Killer in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page B

SUPPLIES . The second two had the word “private” painted on them. I knocked on the first door. Nothing.
    I moved on to the second door. I paused, hearing muted voices inside.
    There were two of them. One was deeper and slower. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, just a low rumble on the other side of the door. The other voice was higher and more urgent. And, luckily, louder. Hearing my Irish Catholic grandmother’s lectures on eavesdropping echoing in my head, I put one ear to the door.
    The words “moron” and “jerk” vibrated through the wood. The guy with the higher voice was pissed. “Merchandise” and “Lola” followed. Then the word “gun.”
    I stifled a gasp, adrenaline quickly surging through me. I pressed my entire body up against the door, straining to hear more.
    The low talker mumbled something in response, and the first guy got angry again. This time I had no trouble hearing his response. “I don’t care how you do it. Just take care of him.”
    I froze. The way he said “take care of him” didn’t sound like he meant a pampering foot massage. Suddenly Dana’s Godfather scenario wasn’t feeling so farfetched. Take care of whom? Larry? My mouth went dry and my heart started racing faster than a car chase on the 101.
    The voices went low again and I strained to hear more. All I could hear were footsteps. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize they were moving toward the door until it was too late. It swung open, catching me squarely in the face.

    “Uhn.” The door slammed into my nose, smacking my head against the wall behind me as I crumpled to the floor. I blinked, dazed. Then I looked up to find two men staring down at me. One was huge. He seemed to fill the entire hallway with his bulk. And it wasn’t fat. This guy was built like a linebacker. He had a long scar cutting across his face and one thick unibrow that hovered over his eyes like a hairy caterpillar.
    But it was the second guy who creeped me out. He was smaller, his features sharp and precise. He was impeccably dressed in a dark designer suit with closeclipped dark hair and olive skin, slightly flushed from his previous shouting match. His eyes were small and black, staring down at me with a kind of cold calculation that sent a shiver up my spine. I’d bet my Blahniks this was Monaldo.
    “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice tight with a restraint I could easily see snapping.
    “I, uh, was looking for the bathroom.”
    He looked to the right at the restroom sign, blinking in two-foot-high neon. Then he looked back at me and raised one perfectly waxed eyebrow.
    “Huh,” I said. “Guess I had the wrong door.”
    He narrowed his small eyes. “Wrong door, huh?”
    “Sorry, I’ve, uh, had one too many cosmos tonight.” I scrambled to my feet and didn’t even have to fake the stumble as I lunged for the ladies’ room door.

    I locked myself in a stall and sat down, taking big breaths. Ow. Big breaths hurt. I gingerly touched my fingers to my nose, hoping I hadn’t broken it. I did a ten count, then came out of the stall to inspect the damage in the mirror. Red, but it wasn’t bleeding and it didn’t look terribly swollen. Okay, maybe a little swollen, but at least not Marsha Brady sized. I pulled out a tube of concealer and dabbed some on the red parts as I mulled over what I’d heard.
    It was obvious the creepy little guy was pretty pissed at Larry. But why, I wasn’t sure. Did it have anything to do with the gunshot I’d heard last Friday? A terrible thought occurred to me. Maybe instead of getting shot, Larry had shot someone else. Maybe that’s why Monaldo was so mad. I had a hard time picturing the decked-out Lola taking a potshot at Monaldo while his goon looked on, but I had to admit it wasn’t impossible.
    After doing the best I could with my rapidly swelling nose, I snapped my compact closed and gingerly peeked out the bathroom door. The hallway was empty. I could see Unibrow and Mr.