Time for grooming. On her first studying drive through town, she could see it didn’t matter what anyone wore; her teddy-bear sweatshirt would have done fine. But she had in mind seeking out a hustler—namely Ms. Diller—which called for hustler attire.
She hadn’t brought any gold lamé. Didn’t own any. But, being a Fortune, she could drip a few diamonds if she had to. She washed, dried, spritzed her hair into an abandoned tumble, painted up her eyes with the finest Fortune Cosmetics goop, wrestled into black stockings with seams, splashed on perfume, and then finished her milk and peanut butter sandwich with one eye on her cocktail dress.
The dress was blacker than sin and the closest thing she owned to wicked. She shimmied into it. The crepe was a long-sleeved sheath, respectable enough in front, but with no back. At all. She slipped into crepe high heels, decked all available surfaces with some jewelry glitter, and then she was done—except for a last critical glance in the mirror.
She didn’t quite look like a painted-up hussy, but cripes, it was the best she could do.
Two guys tried propositioning her in the elevator, which reassured her that her appearance was up to snuff, but she forgot about them once the elevator opened on the first floor.
Before even trying to look for Tammy, she figured she’d better get a taste of the ambience of the place. So she just wandered for a while. There was excitement, noise, action in every nook and cranny, colors flashing, lights blurring past with dizzying speed. Waitresses circulated with free drinks. Slot machines incessantly clanged and sang out winnings. The blackjack and roulette tables were a tad more elegant and subdued, but there was hunger in the air, a hunger to win, the hunger to risk gleaming in strangers’ eyes—and, sometimes, desperation. Studying the gamblers appealed to her writers’ instincts—when would she ever have another chance to do hands-on research on such a fascinating aspect of human nature?
Yet, accidentally, she found herself on the second floor. The thing was, she heard the sound of children laughing, and just accidentally peeked up there. She hadn’t meant to linger. But it was so different from all the adult flimflam downstairs. Kids were giggling and racing everywhere, with live circus acts set up to entertain them and carnival games all over the place.
Ten minutes later, she won a stuffed animal, and gave it to a little blond moppet who’d been crying over a bumped knee. Since Rebecca was a good aim, and the word spread that she was giving away her “wins,” she attracted a pint-size audience. The employee manning the hit-the-duck booth probably shouldn’t have let her play—she was unmistakably over eighteen—but keeping the kids happy was his job. He didn’t seem to mind bending the rules.
She’d just whirled around to hand a fancy white unicorn to a ragamuffin little urchin when she noticed the shoes. Loafers. Man-size loafers. Big man-size loafers, followed by a long, long stretch of dress pants… Her eyes zipped past the bulge at his zipper…trailed up a brawny chest in white linen, took in the long arms folded patiently across that huge expanse of chest. She gulped.
Her eyes shot straight to Gabe’s, then. Her heart was thumping harder than when she was a kid, scared of finding an alligator under the bed. Gabe was no alligator—in fact, he looked damn near breathtaking in dress clothes, pure vital, virile male, and sexier than was safe for a woman—but there wasn’t much question from his expression that he was ticked off.
The kids scattered. If she’d been short enough, she’d have tried to blend in and take off with them. Gabe didn’t say anything for a minute, just kept looking her over from head to toe, from the swirl of spritzed curls to the figure-hugging black sheath to her slim legs in seamed stockings. Something kindled in his eyes. Heat. Definitely heat. But it seemed to be motivated a whole lot more by fury than by desire.
“Well, hi, there,” she tried cheerfully. “Were you, um, by any chance looking for me?”
“God, no. I knew you’d have the good sense to fly home to Minnesota. I knew you’d listened to reason and understood that it was potentially dangerous—and sure as hell counterproductive—for you to play Nancy Drew any further. I told myself I didn’t have to worry about you. I told myself, I know that woman has a brain and surely I can count on her to use it—”
“Now, Gabe, just cool down. If you yell at me in public, cutie, I’ll have to punch you in the nose, and that’ll upset the children. And I did listen to reason. You just don’t reason things the same way I do. And you know I’ve already uncovered a number of leads that you weren’t able to come up with yourself, so I’ve surely already proven that I can be of serious, real help—”
Wrong tack to take, she decided. The frown on his forehead deepened into an ominous scowl. The eyes snapped like hot black coals. Perhaps it was best to divert him into thinking about something else. “How on earth did you find me here?”
