Killer in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  “Dana, do you still have Officer Baby Face’s number?”

  She looked up from her TV lesson on beating the roulette wheel. “Sure. Why?”

  “Do you think you could ask him for Maurice’s address?” Larry had been reluctant to talk to me. But I had a feeling that the whimpering Turtleneck might be an easier nut to crack.

  She shrugged. “Worth a try.”

  Dana fished the number out of her purse and gave him a story about wanting to send flowers to the partner of the deceased. I’m not sure if he actually bought it, but apparently his desire for Dana outweighed fear of his supervisors, because twenty minutes later Dana had a date to meet Officer Baby Face for drinks that night and I had a tall latte, two aspirins and the address to a condo in North Vegas.

  Chapter Nine

  Maurice’s condo was in an older part of town where the buildings were all a sun-bleached ivory color that might have once, in a former life, been anything from sandy yellow to rosy sand. The address Officer Baby Face gave us was on the corner of Rancho Drive and Silverado Parkway, a two-story affair with Mediterranean arches and lots of peeling stucco. The walkway was flanked by bunches of dead grass and trampled succulents, and through a rusted gate I could see a courtyard with two faded lawn chairs lying on their sides. The entire building had a feeling of being dried out and used up. Apparently Maurice’s paycheck wasn’t quite enough to buy his way into the Sand Hill set.

  I parked at the curb and did a quick makeup check in the rearview mirror as I went over what I’d say to Maurice. Considering that the last time I’d seen him he’d pointed a gun at me, I wasn’t entirely looking forward to this interview. But on the other hand, my father may very well be using his go-go boots to outrun the Mob, so I didn’t feel I had much choice. As fortification, I added another layer of mascara and a thick swipe of Raspberry Perfection lip gloss.

  “Ready?” I asked Dana as I puckered my lips in the mirror.

  Dana pulled her stun gun out of her purse. “Ready.”

  “Dana!”

  She jumped in her seat. “What?”

  “What are you doing with that thing?”

  She blinked her wide eyes at me. “What? It’s just a little protection.”

  “Condoms are a little protection. That thing is dangerous.”

  Dana waved me off. “Oh please. It’s harmless. Marco just didn’t know how to use it.”

  I eyed the cell stunner. “And you do?”

  “Of course,” Dana said, clipping the phone onto her belt. “I used one last year in that sci-fi flick I did with Ben Affleck. I was Alien Girl Number Three.”

  “And they gave you a real stun gun?”

  “Well…” She puckered her eyebrows. “At first they gave me a real gun. But then there was this little incident and they said it would be better if I had a prop. But it totally looked like the real thing and I swear by the end of the shoot I was totally a master of that prop gun.”

  “Little incident?” I narrowed my eyes at her. “What kind of incident?”

  Dana waved me off. “Oh, it was nothing. Just a misunderstanding. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  Why is it that when someone says “trust me,” I always feel less inclined to do so?

  But before I could stop her, Miss Alien Girl Number Three was out of the car and walking up the pathway to Maurice’s front door.

  I followed her, silently praying to the saint of stun guns that hers wouldn’t go off as I walked between the lawn chairs and dried grass to unit 24A. Dana rapped on the door. I heard footsteps approaching from the inside, but the door stayed firmly shut. As the seconds stretched on, I got that creepy feeling that someone was watching us through the peephole.

  Dana knocked again, louder this time. Finally the door opened a crack and Maurice’s tiny eyes peeked out.

  He was dressed this morning in gray slacks and a black blazer over another turtleneck, this one in somber charcoal. Mourning colors. Though I noticed he still wore those hideous tasseled loafers. His eyes held a red-rimmed look, like he’d been crying nonstop since yesterday, and they darted back and forth, sweeping the area behind us as if we might have brought the fashion police with us.

  “You again. What do you want?” he asked, his voice nasally and strained.

  “I was wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes. I’m worried about Larry.”

  Maurice’s eyes shifted from Dana to me, then back again. Finally he shrugged, a sad, defeated little move of his shoulders, and stepped aside to let us in.

