Somehow in all the commotion, Felix had slipped away, no doubt rushing to summarize his version of event before the Associated Press picked up on the story. Mom, Mrs. R., Marco, Nanny Goat, the lot of burly-looking bikers, and the “girls” in feathers were all corralled onto the main floor of the club where they were called one by one to give statements to a team of uniformed police officers that now outnumbered the drag queens two to one. The room looked like some sort of weird costume party gone bad—leather chaps mixed with sequined leotards mixed with Mrs. Rosenblatt’s neon pink and blue spotted muumuu. I had a feeling this was what a bad acid trip was like.
As for myself, I was parked on a vinyl barstool, wrapped in an ugly green blanket, wondering when my teeth would stop chattering. The paramedic who first arrived on the scene told me I did, in fact, have a mild concussion, but other than that I was physically okay. Mentally, however, was another story. It wasn’t every day a girl saw her best friend blow a hole the size of a softball through someone’s chest. And while I wasn’t mourning the loss of a scumbag like Unibrow any, the sight of gooey red stuff pooling around his head was permanently etched in my brain. Trust me, the real deal was a lot more disturbing than a CSI episode.
“Maddie!”
I turned to see Ramirez hailing me from the front doors. He flashed his badge to one of the uniformed LVMPD, then pushed through them, making a beeline toward me. I quickly swiped a finger under my eye to check for black smudges. With the way I’d been crying that night I was sure I had mascara streaks clear down to my chin. I swiped the other eye and fluffed my hair a little. Hey, I was shaken up, not dead.
“Maddie!” he said again, then grabbed me in a hug so fierce I thought he might crack a rib. He held me there for a long minute, not saying anything. “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again,” he finally whispered into my ear. Only this time there was no Bad Cop in his voice. This time it was, dare I say, almost tender.
“Sorry,” I mumbled against his chest.
He released me and stood back to get a good look at me, doing a quick check of my person for broken bones with his hands. Though I admit as his palms skimmed over my thighs, I went warm in a totally inappropriate way, considering the circumstances. “Are you okay?” he asked, his fingers moving upward to gently probe the goose egg at the back of my head.
“I’m fine.” I paused. “Okay, maybe fine is a bit of a stretch. But I’m not dead.”
He blew out a big breath, running one hand through his black hair. He looked down at my outfit, taking in the platforms and drag-queen-chic bustier. “Jesus, Maddie, what were you thinking? You know, I almost had a heart attack when LVMPD called me.”
“You did?” I asked, my body doing that inappropriate thing again at the concern lacing his voice. “Really?”
“Yeah, I did.” He reached a hand up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his knuckles brushing softly against my cheek. “I hate it when I miss all the action.” His mouth quirked up at the corner.
“Ha. Ha. Very funny, tough guy.”
He grinned, though his hand lingered in my hair, making little goose bumps break out on the backs of my arms.
As my body continued to equate near-death experience with horny-teenager-worthy hormones, I cleared my throat and forced myself to ask after the one person conspicuously absent from the night’s activities. “So…what happened to Monaldo?”
Ramirez stopped doing the hands-in-hair thing and I could see him mentally switching back into cop mode. “He’s been taken into custody.”
I let out a long breath I’d been holding since I first stepped into Larry’s shoes.
“The Feds picked him up a few minutes ago outside his penthouse and he’s being processed as we speak,” Ramirez continued. “No formal interviews have been conducted yet, but the minute he heard he’d been under surveillance, he started squealing like a stuck pig, naming at least three Marsucci family members in the counterfeit shoe ring. He even said he’d cop to killing the customs agent and Bob Hostetler if we pleaded down to manslaughter and promised him protective custody. The Feds are so happy I think I saw one do a cartwheel.”
“What about Hank?” I asked.
Ramirez shrugged. “Monaldo still says he had nothing to do with Hank’s death, but I think he’s just holding out for a better deal. Honestly it doesn’t really matter. Any way you look at it, the Marsuccis are going down and Monaldo’s going to jail for a long, long time. Everybody wins.”
Except Unibrow, I thought, remembering the sickly red stain.
“So what now?” I asked.
