyond the frosted front doors maroon carpeting yawned across the reception area, muffling the sound of my heels as I made my way to the front desk. The large oval of dark woods stretched along the back wall of the spacious room, flanked on either side by more frosted doors leading to the conference rooms and offices beyond. The faint clicking of keyboards and muffled conversations billed at three hundred dollars an hour filled the background.
“May I help you?” asked the Barbie doll behind the desk. Jasmine. Or as I liked to call her, Miss PP. As in plastic parts. Jasmine spent two thirds of her salary every month on cosmetic procedures. This week her lips were collagen swollen to Angelina Jolie standards. Last month it was new boobs, double D of course. As usual, her bleached blond hair was moussed within an inch of its life, giving her an extra two inches on her already annoying height of 5’6”. I’m what could be referred to as a petite person, topping out at an impressive 5’1 ½” on a good day. I was lucky if I made the height requirement on half the rides at Six Flags.
“I’m here to see Richard,” I informed Miss PP.
“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Howe?” Her blue eyes blinked (with difficulty due to the brow lift two months ago) in an innocent gesture that I knew was anything but. Jasmine’s sole entertainment here at Dewy, Cheatum and Howe was wielding the power of entry to the sacred offices beyond the frosted door
s.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Yes. As a matter of fact I do.”
“And you are?”
I tried not to roll my eyes. I’d met Richard here for lunch every Friday afternoon for the past five months. She knew who I was and by the tiny smile at the corner of her Angelina lips, she was enjoying this all too much.
“Maddie Springer. His girlfriend. I’m here for a lunch date.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Springer, but you’ll have to wait. He’s with someone in the conference room right now.”
“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” I mumbled as I sat in one of the tan, leather chairs punctuating the waiting area. Jasmine didn’t answer, smirking instead (which looked a lot like an Elvis lip curl in her new super-sized lips) as she opened what I’d guess was a game of solitaire on her computer and pretended to look busy. I picked up a copy of Cosmo from the end table and began flipping through the pages of drool worthy designer clothes I could never afford. Or fit into if I was actually pregnant. Oh God. What a depressing thought.
After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Jasmine’s acrylic nails click against her keyboard, Richard walked into the reception area. Despite the anxiety building in my stomach, I couldn’t help a little yummy sigh at the sight of him. Richard was six foot one and all lean muscle. He was a religious runner, doing 10k’s for all the charities in his spare time. Muscular dystrophy, autism, even the breast cancer run last April. When we first started dating he tried to get me to run with him once. Just once. My idea of a cardio workout was elbowing my way through Nordstrom during the half-yearly super sale. Running was something I didn’t do. Besides, I figured if the heels were high enough, walking the two blocks from my apartment to the corner Starbucks burned almost as many calories as running, right?
What Happens in Vegas Page 42