  It was immediately apparent who had decorated the house in Henderson. The same blend of flowery, stainfriendly furniture dominated the living room. Only in Maurice’s tiny condo, the bright fabrics and large wooden furnishings looked cramped and out of place. It struck me that Maurice was a housewife without a house.

  As in Henderson, everything was immaculately clean and the air held a thick odor of Windex and potpourri. The little yapper dog I’d seen at Larry’s bounded out from a back bedroom and began circling our legs. He did a series of high-pitched barks and wagged his tail at me like I was the bacon fairy. I had to admit, he was kinda cute. As long as he didn’t drool on my shoes.

  “Oh, what an adorable doggie!” Dana exclaimed, reaching down to pet the little yapper. “What’s his name?”

  “Queenie,” Maurice said, then choked back a little sob. “He was Hank’s baby.”

  Maurice scooped Queenie into his arms and motioned for us to sit on the chintz sofa. He perched himself on the edge of the matching loveseat, clutching a balled-up tissue in one hand and the dog in the other. He was a small guy to begin with, only a few inches taller than I was, but he seemed to have shrunk inside of himself even further since yesterday, as if all the life had been drained out of him.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I started, genuinely meaning it.

  Maurice nodded, pressing the tissue to the corner of his eye. “He was all I had,” he squeaked out. “If only I’d known he was so unhappy…” He trailed off, biting his lip as his eyes filled up.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, patting his arm awkwardly. “How long had you two been together?”

  “Three years.” Maurice sighed, swiping at his nose with the tissue. “Ever since I started dancing. Hank took me under his wing and showed me everything he knew.” Maurice did a little hiccup gulp.

  “So you’re a performer too?” I asked.

  Maurice nodded. “At the El Cortez.”

  That explained the lousy paycheck. The El Cortez was Vegas’s first casino and had the clientele to prove it. None of them a day under eighty and all on a fixed income. Not exactly big-tipper territory.

  While I tried not to picture Maurice in feathers and heels, I formulated my next question. The one I was seriously dreading the answer to. “Maurice, I need to know. What exactly did Hank and his friends do for Mr. Monaldo?”

  Maurice looked down at the carpet, an olive green shag. Apparently renters couldn’t be choosers. “I told you, we’re all dancers.”

  “Then why are you living in a one bedroom, while Hank and Larry can afford a house in Henderson?” Dana asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

  Maurice pursed his lips and began absently patting Queenie’s head. “Hank liked to spend money,” he said, careful to avoid eye contact.

  “Look,” I said, leaning in closer, “you said you were done with Monaldo. What did you mean?”

  Maurice looked from me to Dana, but kept up his silent routine.

  “Please?” I pleaded. “I don’t want my dad to end up like Hank.”

  That did it. Maurice’s shoulders bobbed with a deep hiccup-sigh thing again and he caved.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you, but I swear I honestly don’t know what they were up to.” His face took on that sad, abandoned look again. “No one would tell me anything.”

  “But they were involved in something?”

  Maurice nodded. “All I know is that they were doing some work for Monaldo on t
he side. But I swear to you I don’t know what. I tried to get it out of Hank but he…” Maurice’s voice cracked as he trailed off. “We hadn’t exactly been on great terms lately.”

  “Oh?” Dana leaned forward again.

  Maurice stared at his hands. “About three months ago, Hank started working late at the club. Going in at odd hours, when I knew he wasn’t on stage. I asked him what it was about. At first he wouldn’t answer me. Then one night I saw him coming out of Monaldo’s private office. I confronted Hank. I…” He blushed. “I thought maybe they were having an affair. When he came home I accused him of cheating on me and we fought. He told me he was doing some extra work for Monaldo. He, Larry, and Bobbi. He wouldn’t tell me any more than that. But the next day he brought me these as a peace offering.”

  Maurice held out his arm for inspection. Diamond cuff links twinkled back at us from their spot on his worn jacket. And they didn’t look like the Home Shopping Network knockoffs. These were genuine, mined in Africa diamonds. And they were big.

  Dana did a low whistle. “How many carats?”

  “Two. Each.”

  Dana whistled again.

  Maurice got a sad little smile on his face and his eyes filled with tears again. “Hank could be very generous.”

