Devil Dead (19 page)

Later that evening, Claire stood in the big master bedroom in the house on Governor Nicholls Street and stared into her closet. It was filled with T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweatpants, jeans, flannel shirts and jackets, but there wasn't a single piece of clothing that looked even remotely sexy. Black bought her lingerie now and then, but it wasn't suitable for Tit Tats. Once, at the lake, she'd bought a backless black velvet evening gown with a gift certificate that Bud Davis, her former partner, had given to her. She had hated it, of course, and had only worn it that one time. It was still in her cabin at Lake of the Ozarks—at least, she thought it was. She didn't have the hooker heels that she wore for her Missouri prostitution stings, either.

Hmmm. She was gonna have to go shopping or do some hasty improvising. She guessed she could cut off her shorts until they looked indecent and then cut off a T-shirt to show her midriff. That would just have to do; she wasn't going any further than that. If that wasn't good enough, Novak could just call his lady friend who was willing to do sleazy things for him, whoever the heck she might be.

Earlier, on the way home, she had stopped and bought a package of hair dye. She read the box again to make sure it was nonpermanent. Yep, it was okay. Nutrisse Ultra Color. The shade was BL11, which stood for Reflective Jet Blue Black. Oh, yeah, that was gonna change her looks well enough. A wig would be too hot and would look fake. Besides that, she didn't have a clue where she could buy wigs and didn't have time to go search one out. She had to do something and do it fast. Everybody and their dog recognized her in New Orleans environs, or so it seemed. So she'd just go dark for a day or two and see if that did the trick. She could always wash it out if she hated it. Maybe Black would like a change of pace. Well, she'd see soon enough.

So, with mind made up, she walked into the bathroom, took a shower, dyed her hair jet blue black, shaved her legs, and wished she didn't have to go anywhere near Tit Tats. But it was necessary, so she'd do it. Maybe somebody there would lead her straight to Andrea Quinn and make the whole thing worthwhile. She sure as hell hoped so.

Plugging in the hair dryer, she blew her hair completely dry, considered cutting it off some for effect, and decided Black was gonna have a cow, anyway, so why not? She grabbed the scissors and trimmed it off a little bit and in kind of long shaggy layers like delinquent runaway kids did. Then she just stood there and stared at her reflection. She did look incredibly different. Wow. Black probably wouldn't even recognize her. But she didn't want anyone to recognize her, so there you go. Anyway, he was still in Miami putting out that emergency patient fire at his clinic.

Using the same pair of scissors, she sheared off a pair of jean shorts and pulled them on. Grimacing at how cheap and disgusting she looked, she cut off an old royal purple and gold LSU shirt below her breasts so that it would show a little midriff. Okay, she looked pretty nasty, all right. But time for the finishing touches. She had picked up some eye makeup along with the box of hair color. She sat down at the big ornate antique dressing table in the master bedroom, which she had never done before, and poked through the new cosmetics she'd dumped out on top. Man, she'd rather eat glass than glob all those gross chemicals on her nice clean face, but oh, well.

Claire picked up a tube of eyeliner and drew it around on her eyes some, trying to remember how Jude, who happened to be a famous runway model and Black's ex-wife, had done it when she'd been hanging around him and trying to get him back. She slapped on some more, smudged it around with her finger, and then a bunch of dark eye shadow, trying to get that smoky eye thing she'd seen her friend, Nancy Gill, do on special occasions. Nancy knew how to look good. Too bad she was in Nashville at a pathologist convention and couldn't lend Claire her expertise with eye makeup.

Brushing black mascara on her eyelashes, she kept it up until she deemed it was thick enough. Then she dabbed a bunch of fire engine red lipstick on her mouth and sat back and stared distastefully at herself. She looked absolutely ridiculous. Like some kinda clown, for God's sake. She looked over at her little white poodle, lying quietly on the bed and watching her turn herself into a slut. “So, how do I look, Jules?”

