Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (38 page)

But surely it would happen tonight.

Nick filled four plastic cups with peach sangria and I carried two of them back to
Josh and Kira.

The party was in full swing when Daniel arrived. He and I had conspired to make tonight
a special event. I’d told him about Alicia’s costume plans and he’d dressed accordingly
as Frankenstein, with green face paint, torn clothes, and plastic bolts affixed to
his neck.

“Look!” one of Ajay’s medical school buddies called out as Daniel walked by. “It’s
the Incredible Hulk.”

“I’m Frankenstein,” Daniel said.

“Are you sure?” the guy said, his words slurred thanks to six Jell-O-Shots. “You’re
green and your clothes are torn. I think you’re the Hulk.”

I pointed my fairy wand at him. “Trust me, dude. He’s Frankenstein.”

Alicia looked up from the bar, where she’d been fixing Kira a second plastic cup of
sangria. She immediately realized it was Daniel in the Frankenstein costume. A surprised
yet tentative smile spread across her face. “What are you doing here?”

I knew exactly what Daniel was doing here. I grabbed Nick’s hand and dragged him with
me. My best friend had been waiting years for this moment. I wasn’t about to miss
it.

Frankendaniel made his way to Alicia in jerking, monster-like movements, stopping
in front of her. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, their gazes
communicating wordlessly yet perfectly.

I love you so much,
Daniel’s eyes said.
I’m sorry for being such a wimpy jackass
.

I’m sorry for pressuring you,
Alicia’s eyes replied.
And I love you, too, you wimpy jackass.

He took her left hand in his and got down on one knee in front of her.

Christina ran as fast as her white go-go boots would take her and yanked the plug
on Ajay’s iPod player. The room immediately went silent. There were a few shouts of
protest from those dancing in the center of the room until they realized that Frankenstein
was about to pop the question to his bride.

“Oh, my God,” Alicia said softly, breathlessly, her chest heaving as if she were beginning
to hyperventilate. “Oh, my God!”

When Daniel pulled a signature blue Tiffany’s box from the pocket of his torn jacket,
Alicia’s eyes grew wide and she wobbled. I rushed over and grabbed her arm, stabilizing
her in case she fainted. Nick came around, too, ready to catch her if she swooned.

Daniel opened the box, revealing the beautiful diamond ring from the catalog.

Staying in character, Daniel proposed to Alicia through a series of monster-like grunts.
What it lacked in romance it made up for in originality. “Hnh hn hnh-hnh hn?”

Alicia squealed, lifted the skirt of her dress up a few inches, and performed a happy
dance.

Looking up at her, Daniel emitted a questioning grunt. “Hnh?”

“Yes!” she cried, grabbing his green face in her hands and planting a big kiss on
him. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Daniel slid the ring onto her finger, stood, and took her in his arms, giving her
another big kiss. Cheers and applause erupted from the crowd.

I stepped over and gave Alicia a hug. “I’m so happy for you two!”

She hugged me back, then pushed me away, holding me at arm’s length. “You knew all
about this, didn’t you?”

I raised my hands, palms up. “Who, me?” I asked innocently.

She laughed and held up her hand to admire her gorgeous new ring. “It fits perfectly.”

“About that.” I looked at Daniel and he reached into another pocket and pulled out
her birthstone ring. I took it from him and handed it back to my friend. “I borrowed
this so Daniel could get the size right.”

She slid the ring onto her right hand and pointed an accusing finger at me, smiling
all the while. “You’re a naughty little fairy. I’ll have your wings for this.”

The party was an absolute blast, just what I needed after the stressful, frustrating
weeks I’d recently endured. Nick and I danced until we could dance no more. At the
end of the night, the last remaining partygoers leaped into the apartment swimming
pool. I hoped the alcohol in their blood would prevent them from freezing to death.

Nick and I helped Ajay and Christina round up stray cups, bottles, and cans and take
down the decorations.

“Now that your skull is in one piece again,” Christina said as she took some empty
beer bottles out of my hands, “will you be ready to start working the bar case?”

“Sure. Have you worked out a strategy?”

