THE FBI? Time stopped. My brain function ground to a halt.
And they make solving murders look so easy on television.
Miss Patterson appeared in my doorway, interrupting my feeble attempts to marshal my scattered thoughts. “Did you know Jordan Marsh is on his way?”
“What?”
Miss Patterson tapped her pencil on her clipboard in irritation. “He’s not on my list. How could you have overlooked telling me about him?”
An old friend, Jordan Marsh was a Hollywood icon and, if you believed the tabloids, the last of the red-hot lovers. We had bonded when his star was ascending and he’d made a rather embarrassing choice while booked into one of the Big Boss’s lesser properties. I’d swept it under the rug, preserving his reputation. Jordan had continued on to bigger and better things, and somehow I had ended up with a lifetime membership in the Jordan Marsh Fan and Functionary Club. He had the annoying habit of turning up unannounced, and at the worst possible time. At least the man was consistent.
“I didn’t forget to tell you—this is news to me as well,” I snapped, shooting her a dirty look. “Did he call?”
“Just now.” Despite Jeremy’s presence, Miss P couldn’t quite disguise the awe in her voice. “His plane should just be lifting off from Ontario.” She looked at me over the top of her readers. “He asked for the usual treatment. Do you care to explain what that means?”
“It means I am going to have a long night while you and Jeremy drag yourselves off for some shut-eye.” I raised my hand, stopping her before she spoke. “No argument. You both are running on fumes, and I’m afraid I’m the only one who can handle Mr. Marsh.”
After Jeremy and Miss P had gathered themselves and their things and had done as I asked, I shut my office door behind them and again took my place in the chair behind my desk. Pushing the mounting paperwork aside, I put my elbows on the smooth black walnut surface and my face in my hands. Shutting the world out, I set aside thoughts of Jordan Marsh and let my brain play word association.
I mothballed Jimmy G’s line on Scully Winter. It was way too early in the game to flush a player like Scully. I couldn’t run the risk of scaring him away before I knew what I needed him for. Right now I needed answers.
Okay, concentrate, O’Toole.
Mary Swearingen Makepeace. Vegas. The fight game. Gambling. The district attorney. Sealed FBI files. I lifted my head from my hands as the light dawned. The Witness Protection Program. Of course!
Energy pulsed through me. However, I was fresh out of contacts at the FBI. We’d have to do an end-run—not ideal, but definitely doable. And I knew just the person for the job.
Flash Gordon, ace investigative reporter for the local paper, answered after the second ring with her customary cordiality. “What-cha got?”
We’d met at UNLV our freshman year. Soul mates on sight, we had shared all the usual stupid freshman hijinks—and then some. She had kept me out of the newspapers, and I had kept her out of jail. An old Vegas adage defined real friends as those you knew well enough to blackmail. Flash and I were real friends.
“As usual, I don’t know what I got,” I said, adopting Flash’s businesslike tone. “I need your help to figure it out.”
She recognized my voice. “Hey, Lucky.”
“How hard would it be for you to search editions of the Review-Journal back twenty-five years?” I asked.
“It wouldn’t be easy. They’re all on microfiche. Nothing’s digital past the last couple of years.”
“Then I’ll rephrase the question: How hard would you work to help me break open the Numbers Neidermeyer case?”
She whistled low. “I’d work myself blind.”
I heard my outer office door open, then a tentative knock at my door—Romeo. Cupping my hand over the receiver, I shouted, “Just a minute.”
“Who’s that?” Flash asked.
“Romeo. I need him to work another angle. But you, I need you to try to find out all you can about somebody by the name of Mary Swearingen Makepeace. Search partial names, anything you can think of.”
Scuffling noises came over the phone as I assumed Flash switched her phone to the other ear, then held it there with her shoulder. I could picture her rooting between her double denvers for the stub of a pencil she always stuck there, then flipping open a notepad and taking notes in her own special shorthand. Keep her notes on a PDA or a computer where anyone could read them? Not Flash Gordon. Not in a million years.
“Can you narrow my search any?” she asked, her voice still all business.
“Focus on reports of criminal trials no older than twenty-five years.”
If memory served, that was about the time Daniel started as an assistant DA. However, I wasn’t going to tell Flash that. Even though a person was innocent until proven guilty, the press didn’t always see it that way. And once an accusation, or even the hint of a misdeed, leaked into the public consciousness, it remained permanently embedded like a fossil in stone. When I stood before St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, I did not want to answer for jumping the gun and ruining a perfectly adequate district attorney.
“You got it,” she clipped, then the line went dead.
I smiled as I cradled the phone. If Mary Swearingen Makepeace had a story, Flash would stick to it. Like a tick on a dog, she’d suck it dry.
