Power to the Max (13 page)

“I wouldn’t mind controlling her money.”

“And to get it, you need Baxter out of the way.”

“Your brains excite me, Max.”

She wished he’d been looking at her so she could verbally spit in his eye. “I won’t help you.”

“Yes, you will. Your goal is to find a killer. And in the end, Max, it won’t matter a damn who it is or who benefits from his exposure. I’ve watched you enough to know that.”

He was right. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but if all clues ended up pointing to Baxter Newton, she’d have to prove him a killer. Even if it meant serving Julia La Russa up to Bud on a silver platter.

* * * * *

Bud Traynor dropped her off in front of her apartment. She climbed from the car unhurried and with dignity. At least she hoped she did. His laughter floated from his open window as he sped away.

Her palms itched, and Cameron’s voice went through her head.
Don’t get involved. He’ll turn on you like a rabid dog.

She was well aware of that, hence the sweaty, itching palms.

It was only mid-morning, and she could still get in a few hours at work. She’d tell them she felt better after taking a little medication. Employers appreciated any effort you made to come in. If Julia did indeed call, Max would have to drop the temp assignment like a hot potato. Or a used-up lover.

Climbing into her car, she pulled Witt’s cell phone out and keyed in Ladybird’s number. The little woman chirped into the phone. Yes, she’d slept well. No, she didn’t have a headache. Yes, she’d drink lots of fluids today. No, Witt hadn’t stopped by. Did Max intend to go back to the hotel tonight? Because, of course, Ladybird was available to help with surveillance.

Oh my God. Witt was right. Max had created a monster.

Max told her she was doing reconnaissance, not surveillance, and that was far more dangerous. She wasn’t quite sure of the difference, but it sounded good.

When Max finished work for the day, she headed out alone for the Embassy Hotel. Ladybird managed to discount the danger part, but had seemed satisfied with the rest of Max’s reasoning. Last night Max had wanted to avoid attention. Tonight, she wanted to gain Angela Rocket’s confidence. Doing it alone increased her chances. Ladybird agreed, albeit reluctantly.

Same time, same place. Eight o’clock. This time Max went for the valet parking despite the dent to her wallet. She had no intention of walking back to
Union Square
alone and without Ladybird’s dubious protection.

Max had donned another black suit, different tie, this one gray and black. Very conservative. The shoes, however, were not. The four-inch spike heels were sex personified. She couldn’t quite decide why she wore them except to say that she was going up against a woman who made her living by attracting men. No self-respecting female would take her on without being well armed, and the shoes were Max’s weapon of choice. Understated, hidden, a wrapping that suggested there was more to the package than first meets the eye.

With her purse clutched beneath her arm—she’d chosen a smaller accessory this time—she entered the hotel, then the bar. A quick scan disclosed that Angela had not arrived yet. Amidst several empty and perfectly placed tables, her preference was for one against the wall where no one could sit at her back.

She did an inventory of the bar’s occupants. Five couples, all older and dressed to dance, three female friends seated together, loud and lively, and four businessmen slash potential johns. She wondered inanely if that was johns with a capital J; was the word even in the dictionary with that particular meaning? She ordered a white zinfandel to ponder the question. Max favored cheap and sweet.

Once more, the music was light, instrumental, and dreamy. Couples danced. Max recognized one or two pairs from the previous night, the skirts of the women’s dresses flouncy, the men in tailored suits that moved gracefully with their bodies. Ballroom dancing was the most beautiful thing on earth, as Ladybird had said.

Second in beauty was the Greek God seated a few tables away. Max smiled appreciatively. He was here again, having sneaked in when she was enraptured with the dancing. His chin shaved, his hair two inches shorter, he appeared to have spiffed up for the night. Coincidence? Or hoping to be Angela’s choice tonight? Max couldn’t have said if he’d watched the woman last night; she’d been too engrossed herself in the interplay between Angela and Blondie.

She did a double take. What if he was a cop? What if they were on to Angela? Did that solve Max’s problems, or complicate them?

Angela arrived fifteen minutes, fifty million questions, and half a glass of wine later. She wore the pearls, but had opted for a cream suit this evening, the skirt fashionably short and on the acceptable side of tight. The jacket, Bolero-style, reached only to her disgustingly tiny waist. The whole package flattered her figure. Picking a table in the middle of the room, she sat with three of the four business suits facing her and the three girlfriends at her back. She ordered from the wine list, once again with great consideration, the bartender returning with her undoubtedly expensive chardonnay. Max wondered why he seemed to serve her exclusively while all the other tables were taken care of by the two waitresses. Within five minutes, Angela’s pimpish companion slid into a seat at the same table he’d occupied last night. Conveniently close to the entrance. Quick getaway, easy exit for him. He watched Angela work the room with her eyes. Ah, the target—poor Greek God, he didn’t make the cut—another blond, not so tall as the last, a little older, thicker around the middle, but with a certain, friendly smile that even Max found attractive.

Max realized her glass was empty. She ordered another and told herself to slow down. She munched on pretzels as Angela played the watch game again. Blondie Two fell for it as easily as Blondie One had. They were out the door, separately, of course, within another fifteen minutes, though Angela did once again pass slowly in front of Blockhead to do her two-fingered salute on his table. Max checked her own watch. Eight-thirty. This time she’d wait no matter how long it took.