  “So was Larry working with him too?” I asked, thinking of the beat-up Volvo my dad had driven off. He hadn’t exactly seemed like he was rolling in dough.

  Maurice shrugged. “I don’t know. I assumed he was, but…” He paused, staring down at the carpet again.

  “But what?” I prompted.

  His hands twisted around the tissue, making little white shreds of paper dance in the air, spurring the yapper dog to chase them. “A couple of weeks ago, I was at the house with Hank when Larry came home. He was upset about something. He dragged Hank into the den. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were definitely arguing. The only word I could make out for sure was ‘Monaldo.’ Then finally Larry came out and just left.”

  Figures. His standard M.O.

  “Hank was really upset afterward,” Maurice continued. “He even went out and bought a gun.” He cringed. “I hate guns. When I asked Hank about it, he just said it didn’t hurt to be cautious. After Hank died—” Maurice choked back another little sob. “After he passed I took the gun and went to the house to ask Larry what was going on. I wanted to know what their argument had been all about and why Hank had been so scared that he needed a gun. I figured now that he was gone…Well, I think I have a right to know why he took his own life.” Maurice hiccup-sobbed into the tissue again.

  I thought about what Ramirez had told me last night and wished I could tell Maurice it was more likely Monaldo had taken Hank’s life. Instead I asked, “What did Larry say?”

  Maurice sniffled. “Nothing. He said he couldn’t tell me. He didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. I told him it was too late for that. And that’s when you showed up.”

  My crappy timing strikes again.

  It was becoming clearer that Larry was into something bad all the way up to his cheap wig. Maybe it was time to ask Ramirez for help. I may play Bond Girl, but even I wasn’t stupid enough to believe I could protect Larry from the Mob.

  “Maurice, have you ever heard the name ‘Marsucci’?”

  He gave me a blank look. “No. But then again, I’m finding out there were a lot of things Hank kept from me.” His eyes threatened to fill with tears again.

  “What about Bobbi?” I asked, shifting the conversation before we all drowned in saltwater. “I heard he hasn’t been to the club in a while. Have you seen him?”

  Maurice shook his head. “No. And Hank hadn’t either. He was really upset about it. Agitated.”

  I bit my lip. And now he was dead.

  I digested this bit of worrisome information, wondering just where all this left Larry.

  Queenie, apparently tired of chasing Kleenex shreds, jumped up on the sofa beside me and settled himself on Dana’s lap.

  “Well, hello, cutie,” Dana crooned, rubbing Queenie’s ear until his tail beat a steady happy-dog staccato against the flowered cushions. “You are just precious, aren’t you?”

  Queenie’s tail began to wave so fast it was nearly invisible. He did happy little wiggles all over Dana’s lap and I cringed as his claws pawed at Dana’s Donna Karan sweater. But Dana didn’t seem to mind. “You’re just adorable,” she said in that high-pitched cutesy voice used only for communicating with babies, small animals, and retail clerks who look like they might give a cute blonde a break on a full-price pair of heels. “Who’s the cutest puppy? You are. Yes, you are. You’re a cutie boy. A cute, cute, cutie boy. You’re a—”

  Dana stopped as the dog made a strangled little yelp, then went instantly limp in her lap.

  Maurice sucked in a breath. “What happened? What did you do to him?”

  “I, I…” Dana looked at the limp dog, then at the cell gun strapped to her belt.

  Mental forehead smack. I quickly grabbed the cell and shoved it into Dana’s purse before Maurice saw it.

  “Oh my god, you’ve killed Queenie!” Maurice started bawling in earnest now, sobbing hysterically as he lifted Queenie from Dana’s lap and clutched him to his chest.

  “He’s not dead,” I reassured him. He’s just a little…zapped.”

  “Zapped?” Maurice’s eyes went big. Obviously my word choice didn’t have the comforting effect I was going for.

  “Um, maybe not so much zapped as…sleeping. That’s it. He’s just sleeping. Dana has a very soothing effect on animals.”

  Maurice looked at me like I was one cookie short of a dozen.

  “See, here’s the thing, Dana has this little stun gun…”

  “Gun!” Maurice shouted. “You shot my Queenie?!”