I rose to go greet Romeo.
The young detective jumped as I threw open the door. He’d been standing, legs spread, arms behind his back, at my wall of windows, staring down at the throng in the lobby. “I like your view.”
“Really?” I joined him at the window. “It makes me feel like an ant in a kid’s ant farm.” I slapped a hand to my head. “Shoot, what time is it?”
“Seven-thirty. Why?”
I grabbed him by his coat sleeve and led him toward the door. “Come with me. I’ve got to start killing two birds with one stone or I’m going to be covered in bird sh…guano.”
“What?” He let me pull him along.
When I was sure he was following, I let go of his sleeve. “I’ve got to check on the entomologists. Their program kicks off at eight.”
“Entomologists?”
I waved away his question as we trotted down the stairs. “Do you have the ME’s report on the shark-tank lady yet?”
“Just the basics.” He had to shout to be heard as we pushed into the crowd in the lobby. “Toxicology will take another day or two.”
“What did he list as cause of death?”
“Shark attack.”
“I bet that’s a first for Clark County.” I worked my way toward the casino. Another hour or two and the people would be packed in so tight the fire department would have a cow. “Is the ME willing to go to the mat with that?”
“No.” Romeo had to trot to keep up with me as I headed through the casino toward the convention area. “He tested the oxygen profusion of the…corpse. It was low, but there was so much degradation and contamination, he couldn’t certify the results. And since the lungs had been eaten…”
“Got it,” I said, wanting to cut short that line of conversation. “So you really have no way to determine time of death?”
“Not conclusively.”
Geoffrey David-Williston stood in a group huddled in front of a large display filled with what was left of our bee population. Gesturing energetically, he addressed the small crowd.
I couldn’t hear exactly what he was talking about, but it likely had to do with too few bees—his current passion. As I rubbed the lingering red welts on my neck, I thought fewer bees would be a good thing. Romeo and I waited on the fringe as Dr. Williston wound down.
When he had finished, I pushed my way to the front. “Geoffrey.”
“Lucky! I thought you’d forgotten us!” He actually seemed happy to see me, which was amazing. The last time we’d spoken I had held the undisguised opinion that a speedy demise would be too good for him. I felt certain he held me in equally low esteem.
“What do you think of our display?” He waved his arm at the curved wall of Lucite separating us from a rather large bee population. “Even though we lost most of our bees, it still looks pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Impressive.” For once I wasn’t blowing smoke. The exhibit’s concave surface created the illusion we had stepped inside an active hive.
“A bit dramatic, but we’re trying to get people alarmed over the declining honeybee population, or Colony Collapse Disorder. The numbers are dwindling at an increasing rate. Most people think this is due to the Africanized bees migrating north out of Mexico, but that’s only part of the cause. We can’t identify the other part.”
I nodded as I felt my eyes glazing over.
“I know you think this is just an interesting little problem for PhDs, but it has very real ramifications. The California almond crop alone requires 1.3 million individuals for annual pollination. Without them—no almonds.”
The lack of bees impacted our food supply? Now he had my attention.
A man walked through the crowd ringing a bell signaling ten minutes until the start of the presentation; people began drifting toward the banquet room. Geoffrey glanced at them over his shoulder. “I would love to tell you more, but I better find my seat. I’m introducing the speaker tonight, an expert in the growing field of alternative uses for bee venom.”
“You wouldn’t want to miss that.” I flashed him a benign smile. “I won’t keep you, but tell me, are the arrangements for your conference satisfactory? Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?”
“No, everything is fabulous, as usual.” He turned to go, then stopped and turned back around, placing a hand on my arm. “I’m really sorry about the whole…fiasco last night. I was upset, and I behaved badly.”
“Understandable. Apology accepted.”
With that, he disappeared, leaving Romeo and me alone in the emptying vestibule.
“You hang out with the most interesting people.” Romeo deadpanned.
I couldn’t tell if the kid was needling me or not. I sorta hoped he was. “Got anything else on the other matter?” I didn’t want to spell it out. Our conversation wouldn’t be hidden by the noise of the crowd as before. And, as my mother used to say, in Vegas even the walls had ears.
“One thing I think you should know.” He glanced around as if looking to see if anyone was taking an interest in us. Satisfied, he lowered his voice and stepped near. “I’m getting pressure to put the squeeze on your buddy.”
“Jeremy?” I whispered. “Who from?”
“Higher up than I can see.” His brows crinkled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say it was coming from outside the department.”
He may not know better, but I did. I knew who, outside Metro, had not only the interest but also that kind of stroke. A trip to visit our district attorney was numero uno on my morning to-do list. Until then, I’d play clueless. “Really? If you get wind of where the pressure is coming from, will you let me know?”
