Killer in High Heels (32 page)

“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 call 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.

I stared at the picture. After zapping his dog, the least I could do was give him the peace of mind that Monaldo wasn’t still out there somewhere. I left the paper on the counter and hailed a cab.

Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of Maurice’s condo. The same lawn furniture was overturned in the courtyard and in the late morning, I could hear
Judge Judy
and
All My Children
echoing through the thin walls from the units surrounding his.

I knocked on the door of 24A and a few beats later Maurice appeared. The dark circles under his eyes had gained momentum, making him look older and more sunken than the last time I’d seen him. His gray pallor hadn’t improved, and he was still wearing somber, unrelieved black—a black turtleneck, black slacks and a black sweater vest. And those hideous loafers.

Queenie danced around his legs, yapping a greeting.

“Maddie,” Maurice said, his voice hoarse like he’d been crying nonstop since the funeral. “Please, come in.” He stepped back to allow me entry. “What can I do for you?” Maurice motioned for me to sit, then took a spot on the love seat opposite.

I cleared my throat, the potpourri and Clorox combination making the air feel thick in his tiny living room. “Have you seen the papers today?” I asked.

Maurice shook his head. “No. I haven’t been out much. Why?”

“Monaldo’s been taken into custody,” I said, laying a comforting hand on his arm.

Maurice’s eyes teared up and he pulled a tissue from the box on the coffee table, holding it under his nose. “He has?”

I nodded. “The police arrested him last night.”

“Oh thank god!” Maurice heaved a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging as if a huge weight had been lifted off of them. “You don’t know how nerve-wracking the last few days have been. Not only losing Hank but knowing that monster was out there somewhere.”

I patted Maurice’s hand again. “I’m so sorry about Hank.”

Maurice sniffled into his tissue. “Thank you. And thank you for coming to tell me about Monaldo too. You’re a good person, Maddie.”

I smiled. “It’s the least I could do.” I didn’t add, especially since we’d zapped his dog.

“So has he confessed?” Maurice asked. “Monaldo, I mean. Has he admitted to killing Hank?”

I shifted in my seat. “Well, no, not exactly. But I’m sure he will. He’s confessed to being a part of an organized crime ring and from what the police say, he’ll be going away for a very, very long time.”

Maurice nodded, sniffling and dabbing with the tissue again. He shrugged. “I guess it’s possible he really didn’t kill Hank. You know, Hank was a very sensitive soul. Maybe it was all too much for him. Maybe he really did kill himself. There was a note, after all.”

I nodded. “Maybe.”

I watched as Maurice twisted his Kleenex into oblivion, Queenie yapping at his heels for attention, the scent of Clorox heavy in the air. Silence stretched between us as his last comment replayed in my head. Something wasn’t right. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as realization crept over me.

“Wait, what did you say?” I asked.

Maurice blinked at me. “That Hank was a sensitive soul.”

“No, not that,” I said, feeling my lips move in slow motion as puzzle pieces rapidly dropped into place. “About the suicide note?”

Maurice slowly looked up. Our eyes locked.

Ramirez had told me no one knew about the suicide note. They weren’t releasing that information to the public. There was only one other person who could have known that the police found a note.

Hank’s killer.

Chapter Twenty-one

I swallowed, my mouth going drier than the Santa Annas as I stared at the man across from me. Suddenly his red-rimmed eyes held more malice than grief.

“I said Hank left a note,” Maurice said slowly, his face searching mine for hidden meaning.

“You’re right,” I said quickly. “He did. So it was probably a suicide after all.”

I had to get out of there! I had to call Ramirez. I had to leave. Now!

“Anyway, I’m sorry for your loss and I have somewhere to be so I guess I should be going.” I grabbed my purse and stood up, making quick strides toward the door. Which would have been a whole lot quicker if Queenie hadn’t been dancing between my legs, begging with a little yap, yap, yap for a pat on the head. If it weren’t for her, I might have made it to the door before I heard an unmistakable click behind me.

I froze. I was beginning to know that sound all too well. The clinch of a bullet sliding into the chamber. For the second time in as many days I spun around to find myself face to face with the barrel of a gun. Maurice took a wide stance, both hands wrapped around Hank’s .38 special. Tears trickled down his cheeks and his hands were shaking, the gun barrel bobbing between my forehead and my chest.

“I’m sorry, Maddie,” he said, sniffling again. “I liked you. I really did.”

His use of the past tense was not reassuring. “Maurice,” I said slowly, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “Let’s talk about this.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Maddie, there’s nothing to talk about. It’s over. It’s finally all over. They’re both gone now. Don’t you understand? It’s all over.”

I gulped. I didn’t understand. He wasn’t making a whole lot of sense and his tears were bordering on hysterical territory. The one thing I did understand was the gun pointed at my barely B chest, which at the moment I wanted to keep just the way it was, thank you very much.

“Maurice, just put down the gun and we’ll talk.” My eyes searched wildly around the apartment for anything within reach that could be used as a weapon. But thanks to Maurice’s compulsive cleaning tendencies, the surfaces were not only free of clutter, but free of anything sharp, heavy, or useful as a projectile. Damn!

He shook his head at me. “I’m sorry, Maddie, I can’t do that.” He stared crying even harder, big racking sobs. But, surprisingly, his grip on the gun seemed to be growing steadier. Not a good sign.

“You wrote the suicide note?” I asked, stalling for time. Not that I was sure what good that would do. No one knew where I was or even that I’d left the hotel, for that matter. But the longer I could delay getting shot, the better, in my book.

Maurice nodded. “I had to. I didn’t want anyone else to go to jail for killing him. I didn’t want anyone else to suffer.”

“Just Hank?”

More tears flowed and his nose starting running, only this time Maurice’s face contorted with anger. “He deserved to suffer! He cheated on me! Me! That jerk thought he could treat me that way. He was going to break up with me, move that big hairy ape of his into the home that I’d created for him. Sleep on my sheets, eat off my china, sit at the dining table I polished every week. I couldn’t let him do that. I couldn’t let him bring that Neanderthal into my home.”