“Yeah.” She dropped the bottles in a recycling bin. “I’ve met with an officer from
Dallas PD’s sex crimes unit. You, Nick, and I will go in undercover along with him.
The DEA and Dallas PD have been after the bar owners for years, but they run a tight
ship and use scare tactics to keep their workers quiet and in line. We’ve never been
able to gather enough concrete evidence to arrest anyone.”

“So we’ll have to gather evidence ourselves?”

“Exactly. It won’t be easy. The bar owners trust no one. It’s going to take some effort
to wiggle our way into their inner circle.”

What the heck.
I was always up for a little wiggling.

When the room was clean, Christina and Ajay thanked us for the help and Nick drove
me home.

I felt giddy with anticipation the entire drive. Nick had yet to kiss me and it was
all I could do not to grab the steering wheel, force his truck to the side of the
road, and lay one on him. I’d waited for this moment for so long, since the first
time I’d laid eyes on him, truth be told.

He parked in my driveway and came around to help me down from his truck. I laughed
as he swept me up in his arms and carried me to the porch.

He set me down and I looked up at him. He looked back down at me, fire burning in
his whiskey-colored eyes.

I could wait no longer. I stood on tiptoe, wrapped my hands around his neck, and pulled
his face to mine, closing my eyes and eagerly anticipating the touch of his mouth
on mine.

Our lips met and everything else ceased to exist.

There was only me and Nick.

And that was all that mattered.

Read on for a look ahead to

Death, Taxes,

and Hot-Pink Leg Warmers

—the next Tara Holloway novel from Diane Kelly and St. Martin’s Paperbacks!

The Informant

“Officer Menger?” came a female voice from the doorway.

We turned to find a thin woman waiting in the hall. She stood around five foot seven,
with a smooth, wrinkleless face that had been botoxed into immobility, giving her
a porcelain doll look. Her body was likewise firm and pert. Anything that could be
enlarged, liposuctioned, or lifted had been, probably several times over. Even her
teeth looked perfect.

Despite these obvious cosmetic enhancements, the woman was nonetheless attractive,
elegant even. Her champagne-colored hair was swept high into a classy, classic updo
and her makeup, though heavy, was of subtle shades. She slipped out of her coat to
reveal a sleeveless black dress accented with a gold brooch in the shape of an autumn
leaf. Very tasteful.

Given the surgical enhancements, her age was impossible to guess. I’d put her somewhere
between forty and four hundred. She might even pass for younger if not for the slightly
loose skin on her neck and under her arms. On most women the underarm flaps looked
like chicken wings. On this elegant woman they seemed more like skin ruffles.

Menger waved the woman into the conference room. “Hi, Bernice. Thanks for agreeing
to meet with the team.”

He introduced the woman to us as Bernice LaBerge. According to the information in
the file, Bernice performed at the strip club. Although she wasn’t onstage at the
moment, she carried herself with a grace, sensuality, and self-assurance that said
she’d have a fantastic stage presence. No wonder she’d been able to continue her exotic
dance career into her … what?

Fifties?

Sixties?

Seventies?

As Bernice shook Nick’s hand, her gaze roamed over his face and a smile played about
her enhanced lips. “My, my. Don’t you look like Burt Reynolds from back in the day?”

Nick returned the grin. “I’m a big fan of
Smokey and the Bandit
.”

Bernice took a seat at the table. After Menger gave us some brief background information,
she filled the rest of us in.

“I was a showgirl at Caesar’s Palace years ago,” she said. “Long before those conglomerates
moved into Las Vegas and built those tacky theme hotels.”

If she told me she’d done vaudeville or worked with Shakespeare I wouldn’t have been
surprised.

Her voice took on a wistful tone as she continued. “I loved performing in Vegas. But
when I ruptured my Achilles tendon my dance career was over, at least as far as those
types of shows went. I’d grown up in Dallas so I moved back here and auditioned at
Guys & Dolls. Back then the place was a dinner theater. I was a triple threat so I
landed a role in nearly all of their shows.”

My brows scrunched. “A ‘triple threat?’ What’s that?”

“Showbiz term,” she explained. “It means I can act, sing, and dance.”

I supposed I was a triple threat, too, though in an entirely different way. I couldn’t
act, sing, or dance my way out of a paper bag, but I could handle a pistol, rifle,
or shotgun with equal skill.

