Gemma Halliday - Killer in High Heels

I screamed. A long, loud, roller-coaster-worthy scream that echoed in my own ears even after I ran out of breath to sustain it. I looked from the toppled giant to the doorway, expecting to see police, the Feds, Ramirez, the LVMPD and good old Detective Sipowicz.

Instead I saw a smoking black LadySmith attached to the shaky hands of my best friend. Dana.

I think I screamed again. Only this time it was more like the second time you ride the roller coaster, when you realize that as long as your harness actually does hold you in, those dips and rolls are actually kind of fun.

Behind Dana the cause of the commotion came pouring into the room-the Nanny Goat bartender from FlyBoyz, a whole army of bikers in black leather, Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt holding broken beer bottles out like weapons, Marco (cowering behind Nanny Goat), and a guy who looked like The Rock’s bigger brother. Rico.

He put a hand on Dana’s arm, lowering the Lady-Smith as she stared at the stain now seeping onto the concrete floor. Her eyes were as big as Maybelline compacts, her mouth dropped open into an “o” of surprise.

“Did I get him?” she asked, her voice cracking.

I nodded, tears of relief mingling with the tears of terror still staining my cheeks. “Yes, honey, you got him.”

Dana blinked, looking from the gun clutched in her white-knuckled grip to the big hole in Unibrow. She licked her lips. “Wow, Mac wasn’t kidding. This baby packs quite a punch.”

For once I was glad to hear that Marco hadn’t been able to keep his big mouth shut. After he’d left me, he’d gone down to the casino where he’d found Mrs. Rosenblatt at the Big Apple Bar. One comment on his fishy aura and Marco had broken down like a ’73 Pinto going up a steep hill. He’d told her all about my plan to play Larry (which Mrs. Rosenblatt had immediately said was not a good idea for a person with karma like mine). Then Mrs. Rosenblatt had tracked Mom down at the craps table and told her. Mom had nearly fainted (which cost her thirty-two dollars when she’d hit the table for support and the dealer had mistaken this for a bet on a hard eight), but once she’d recovered, Mom called Dana to see if she was with me. Obviously, she wasn’t. Dana had been on her way to the airport to pick up Rico who had surprised her by flying in to personally hand deliver her new LadySmith and “compare hardware.” (And I wasn’t entirely sure we were talking guns here.) Dana did a few “ohmigods,” then told Rico, who then called his friend the bartender who had then gathered the entire patronage of FlyBoyz.

Long story short (I know, too late), Unibrow hadn’t been the only one following us into the desert. Twenty minutes behind him had been Marco riding with Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt in their rented Dodge minivan, Dana and Rico in the Mustang, and a whole slew of Harleys bringing up the rear. By the time they were traveling down Lone Hill Road, they passed a long, sleek Town Car speeding in the opposite direction. Dana had recognized it and, on instinct, followed him to the Victoria where her impeccable timing had just saved me from becoming fish food.

Once Rico pried the gun from her hands, Dana started alternating between crying and shaking, swearing she was never touching that thing again. And considering it was now evidence, it didn’t look like she’d have the opportunity anytime soon anyway. When the police finally did arrive, Dana’s hands were swabbed for gunshot residue, then she and Rico were escorted into one of the back rooms for questioning by Detective Sipowicz, though we were assured it was just a formality and that considering the circumstances no charges would be brought against them. Just in case, Mrs. Rosenblatt stood at the ready to call her dead second husband Carl’s law firm at the first sign of handcuffs or extraneous sodas.

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.”