I reached for the chain and unhooked it, turned the deadbolt and swung the door wide open. Lyle was past due for a piece of my mind. Fluffy apparently agreed. She launched herself at his leg and sunk her sharp little canines into Lyle’s calf, unfortunately biting boot and not flesh.
Lyle jumped, attempting to pull his leg away from my marauding guard dog. Fluffy couldn’t have hurt him, but it had to frighten him a bit. Fluffy was growling like she could bite through the boot at any second.
“I’ll tell you something,” I said, leaning against the doorsill and enjoying the show, “just so’s you know, if you hurt my little Fluffy, I will personally kick your ass.”
Lyle looked up, a strained expression on his face. “And if she hurts me?”
“I’ll give her a little something extra at suppertime,” I answered. I turned to walk back inside, looking over my shoulder at the two locked together on the front steps. “You coming?”
Lyle half stepped, half dragged himself and Fluffy into the living room and stopped still, focusing on the disaster area.
“What happened?” he asked. Fluffy growled, intent on amputating Lyle’s leg.
“Nothing,” I said, pulling the futon mattress back onto its frame. “I’m just a hell of a lousy housekeeper.”
“Aw now, you’re mad at me on account of last night,” he said, finally keying in. “Honey, I came out looking for you, but I didn’t see your car. I figured you was fed up with me taking so long.” His eyes were huge and liquid. Fluffy must’ve been making inroads on that boot.
“Don’t call me honey,” I snapped. “You didn’t hear my stereo?”
“Sure, I heard something, but I didn’t figure it to be you.” He looked down at Fluffy and back up at me. “Honest, hon—er, Sierra, I wouldn’t go off without talking to you. I needed to see you, bad.”
I wanted to take pity on him, but Fluffy had no intention of giving up her quest for his shin bone.
“Well,” I said, pointing to an armchair, “sit down and start talking. I got a lot to do today and a short amount of time to do it in. I’ll give you five minutes, and if it ain’t interesting, I’ll shorten it to two.”
Lyle looked around the trailer again, obviously wanting to ask some more questions but thinking better of it.
“Can you call off the dog?” he asked. “I cain’t concentrate on what I gotta say with her gnawing on me.” For the first time there was a hint of irritation in his voice. His request was bordering on a command.
I shrugged and snapped my fingers. “Fluff,” I said softly, “save something for later, dear.” Fluffy looked over at me, reluctant to let go of her prize. “It’s all right, girl,” I added. “I can handle it from here.”
Fluffy released his leg but wasn’t happy. She moved one step back, the low growl continuing in her throat, a warning to Lyle that next time she might move her attack to a more vulnerable location.
I looked at my wristwatch and over at Lyle, a signal that his five minutes were ticking away.
“Okay,” he said, and his voice changed, deepening somewhat and losing its cowboy hesitancy. “I know you wondered why or how I could run off and leave you like that after you found that man’s body.” I nodded. “Well, I need to show you something. Might help explain why I didn’t want to be around when the police showed up.” He dug deep into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a slim plastic case, and passed it across to me.
I opened it, already suspecting. It was an identification card. Lyle Martin was a bona fide Drug Enforcement Agency special agent. I looked up at him and back down at the card case. Fluffy was still growling. No matter what his identification said about him, she wasn’t letting up on him.
“And?” I said, tossing the case back to him.
“And so I didn’t want to jeopardize an ongoing investigation, or blow my cover, so I had to leave you behind. I’m sorry.” He didn’t look particularly sorry. He looked matter-of-fact.
“So, aren’t you blowing your cover now?” I demanded. “And what about last night? Where were you?”
Lyle’s back straightened and his eyes hardened. “Sierra, there are certain things I am at liberty to discuss and others that must remain confidential.”
“You guys are all alike,” I said, “full of self-importance. Your reasons are more important than keeping a commitment to a woman. Now I’ve heard it all.”
Lyle ignored me. “Sierra, our investigation is stuck and we feel you could be of some benefit. You are also, perhaps unwittingly, placing yourself at substantial risk. I don’t know if you know Denise Curtis’s whereabouts or not, but if you do, we need to get in contact with her.”
