by Diane Kelly
Through the two-way mirror, I saw Nick come into the main room of the club. He swapped places with another bouncer situated on the far side of the stage. One of the ginger-haired girls dancing nearby spun around her pole, crooked her knee around it, and leaned backward to look at Nick, her hair hanging down behind her. Had her large breasts been natural, gravity would’ve dragged them down, too. Her girls stayed in position, however, like the solid silicone soldiers they were.
Nick slid the dancer his sexy grin and a sick feeling spread through me, as if my blood had turned toxic. I knew the smile was only an act, part of his cover. I’d seen the other bouncers and dancers flirting with each other. Nick had no choice but to play along, too. Still, that didn’t mean I had to like it any more than he’d liked Tarzan ogling my caboose.
I forced myself to turn back to the tips I was counting. I’d thought working another case with Nick would be fun. Clearly, working this particular case with him would be more difficult than I’d thought. I understood he had a role to play here, I only wished he didn’t play it so well and that I didn’t have to watch the performance.
The rest of the night was hectic, as Merle had warned. Seemed I’d just sit down and there would be another set of knockers knocking at the door. Tips streamed in from the dancers, including a Candee with two e’s (and two double Ds), a raven-haired performer with a faux-fur G-string and clawlike fingernails who called herself Pussy Kat (real name Katrina), and a dark-skinned, blue-haired dancer named Starr (real name Starr). Yep, there was a girl for every taste, no matter how bizarre.
Aaron, Christina, and various other bartenders, bouncers, and waitresses also brought us their tips, cover charges, and bar income. I was knee-deep in cash when a bartender I had yet to meet came to the door. He was thirtyish, with blue-black hair, pale skin, and an abundance of tatts, including a strand of inked barbed wire around his neck.
“You must be the new girl.” He handed me his tip jar along with a zippered bank bag containing the contents of his cash register. “I’m Theo.”
This guy’s parents had named him Theodore? Seriously? No wonder he’d covered himself with tattoos.
“I’m Sara. Nice to meet you.”
I emptied the contents of his tip jar into one envelope, the contents of the bank bag into another. I returned both to him and went back to counting.
As I counted, I noted that Theo had taken in nearly twice as much in cash register receipts as Aaron and the other bartenders. Did Theo mix, blend, and pour faster than the other bartenders? Or was something more going on?
We’d been taught in special-agent training to follow the paper trail. The papers in this case bore pictures of dead presidents. It seemed that George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Andrew Jackson were trying to tell me something. Of course, some of the dancers brought in significantly more than the others, too, but perhaps that was to be expected. Some were willing to work a little harder for their money and not all were equally equipped for the job. Still, I made discreet notes on a spare envelope, tracking each employee’s income for later comparison. I hoped anyone watching me through the security camera wouldn’t become suspicious. If someone asked, I’d tell them I was jotting notes as backup to ensure my accuracy. After all, I knew how important precise accounting was to Mr. Geils and I wanted to do a good job for him.
Yeah, right.
By the end of my shift, I felt exhausted. I slid my secret envelope into the desk drawer along with the other envelopes.
Merle put a supportive hand on my back as I stood to leave. “Good work, Sara.”
“Any chance I can get a foot rub, too?” I raised my brows hopefully. “It might make Bernice jealous, encourage her to commit.”
Good humor played in Merle’s eyes. “Tell you what,” he said. “If you’re still here in a month, I’ll do it.”
I stuck out my hand. “Deal.”
As I walked back into the club, Cyclops treated me to another frisk, though this one was cursory and cautious. I spotted Nick and Tarzan picking up chairs and turning them upside down on top of the tables to enable the cleaning crew to vacuum the floors.
“Hey, Sara,” Tarzan called. “Get your fine little ass up on that stage, show us what you can do.”
My first impulse was to tell the guy off, but then I remembered Nick looking at the dancer earlier and jealousy got the better of me. Two could play that game.