“That was easy. Most of this town is set up for adults. There’s only a few places for someone who’s hopelessly addicted to children. If you were anywhere in town, it had to be here. Where are your shoes, shorty?”
“Shoes?” She glanced down. Her stockinged toes wiggled back at her. She didn’t specifically remember taking off the spike heels, but they sure were killers on her spine. “I, um, don’t know. But they have to be around here somewhere—”
“Well, we’ll find the shoes, Red. And then you and I are going to have a little talk.”
Six
Gabe might want to talk, Rebecca mused, but she noticed he didn’t suggest the privacy of either of their hotel rooms to do it in. No way was he risking any clinches this night. With some amusement—and fascination—she noted that he was giving her the same wide berth he’d give a loose cougar.
She slipped off her heels—again. No reason not to. She doubted anyone in this town would leap to any judgmental conclusions if she walked around stark naked—except, perhaps, Gabe—and her feet hurt from teetering around on high heels.
There was no shortage of watering holes in and around the casinos, but Gabe had chosen a particularly quiet spot, and led her to a secluded corner table besides. Keno numbers flashed over the bar, but otherwise they were removed from the incessant sparkle and glitter. Rich, dark paneling backdropped red velvet chairs and cushion-soft carpeting. A navy damask tablecloth hid her stockinged feet, and a seductive candle flickered in the middle of the table.
Gabe ordered some kind of strange beer, and rolled his eyes when she asked for a glass of milk. There, now, she thought. His sense of humor was reviving. Truthfully, a snifter of brandy would probably help her sleep better, but the milk would do. Since he hauled her away from the kids, he’d been wearing a scowl. Once the waiter served them and he slugged down a few sips of that strange dark ale, he seemed inclined to be reasonable again.
Perhaps, though, she was being a tad optimistic. Gabe started the conversation by kindly and meticulously laying out all the information he’d picked up on Tammy Diller. Rebecca was astounded that he was suddenly willing to be so helpful and open. At least with her. Gradually, though, she realized the obvious. Slick didn’t really want her to know anything. He was just spilling enough information to convince her that this Tammy was bad news, and someone a milk drinker should definitely avoid.
Rebecca swung a leg under her, far more interested in the information than in Gabe’s newest ploy to get her to go home. “So we know for sure this Tammy’s using fake ID—and has before. We know she’s traveling with a boyfriend, that she’s about thirty-five, not bad-looking. We know she likes hobnobbing with high rollers—judging from her fondness for accumulating credit charges at the best stores and best hotels—and we can pin her down to being in Minneapolis around the time of Monica’s death from a hotel charge. Which may not be motive. But it sure shows opportunity, if we could just come up with some direct evidence. We also know she has no record of any job or source of income to be paying for the life-style she seems so fond of living. Have I missed anything so far?”
“Not a thing. That’s the general package.”
�
��Dammit, Gabe. We’re so close. I know she’s Monica’s murderer, I can just smell it. And if we could just get a look at her in person, get a chance to talk to her, I just know we could find out the link she has to Monica…. What hotel did you say she was staying at, by the way?”
“Don’t waste your time flashing those innocent eyes at me, shorty. I didn’t say where she was staying, nor am I going to. There’s only one reason I filled you in on this—”
“Trust me. I can guess the reason. You wanted to try talking me into staying out of this. Again.” She lowered her voice three octaves to imitate Gabe’s growly baritone. “The cards aren’t all in on Ms. Diller, but she’s looking shadier and shadier. And if there’s even the remotest chance she was involved in Monica’s murder, she isn’t likely to appreciate strangers poking questions in her life. It could tick her off. A bad idea, to tick off someone capable of murder. I’d be a lot safer if I’d go home and bake cookies. Oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, snickerdoodles…”
“Sounds like you’ve got my whole speech down pat. Except for the cookies. I wouldn’t have risked a club over the head for making that kind of sexist remark.”