I started to speak, but Lyle interrupted. “Sierra, you haven’t told the police, and frankly, I doubt you’d tell me, so let me give you some more information and then you can make your decision.” He wasn’t waiting for a response from me.
“Your friend Denise isn’t as innocent as you might think, or as uninvolved,” he said. “She knew the first guy they found in her hotel room. He was a former associate of Leon Corvase’s, a drug courier, like Denise, who’d become an informant. Denise knew he’d flipped to avoid prosecution. We think Leon had the guy executed, then transported to Denise’s room to send a message.”
“Why would he want to send Denise a message?” I asked. “She wanted to stay clear of Leon. She was scared to death of the guy. When she heard he was out of prison she freaked.”
“Did she really?” he asked. “Or did she just put on a good act for you?”
“It wasn’t bogus,” I answered firmly.
“Then how was it that Denise was seen in Fort Lauderdale, on board the Mirage, two weeks before she disappeared?”
“You’re mistaken. The information is wrong.”
Lyle reached in his pocket and produced a snapshot. There was Denise, her long red hair flowing in the wind, on the back deck of the Mirage, laughing, a drink in one hand and her arm around Leon Corvase.
“It’s an old picture,” I said.
“No, it isn’t,” Lyle answered calmly. “Denise was there. Two weeks later, Leon’s so unhappy with her that he sends her a message. Two days later, Denise is gone.”
“What about her dog, Arlo?” I asked.
“Maybe he was the first message.”
Fluffy growled a bit louder but subsided when I snapped my fingers again. My stomach was a mass of knots. I couldn’t sort it all out. I couldn’t see what was going on, and yet something had to be wrong with the picture. Denise with Leon? It didn’t make sense. She had seemed to be so genuinely scared of him.
“Sierra, if you know where she is,” Lyle continued, “we need to talk to her. We’ve formed a task force with the Panama City police force. John Nailor and our liaison, Carla Terrance, decided it was time to give you more information to work with. It isn’t a matter of you covering for a friend anymore. We’re thinking Denise may have killed Leon Corvase, or have been killed herself.”
It was like the Discovery Channel special I’d seen on spiders, I thought. Two spiders mated, but who ate who? Was Denise really a spider? I thought of little Arlo. What was a nice dog like him doing with a spider like Denise? Fluffy wouldn’t have stuck with me had I been a mean person. Dogs sense these things. And yet Arlo wasn’t with Denise anymore, was he?
“Lyle,” I said, “I don’t know where she is.”
“Well, apparently,” he said, surveying my ruined trailer, “we’re not the only ones who think you do.”
Lyle stood up and shoved his identification back into his pocket. He tossed the picture of Denise and Leon Corvase onto the futon.
“You can keep that,” he said. “We got plenty of copies.”
I stared at Denise’s laughing face. The photographer had caught the true Denise, the drink-you-under-the-table, don’t-give-a-shit Denise. I looked closer, trying to figure out how someone could’ve pasted Denise’s head on someone else’s body, but I knew this was no trick. Denise was looking straight out of the picture,
laughing right in my face.
Twenty-seven
It was a different thing, walking through the front entrance of Bay County Medical Center as a visitor instead of a paying customer. Not that I shouldn’t have been a paying customer. My head ached, I still felt nauseous, and I knew I wasn’t supposed to be up running around. But Lyle’s visit had given me a sense that time was running out, and I was feeling desperate.
Frankie Paramus had a private room and bodyguards. As I attempted to open the door and walk in to visit, a burly, hairy arm reached across the doorway and held the door closed.
“There’s no visitors allowed in there, Miss.”
I hadn’t even seen anyone near Frankie’s door. I’d been in such a hurry to get to Frankie, I’d overlooked the other human beings surrounding his room. Now I was forced to stop and look around. Standing in the hallway, flying full colors, were three of Frankie’s nearest and dearest. I recognized two of them from their visit to my trailer the time Frankie met Raydean.