He nodded but didn’t make any promises, which made me feel less like a creep withholding suspicions from my cohort in crime.
“Anything for me?” he asked.
“I’ve got some lines out but haven’t reeled in a fish. Soon, though.”
“I’d be worried about landing a shark or two, if I were you.” His eyes skittered from mine as he developed a fascination with his shoes. “I got something else to ask you. Off the record, okay?”
“I’ve forgotten it already.”
“Huh?”
“Off the record,” I said. “Give it to me.”
“Is your new assistant, Brandy, hooking up with anyone?”
Hooking up, what did that mean? Dating? Screwing? I had only the vaguest idea. “Carrying a torch for the beautiful Miss Alexander, are we?”
Red crept up his cheeks. He still refused to meet my eyes.
“You have impeccable taste.”
“She’s prime for sure.”
Prime? This certainly wasn’t one of my fluent dialects. “I don’t know about her personal life, but why don’t you ask her out? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“She could laugh.”
I threw my arm around my young friend’s shoulder as we walked back the way we had come. “Romeo, love makes fools out of us all. Get used to it.”
I said good-bye to the detective at the garage elevators. A glance at my watch told me tempus really did fugit when you were having fun. Jordan Marsh would be arriving at the Executive Terminal in a half hour or less and I’d better be there to meet him. That didn’t give me long to figure out what I was going to do with him when he got here.
I dove into the lobby crowd, which was clearly gaining momentum. Arriving guests waited in queues, most of which were at least five deep, in front of individual registration bays. One line, though, was considerably longer than the others, and patience appeared to be running thin as Tommy Bahama-clad new arrivals craned around each other, shooting exasperated looks toward the front desk.
Sergio Fabiano, our front desk manager, a smile plastered on his face, stood at attention next to the exasperated young lady helping an older gentleman at the head of the line.
“May I help?” I asked, as I stepped in next to the man causing the holdup.
“Only if you speak Spanish,” Sergio replied. “Mr. Garza is from Madrid and speaks fluent Castilian Spanish, but very little English. Unfortunately, his Italian isn’t very good either, or I would have had no problem.” Sergio gave me a weak smile. “Ms. Rodriguez is busy with another guest from Mexico right now, so I have no one who can speak with Mr. Garza. He is trying to register the thirty people in his party into the twenty rooms he has booked. You know the regulations. We need to put names with room numbers. He doesn’t understand.”
“Easy enough.” I turned to Mr. Garza and greeted him in his native language.
A grin split his face as he wrapped me in a big hug, his relief almost palpable, as he began his tale.
“Esperate un momentito, por favor,” I said, interrupting his staccato torrent of Spanish. “Sergio, can you open the desk on the end? Take the next five parties in this line with you.” I glanced at the name tag on the reservation agent. “Miss Shakova and I will take care of Mr. Garza and his party.”
With a crisp nod and the assured gestures of a conductor leading a symphony, Sergio clapped his hands for attention, then motioned to the guests behind us, as he moved to the end of the registration desk, taking half of the line behind us with him.
The look on Miss Shakova’s face told me she was clearly in over her head. “Where’re you from?” I asked.
“Georgia,” she replied, in a thick Slavic accent.
Ah, she wasn’t referring to one of the original Thirteen Colonies. We had so many different nationalities represented on our staff, even I was amazed communication didn’t completely grind to a halt more often—or minor wars didn’t break out.
“Long way from home?”
Her shy smile hinted she was starting to relax.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. First, please write all of Mr. Garza’s room numbers in a column down one side of a sheet of paper, indicating the type of accommodation next to each. I will ask him to write the names of the guests beside the number of the room they will be staying in. If we get that information, can you take it from there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then, while Mr. Garza is filling in the names, why don’t you call the Bell Desk? Ask them to send anyone who speaks Spanish; even a valet will do. If they put you off—and they might; everyone is maxed-out right now—tell them I’m the one who is asking.”
“Yes, Ms. O’Toole. Thank you.”
Ten minutes later, we had the registration gridlock eliminated and the line of guests flowing once again. I’d been anointed an honorary member of the Emilio Garza family, and now had only five minutes to lock up the office and beat feet to the airport. Since the airport was right down the street, piece of cake. But if the idiots who were talking about moving it twenty miles down the Interstate got their way, I’d be screwed.
Halfway across the lobby, I caught my parents walking arm in arm toward me. Still an unusual sight, I couldn’t resist stopping to watch them. A few tourists stopped to take their picture, but, as minor royalty in a world where one’s Q score was king, they didn’t attract a lot of attention.
