I shuddered internally. Even I wasn’t that desperate. “We’re looking for two specific dancers.” I repeated the descriptions Shar-pei had given us. “Any idea where they might work?”
Slim Jim pursed his eyebrows together. “Actually, yeah. I think I know the redhead. Last weekend was my buddy’s birthday and we took him out to this real campy place. The Victoria Club. I don’t remember the blonde, but Lola…” He did a low whistle. “Now she’s hard to forget.”
“The Victoria Club?” I asked.
“Uh huh.” Slim Jim nodded. “I had a lot to drink that night, so I’m not totally clear on the particulars, but I know I had a good time. In fact,” he said, addressing Dana’s cleavage again, “I could show you girls a good time there tonight.”
I’m sorry to say for a half a second Dana seemed to be considering it.
“No thanks.” I jumped in quickly. “We’re kind of in a hurry. Can you tell me where the club is?”
“Fremont Street, downtown,” Jim answered, clearly disappointed. “Near the Neon museum. Not the greatest part of town, but cheap drinks at least.”
“Thanks.”
“Always happy to help the ladies,” he said as we turned away. “And, hey, say hi to Lola for me!”
After we grabbed a quick sandwich at Broadway Burger (mine a double cheeseburger with lots of melted cheddar and Dana’s a soy patty with sprouts that looked like it should be feeding livestock), we hopped back into the Mustang and drove up the 15, past the Strip into the downtown area, the home of Vegas’s first casino; the famous smoking cowboy, Vegas Vic; and the largest number of prostitutes on the West Coast.
When the mega-resorts started to crop up in the early ’nineties, the Strip became the face of the family-friendly Vegas, and all the degenerates were rounded up and corralled north. In recent years, preservationists had started a campaign to restore the historic downtown, adding a touch of glitz and neon to create the Fremont Street Experience. But honestly it was like trying to throw sequins on Keds and pass them off as Jimmy Choos. You dress it up all you like, Fremont was still the bane of Las Vegas. Only now it had a permanent pinkish neon hue to it.
The Victoria Club was clearly in the section of town that the preservationists hadn’t gotten to yet. Or didn’t dare set foot in. And I didn’t blame them. As we turned onto Fremont, the first things we saw were the flashing blue lights of a squad car blocking the road up ahead. My stomach did that lead weight thing again as I spied yellow crime-scene tape and uniformed LVMPD cordoning off a section of the street. Right outside the Victoria Club.
“Uh oh,” Dana said, voicing my exact thoughts.
I took a deep breath, my stomach churning at the thought of what might be happening behind that yellow tape. Or more accurately, to whom it was happening.
Dana parked on the street about a block away from the commotion, between Annie’s Escorts and a bail bonds agency. We said a silent prayer that Marco’s car would still be there when we got back.
The Victoria Club itself was huge, spanning almost the full city block. It was a shiny mass of building done in art deco black and gold, trimmed with lots and lots of pink neon lighting.
A crowd of people hovered around the police barricade. Homeless guys mixed with teenagers, mixed with tourists snapping pictures on their digital cameras to show the folks back home in Kansas. A uniformed police officer stood behind the line of white barricades and yellow tape, trying to convince them all that there was “nothing to see here.” Which was obviously a lie, because as I pushed my way past a guy who smelled like he’d just taken a bath in Jim Beam, I got a glimpse of the pavement in front of the club. It was red. A black plastic tarp covered a suspiciously human-shaped mound that was oozing red liquid all over the asphalt. I gulped down a dry swallow. Blood.
The scenery swayed in front of me, and I grasped the wooden police barrier for support as a guy in a jacket marked CORONER lifted an edge of the tarp ever so slightly. All I got was one glimpse of an arm, slightly hairier than normal, then my vision went fuzzy.
My dad.
Chapter Five
I sat down hard on the curb, taking deep breaths in and out, trying to ignore the oozing form under the tarp. Okay, so it was an arm. I mean, lots of people had hairy arms. That didn’t necessarily mean it was Larry’s arm, right? Right. So why was I starting to pant like a dog?