“He’ll want to see me,” I said, not at all sure that that would be the case.
The biggest guy, a stocky man with a full thick brown beard, his hair covered by an American flag bandanna, stood in front of me, his beer-barrel gut practically assaulting my 38DDs. He didn’t look like he was going to take any argument.
“He ain’t feeling up to company,” he insisted.
“Tell him Sierra Lavotini wants a word,” I said. I didn’t back off. I stood there in my five-inch stilettos, glaring at him.
“Aw, go ask him,” another man interceded. “Maybe it’ll perk him up.” There were some muffled snickers as the big man seemed to mull it over.
“Yeah,” another one said, “maybe she’s come to do a table dance.”
The bull moose turned and disappeared into Frankie’s room, leaving me under the watchful eye of the others. A tall skinny biker, his front tooth rimmed with gold, stepped up, seizing the opportunity.
“You know,” he said, attempting to be smooth, “if Frankie ain’t up to you, I could use a little attention.” He lifted one hand and casually pinched my left nipple. The others snickered.
“Back the fuck off, asshole,” I said. The man’s face reddened. He wasn’t about to lose face in front of his compadres.
“Bitch, I—” He was interrupted as the door swung open and the first man returned.
“Frankie says you can come in.” He held the door open and I walked past. The others crowded into the door frame, ready to cash in on Frankie’s unexpected good fortune, but the big guy stopped them. “Frankie says he wants to be alone,” he said, laughing, a dirty little snickering sound. “He don’t want no intrusions while he’s with the lady.” The door swung shut behind him and the room was empty except for the figure in the hospital bed and me.
I took a few hesitant steps into the room and stopped. Frankie looked bad. His face was ashen beneath a two-day growth of stubble. The right side of his face was an angry mass of red scrapes and purple and black bruises. He appeared to be sleeping, but opened his left eye when he heard me step closer.
“Come here,” he muttered. I took two steps closer, pulling a chair up to the foot of his bed. “No,” he whispered harshly, “closer. I don’t want nobody hearing what I got to say to you.”
I moved the chair up by Frankie’s head and sat down.
“What happened to you?” I asked softly. “How’d you dump your bike?”
“Is that what they say?” he muttered, a harsh coughlike laugh escaping his lips. “I guess it worked, then.” His closed his eye briefly, then reopened it. “It wasn’t no accident. Somebody shot my tire out.”
“Who?” I asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” he whispered. “It happened in front of Southern Tattoo. One of the guys in the club owns it. Your dog’s friend, Rambo. There’s bikers in and out of there all the time. Could’ve been anybody, from our club or anywhere else. It don’t matter. I got to tell you something and we don’t have much time. Them assholes’ll be back in here wanting to see if I got you naked.”
“Did you leave something in my car?” I asked. After all, I came to see him. I had the agenda.
“What?” he asked, surprised at the turn of conversation. “No, I didn’t leave nothing in your car. Take off your shirt.”
“What? Fuck you, Frankie. This ain’t no peep show.”
“No,” he muttered impatiently. “Take it off so if they look in they’ll see we’re having a little private time and go away. And it would help if you laughed now and then, like something good was going on.”
I didn’t like it, but I did as he said. I stripped down to my black lace bra and laughed wickedly. Frankie wasn’t about to pretend he wasn’t eyeballing my chest. He stared for a moment, long enough for me to know he wasn’t in any life-threatening condition, and then continued his talk.
“Denise is in trouble,” he said.
“I know that, Frankie,” I said. “We already covered this.”
“Hush,” he said. The door swung open and the bandanna stuck his head in. I laughed and looked around guiltily.
“Can’t you see we’re busy?” I asked. Frankie reached over and fondled my breast like we were old buddies and the bandanna withdrew quickly. I laughed again, loudly, and turned to Frankie. “Touch me like that again,” I hissed, “and you really will need a doctor.”
Frankie ignored me. “Denise is trying to rip us off,” he said. “She’s dealing again, only this time it isn’t small stuff. Right before she disappeared she set up a deal for our club. Now she’s missing, and along with her went the front money.”