Jules Verne cocked his head, and then he jumped down off the bed, ran out the open balcony doors and then down the outside steps to the courtyard. She hoped the customers at Tit Tats didn't run like hell, too, when they caught sight of her getup. Man, she had better get a lead after having to dress up like this, or Novak was a dead man. No wonder he liked this plan. He didn't have to look like an utter fool.

When her phone suddenly began vibrating around on the bedside table, she picked it up. It was Black, checking in. “Hello there, sweetheart,” she said.

“What's wrong?”

Claire smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “Nothin' much. I just finished turning myself into a two-bit whore, but other than that, not much happenin' here.”

Silence for a couple of beats. “Do I need to come home?”

She laughed at his serious tone. “No, I've just got to go undercover tomorrow, and I'm putting together something a little on the sleazy side to wear in to work.”

“Maybe I should come home.”

“Nope, no need. My huge babysitter slash partner is gonna be watching my every move and coming to my rescue if and when he's needed.”

“I'm coming home.”

“C'mon, Black, I'm just pullin' your chain. You do your thing, and I'll do mine. Maybe I'll take a selfie to show you how nasty I look. But enough about me. What're you up to?”

“I'm treating that patient I told you about. He's sedated now, but we're making progress. He sat down and talked to me about what happened. It's going to take some time. He's definitely traumatized. He went through a terrible thing. They beat him up and murdered his family. It's unimaginable. The worst kind of nightmare.”

Claire could relate. “Good, but I knew you'd work your magic. Does that mean that you're staying an extra day?”

“Not unless I have to. Miss me so much you can't stand it?”

“We've been together every day for two months so maybe this absence will make the heart grow fonder. But, yes, I do miss you, and almost that much.”

“I like having you in my bed. There's nothing here that's soft and warm for me to reach for.”

“Well, I hope not.”

Black laughed. “Know what? I wish we were back in Tahiti. Maybe we should both retire and live there. Say the word, and I'll put a down payment on that island.”

“As if you'd ever retire.”

“You get stabbed by scissors again today?”

“Not yet.”

“Knife, box cutter, hatchet?”

“Ha ha. Okay, you've made your point. I'll be careful.”

“So what is the undercover assignment?”

“Just working at a restaurant as a waitress.”

“That doesn't sound too dangerous. Or like you really need to dress up in unsavory attire.”

“It's unsavory, all right. But don't worry your little head about it. It'll be fine. You gotta quit stressin' yourself out, Black. I am fine. Novak is fine. Life is good. You need to get used to these masquerade outfits I'm gonna be wearin' from time to time. I think it's gonna happen quite a bit from here on out.”

“That's better than you being stalked by serial killers.”

“You bet it is.”

They talked for a few more minutes about the search for Andrea and how frustrating it had become and their lack of leads and how time was awastin'. Then Black asked the inevitable, “So tell me what you've got on.”

“You are just so predictable. Besides, like I said, you probably don't wanna know.”

A long, heartfelt sigh came from the other end of the line. “Yeah, you're probably right. How's Jules? Is that little pooch moping around without me?”

“He's outside in the courtyard now, probably chasing robins. He'll be up in a minute to snuggle up with me. He's always sad when you're gone. That's because of all that bacon you feed him. The vet said you shouldn't do that.”

Before he could answer, Claire heard a voice in his background. It sounded urgent. Black quickly verified that when he said, “Sorry, I got to go, babe. He's awake.”

So they hung up, and Claire spent the next hour on the Internet, researching everybody they'd interviewed so far in the investigation, the Tit Tats franchise, and each and every other thing she could think of that pertained to Andrea Quinn's disappearance, but without a damn bit of luck. Just after midnight, she showered again, scrubbed all the makeup crap off her face, picked up her sleepy little poodle, and fell into bed. Despite Black being gone, she was asleep within minutes.

Around eleven o'clock the next morning, Claire looked pretty much as she had the night before, except maybe more so. When she walked into the kitchen in her slut regalia, Juan and Maria Christo, the live-in, married couple Black had hired to take care of the house and watch her every move, nearly choked on their coffee. They both just froze, mugs in hand, mouths open.