“Are you okay?” Dana asked, moving to sit, then apparently thinking better of it as she weighed her white silk skirt against the well-traveled sidewalk.
“Uh huh. Sure. Fine. Dandy.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“So I’ve been told.” I took another deep breath, peeking between Dana’s legs at the scene on the other side of the barricade.
“I’m afraid that’s…I mean, it might be…” I stumbled, my mouth going Sahara on me as I tried to voice the thousand thoughts bumping through my brain.
Dana followed my gaze. “Larry?”
“Yeah.” I started to do the golden retriever thing again.
Dana’s forehead puckered in concern. “Hey, how about you just sit tight and I’ll see if I can find out anything, okay?”
I nodded, thankful Dana had come along with me.
She scanned the group of uniformed cops. They seemed to be growing in number. Not good. Finally she picked out one who looked like he’d started shaving yesterday. Dana adjusted her cleavage. “I’ll be right back,” she said, giving me a little wink before shaking her booty over to Officer Baby Face. I mentally wished her luck, carefully looking everywhere but at that black tarp.
Okay, so in all honesty, if I had really heard Larry being shot on Friday, it was unlikely that his body had sat out here in front of the Victoria Club for three whole days before anyone noticed. And if someone had gotten away with shooting him three days ago, it didn’t make sense that they’d have moved the body to such a public place. So really, the chances of that being Larry under the tarp were small, right? (Do I know how to do denial or what?)
Since I was so not looking at that tarp again, I let my gaze wander over the crowed assembled to view the gruesome entertainment. They were lining up two and three deep now to gawk and speculate at the police activity. I noticed one woman pushing forward more aggressively than the rest. A redhead. My internal radar perked up again as I watched her shove her way up to the police barricades. I couldn’t see her face from where I was sitting, but I could make out a pair of white go-go boots and matching vinyl miniskirt. And legs that were longer than the line at Starbucks on Monday morning. Lola.
I shot up from my perch on the curb. “Lola!” I shouted. Which was a mistake. The redhead jerked her gaze in my direction for about half a second before turning and shoving her way back out of the crowd. And since she was about twice my size, she was much quicker at it than I was.
“Shit,” I swore under my breath, jostling between a guy drinking from a brown paper bag and a woman in spandex and an ill-fitting wig. Fortunately, my many years of elbowing my way through after-Thanksgiving clearance sales at Macy’s worked to my advantage, and I’d nearly caught up with Lola when she broke free of the crowd and starting running. Cursing my choice of footwear, I bolted after her.
“Lola, wait, please,” I puffed, breaking into a sprint. Which, of course, she paid no attention to. Instead she continued her full-on mad dash down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians with the skill of a quarterback going for one of those big “H” thingies at the end of the field. (Okay, I admit it. I only watch football for the guys in tight pants. So sue me.)
Half a block later, Lola’s lead was increasing, and I was sweating like a fat man in July. I heaved big gulps of air in and out, wondering why all the healthy food I’d been eating lately wasn’t helping me. Lola turned left at the corner and I followed, my lungs burning as she wound down a side street.
I chased her for another half block before I gave up. Her legs were twice as long as mine and my heels were twice as high. There was no way I was going to catch up
to her. I paused on the sidewalk, watching her disappear around another corner as I bent over at the waist, gasping for air like a pack-a-day addict. That’s it. I was enrolling in one of Dana’s aerobics classes as soon as we got home.
I gave myself a ten-second count to get my breathing under control (mostly) and walked the two blocks back to the crowd, now double its size, standing around the flashing lights and crime scene tape.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Dana asked, jogging up to me as I sat down on the curb again. I had a cramp in my side and was growing a blister on my heel. Apparently Gucci wasn’t made for jogging.
“I”—pant—“saw”—pant—“Lola.” Pant, pant.
I quickly filled Dana in on my redhead chase. She agreed; I needed to get to the gym more often.
