Danger in High Heels (19 page)

Ling was on the stage, shaking her pint-sized derriere au natural in a pair of thigh-high white space boots and a pair of sparkly, glitter-covered alien antennae. And nothing else.

I thought I heard Marco gasp beside me.

"You okay?" I asked him.

He was staring wide-eyed at the woman on stage, the look on his face the same as if he'd been watching a tiger at the zoo devour a gazelle. "
This
is what you girls look like under your clothes?"

I glanced at Ling's tight abs and toned back-side, suddenly self-conscious about those few extra I-housed-two-people-for-nine-months inches of fat around my middle. "Well, we don't all look
exactly
like that."

"And men actually pay to see this?" he asked.

I nodded. "A surprising number," I mumbled.

He shuddered again. "I don't get it."

"Hey, you fellows aren't exactly adorable down there either," I pointed out.

He shot me an offended look. "At least I know my equipment. That looks like a mystery I'd never figure out."

I paused. "You know, there are a lot of straight guys that never do either."

I steered my shell-shocked friend toward a table in the back. Once I'd settled him in a seat with his back to the stage and a martini in his hand, he seemed to calm down some. Two songs later, Ling finished her set and exited the stage with several handfuls of bills in the top of her boots. I briefly contemplated a career change, noting that most of them were twenties.

"Be right back. I'm gonna go talk to Ling," I shouted to Marco as the strains of
Love in an Elevator
shot through the speakers, accompanying a blue, Na'vi painted girl who, as far as I could tell, was only wearing paint.

Marco took one look at the Avatar alien on stage and shook his head. "Nuh-uh, not without me, honey!" he called, grabbing his cocktail and following me.

I gave my name to a big, burly looking guy standing at the silver, beaded curtain beside the stage. He disappeared through it for just a minute, before returning with Ling.

"Hey, movie star friend, right?" she said, pointing at me.

I nodded. "Maddie."

"Sure, right. Hey, you find Kat yet?" she asked.

I shook my head in the negative. "No. But I'm still looking. I don't suppose you've seen her?"

"Sorry. She's still MIA." She paused, taking in my companion. "And this is…?"

"Marco," he said, giving her a limp handshake. "Party planner to the stars," he added.

"Oh, exciting. You do anyone I might know?"

"Well, I can't plan and tell," he hedged. "But let's just say that a certain host of a certain singing competition ending in the word 'Idol' has just had a birthday..."

Ling gasped. "You did his party?"

Marco nodded. "It was huge, honey."

"Oh." Ling nodded. "Very impressive. You know, I got a birthday coming up. Maybe I need a big party."

Marco clapped his hands in front of him. "Ooo, we could do a whole alien theme! I know this bakery that does the cutest little green cupcakes you ever saw. Cherry lime flavor. To die for!"

"Anyway," I jumped in, pulling us back on track. "Do you have any idea where Kat might have gone?" I asked ling. "She ever talk about friends, family, anyone she might be staying with?"

Ling shook her head. "Not really. I mean, she was a hard girl to get to know. She really didn't have any close friends here. I mean, no one even really thought about it when she didn't show up for work. We all just kinda figured she got homesick and went back to Russia."

I nodded, though I was pretty sure that was not the case.

"But you know what I think now?" Ling said, narrowing her eyes.

"What?"

"I think maybe Kat was into something bad."

I bit my lip, not sure if I should tell her just how right I suspected she was. "Why do you say that?" I asked, instead.

"Well, you said her sister died. Then she disappears. Kinda funny, huh?"

"That's what we think, too!" Marco blurted out before I could stop him.

"So, you think Kat killed her sister then went on the lam?" she asked, pulling out another incongruent Americanism.

"I don't want to jump to conclusions," I hedged. "But I would like to speak to Kat. Do you know where she lives?" I asked.

Ling shrugged. "Sorry." She paused. "But I can look up her W9."

"Strippers pay taxes?" Marco asked.

"Sure. Government makes a pretty penny off of us, too. You know, I had to pay six figures in Schedule C taxes last year?"

I blinked. That's it, I was so in the wrong business. "You think her address might be on her employee records?" I asked.

Ling shrugged. "She had to put something down. I'll check it out if you wanna wait?"

"Please," I urged.

She nodded, then disappeared back into the silver, beaded curtain again. Ten minutes later Ling emerged, fully dressed. Or, at least dressed. She had on a micro-mini leather skirt, the same white go-go space boots, and a neon green tube top.

"I got her address," she said, waving a cocktail napkin above her head. "Let's go check on Kat."

"Let's?" I clarified.

"Hey, I wanna know what happened, too. This is the most exciting thing that's happened around here since that senator got caught wagging his Lyndon Johnson at Mindy in the back booth. Besides, my shift's over. Let's go. I'll buy lunch."

While I was pretty sure that adding a stripper to my entourage was not going to do much for my incognito factor, considering I'd emptied my purse at the Bayshore Inn yesterday, a free meal was a hard offer to pass up. Especially since I'd skipped breakfast.

"Okay. But I'm on a diet. We need diet food."

"Oh, I know just the place. It has a great salad bar," she said.

Fifteen minutes later we were at the Fresh Express soup, salad and pasta bar.

My growling stomach would have preferred a Double-Double with animal fries, but I was willing to settle for a salad smothered in bleu cheese dressing with a side of pasta and a baked potato. See how good I was being?

After we were fortified with carbs, fat, and, of course, some salad, we hopped back on the freeway and made our way to Burbank and the address on the cocktail napkin. Which turned out to be a rundown apartment building across the street from a Mailboxes N More shipping center and a liquor store. The studio neighborhood, this was not.

