She scanned the group of uniformed cops. They seemed to be growing in number. Not good. Finally she picked out one who looked like he’d started shaving yesterday. Dana adjusted her cleavage. “I’ll be right back,” she said, giving me a little wink before shaking her booty over to Officer Baby Face. I mentally wished her luck, carefully looking everywhere but at that black tarp.
Okay, so in all honesty, if I had really heard Larry being shot on Friday, it was unlikely that his body had sat out here in front of the Victoria Club for three whole days before anyone noticed. And if someone had gotten away with shooting him three days ago, it didn’t make sense that they’d have moved the body to such a public place. So really, the chances of that being Larry under the tarp were small, right? (Do I know how to do denial or what?)
Since I was so not looking at that tarp again, I let my gaze wander over the crowed assembled to view the gruesome entertainment. They were lining up two and three deep now to gawk and speculate at the police activity. I noticed one woman pushing forward more aggressively than the rest. A redhead. My internal radar perked up again as I watched her shove her way up to the police barricades. I couldn’t see her face from where I was sitting, but I could make out a pair of white go-go boots and matching vinyl miniskirt. And legs that were longer than the line at Starbucks on Monday morning. Lola.
I shot up from my perch on the curb. “Lola!” I shouted. Which was a mistake. The redhead jerked her gaze in my direction for about half a second before turning and shoving her way back out of the crowd. And since she was about twice my size, she was much quicker at it than I was.
“Shit,” I swore under my breath, jostling between a guy drinking from a brown paper bag and a woman in spandex and an ill-fitting wig. Fortunately, my many years of elbowing my way through after-Thanksgiving clearance sales at Macy’s worked to my advantage, and I’d nearly caught up with Lola when she broke free of the crowd and starting running. Cursing my choice of footwear, I bolted after her.
“Lola, wait, please,” I puffed, breaking into a sprint. Which, of course, she paid no attention to. Instead she continued her full-on mad dash down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians with the skill of a quarterback going for one of those big “H” thingies at the end of the field. (Okay, I admit it. I only watch football for the guys in tight pants. So sue me.)
Half a block later, Lola’s lead was increasing, and I was sweating like a fat man in July. I heaved big gulps of air in and out, wondering why all the healthy food I’d been eating lately wasn’t helping me. Lola turned left at the corner and I followed, my lungs burning as she wound down a side street.
I chased her for another half block before I gave up. Her legs were twice as long as mine and my heels were twice as high. There was no way I was going to catch up to her. I paused on the sidewalk, watching her disappear around another corner as I bent over at the waist, gasping for air like a pack-a-day addict. That’s it. I was enrolling in one of Dana’s aerobics classes as soon as we got home.
I gave myself a ten-second count to get my breathing under control (mostly) and walked the two blocks back to the crowd, now double its size, standing around the flashing lights and crime scene tape.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Dana asked, jogging up to me as I sat down on the curb again. I had a cramp in my side and was growing a blister on my heel. Apparently Gucci wasn’t made for jogging.
“I”-pant-“saw”-pant-“Lola.” Pant, pant.
I quickly filled Dana in on my redhead chase. She agreed; I needed to get to the gym more often.
“So what did you get out of Officer Baby Face?” I wheezed.
Dana grinned. “His phone number.”
If I weren’t so tired I might have rolled my eyes. “And?”
“And that guy in the street isn’t Larry.”
I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Spy, rock star or jerk. I guessed it didn’t matter. I still cared more about his well-being than I wanted to admit.
“The dead guy’s name,” Dana continued, “is Hank Walters. He performs here at the Victoria in their ‘Salute to Hollywood’ act. In drag.”
I raised one eyebrow.
“Uh huh. And get this. I asked around and guess what Hank’s stage name is?”
I shook my head.
“Harriet.”
“As in Sand Hill Lane Harriet?” I glanced at the tarp again.
“That would be my guess. Officer Taylor said he died from a fall off the roof of the club. They’re saying he jumped.”
I looked up at the roof. Then down at the body. He must have taken a hell of a leap to land that far out from the building. “No gunshot wound?”
She shook her head. “Nope. None that they’ve found so far. The only other thing he said was that the guy was naked.”
My eyebrows headed north again.
Dana shrugged. “I guess people do weird things when they’re suicidal.”
I watched the guy in the coroner jacket place the tarp on a gurney and wheel it to his black van. I wondered if Hank slash Harriet had anything to do with the gunshot on my answering machine. Did my dad know Harriet? He must know Lola if her phone was registered under his name. And I didn’t like the way Lola had run away. Not the actions of an innocent person. Innocent people stayed and talked to the police when their roommates jumped off rooftops.
Since Dana had gotten all she could out of Officer Baby Face, we decided to drive by Lola’s house on the off chance she’d run all the way to Henderson.
All the lights were off in the house as we idled at the curb, and the driveway was empty. Just for good measure, I jumped out and peeked in the garage windows. No car.
“What now?” Dana asked.
It was late, I was tired, and one dead body is really my limit in any given day. So we headed back to the hotel. Besides, now that the police were on the scene, I was feeling just the teeny tiniest bit better. If Larry were in trouble, the cops would get more out of Lola than I could.
If they could catch her.
By the time we arrived at the New York, New York, Dana was still itching to try her hand at the slots. So after we valeted the Mustang, I left her feeding quarters into a video poker machine and made my way up to our room alone. I promptly crashed into a deep sleep, punctuated by Amazon women in white go-go boots pushing people off rooftops.
Somewhere around five A.M., I was awakened by the sound of a foghorn blaring through the room. I opened one eye, peering through the darkness. Dana was spread-eagle on the rollaway, her long limbs falling off the sides. Marco was lying on his back in the other double bed, wearing a sleep mask that would have made him look like Zorro if it weren’t powder blue and trimmed in lace.
I blinked a couple more times and realized the foghorn was Marco. Snoring. I groaned and put a pillow over my head. It didn’t help. I got up and put a pillow over Marco’s head. Still didn’t drown out the sound. Good god, no wonder the man was still single.
I gave up and dragged myself into the shower instead. An eon under the hot water slowly woke me up. I followed a quick mousse and blow dry with mascara and lip gloss. I added a little concealer under my eyes to mask the fact that I’d been awakened before the sun, but I’m not sure it hid much. Instead I put on some extra high heels to compensate, my silver strappy sandals with the butterfly buckle, paired with a white knit dress and Bandolino jacket. When I slipped out of the room, Marco was still snoring and Dana had fallen off the rollaway.
I made my way down to the casino level in search of food. Even at this hour the place was full of people. Some were tourists getting a jump on the day, but most were still dressed for the previous night on the town. Whoever said New York was the city that never slept hadn’t been to Vegas. Vegas was the city on NoDoz.
I debated for about half a second between a protein-infused fruit smoothie at the Mango Hut or the $3.99 pancake feast at the American Restaurant. In all honesty, it was a no-brainer.
After three cups of coffee and a stack of buttery, syrupy pancakes tall enough to rival the Empire State Building, I was feeling a little bit better. Funny how sugar and caffeine can do that for you.
Better, that is, until my purse began singing the William Tell Overture. I dug around for my cell. “Hello?”
“What the hell are you doing in Vegas?”
I cringed. Ramirez. “Having a girls-only weekend?” I said. Only it came out more of a question.
