Free Killer in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page B

his way to the registration desk. I crouched down and duck-walked closer, peeking out between two Lucky Seven machines. Slim Jim was on duty again. He and Neon Guy exchanged a few words. Then Neon traded his credit card for a room key. Whoever he was, apparently he could afford more than a “low rent” room.
    “Hey, you gonna play or what?”

    I turned around to find a blue-haired woman in polyester with a players card dangling from her bony wrist. She glared down at me from behind thick bifocals.
    “Oh sorry. I was just, uh, kind of watching.”
    “Well, then move over, honey. This machine’s giving me nothing but zeros today.”
    She edged me aside and planted her butt on the vinyl stool, then promptly fed her card into the machine.
    “Right. Sorry.”
    I moved over to the next machine, then glanced back up at the front desk. Empty.
    Shit. I’d lost him.
    I tried to shake off the creepy feeling as I wondered whether I should mention to Ramirez that I had my very own stalker.
    By the time I got back up to the room, Sleeping Beauty and Dana were both awake. Dana was rubbing her shin and Marco was just emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of post-shower steam.
    “Good morning, sunshine,” he sang, folding his pajamas into a tiny square.
    I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know, you snore like a lumberjack.”
    Marco whipped around, his mouth dropping open into a neat little “o”. “I do not!”
    I turned to Dana for confirmation, but she just shrugged. Apparently years of spending nights in unfamiliar beds had trained her to be a heavy sleeper.
    “You okay?” I asked, gesturing to her leg. I could see a purple bruise starting to form on her shin.
    “Yeah. I think I fell off the bed. This thing’s made for midgets.”
    “I’ll take the rollaway tonight,” I selflessly offered. At least it was farther from the snoring wonder.

    “Well, I slept like a baby last night,” Marco said, slipping his pajamas into a drawer.
    I narrowed my eyes at him again, making a mental note to check the gift shop for some of those Breathe Right strips. Or a muzzle.
    Marco informed us he’d done New York to the fullest last night and today was going to do Gay Paree! (Or at least it would be once he got there.) He planned to spend the day at the Paris hotel’s La Boutique using his la credit card. Dana was up twenty bucks from a productive evening of video poker and was ready to move on to the blackjack tables this morning. And, for lack of a better plan, I decided to go try Lola’s house in Henderson again.
    How Lola and the deceased Hank slash Harriet tied in to my dad, I wasn’t sure. But they were the closest thing I had to a lead at the moment.
    Half an hour later I was parked in front of the house on Sand Hill Lane again. Only this time a white Ford Taurus and a beat-up green Volvo were parked in the driveway. A good sign.
    I took a deep breath and willed myself out of the car and up the front pathway. I rang the bell. I waited. Then rang again. Nothing. I peeked in the windows. Same suburban living room, no sign of anyone inside. I glanced around the neighborhood. Unfortunately, there was no helpful neighbor watering the lawn today. No sign of life at all, with everyone either at work or inside watching Regis and Kelly.

    I walked along the edge of the rock garden to a wooden gate at the side of the house. With a quick glance around, I tried the latch. It opened right up. Feeling just the teeny tiniest bit intrusive, I slipped through the gate and walked around the side of the house. Two more windows faced this side, both with the blinds shut tight. Staying close to the wall, I rounded the corner into the backyard. More rock gardens, a small patio and a kidney-shaped pool lay beyond. A few dog toys were scattered across the patio. Nothing that screamed suicide. Or gunshot.
    The back wall of the house was rimmed in green hedges, beyond which stood a sliding glass door. There I hit the jackpot. No curtains. The back