Killer in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page A

All seven had Adam’s apples. In the middle of them stood the male version of Marilyn Monroe, singing about diamonds being a boy’s best friend.
    “I love Las Vegas!” Marco clapped his hands together.
    I’m glad someone was enjoying it. Me, I was still doing denial.
    As we threaded our way to an empty table near the aisle, I craned my neck around, scanning the crowd for a six-foot-tall redhead and a short guy in cords. No luck on either count.
    A waiter dressed in early Madonna, complete with silver bangle bracelets and a little painted on mole, approached the table.
    “Welcome to the Victoria Club. Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

    Marco did a little giggle at the term “ladies” and ordered a peach schnapps. “And may I say,” he added, doing an impression of a twelve-year-old at an Ashlee Simpson concert, “I love your music.”
    Mental eye roll.
    But Madonna ate it up, blushing and autographing Marco’s cocktail napkin before taking the rest of our orders. Dana and I both opted for cosmos.
    “And would you happen to know if Lola’s working tonight?” I asked.
    “Sorry. She’s off tonight. We only do the go-go number on Mondays and Fridays.”
    My dad. The go-go dancer. I felt my face wrinkle again. “So you haven’t seen her in here at all today?”
    Madonna scrunched her eyebrows together. “No, I don’t think so. I saw her last night, though, right before…” She paused, her eyes casting downward. “Before they found Harriet.”
    “I’m sorry. Were you close?”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t say close. We were friendly, but Harriet and Lola have worked here a lot longer than I have. I just transferred over from Caesar’s last spring. I was a Roman soldier there.”
    I was never going to look at those togas the same way again.
    “Was anyone else especially close with Lola?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “No, Lola and Harriet kind of kept to themselves. And Bobbi. The three of them were pretty tight. But Bobbi left last week.”
    I sat up straighter. “She did? Do you know where she went?”
    Madonna shook her head, her blond wig bobbing back and forth. “Nope. Sorry. She just up and took off one day.”

    I bit my lip. People seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
    “How about a Monaldo?” Dana piped up. “Does that name ring a bell?”
    Madonna’s face broke into a smile. “Oh sure. He’s the owner.” She gestured to the hallway behind the bar.
    “Thanks.”
    “Uh huh. Enjoy the show,” she said. Then she gave Marco a little wink before moving on to the next table.
    When she left, Dana kicked me under the table. “See, I told you the Mob owns all these clubs!”
    Ugh. “Just because the guy is Italian and owns a club, it does not make him a mobster.”
    “ Italian-American, ” Marco corrected me.
    “You know,” Dana said, leaning in to do a pseudo-whisper, “I bet you this whole place is crawling with wise guys.”
    I looked around at the suspicious number of size thirteen pumps. I seriously doubted it.
    “Look, I’m going to go talk to the owner. Who I’m sure is a perfectly nice, normal Italian- American, ” I said with emphasis. “You two stay here.”
    “You sure you don’t want me to come with?” Dana asked. “I took Rico’s interrogation and intimidation course. Rico uses the same techniques as the CIA. They totally work, Maddie.”
    “No! I said I was going to go talk to him, not interrogate him. Sheesh.”
    Dana pouted. “No stun gun, no interrogation. You’re no fun at all.”
    “Look, you two just…enjoy the show,” I said, gesturing to the stage where Marilyn was breaking into a rendition of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

    I left Dana still pouting and Marco still gazing starry eyed after his Madonna as I weaved in and out of club goers toward the hallway. I peeked around the corner. Three doors to the left, a pair of restrooms to the right. I did a quick over-the-shoulder glance and ducked to the left. The first door was marked