The increasingly tipsy laughter from the all-girl table began to annoy her, the soft lilt of the piano not quite loud enough to overcome it. With the exception of two couples she remembered, the dancers were a little rustier than the few she’d enjoyed last night.

She did not play the Angela-style watch game, though Max had to admit to feeling a little sexually charged in the situation. She liked men. She liked orgasms. And having a good idea what Angela was doing at the moment left her feeling twitchy and her panties a tad damp. Still, she did not so much as glance in a man’s direction, especially not to catch his eye.

Except for Angela’s big friend. He, however, didn’t spare her a glance, as far as she could tell. She speculated on his purpose. Guard? Possibly. Maybe the two fingers on the table meant he was to come looking for her if she didn’t return within a specified time. Pimp? Well, he certainly didn’t bring her the men. Bill collector? Front man? Max didn’t have a clue how the racket worked in the real world. Relying on the TV cliché probably wasn’t a good idea.

Of course, as she waited, the real question eventually surfaced. How was Max to approach the woman? Forgetting herself, she finished the second glass of wine and, feeling only minor effects, was forced to order another. What were the choices? Angela would immediately think she was a cop. That would have been Max’s first assumption, if roles were reversed. She had to come up with something believable instead.

Across the room, Angela’s bodyguard raised his hand to the bartender. Reaction was prompt, the bartender loped over.

Max raised her glass so her perusal wouldn’t be obvious.

Blockhead reached into his pocket and removed a bill from his wallet, folding, then placing it in the bartender’s hand. They exchanged words, the bartender returned to the bar. Only he didn’t stay there. He walked the length of it and exited the other end, crossed the dance floor and headed down the lighted walkway.

He stopped in front of Max and leaned over so that he could be heard without being overheard.

“The gentleman by the door would like to know if you’re a working girl?”

She spluttered into her wine. “A working girl?”

“Lady of the night?”

“You mean a hooker?”

“That’s a rather derogatory term. We in the business prefer a few euphemisms.”

He was handsome in a boyish sort of way, black vest over white shirt, black pants and dark hair. The three girlfriends certainly found him sexy. Max was simply at a loss for words.

“So, are you?”

Witt had been afraid she would pose as a hooker. She’d even told him she would. Now these two guys had mistaken her for one. Someone from heaven above was speaking to her. She figured she better listen.

“How’d you know?”

He looked down. “It’s the shoes, ma’am. Spikes are out on business women this year.”

She looked at her black pumps. “Do you know how hard they are to find these days?”

“It’s the feminists.”

“Yeah, they’ve royally screwed things up for women.”

“Mr. Hammerhead would like to speak with you.”

“Hammerhead?” She was doing a damn lot of repeating tonight.

The bartender held out an arm, indicating the table by the door.

He did sort of resemble a hammer, completely bald, his ears large and protruding at almost right angles from his head.

Max gathered her purse and stood. “It would be a pleasure.”

If she didn’t get herself killed.

Max saw him the minute she sat down at Mr. Hammerhead’s table—Witt, thirty feet away, seated on a couch in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by potted palms and amply-bosomed matrons sipping sherry, afternoon tea long past. He stared her down.

Despite the iciness of that glare, Max felt warmed and safe. He’d followed her, and instead of making her angry, it turned her insides to mush. That reaction should have scared her. It didn’t. Which was even worse, especially after what Cameron had forced her to beg for in bed last night.

. Cameron’s words, her voice.

It wasn’t fear or guilt that made her turn away. It was her companion’s hand on her arm. He had warm hands. Very warm. Actually uncomfortably hot. Sweat beaded his upper lip and forehead. He reached into the pocket of his black jacket for a handkerchief, came out with a neatly folded white scrap of material with only one initial, a black H.

“You’re a pretty thing,” Mr. Hammerhead said, “but your hair sucks the big one.”

She shot Witt a quick look, putting a hand to the ends of her short, dark hair, and stroking down across her nape. Shaggy, a bit overdue for a cut, but suck the big one?

“And your breasts are too small.”

Max looked down, stopping herself mid-clutch. “I’m wearing a jacket. You can’t even see them.”

“My point exactly. Have you thought of enlargement?”

She spluttered for the second time that night, finally getting out the word, “No.”

“You should.”

She felt the center of attention, Witt, the Greek God, the bartender, even the twittering young women.

“Men like breasts,” Hammerhead went on as if he spoke of dinner on the table at six or the laundry folded and put away. “A fact of life. Now onto business.” His voice was unique, soft, high, cultured, surprising from that throat and body. Nor did it fit with last night’s matchbook toothpick scene. He didn’t sound like a man who picked his teeth with a matchbook, though he sure as hell looked like one.

His next words also showed him to be a man who meant risky business, or at least wanted her to think he did. “This is my Angela’s territory. I’m going to have to break your legs.” He leaned to the right and glanced under the table. “A pity. You do have nice legs.”

Not feeling particularly alarmed yet—after all, Witt was only a potted palm away—Max looked down once more. “How can you tell? I’m wearing slacks.”

“Light shines through at the top of your thighs as you walk. Means no thunder thighs. Men don’t like thunder thighs.”