“So what did you get out of Officer Baby Face?” I wheezed.
Dana grinned. “His phone number.”
If I weren’t so tired I might have rolled my eyes. “And?”
“And that guy in the street isn’t Larry.”
I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Spy, rock star or jerk. I guessed it didn’t matter. I still cared more about his well-being than I wanted to admit.
“The dead guy’s name,” Dana continued, “is Hank Walters. He performs here at the Victoria in their ‘Salute to Hollywood’ act. In drag.”
I raised one eyebrow.
“Uh huh. And get this. I asked around and guess what Hank’s stage name is?”
I shook my head.
“Harriet.”
“As in Sand Hill Lane Harriet?” I glanced at the tarp again.
“That would be my guess. Officer Taylor said he died from a fall off the roof of the club. They’re saying he jumped.”
I looked up at the roof. Then down at the body. He must have taken a hell of a leap to land that far out from the building. “No gunshot wound?”
She shook her head. “Nope. None that they’ve found so far. The only other thing he said was that the guy was naked.”
My eyebrows headed north again.
Dana shrugged. “I guess people do weird things when they’re suicidal.”
I watched the guy in the coroner jacket place the tarp on a gurney and wheel it to his black van. I wondered if Hank slash Harriet had anything to do with the gunshot on my answering machine. Did my dad know Harriet? He must know Lola if her phone was registered under his name. And I didn’t like the way Lola had run away. Not the actions of an innocent person. Innocent people stayed and talked to the police when their roommates jumped off rooftops.
Since Dana had gotten all she could out of Officer Baby Face, we decided to drive by Lola’s house on the off chance she’d run all the way to Henderson.
All the lights were off in the house as we idled at the curb, and the driveway was empty. Just for good measure, I jumped out and peeked in the garage windows. No car.
“What now?” Dana asked.
It was late, I was tired, and one dead body is really my limit in any given day. So we headed back to the hotel. Besides, now that the police were on the scene, I was feeling just the teeny tiniest bit better. If Larry were in trouble, the cops would get more out of Lola than I could.
If they could catch her.
By the time we arrived at the New York, New York, Dana was still itching to try her hand at the slots. So after we valeted the Mustang, I left her feeding quarters into a video poker machine and made my way up to our room alone. I promptly crashed into a deep sleep, punctuated by Amazon women in white go-go boots pushing people off rooftops.
Somewhere around five A.M., I was awakened by the sound of a foghorn blaring through the room. I opened one eye, peering through the darkness. Dana was spread-eagle on the rollaway, her long limbs falling off the sides. Marco was lying on his back in the other double bed, wearing a sleep mask that would have made him look like Zorro if it weren’t powder blue and trimmed in lace.
I blinked a couple more times and realized the foghorn was Marco. Snoring. I groaned and put a pillow over my head. It didn’t help. I got up and put a pillow over Marco’s head. Still didn’t drown out the sound. Good god, no wonder the man was still single.
I gave up and dragged myself into the shower instead. An eon under the hot water slowly woke me up. I followed a quick mousse and blow dry with mascara and lip gloss. I added a little concealer under my eyes to mask the fact that I’d been awakened before the sun, but I’m not sure it hid much. Instead I put on some extra high heels to compensate, my silver strappy sandals with the butterfly buckle, paired with a white knit dress and Bandolino jacket. When I slipped out of the room, Marco was still snoring and Dana had fallen off the rollaway.
I made my way down to the casino level in search of food. Even at this hour the place was full of people. Some were tourists getting a jump on the day, but most were still dressed for the previous night on the town. Whoever said New York was the city that never slept hadn’t been to Vegas. Vegas was the city on NoDoz.
I debated for about half a second between a protein-infused fruit smoothie at the Mango Hut or the $3.99 pancake feast at the American Restaurant. In all honesty, it was a no-brainer.
After three cups of coffee and a stack of buttery, syrupy pancakes tall enough to rival the Empire State Building, I was feeling a little bit better. Funny how sugar and caffeine can do that for you.