  “No, no! Not shot. Just zapped. Mac says they’re perfectly harmless. And she should know; she owns the gun store. Like with the kind of guns that shoot for real. With bullets and stuff. I mean, not that I know a whole lot about guns. I don’t. I hate guns. I don’t even own a gun. Neither does Dana, for that matter.”

  “Not for another two days,” she added helpfully.

  “See? No real guns here. Well, except maybe for the one you have.” I paused. “Um, you don’t actually have that gun on you right now, do you?” I asked, suddenly a little wary. Maurice just gave me a look. “Right. Of course not. I mean, not that I thought you’d use it. You wouldn’t. You’re obviously a very nice person. Not that nice people don’t own guns, they can. And do. Like you. But Dana doesn’t have a gun. Just a stun gun. Totally different. It only gives a little jolt of electricity. A tiny one. See, he’s coming around already.”

  Queenie’s hind legs began to twitch as a puddle of doggy drool formed on Maurice’s lapels.

  “See, he’s fine. Probably having a lovely doggie dream about milk bones and fire hydrants and chewing up furniture…”

  There was that look again.

  “Right. Maybe not chewing up furniture. I’m sure Queenie would never chew up furniture. Certainly not yours. But the other stuff, definitely. Well, okay, I guess we should be going.…”

  Dana and I backed out of the condo as Maurice watched us, his eyes full of big tears, Queenie twitching in his arms. As soon as we were out the door, it slammed behind us and I heard Maurice throw the lock.

  Well, that had gone well. I turned to my best friend. “You are a maniac! I don’t ever want to see that thing again.”

  “What?” Dana protested.

  “You just zapped a puppy!”

  “On accident.”

  “Right, and as long as the gun stays in your purse,” I ennunciated very slowly, “there will be no more accidents.”

  Dana pouted. “This is just like the Ben Affleck set.”

  “Why, did you stun Ben too?”

  “No,” she said as we got in the car. Then added as an afterthought, “I kind of, totally accidentally, stunned his cat.”

  Never mind fur traders, PETA should be
going after Dana.

  After we left the condo, we made a quick lunch stop at Burger King, where I ordered a double Whopper with cheese, fries, and a thick vanilla milkshake. I had completely given up on fitting into the Nicole Miller. It was last season’s cut anyway. Dana, on the other hand, ordered a side salad and bottled water.

  “I can’t believe you actually eat those things,” Dana said, scrunching up her little ski jump nose at my burger.

  “Why?” I asked around a bite of pure heaven. I’m not ashamed to say I was two inches away from a gooey cheddar-induced orgasm.

  “Uh, hello? Mad cow. Do you have any idea what that burger was fed when it was alive?”

  I looked over at her salad. “Probably your lunch.”

  “Other ground-up cows. Antibiotics. Growth hormones. Why don’t you just hook yourself up to an IV full of toxins?”

  I looked down at my burger. “Because this tastes better?”

  Dana shook her head at me and took a bite of her wilted lettuce.

  I was just wolfing down the last of my heaven on a bun, when my purse rang. I slipped my cell out as I chomped on a deliciously greasy french fry.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mads.”

  Cripes!

  “Uh, hi, Mom.”

  “How’s Palm Springs?”

  “Uh…” I glanced around at the full Burger King, hoping she couldn’t hear the ding of the slot machine in the corner. “It’s great.”

  “How’s the weather out there?”

  “Great!”

  “And your fellow? How are things with him?”

  “Grrrrrrreat,” I said, sounding a little too much like Tony the Tiger for comfort. “Everything’s just great.”

  “I’m so glad. Listen, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I just wanted to let you know I bought you a plant.”

  “A plant?”

  “Yes, I went by to water your plants and I got rid of that plastic thing you had. I bought you a real ficus instead.”

  Great. Just what I needed. A ficus.

  “Now, you’re going to have to water it every three days,” Mom continued, “but not too much; you don’t want to over water. Just until the soil is moist. But don’t let it overflow. I got you a dish to set it on, but it could still overflow onto your carpet, so easy on the water. And just a touch of plant food once a month. You can mix it right in your watering can.”