“Hey, how do you like my new outfit?” she asked with a straight face, and then she laughed at their shocked silence.

For a few seconds, neither of them said a single word, probably thinking she was seriously losing it. So she brought them up to speed. “No, I'm not going crazy. I've got to go undercover today for a while.”

Then Maria found her tongue. “You look
muy buena
, Ms. Claire.”

Yep, Maria was the polite one all right.

“Nick's not gonna like the way you look in that,” offered Juan, but he was grinning as if anticipating being a spectator to Black's unhappy reaction.

“I'm going for a job interview at Tit Tats. Just in case you need me. Call me there and ask for Tammy Jones.”

The couple looked at each other and then back at her. Claire waved and left the kitchen to head out front to wait for the cab she'd called. She wasn't about to show up there in a new Range Rover, for God's sake. She was going in there to beg for a minimum-wage job, after all. Waitresses couldn't usually afford luxury SUVs with all the bells and whistles. Neither could cops, actually. She sure couldn't. Black had bought it for her to drive when they were in New Orleans.

“Call me if you need help,” Juan called after her. “Good luck. I guess.”

Tit Tats restaurant was located just off North Claiborne Avenue, in an area that wasn't exactly a primo location sought by the elite folks in their fair city. The building was not particularly impressive, either, but a larger establishment than she had expected, with lots of vehicles crowding the parking lot. On the other hand, it wasn't quite as gross and nasty and triple X-rated as Claire had expected it to be. So, when she got to the front door, she hesitated with her hand on the brass knob and took one deep and fortifying breath before she pushed it open and stepped inside.

The interior was very neat and shiny clean, swarming with activity. The indecently attired waitresses were extremely busy and rushing from table to table, and the predominantly male crowd was loud and boisterous, verging on raucous. Lots of laughter and college boys and men in business suits having lunch together without their wives' presence and/or knowledge. All the tables were full, and a couple of guys sat on benches near the door and waited to get inside so they could ogle women without being reprimanded or slapped silly. When they set their dual attention on her bare legs, she ignored them, but with a mighty bit of effort.

Claire searched the booths and tables for Novak's big bulk, but she didn't see him, which pissed her off to some degree. Not a morning on which he should oversleep, but hey, her weapon was tucked in her red alligator purse. A purse that Black had brought her from overseas and that she'd dug out from the bottom of her closet. She wished she could keep the Glock on her person, but good luck with that while wearing the skimpy attire she had on at the moment. She couldn't hide a toothpick on her person. Crop tops did not equate with sloppy T-shirts.

Still, she felt naked without her weapons, all so heavy and reassuring in their own personal little holsters. So when the hostess sashayed up, looking shocked to see a woman actually wishing to be seated, Claire asked to see the manager. The woman disappeared into the back through a stainless steel swinging door, and a guy showed up a couple of minutes later. He was tall and lean, a lot younger than Claire had expected, maybe even younger than she was. He was nice looking, bulging with muscles and looking fit. He had a thick gold chain hanging around his neck, and his black shirt was opened halfway down the front. Yep, looked like he was into
Saturday Night Fever
and John Travolta. All he needed was a white suit and a few dance moves. He probably just wanted to show off all that black hair on his chest. Why, she couldn't fathom. Yep, he looked like a real-live lounge lizard, the kind who sidled up to women in bars and told them they were
gorgeous, baby
. He had dark eyes that darted around a lot, long Elvis sideburns, believe it or not, and a thin mustache on his upper lip like suave and dapper guys in the twenties used to sport. He kept licking his lips like she was a meal that he was craving. Or maybe he had chapped lips.

Claire absolutely loathed him at first sight, and that pretty much included every single thing about him. After several seconds of trying not to show her unparalleled disdain for the dirt bag, she actually was able to despise him even more as he looked her up and down and nodded his head approvingly. She felt like a piece of prime steak he had picked out for the barbecue grill. She felt her blood pressure rising, up, up, up, until it bumped its head on the stratosphere. Her face began to feel flushed and hot and pre-stroke.