He took my hand in both of his, his voice taking on that tender quality again. “Now you go home and get some sleep. You’ve been through a lot tonight; you need some rest.”
I felt the heat of his touch pulse through my palm. I licked my lips. “And you?”
He looked down at me, his eyes like two melted pools of Hershey’s Special Dark. But instead of promising to spend the night showing me a hundred and one new uses for those handcuffs of his, he glanced at the front door. “I’ve spent the last six weeks living this case, Maddie. I’d really like to be there when they question Monaldo.”
I felt my heart sink. Work. Again.
But considering I had a personal stake in seeing Monaldo disappear into maximum security for a very long time, I didn’t complain. Much.
“You’re leaving?” I whined.
He glanced from the door to me. “Look, if you need me to stay, I will,” he said. Which I took as a small victory. At least he was pretending he’d put me before work. That was a start.
“Go. I’m fine,” I lied.
“You sure?” he asked. Though he was already pulling away.
“Yes. Go. I’ll be okay, really.”
He placed a quick kiss on my forehead. “Get some sleep and I’ll call you as soon as I’m done. I promise.” Then he spun around and stalked back out of the club with purpose.
I watched his denim-clad butt walk away, my inappropriately charged body sighing in disappointment. Then I slapped both hands over my eyes. Hey, I had promised Saint Jude, hadn’t I?
The sun was rising over the horizon by the time Detective Sipowicz finally told us we could go home. But considering home was 100 miles away and the New York, New York was just a few blocks, Mom, Mrs. Rosenblatt, Marco, Dana, Rico and I caravanned back to the hotel instead. We were making our way across the casino floor, the ding, ding, ding of the slot machines making my goose egg throb like a trombone in my ear, when Slim Jim caught my eye.
“Hey!” he called. Then he pointed at Dana as he rounded the reservation desk and advanced on our merry little group. “Hey, where were you last night? I waited over an hour for you to show up. I completely missed Bette’s opening act. I can’t believe you stood me up!”
Mental forehead smack. With everything else that had been going on I’d totally forgotten that I’d pimped my best friend out to Mr. Walking Acne Commercial for the night.
Dana looked from me to Slim Jim, then to Rico, whose eyebrows were angling downward.
“What do you mean she stood you up?” Rico asked.
Slim Jim crossed his arms over his sunken chest. “I had a date to see Bette Midler with this chick and she totally blew me off.”
Rico’s eyes narrowed as he turned on Dana. “You had a date with this pencil neck?”
“Hey!” Slim Jim yelled.
“Uh…” Dana said, biting her lip. “Well, kind of…”
“You’re not here one week and you’re cheating on me with this guy?”
“Hey!” Slim Jim said again. “What’s wrong with this guy?”
“You know,” Mrs. Rosenblatt piped up, “this is just like the time my third husband, Rory, thought I was foolin’ around with the dry-cleaning guy. Only that time—”
But she didn’t get to finish. Before anyone could stop him, Rico swung one meaty fist in the air, missing Slim Jim’s jaw by millimeters.
“Holy crap!” Slim Jim yelled, ducking. Rico ca
me in for another try, swinging his left fist this time. Slim Jim crouched behind a Lucky Seven slot machine. “Holy freakin’ crap!” he yelled.
“Rico, no!” Dana cried, grabbing on to the back of Rico’s shirt. It ripped as he lunged for Slim Jim again, looking frighteningly like a scene from The Incredible Hulk as Rico’s bared muscles flexed, his fist making another dive at Slim Jim. Jim skittered behind a fake tree.
“Somebody call the police!” Marco shouted.
Dana pulled out her cell and dialed 911. But before she could even get the call out, two security guards came rushing up. They each grabbed one of Rico’s arms, which was almost effective in holding him back. Almost. Hey, the guy was about a thousand pounds of pure muscle. He charged at Slim Jim again, a security guard dangling from each arm like a puppet. Slim Jim ducked behind a street sign, one of the guards called for backup, and Marco screamed for Dana to call the police again.
