Free Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) by Susan O'Brien Page A

for me.

      
    When we arrived at the Emerson Inn, all five guys were quietly eating steaks on Frank’s tab. Thankfully, they had the common sense (or hangover sense) not to order alcohol.
    We introduced ourselves, and Dean did a great job of putting everyone at ease. When one guy finished his steak, we invited him to chat in the next room and hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door.
    Keeping the conversation as natural as possible, Dean collected contact information and ran through the evening chronologically, and then did the same with each friend. Most stories matched what we’d heard from the best man. The general timeline consisted of drinking, pole dancing, smoking, eating, more drinking, and bad porn. (Is there such a thing as good porn? Bad porn must be really bad.)
    When Dean asked about the last time Bruce was seen, the stories were consistent—always around one fifteen. And when we politely asked to see photos from each person’s cell phone, I noticed something surprisingly familiar. The stripper’s butt. Or, more specifically, the sparkly shorts that were barely covering it.
    Kenna sold them—along with six-inch heels—at her health club, which offered pole dancing classes. She’d even done “continuing education” pole training to keep her aerobics teacher certification current.
    Who knew my aversion to heels and exercise could combine into one phobia? And who knew the “club” in “health club” would eventually represent mirror balls and stripper poles? The disco lights and nightclub-quality music were almost irresistible to me. Almost.
    Speaking of irresistible, we needed that booty picture and any others like it. Todd had arranged for the stripper, but either he hadn’t kept her number or didn’t want to admit having it. She might be the only witness who could provide an unbiased description of Bruce’s mood, even if it was just “horny.” Maybe Kenna would recognize that toned, tan derrière.
    While Dean arranged for evidence collection in line with whatever PI codes cover explicit bachelor party cell phone pics, there was a “tap, tap” on the closed conference room door. I hoped it was some sort of dessert delivery, since I’d skipped dinner and my stomach was protesting.
    I opened the door a few inches and saw a wide-eyed hotel employee without a dessert tray or menu.
    “Ms. Valentine?” she asked.
    “Yes,” I confirmed.
    “Mr. Frank Fallon needs to see you or Mr. Summers at the front desk.”
    “Of course.” I excused myself and tried to imagine what this was about. What could Frank need to tell us right now? I hoped Bruce had been found alive and well.
    A front desk attendant saw me coming and directed me toward a back office. Not a good sign. Inside, Frank was seated on a couch, massaging his face with his hands. He stood and gripped my hand.
    “Nicki. Sorry to interrupt.” His face was red and puffy, but his eyes were dry. “I heard from the police.”
    Oh my gah. (Who can forget Jessica Simpson saying this on her Newlyweds reality show in a sweet, inept effort to stop saying Oh my God ? Not me.) “They found…” Oh my gah, oh my gah, oh my gah. “Bruce’s car.”
    Oh my gah. That wasn’t what I was expecting, and I hoped it was good news. This would give us a location. It would give the police physical evidence. It would…Wait. Was Bruce or anyone else in the vehicle? I gingerly asked Frank and braced for the answer.
    “No. His wallet, phone, and hotel key were there, and his phone battery was dead, which is why the police couldn’t trace it to the park.”
    “The park? Which one?”
    “Jones Falls. The one nearby with trails and sports fields. You know the one.” I didn’t. “His car was on a maintenance road, and a worker reported it. They’re searching for Bruce now.”
    There was hope in his voice, and I tried to imagine anything positive they could find. Bruce passed out? Injured? Lost? Hiding?
    “Do Lydia and Mia know?” I asked.
    “I