“Hey, you’d have been safe. I love making cookies. In fact, I’ll be exuberantly thrilled to go home and do just that…the very instant my brother’s out of jail and cleared of this murder charge.” Her voice turned quiet. She’d given up believing that Gabe could understand her point of view. But she still hoped that he might accept that this was not an issue she could bend on.
Gabe abruptly cleared his throat. “You could end up in jail yourself if you keep stripping in public.”
She blinked, unsure where the sudden turn in the conversation had come from, and then she chuckled. “Now, I haven’t taken off any clothes but shoes. Yet. But the jewelry was driving me nuts. It’s heavy. And all the clasps pick.” She unhooked her necklace, and laid it on the building pile of spangles on the table—bracelet, ring, and dangling earrings. The only jewelry she’d ever loved wearing was her mom’s charm bracelet.
The puddle of jewels flashed fire in the candlelight, and picked up the glint of flame in Gabe’s eyes. Stripping off the jewelry, removing her shoes, curling on one leg…Rebecca was suddenly aware that she rarely exhibited “company behavior” around Gabe. From the beginning, she’d instinctively trusted him enough to freely be herself around him. His response around her seemed to be the opposite. Poor baby, he was washing a hand over his face again.
“Could you maybe put that stuff in your purse or something? Before you attract every thief and con artist in a ten-mile radius?”
“I didn’t bring a purse. And it isn’t really the family diamonds, Gabe, just good fakes, but you’re welcome to stash it all in your pocket, if you’re worried about it.”
He promptly scooped the jewels out of sight. “If you don’t have a purse, where’d you put your room key?”
“In my shoe.” She reached for the glass of milk. “Along with a quarter. I doubt I’ll shake that habit even when I’m ninety. The rule was engrained from the time I was four, always to have the money to call home. Tomorrow, I think I’m going to head out to one of those whorehouses.”
Her last comment made him choke on a sip of beer. “I beg your pardon?”
“Didn’t you see the signs all over town? Prostitution’s legal here.”
“I know prostitution’s legal here. But my ears must have been ringing from listening to those slot machines, because I know you didn’t say any damn crazy thing about going near one of those places.”
“Your hearing’s fine, love bug.” Gabe seemed to do much better when she didn’t give him a chance to think about any one thing for too long. “There’s just incredible research potential for a mystery writer here. I’ve never laid eyes on a compulsive gambler. Or a hustler. And for sure, I’ve never had an opportunity to see a whorehouse—”
“You’re trying to give me a heart attack,” he announced.
“Just out of curiosity, have you?”
“Have I had a heart attack?”
“No, silly. Have you ever been to a prostitute?” She waved a hand. “Don’t waste your breath telling me you don’t have to pay for it. Obviously, I know that. You’re adorable, cutie. And you’re a grown man, can’t imagine what you’d find appealing about a cold-blooded sex act… Do you have a headache?”
Abruptly he stopped rubbing his forehead. “I’m getting one. Trying to follow this conversation could give anyone a migraine. Somehow I didn’t expect these questions to come up from a milk drinker. Do you, uh, regularly ask guys you barely know questions about their sex lives?”
Prim as a nun, she raised her eyebrows. “You must have been raised in that school with my dad. He always said that a lady never brought up sex, religion or politics in a conversation—but I’m afraid that lesson went in one ear and out the other with me. I love all three. And I’m a writer. How can I learn anything if I don’t talk to people and ask questions? It’s my job.”
“An accidental excuse to be nosy, you mean.”
“That, too.” She grinned. “Your job gives you an excuse to be nosy, the same way, so you’d better be careful where you throw stones. And in the meantime, you’re evading the question. I know some boys get roped into going to, um, ladies of the night to lose their virginity, a rite of initiation, so to speak—”
“A tick wouldn’t be this relentless with a hound. What’s it gonna take to get you off this subject?”