She did. And this time they arrived. Five minutes later I was treated to my second Vegas PD encounter of the evening as three uniformed officers pushed their way through the growing crowd of onlookers. Much to the relief of Slim Jim, who was starting to look tired of bobbing and weaving. I didn’t blame him. Actually, I was kind of impressed he’d lasted three rounds with the Jolly Green-with-jealousy Giant.
The first two uniforms helped the two security guards restrain Rico. The third stared at Dana, uncomprehendingly. Because, of course, with our luck, the LVMPD had sent us Officer Baby Face.
“Dana?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
Dana looked like a deer caught in the headlights, her gaze whipping from Rico to Slim Jim then back to Officer Baby Face.
“Uh…”
Ever helpful, Marco stepped in. “See, Dana had a date with this guy Jim, but she totally forgot about it because Maddie set it up for her and then her boyfriend, Rico, got into town—”
“Boyfriend?” Officer Baby Face yelled, clearly hurt. “You have a boyfriend?”
“Uh…” Dana said again.
I elbowed Marco in the ribs. “Not a boyfriend boyfriend. More like someone she just dates occasionally.”
“You went out with me when you were dating someone else?” Officer Baby Face asked, and I feared he was on the brink of tears.
“You went out with this guy too?” Rico growled, his face going red, steam starting to pour out of his ears.
“Uh…” Dana looked from Rico to Marco and me. “A little help here?” she pleaded.
“Oh, come on, fellows,” Marco said, stepping up. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?”
Three pairs of angry eyes turned his way.
Marco whimpered and jumped behind me.
“Okay, clearly this is all just some big misunderstanding,” I said, trying to diffuse the situation. “See, I’m the one who—”
“Wait!” Mrs. Rosenblatt cut me off, slapping her palm over the bulging veins on Rico’s forehead. “I’m having a vision!”
Oh. Good. Lord.
Mrs. Rosenblatt rolled her eyes back in her head, doing her Dawn of the Dead impression. “I see…a donkey. A big, strong donkey.” Mrs. Rosenblatt snapped her eyes open. “You got a pet?”
“Ha!” Slim Jim said, popping out from behind the street sign machine. “She thinks you’re an ass.”
Rico growled and lunged for Slim Jim again, dragging the security guards and LVMPD with him. They may have held his arms, but his legs were free. And considering Rico was trained in fifteen different forms of martial arts, this was a huge oversight on the LVMPD’s part. Rico coiled one foot back like a snake, then shot it out toward Slim Jim, catching him squarely in the face.
“Uhn.” Slim Jim rocketed backwards, bouncing to a stop against a Deuces Wild machine.
“All right, that’s it. You’re all asses!” Dana yelled. She turned to Officer Baby Face, who looked like he was trying to remember if this had been covered in the manual. “You,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “Yes, I’m seeing Rico.”
Office Baby Face opened his mouth. “But—”
“But,” Dana continued, “I went out on one date with you. One! It’s not like I promised I’d marry you. I mean, hello? Does this look like the body of a married woman? I don’t think so.”
Officer Baby Face clamped his mouth shut and found a piece of dirt on the floor suddenly very interesting.
“And you,” Dana continued, turning on Rico, who now that he’d made contact with Slim Jim’s face seemed freakishly calmer. “Who do you think you are that you just go around picking on poor defenseless little wimps like that?”
“Hey!” Slim Jim called from his crumpled position on the floor.
But Dana ignored him. “Rico, that was the worst display of jealousy I have ever seen. And I work with actors! You are a grown man, not some little boy playing soldier. Get a grip or I’m walking, pal.”
Wow, I was impressed. She was taking tough chick to a whole new level.
“What about me?” Slim Jim asked.
Dana rolled her eyes. “Hello—you talk to my breasts. Get a life!”
Slim Jim pouted. Either that or his lip was swelling.
“Now,” Dana said, crossing her arms over her chest, “You three children can go on squabbling if you like, but I just shot a man and I’m tired. I’m going upstairs to get some sleep.” Dana turned around and marched toward the Chrysler elevators. “Maddie?” she called over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”
Considering the testosterone level down here, that was a no-brainer. “Wait up,” I called, doing a mini jog across the casino floor to catch up to her. Marco, Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt followed close on our heels.