“Okay.” I stepped over and Tarzan held out a hand to help me up onto the stage. I walked over to the pole, put a hand on it, and looked up.
“Well?” Tarzan demanded. “What d’you got?”
I had squat, that’s what I got. I had no idea what to do with this pole. I supposed I could try to mimic some of the dancers’ moves, but without some practice first I feared my performance would pale in comparison. I did the first thing that came to mind. I shimmied up the darn thing like it was a rope and the club was gym class.
When I reached the top I looked down. Tarzan’s mouth gaped. Nick, on the other hand, was smiling.
“What the hell are you?” Tarzan barked, a deep crease between his disappointed brows. “A chimp?”
“Actually, it’s quite impressive,” Nick said. “Did you see how fast she reached the top?”
Tarzan waved a hand dismissively and went back to work on the chairs.
Nick hopped onto the stage and waited at the bottom of the pole, looking up at me. “This would be far more titillating if you were wearing a short skirt.”
I slid down the pole, shifting my weight so that I spun around it as I descended. I stopped myself when I came face-to-face with Nick.
“What I wouldn’t give to be that pole,” he said, his voice low and sexy, a grin playing about those soft, warm lips of his.
I turned my best bedroom eyes on him. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I slid the rest of the way down and Nick stepped toward me, pinning me between the pole and his chest. He leaned in to whisper in my ear. “How about I sink my teeth into that fine little caboose of yours?”
The man knew just what I needed to hear.
“Get a room!” Tarzan hollered from a table twenty feet away.
It was the second time that day we’d been told the same thing.
“He’s got a point,” Nick said, taking a small step back. “It’s time I moved out of my mother’s house and got a place of my own.”
Though Nick had had his own apartment before his three-year forced exile in Mexico, he’d lived with his mother since his return, making up for lost time and catching up on the repairs and maintenance she’d neglected while he’d been gone. But, yeah, it was time for him to move out.
“I noticed a town house for rent on my street,” I said.
“Oh, yeah? Get me the phone number.” Nick’s voice was low, deep, seductive. “I want you in my place, in my bed the first time I take you.”
My knees melted and I nearly fell off the stage.
chapter thirteen
Cooked Books with a Side of Salsa
My furry cat Henry normally tossed me only a cursory glance when I arrived home, but when I came in the door that night he stood on top of the armoire that housed my TV, arched his back, and treated me to an all-out hiss.
“What’s the matter, boy?” I asked, reaching up a hand to pet him. Big mistake. The ungrateful brat swiped the back of my hand with his claws, leaving three bloody lines across my skin.
He backed up against the wall, howling to wake the dead. Rowooowl!
I gave him a raspberry in reply and went up to bed.
My cat Anne didn’t come curl up next to me in bed like she usually did, and my bones still felt chilled when I woke the next morning. Was it only my imagination or was it something more? No sense in taking a chance. I donned the leg warmers under my pants where no one could see them and made a stop by the cathedral on my drive to work.
The church secretary informed me the priest had left to visit a sick parishioner. So much for an exorcism. I had
to settle for splashing my face with holy water.
There was no sizzle, no steam, no melting of skin. Okay, maybe the chill had been a figment of my overly active imagination. I felt warmer now, though, didn’t I? Any demon that might have inhabited me had apparently moved on. Perhaps it feared another Zumba class.
When I returned to my car, I removed the leg warmers and shoved them back into my duffel bag with my workout clothes.
I left a sticky note on Nick’s desk with the phone number from the FOR RENT sign in the yard down the street. I hoped the landlord would allow dogs. Nick would surely want to bring Nutty with him.
An hour later, Agent Ackerman, Eddie, and I paid a quick visit to Louis Featherstone and his attorney.
