Free Killer in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page A

weekend?” I said. Only it came out more of a question.
    “Jesus, Maddie, I ask you to do one simple thing. Couldn’t you listen to me for once? Just once.”
    I elected not to answer. “How did you know I was in Vegas?” I asked instead.
    He paused. “I didn’t for sure until just now.”
    Great. Tricked by Bad Cop. I clenched my jaw, wondering why I thought him not calling was so bad again.
    “Well, you’ll be happy to know that Dana’s here with me. And we can take care of ourselves. She’s taken three of Rico’s Urban Soldier classes.”
    He paused. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”
    “I’m fine. She’s fine. We’re all fine.”
    “Good. Great. How about you get out of Vegas while things are still fine, huh?”
    “I don’t get it. What exactly do you think is going to happen to me in Vegas?”
    Silence.
    I got that weird prickly feeling on my neck again. “Do you know something about my dad?”
    More silence.
    Then Ramirez let out one of his big exasperated sighs. “Look, I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Maddie.” And I think he was making an effort to sound sincere. At least a little one.

    “I can’t leave yet. I haven’t found my dad. And…” I paused, not sure how much I should share about last night with Ramirez. But I figured he was a hundred miles away, so what harm could it do? I told him about the house in Henderson, the Victoria Club jumper, and the bolting showgirl.
    Ramirez muttered something in Spanish on the other end that sounded a lot like a dirty word. “Look, just humor me, okay? Go home.”
    “Did you even hear what I just said? There’s something weird going on here.”
    “Has anyone ever told you, you have a serious stubborn streak?”
    I narrowed my eyes at the phone. “It’s one of my better qualities.”
    Again with the Spanish cursing.
    “What? What is this Spanish stuff? What are you saying?”
    “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
    He was right. I probably didn’t.
    “Listen,” he said. “I’m serious. I really don’t think it’s safe for you to be…”
    But I had stopped listening. I’d been walking aimlessly through the rows of slot machines in the Central Park casino as Ramirez argued, and I now found myself just inside the front doors of the hotel. Outside I watched a blue Dodge Neon pull up to the curb, drowning out the rest of Ramirez’s speech. I quickly ducked behind a life-sized cutout of Bette Midler.
    “Uh huh,” I said into the phone, my entire being focused on the Dodge.
    “What do you mean, ‘uh huh’?”

    I was vaguely aware of Ramirez starting up with the Spanish again, but I was too focused on the Neon to care. I watched the car park in front of the valet station. I couldn’t be sure it was the same phantom I’d seen stalking me but after last night, my belief in coincidences was about as great as my belief in finding an authentic Louis Vuitton on eBay. Nada.
    A sandy-haired man emerged from the Neon. He was average height, wore a pair of khaki pants with Skechers and a wrinkled white button-down that looked like he’d slept in it. He didn’t look particularly dangerous. But as I’d learned last summer, looks can be deceiving.
    He gave the valet his key and handed him some money. Probably not enough, as the valet made a rude hand gesture behind the guy’s back as he walked away.
    “Maddie?” Ramirez yelled.
    “Right. Sure,” I said absently into the phone.
    Ramirez made a growling sort of sound and I could picture that vein starting to bulge in his neck. “Are you even listening to me?”
    “Of course. Leave it alone. Go home. Yada, yada, yada.”
    Neon Guy started walking toward the front door. I quickly skulked into a row of slots out of sight.
    “Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later,” I said into the phone.
    “Maddie? Maddie, I swear to god if you hang up on me—” But I didn’t hear any more as I quickly snapped my Motorola shut and shoved it back in my purse.
    I watched Neon Guy make