“I starred in several plays,” Bernice said. “
Death of a Salesman
.
Mary Poppins
. I was even featured as Maria in a production of
The Sound of Music.
”

I’d seen the movie at least a dozen times as a girl. At the reference, my mind instantly
brought up the scene in which the Von Trapp children performed their puppet show.
Great. Now I’d hear yodeling in my head the rest of the day, while still mentally
undressing Nick, of course. It made for a really odd imaginary striptease. If I ever
actually saw Nick naked, though, I had a feeling I’d emit some high-pitched yodel-like
sounds.
Yodel-ay-hee-hoo!

With the yodeling now going on in my head, my mental faculties were reduced to 85%,
luckily still enough brainpower to keep up with the conversation taking place in the
conference room.

Bernice went on to tell us that when dinner theater went out of style, the owners
of the establishment tried running burlesque shows. That worked well for a while,
but then it became clear that the way to eke the most money out of the place would
be to perform some simple mathematics—add some poles to the stage and subtract some
clothing from the girls.

“I’d danced topless in Vegas,” Bernice said, “so stripping wasn’t much of a stretch
for me. I was their featured dancer for years. Brought in quite the crowds.”

She was clearly proud of her career accomplishments. I had been proud of mine, too.
Until the damned baseball bat, that is. Getting knocked out by a grandmother had been
humiliating. Would I ever get over it?

Bernice steepled her long, pink-tipped fingers. “The three men who owned the place
back then took good care of us girls. They paid us a generous base wage, provided
health insurance, tossed out any customers who got too handsy. We had quite a few
good years.”

How many?
I wondered. Really, exactly how old was this woman? Forty-seven? Seventy-four?

Bernice’s shoulders hunched slightly with tension. “Everything changed a year ago
when the former owners decided to retire and sold out to a guy named Donald Geils.”
She pursed her lips as if merely uttering the man’s name left a foul taste in her
mouth. “Mr. Geils made a lot of changes. He reduced the dancers’ wages to the legal
minimum, canceled our health insurance, and hired a bunch of thugs to work security.
He even turned the employee lounge into a V.I.P. room.”

Nick and I exchanged glances. I had an inkling what went on in that V.I.P. room. Very
Icky Perverted stuff.

“I’ve never been asked to perform in the V.I.P. room,” Bernice said. “Only a small
number of the dancers work the room and it’s by invitation only. The girls are very
tight-lipped about what goes on in there.”

Their tight lips might explain why they were chosen to work the room in the first
place.

Aaron chimed in now. “We’ve sent undercover agents to the club. So far, none have
been granted access to the V.I.P. room.”

“Mr. Geils is very selective about which men he allows in there,” Bernice added. “Only
regular customers with a lot of money to throw around are given access. He keeps a
couple of men from his security team stationed at the door at all times.”

I pushed my brain’s image of a naked Nick aside and mentally filed away this information.
“That explains the prostitution, but what about the drugs?”

Bernice’s face clouded over. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m the most experienced
dancer at the club.”

Most experienced
did sound better than
oldest
, didn’t it? While it seemed sad when people couldn’t accept their advancing age and
enjoy what each phase of life had to offer, Bernice obviously enjoyed performing.
What was wrong with making the most of it and extending her career as long as possible?

Bernice leaned forward in her seat. “Some of the girls look up to me, ask me for advice.
They think of me as their big sister.”

Or their mother. Or maybe even their grandmother.

“A few weeks ago, one of the cocktail waitresses, a girl named Madelyn, went through
a rough patch. Maddie attended paralegal school during the day and was hoping to make
a better life for herself and her daughter. She’d grown up in less-than-ideal circumstances
and wanted more for her child.”

Admirable goals.

“Her boyfriend abandoned her and their two-year-old daughter and moved in with another
woman.” Bernice explained that the errant boyfriend had paid no child support since
he’d left. Between household expenses, child care costs, and tuition, Maddie quickly
found herself in dire financial straits. “Maddie had never planned on dancing,” Bernice
said, “but she realized it was the quickest way for her to make the money she needed,
a means to an end. She planned on quitting the club as soon as she finished school.”
With her boyfriend gone, Maddie had to work more hours to make ends meet. “The poor
thing became exhausted, came in with bags under her eyes, nearly fell asleep standing
up at her pole.”