Featherstone, like Pachuco, was rather unremarkable. Average height, average weight. Light brown hair with light touches of white around the temples. A moderately attractive man and, I might add, an unemployed man. He’d been the loan officer on GSM’s mortgages, many of which were now delinquent. As a result of the bad loans, he’d been terminated by the mortgage company shortly after GSM filed bankruptcy.
According to Pachuco, Featherstone had kept the books for GSM. Judging from the records I’d reviewed, the guy was a master chef when it came to cooking the books, a regular Wolfgang Puck. His simmering pot would soon boil over, however. He’d had the gall to post the seven grand for his wife’s butt lift and eighty grand in transfers to his son’s college fund as charitable contributions. Sheesh. That kind of greed would not play well to a jury.
Featherstone’s attorney was a young black woman, a smart and sassy spitfire named Jacqueline Plimpton. When we told her that Jeffrey Pachuco had accused her client of forging his signature on both the requests for progress payments and the checks from the mortgage company, she leaped out of her chair. “That’s preposterous!”
Featherstone appeared shell-shocked. Seemed he hadn’t expected his friend to turn on him. Or had he expected to beat his friend to the punch? Regardless, the former doubles partners were no longer hanging together. It was every man for himself now.
Once he’d processed the information, he began to seethe. “Jeff lied,” he spat, virtually breathing fire. “He signed those checks himself. I saw it with my own two eyes.”
“I figured as much,” Ackerman said, buddying up to Featherstone today. “What can you tell me about the loans?”
“Not much,” Featherstone said. “I worked entirely from my office at the mortgage company. As you know, loan officers don’t visually inspect the real estate they finance. We rely on the Realtors, contractors, and appraisers to supply valid paperwork. I trusted the other men. I had no idea the documentation they gave me was fraudulent.” Featherstone spoke slowly and clearly, as if he’d carefully rehearsed his response. “It would be entirely unfair to hold me responsible for the malfeasance of the other defendants.”
“Malfeasance,” huh? Interesting choice of words. Sounded like he’d been coached.
Ackerman shook his head in feigned sympathy and Featherstone visibly relaxed.
Rather than confront Featherstone directly about the shoddy bookkeeping and risk him passing the buck to one of the other Racketeers, I decided to take the same tack as Ackerman. Perhaps I could attract more flies with honey than vinegar, get more useful information, nail down the fact that he was the one who kept the books. “You know that Mr. Pachuco personally signed the checks because you took care of the banking and bookkeeping, right?”
Featherstone hesitated a moment but eventually said, “Yes.” He really had no choice but to be honest about that fact. He had to know the other three owners would point fingers at him.
I fought a smile. These guys were making things easy on us. If they’d hung together and remained silent rather than turning on each other and flapping their gums, the upcoming trial would have been much more difficult.
What’s more, the records indicated Featherstone had a degree in finance from Southern Methodist University in Dallas. His degree plan had included five accounting courses. No way would a jury believe he’d make such basic bookkeeping errors by accident.
Rather than gild the lily, we thanked Featherstone and his attorney for their time and for setting us straight—ha!—about the checks.
Featherstone’s attorney rose as we stood to leave, looking from Ackerman to me. “So we’re good, then?”
“Oh, sure,” Ackerman said, waving his hand dismissively.
“No worries,” I added. Not for us anyway. If I were Louis Featherstone or his attorney, I’d be worried as hell.
“About the plea bargain—” she began.
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Ackerman said, adding, “When hell freezes over,” in a soft whisper once we were out the door.
* * *
Lu met me at the Y, once again dressed in her leotard, the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, and the hot pink leg warmers. At least she’d had the sense to put on a pair of stretchy, out-of-date bicycle shorts over the leotard today, though the skin-hugging fabric left only slightly more to the imagination.
“You forgot your leg warmers,” Lu said when I’d finished dressing.
I was about to protest, but realized there was no way I could tell her I didn’t want to wear the ridiculous things without insulting her. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt the Lobo’s feelings. For one, I kinda liked the old broad. For two, I knew there were some really crappy cases in the backlog. Unless I wanted them assigned to me, I’d better play along.
