Free The Naked Detective by Vivi Andrews Page A

dressed just like that. Are there showgirls here?”
    Nate shook his head. “No floorshow. Are you sure that isn’t her? What are the odds that there are two women here dressed like that?”
    As soon as the words left his mouth, a second woman, this one African-American but dressed almost exactly the same way, appeared. She spoke to the bouffant blonde, waving her hands expressively. A fraction of a second later the two women took off, jogging through the casino.
    “They’re getting away,” Ciara yelped. “We have to follow them. They’ll lead us right to her.” She started sprinting through the casino after them.
    Nate swore and began limping after as quickly as he could, using his cane like a pole vaulter’s stick whenever possible.
    “Come on, Nate,” Ciara called over her shoulder, her eyes dancing. “Follow that slut!”

Chapter Nine—In Pursuit of Slut
    Ciara tottered as fast as she could in the wake of the pink ladies. Suddenly she had a profound respect for women who could sprint in four-inch heels. Like the pink ladies. Those tramps could book. They must be wearing the Adidas of platform boots.
    They dashed through the casino, dodging games and slow-moving gamblers like Olympic hopefuls in skankwear.
    Ciara struggled to keep them in sight. As they bobbed, she weaved, and then glanced back over her shoulder. Nate kept pace amazingly well for a guy with only one good leg. He was definitely getting the hang of that cane.
    She grinned at him, having too much fun in the slut-chase to match the severe expression on his face. Nate needed to learn to live a little. So what if they were chasing trollops across a massive casino floor in the hopes of locating a specific trollop who knew the location of a stolen necklace? That was no reason not to enjoy the moment.
    Ciara nearly crashed into a Wheel of Fortune slot machine and untwisted, deciding it was safer, while running in four-inch heels, to watch where she was going. She rounded a corner and slowed to a stop.
    The pink ladies were nowhere in sight. Ciara bent at the waist—she was so damned out of shape—as she scanned the area for a flash of hot pink trampiness.
    Nate staggered to a stop at her side.
    “Did you see which way they went?” she asked.
    He shook his head, panting heavily beside her. At least they were out of shape together. Though Ciara didn’t have the excuse of a heroic injury in the line of duty and being laid up for a month in a lengthy recovery. She just had pathetic muscle mass after spending the last decade of her life floating in her pool.
    She would have to start working out. Training. In high heels. Next time she’d be ready for the Olympic skanks.
    “Here, hold these.” She divided her winnings into two stacks and shoved them into Nate’s suit-coat pockets. She stretched up as tall as she could, craning her neck for some sign of the skankettes.
    In front of them was a row of blackjack tables, off to the left was one of the gourmet restaurants and directly behind them was the darkened, black-velvet-rope-lined entrance to a dance club. Ciara heard the bass beat humming distantly, more a vibration through the soles of her feet than actual sound. A slim brunette dressed all in black stood at the podium at the front of the velvet-rope line, tapping her manicure against a clipboard.
    Ciara tugged Nate’s arm and nodded in the hostess’s direction. “She must have seen which way they went. Come on.”
    Ninety seconds later, Ciara was ready to throttle the little hostess—not that she had a good excuse for strangling the twit. She hardly qualified as a hostile witness. It had taken Nate all of fifteen seconds to find out that the pink ladies—Ashley and Monique—had indeed passed this way. In fact, they’d run down into the club. Late for work again, tsk tsk.
    There weren’t showgirls at the Borgata, but there were certainly go-go dancers.
    If the hostess hadn’t been dripping drool all over Nate, Ciara might have hugged her