“How much?” I asked, the trip hammer banging in my chest.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” he said.
The door started to swing open and this time I jumped out of my chair, leaning across Frankie’s torso, my breasts within inches of his face. The door closed and I took my seat.
“Sierra,” Frankie said, “the club ain’t gonna let Corvase’s organization get away with ripping them off. If Denise is in on this, she better find a way to make it right and then disappear. I can’t help her from here,” he said. “You’d better find her.” He looked away for a moment, then back at me. “It might be almost better if she was dead,” he said softly. “They tend to make an example of them that’s done the club wrong.”
Outside I could hear an angry woman’s voice engaged in an argument with the self-appointed bodyguards. I scrambled around, pulling my shirt on, before the nurse could win out and enter the room.
Frankie watched me, no longer interested in anatomy.
“Sierra,” he asked, “what got left in your car?”
“Oh,” I said, startled, “that. I found an earring in the car and I guess I just hoped … Well, I don’t know what I hoped.”
That was enough of an answer for Frankie. As I turned to leave a nurse burst into the room red-faced with anger.
“Mr. Paramus doesn’t need visitors,” she sputtered. “He doesn’t need to be excited in any way.” She eyed me up and down like I was an undesirable lab specimen.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” I said, walking past her. “I was just leaving.”
Frankie laughed softly, then groaned as the nurse did something to him. I stepped out into the hallway and headed for the elevators. Frankie’s boys didn’t try to mess with me as I passed, choosing instead to utter low catcalls and whistles as I sauntered off. I felt like a deodorant commercial: “Never let them see you sweat.”
I leaned against the wall of the elevator, my head pounding along with my heart. It was Thursday afternoon, one day before Vincent’s deadline for me to clean up my act and lose the cops. The cops were back on my tail, this time trying to function as protection. The DEA had their eye on me. Somebody or bodies weren’t satisfied that I didn’t know where Denise was and had decided to tear up my life looking for her. All in all, it was a hell of a mess, and I had no clue what to do to set it all right.
Twenty-eight
/> John Nailor walked into the Tiffany as I was getting ready to do my last set, but this time I had advance warning. Marla, her silver-sequined G-string and pasties glinting in the backstage lights, marched over and made the announcement.
“Your boyfriend’s here,” she said, all sugar and spice. Marla would be the last one to catch on that Nailor was heat.
I peered out into the house and saw him chatting with Vincent. Neither one looked happy.
“Rusty,” I called, “give me two minutes. I got company.” Rusty cranked up the bumper music and nodded, his eyes glued to the house curtains.
Vincent’s entire body was twitching by the time I walked up. Whatever Nailor was saying went against Vincent’s good nature. And Nailor wasn’t looking too happy himself. His suit and shirt were immaculate, and his tie was a dark wine that added luster to his tanned skin. But he was angry with Vincent, and it showed in the rigid way he held his shoulders.
“So,” I said, hooking my arm through Nailor’s and trying to edge him away from Vincent, “you didn’t get enough the other night, and now you’re back.” Vincent watched us walk off, his eyes narrowing warily. I led John Nailor over to a front-row table and gently pushed him into a chair. I pulled up another chair right next to his, flipped it around, and straddled it.
“I thought I told you not to come in here,” I said. “It isn’t good for my job security. And you pissing off Vincent is going to be very bad for me indeed.”
John leaned against the back of his chair and smiled. He was in a dangerously unpredictable mood.
“Maybe I’m so taken with the talent, I can’t keep myself away,” he answered, then leaned forward, his face so close to mine that I could taste his breath. “Or maybe it’s time to turn up the heat.”
“Turn up the heat, Officer,” I purred, “or turn the heat on?” Nailor didn’t give, didn’t move an inch. “Well, stick around, big man,” I said. “I’m about to do my last set. Maybe I can help you raise your thermostat.”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’m taking you home.” His steely eyes went right through me and I felt my stomach flip over.
The Miracle Strip Page 17