I smacked myself in the head. “How could I forget them?” I retrieved the leg warmers from my bag and slipped them on over my sneakers. “How do they look?”
“Fabulous.”
Nick and Eddie were pumping iron in the gym. As Lu headed for the group classroom, I made a quick stop to talk to Nick. He wasn’t scheduled to work at Guys & Dolls tonight so this was the only chance I’d have to see him today.
He gestured to my leg warmers. “Going retro, I see.”
“They were a gift from Lu.”
He fought a grin.
“I know. They’re ridiculous.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “On you they’re cute.”
A blush warmed my cheeks. What a pushover I was, huh?
“Did you call the number I left for you?”
“Sure did. Going by to check the place out tonight.”
With any luck, Nick and I would soon be neighbors. Living on the same street would have a lot of advantages. We’d be able to spend lots of time together. He’d be nearby if I needed him to open a jar or squash a bug. A short walk of shame in the morning.
“You free for lunch on Sunday?” he asked. “My mother wants to have you over.”
Nick’s mom was nearly as good a cook as my own mother. “It’s a date.”
I glanced toward the glass wall, noting the Zumba instructor had arrived. “I better get in there.”
“I’ll come with you,” Nick said.
“It’s Zumba,” I warned.
He cast me a sultry look. “I’ve got excellent rhythm.”
Was the guy trying to torture me?
We invited Eddie to join us. His response? “Dancing? You’re nuts.”
“You’re black,” I reminded him. “You’re supposed to be good at dancing.”
“Way to stereotype.”
As if he didn’t do the same thing to me all the time, calling me a redneck, making fun of my country ways. I regretted telling him I’d once eaten squirrel stew. It wasn’t all that bad, though I suffered a twinge of guilt every time I watched Rocky and Bullwinkle.
In the room, the instructor led us through a five-minute warm-up during which we stretched our legs, arms, and necks. “Ready?” she called when the warm-up was completed.
“Ready!” we called back, the Lobo punctuating her words with an enthusiastic fist in the air.
The instructor cranked up a salsa number and began to demonstrate the steps, calling out, “One-two-three and turn, and kick, and step, and turn
, and back, and one-two-three and do it again!”
Lu had no problem following the steps. Neither did Nick. I, on the other hand, had no better luck today than I’d had earlier. I seemed to be constantly two steps behind everyone else in the room. When Nick executed his second turn, I was still on the kick. Unfortunately, I kicked him right in the ankle.
“Damn, woman!” His words were angry, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. He was amused by my lack of coordination. Ass.
I’d played both high school volleyball and intramural softball at the University of Texas, taking my team of accounting majors, the Bean Counters, to victory over a team of nerds from the physics department who called themselves the Irresistible Force. I could line dance as well as the next person, too. But while I excelled at sports and country-western dancing, these fast Latin moves were proving too much for me.
Tara Holloway was no quitter, though. I did my best, half-assing most of the moves but generally heading in the right directions. Lu kept up with the instructor, even adding some extra flair with jazz hands. Perhaps the hot pink leg warmers were magical, giving her extra energy and inspiration. If only my pair worked the same. Nick had no problem, either, executing all of the salsa and samba moves like a regular Federico Astaire.
As the last number wound down, Nick grabbed me and began a quick polka around the room, leaning me back in a deep dip at the end. While the workout had relieved some of the sexual tension that had built up, with Nick’s hands on me it returned with a vengeance. I looked up into his amber eyes. I knew it would be totally inappropriate for him to kiss me here at the Y with a dozen people watching, but that didn’t stop me from wanting it. Bad.
Thunk!
An oversized rubber ball bounced off our sides. We looked up to find Lu standing a few feet away with her arms crossed over her chest. “Your relationship isn’t going to get in the way of your work, is it? I’d hate to have to fire one of you.”