By the time we made it upstairs, I was beyond exhausted. Dana and Marco took one of the double beds and Mom selflessly fit her five-foot-one frame onto the rollaway. Which left me sleeping with Mrs. Rosenblatt. Or, more accurately, occupying the sliver of bed left over after she rolled her 300-pound frame into bed. But I honestly didn’t care. I closed my eyes, hit the pillow, and fell into the first good night’s sleep I’d had in weeks.
I awoke the next morning to the sounds of Marco getting into the shower. I rolled over and checked the digital clock radio display. 10:15. God I loved sleeping in. I rubbed my eyes and stretched as I sat up in bed. Dana was on the other double, watching a show on beating the blackjack dealer.
“Where are the gruesome twosome?” I asked, yawning.
“Your mom and Mrs. R.? They went to breakfast across the street at the $4.99 pancake buffet. Why, you hungry?”
I nodded. Actually, I was. I realized as my stomach growled that I hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. Dana dialed room service and ordered a fatfree yogurt cup with strawberries and granola for her and bacon, hash browns, and French toast with extra whipped cream for me. (Hey, I’d almost died last night. Life was too short for health food.)
While we waited for our dome-covered trays, I plugged my cell phone into the wall and checked my messages. There were so many my inbox was full. The first batch were from last night, Dana and Mom both calling frantically to find out where I was and if I was okay. The next was from Tot Trots, saying that if I didn’t turn in my designs for the Rainbow Brite jellies by Monday, I could kiss my job goodbye. I did a few mental calculations, figuring that if we left first thing in the morning, didn’t hit any traffic, and I stayed up all night, I might still be employed next week. Maybe.
I tried not to picture my silver slingbacks hoofing it to the unemployment line as the next message came on. Ramirez. In fact, the next seven were from him, alternating between swearing in Spanish (when he found the dangling handcuffs) and lots of swearing in Spanish (when he heard about Dana shooting Unibrow).
My last message was from this morning. It was Larry, saying Felix had filled him in on last night’s excitement and was I okay? I could call him back at home, since, thanks to Monaldo’s arrest, he was back in Henderson.
I stared at my cell, contemplating that little LCD screen. I knew I should c
all Larry back. And I would, I decided. Later. Now that imminent danger and threat of life had been taken off the table, I wasn’t really sure what to say to him. All that were left were the biggies. Why had he run off? Why had he abandoned that three-year-old me? What kind of relationship did I want to have with him now? All questions that were too deep for a woman with a mild concussion to contemplate.
Instead, I ate my breakfast, threw on a tank top, denim skirt, and my Gucci boots, and headed downstairs.
Slim Jim was at the check-in desk, his lip swollen to collagen standards, his nose covered in white bandages and both eyes rimmed in purple. I would have felt sorry for him if it weren’t for the two Swedish tourists in miniskirts and tube tops fawning over his injuries. Apparently being pummeled had its perks.
“Hey,” I called down the counter. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but do you have a copy of today’s Informer?”
Slim Jim pulled a copy out from under the counter and gave me a shooing motion as he turned back to the busty Swedes.
I pulled the tabloid open. The headline read, “Local Reporter Busts Open Counterfeiting Ring.” Hmmm…not exactly how it went down, but then again it was closer to the truth than ninety percent of the stuff the Informer usually published. I scanned the rest of the article. I admit, I was actually kind of impressed. Given an actual story to work with Tabloid Boy didn’t do half bad. And he even kept my head attached to my own body in all the photos. Maybe that Pulitzer loomed in his future yet.
At the end of the story was a smattering of pictures—Hank’s tarp-covered body outside the Victoria, Monaldo being led away from his penthouse in handcuffs, mourners at Hank’s funeral. The last was a shot of Maurice, sobbing over Hank’s casket, a tissue clutched in one hand. Poor Maurice. I felt my heart go out to him. No matter what happened to Monaldo now, it couldn’t bring Hank back. I wondered if anyone had even told him about Monaldo’s arrest? Ramirez and the Feds had seemed pretty focused on Monaldo last night. I had a feeling no one even remembered the brokenhearted partner Hank had left behind.
Killer in High Heels Page 25