"I'm getting flashbacks," Ling said. "I used to live in a place like this when I first came to L.A. from Vietnam."

"Where do you live now?" I asked.

"Beverly Hills."

"Hey do you have to audition to be a stripper or do they let anyone do it?" I asked as we got out of the minivan.

Marco hit me in the arm.

"Ow. Just asking," I mumbled, rubbing the sore spot.

"Stripping is harder than it looks," Ling told me, popping a piece of gum into her mouth as she led the way up the walkway to the front of the building. "You have to have rhythm and timing and wax all over. It's a real pain in the butt."

"No pun intended," Marco snickered behind me.

The front door to the building was a simple glass thing, held together on the bottom by duct tape, which led to a small lobby done in vinyl wallpaper and red carpeting. Two doors were on the first floor, along with a stairway leading up. We took the stairs to the third floor where we found number 3E at the end of the hall.

I raised my hand and gingerly knocked. As I suspected, there was no response. I tried the handle. Locked.

"Now what?" Ling asked.

I glanced down the hall. Five other doors sat on this side and two more on the other. "Maybe her neighbors saw something? Maybe she told one of them where she was going?"

"Okay I'll take the doors on the left," Marco said, stepping up to 3D.

Ling took the ones on the right, and I opted to go talk to the downstairs neighbor. Having spent several years in a small apartment myself as a single lady, I knew that one man's ceiling was indeed another man's floor. Or, in our case, possible murderer's floor. Her downstairs neighbors may not have
seen
anything, but I'd bet money they'd heard Katrina on a regular basis.

I retraced my steps back into the stairwell, opening the metal fire door at the second floor and crossing the hallway to apartment 2E. I knocked. A beat later I heard footsteps shuffling to the door. After a short pause, a shadow crossed the peep-hole, then the door opened a crack.

A pair of dark eyes set in a mocha color face stared back at me. "What?"

I bit my lip. Not the most friendly greeting ever…

"Uh, hi. I'm a friend of Kat's," I said, stretching the truth farther than the elastic on Mrs. Rosenblatt's pants. "Your upstairs neighbor?"

The eyes just stared back.

"I haven't seen her in a few days and was wondering if maybe you knew where I could find her?"

"What am I, her babysitter?" The door opened further to reveal a middle-aged, African-American woman, her hair in curlers, a housecoat that looked like it belonged in a fifties sitcom around her, and a pair of slippers on her feet that appeared to be shedding pink yarn.

"No. Clearly not," I backtracked. "I just wondered if maybe you'd heard anything lately. Like Kat's footsteps. Has she been home?"

The woman shook her head. "Thank God. That thing sounded like she was tap dancin' on my ceiling every night. I told her to keep it down one day, and you know what she said to me?"

I shook my head.

"Told me to 'mind your business fatso'", the woman said, doing air quotes. "You believe that bitch? Bringing my glandular condition into it."

"She sounds like a real peach," I said, sympathetically. "But you said it's been silent lately?"

She nodded. "That's right."

"When was the last time you heard her?"

She shook her head. "Sorry. I didn't notice. I figured maybe she's been stayin' with her boyfriend."

"Kat had a boyfriend?" I said, jumping on the info.

"That's what I assumed. I mean, from the way they was arguing, they had to be dating."

"You heard arguing? With a man?"

She nodded again. "Yep. Lots. Just before the tap dancing stopped actually."

"What did they say?"

"No idea," she said, shaking her head. "Alls I heard was loud yellin' in some foreign language."

"You didn't happen to see the boyfriend, did you?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Sorry. I don't pry," she said, giving me a look like she thought I shouldn't either.

I took that as my cue to leave and thanked her.

I bit my lip as I digested this new info. So Vlad had caught up to Katrina both at the club
and
here at home. Then Irina shows up dead and so does he. Did Katrina kill them both? And, if so, where was she now?

I was still letting my sleep-deprived brain mull those questions over as I stepped into the stairwell again. The fire door closed behind me with a bang as I trudged up the flight of stairs back to the third floor.

I got halfway up when I heard a sound behind me. Metal on the metal stairs, echoing off the walls.

I froze, my heart racing.

"Hello?" I called out.

But I got nothing in response except my own breath coming fast.

I was being paranoid. It was a big building. Busy. Any number of people could be in the stairwell at any time.

Ignoring how dark and isolated the stairwell suddenly felt, I quickly ran up the remaining steps. My hand was just on the doorknob to the third floor exit when I heard the sound behind me again.

This time much closer.

I spun around to see what it was.

But I was too late.

Before I could register any visual, pain exploded behind my left ear, my vision went blurry, and I watched the stairs at my feet rush up to meet me.

Then everything went black.

Chapter Sixteen

I was lying in the softest bed imaginable. Feather pillows on top of feather pillows, surrounded by big, downy comforters and fluffy blankets. I was warm, cozy, and even snoring just a little. I was wearing the same pink flannel pajamas with white bunnies on them that I'd had in second grade. They smelled like fabric softener and milk chocolate. I burrowed deeper into my fluffy, warm nest feeling completely rested.

Which should have been my first clue I was dreaming. It had been exactly one-hundred and two days since I'd had enough sleep to feel anything even close to rested. (But who was counting?)

"Maddie!" I heard someone call my name. Faintly at first, just the mildest irritation to my peaceful slumber world, like a buzzing gnat in my peripheral. "Maddie! Speak to me, Maddie!" Then it became louder, more insistent, accompanied by a jarring motion that shook my brain against my skull in pounding waves.