Better, that is, until my purse began singing the William Tell Overture. I dug around for my cell. “Hello?”
“What the hell are you doing in Vegas?”
I cringed. Ramirez. “Having a girls-only weekend?” I said. Only it came out more of a question.
“Jesus, Maddie, I ask you to do one simple thing. Couldn’t you listen to me for once? Just once.”
I elected not to answer. “How did you know I was in Vegas?” I asked instead.
He paused. “I didn’t for sure until just now.”
Great. Tricked by Bad Cop. I clenched my jaw, wondering why I thought him not calling was so bad again.
“Well, you’ll be happy to know that Dana’s here with me. And we can take care of ourselves. She’s taken three of Rico’s Urban Soldier classes.”
He paused. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“I’m fine. She’s fine. We’re all fine.”
“Good. Great. How about you get out of Vegas while things are still fine, huh?”
“I don’t get it. What exactly do you think is going to happen to me in Vegas?”
Silence.
I got that weird prickly feeling on my neck again. “Do you know something about my dad?”
More silence.
Then Ramirez let out one of his big exasperated sighs. “Look, I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Maddie.” And I think he was making an effort to sound sincere. At least a little one.
“I can’t leave yet. I haven’t found my dad. And…” I paused, not sure how much I should share about last night with Ramirez. But I figured he was a hundred miles away, so what harm could it do? I told him about the house in Henderson, the Victoria Club jumper, and the bolting showgirl.
Ramirez muttered something in Spanish on the other end that sounded a lot like a dirty word. “Look, just humor me, okay? Go home.”
“Did you even hear what I just said? There’s something weird going on here.”
“Has anyone ever told you, you have a serious stubborn streak?”
I narrowed my eyes at the phone. “It’s one of my better qualities.”
Again with the Spanish cursing.
“What? What is this Spanish stuff? What are you saying?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
He was right. I probably didn’t.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m serious. I really don’t think it’s safe for you to be…”
But I had stopped listening. I’d been walking aimlessly through the rows of slot machines in the Central Park casino as Ramirez argued, and I now found myself just inside the front doors of the
hotel. Outside I watched a blue Dodge Neon pull up to the curb, drowning out the rest of Ramirez’s speech. I quickly ducked behind a life-sized cutout of Bette Midler.
“Uh huh,” I said into the phone, my entire being focused on the Dodge.
“What do you mean, ‘uh huh’?”
I was vaguely aware of Ramirez starting up with the Spanish again, but I was too focused on the Neon to care. I watched the car park in front of the valet station. I couldn’t be sure it was the same phantom I’d seen stalking me but after last night, my belief in coincidences was about as great as my belief in finding an authentic Louis Vuitton on eBay. Nada.
A sandy-haired man emerged from the Neon. He was average height, wore a pair of khaki pants with Skechers and a wrinkled white button-down that looked like he’d slept in it. He didn’t look particularly dangerous. But as I’d learned last summer, looks can be deceiving.
He gave the valet his key and handed him some money. Probably not enough, as the valet made a rude hand gesture behind the guy’s back as he walked away.
“Maddie?” Ramirez yelled.
“Right. Sure,” I said absently into the phone.
Ramirez made a growling sort of sound and I could picture that vein starting to bulge in his neck. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Of course. Leave it alone. Go home. Yada, yada, yada.”
Neon Guy started walking toward the front door. I quickly skulked into a row of slots out of sight.
“Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later,” I said into the phone.
“Maddie? Maddie, I swear to god if you hang up on me—” But I didn’t hear any more as I quickly snapped my Motorola shut and shoved it back in my purse.
I watched Neon Guy make his way to the registration desk. I crouched down and duck-walked closer, peeking out between two Lucky Seven machines. Slim Jim was on duty again. He and Neon Guy exchanged a few words. Then Neon traded his credit card for a room key. Whoever he was, apparently he could afford more than a “low rent” room.
Killer in High Heels Page 6