“Just an answer,” she said demurely.
“Fine. No, I’ve never been with a hooker, as a ‘rite of initiation’ or for any other reason.”
“Well then, who did you lose your virginity with?”
“A thirty-three-year-old married woman who seduced me when I was fourteen. Now, are you happy you wormed that information out of me?”
“God. A real-life Mrs. Robinson?” Rebecca set down her milk glass with a thunk. “That’s child abuse.”
“That’s long-dead history,” he corrected her.
“Of course it isn’t, Devereax. No one ever forgets their first experience. Whether it’s bad or good has a huge effect on whether we’re comfortable with the opposite sex, what we think lovemaking is about, what we think relationships are—”
“Ah, Rebecca? I don’t know what psychology book you read, but that ‘relationship’ wasn’t worth any heavy analysis. She was hot. She didn’t have a moral in sight. She figured a teenage boy’d have stamina. I did. When I found out she was married, I moved along. End of story. I don’t suppose you’ve finished that glass of milk and are ready for bed by now?”
“Pretty soon.” His voice reeked of fake desperation—typical of Gabe’s dry humor, Rebecca mused. She also noticed he’d loosened his top shirt button and stretched out his long legs. When they first walked in, he’d been wired for sound. No matter how much he believed he was appalled by the conversation, he’d slowly, sneakily relaxed with her. He was having a good time. She wondered if he realized it. “I wasn’t just asking you idle questions, you know. The stuff about your Mrs. Robinson and the prostitutes was all relevant to our locating this Tammy Diller.”
“I can’t wait to hear what conceivable logic you used to come to that conclusion,” he said wryly.
Rebecca cupped her chin in her palms. On this subject, she couldn’t be more serious. “Well…however or whyever Tammy turned out that way, she sounds like a con artist. Someone who lives off her wits, if not her body. Neither ethics nor the law seem high on her worry list. She’s into risk. Possibly, earning something honestly doesn’t even appeal to her. Scheming’s more fun, more challenging. And she’s looking for a ‘big deal’ that’ll give her a fast ride on the money gravy train.”
Gabe shook his head. “Damned if I know how you could come up with all that from what little I told you, but you get ten brownie points for intuition. That’s pretty much how I read her, too, but I still don’t know where you’re going with this….”
“I’m just trying to figure her
out. If she’s in town, how are we going to find her? Who’s she going to hang out with? I’d guess she’d try to find some kind of rich chicken to pluck, so to speak. And I’m serious about going out to a whorehouse—”
“No,” Gabe interjected, “you’re not.”
“Now, I have no reason to think we’d find her in a place like that, and nothing you told me makes me think she’s a prostitute. But I think there’s a common denominator in that kind of personality, Gabe. No different than a woman who’d use her body to earn a living, Tammy has a history of using her looks and appearance as bait. And, darn it, that keeps ringing some kind of memory bells for me, but I just can’t seem to pin down why….”
“Likely you remember some fictional character you put in some book. Somehow I don’t think you’ve been on hugging terms with too many hustlers in real life, Red.”
He loved to get in those licks about her sheltered life. She wasn’t about to rise for that sucker hook this time. “The point is that finding Tammy is one problem, but knowing how to handle her is another. I figure if I had a chance to talk to some ladies of the night, I’d have a better understanding of—”
“Rebecca. Read my lips. To begin with, no one’s going to let you in the dude ranches. You’re female. Not the clientele they’re looking for. And secondly, you go near any one of those places and I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.”
“Gabe?”
“What?”
“I’m pretty sure you have a temper. I’m also pretty sure you could hold your own in an alley fight. But even if you were mad enough to blow a gasket, you’d never lay a finger on me.” He didn’t seem to like hearing that obvious truth, because he glowered at her with one of his prizewinning intimidating scowls. She grinned…then ducked her head, peered under the tablecloth for her shoes and came up with the heels swinging from one hand. “One of these days, I’m gonna ask you where that protective streak comes from, cutie. But right now I have to go to bed. I’m so beat I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
The Baby Chase Page 8