My mother, dressed to the nines in an Escada suit and her South Sea pearls, had forsaken her ubiquitous heels for a pair of flats. Still a few inches taller than my father, she tilted her head to the side to catch something he was saying. A smile on her face, she glowed.
With her on his arm, the Big Boss’s chest puffed with pride. Bathed in the light of love, they both looked like kids. Their faces lit when they saw me.
Even at my advanced age, parental affection still warmed my heart. “Where are you two off to?”
“First dinner, then we’re going to a show!” My mother beamed.
“A date?”
“Just a couple of old romantics,” said the Big Boss, looking quite thrilled with the whole thing.
“He’s being modest.” Mother squeezed her man’s arm. “Do you know what this guy did? He booked us a table by the window at Prime, so we can watch the fountains while we eat that seafood tower thing they have.”
“Really? The Bellagio?” I raised an eyebrow at my father. “Giving the competition some business?”
“Industrial espionage.” He winked at me. “We needed to keep track of what they’re up to.”
“Going undercover, are we?”
“No, we’re not going undercover,” my mother said, adopting the same tone of exaggerated patience she used when I was a child.
That attitude used to punch my buttons. Now it just made me smile.
“He’s taking me to see Mystère!’” Mother’s excitement oozed from every pore. “This old softie even stood in line for the tickets. Just like a normal person!”
Normal wasn’t a classification either of my parents was in danger of earning, but I wasn’t about to disillusion my mother, not when she was having so much fun. Who wanted to be normal anyway? “Why Mystère? I thought O was the show to see.”
“Honey, you should see all the male acrobats.” Mother’s voice drooled in anticipation. “Those muscles! Do you know they’re naked from the waist up and only wear tights down below?”
“So you like the men. No real surprise there.” I nodded toward my father. “What, if anything, does your escort like?”
Mother leaned into me, her voice lowered to a whisper. “The whole thing makes me horny.”
I gave her a look, then glanced at my father. “I walked into that one, didn’t I?”
He shrugged, then gave me a wicked grin, one I don’t ever recall seeing on his face before. “One thing about your mother, she keeps life interesting.”
To anyone else, my response would’ve been, “So you’ll be up all night, then?” But, somehow, saying that to my father would’ve given me the willies.
Still shell-shocked by my mother’s blithe announcement—a traumatizing tidbit to this very visual offspring—I bounded up the stairs two at a time. A minute later, with purse over my shoulder, the office locked behind me, the phones forwarded to Security, I was headed back down. Bursting through the doors at a dead run, I collided with a solid body.
“So sorry.” Steadying myself, I kept going.
A familiar, dreaded voice stopped me. “I was hoping I would run into you, cherie!”
I stopped, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath before I turned around. I so did not need this right now. Opening my eyes, one glance confirmed my worst fears. Our new chef stood in front of me in all of his Gallic glory, wearing insouciance like a comfortable old coat. Clearly unruffled, Jean-Charles still looked scrumptious, but the memory of the bad taste he’d left in my mouth lingered. “Not now. I’m in a hurry, and I have no time for skirmishing.”
Putting a hand to his chest, he adopted a wounded look. “I am French. We do not fight.”
“As evidenced by the last world war.” Reshouldering my Birkin, I turned to go. “However, right now, I don’t even have time to accept a white flag.”
He walked with me. “Could you accept an invitation instead?”
“To what?” I only half-listened as I pushed through the throng of paparazzi and casual onlookers. I’d rather join the Foreign Legion than put up with Chef Bouclet’s act any more than I absolutely had to. Stepping to the curb, I waved at Paolo, who waited off to the side with the limo.
“I am having a tasting party tomorrow night. I’d like your approval of the new menu.”
“What time?” As the limo eased to a stop in front of me, I opened the passenger door.
“Seven o’clock. At the restaurant.”
I couldn’t tell whether the Frenchman was offering me an olive branch or luring me into his lair for the next battle, but the Big Boss had made him my responsibility…and, if the menu wasn’t up to snuff, I’d never hear the end of it. “I’ll be there, but I can’t guarantee how much time I’ll have.”
Shutting the door, I cut off his reply. “Paolo, how fast can you make it to the Executive Terminal?”
“My record is a touch under five minutes.”
“Let’s see if we can break it, preferably without killing anyone. If we start mowing down the tourists, you and I will be out of work.”
“Yes ma’am.” Paolo pulled his cap down low, then hunched over the wheel as he maneuvered the big car away from the curb. Heading for the rear entrance, he glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Are you watching the news back there?”
“I’m not sure I can handle any more ‘news’ today.” I leaned my head back and shut my eyes. God, I was tired. All I wanted to do was climb into bed, wrap Teddie around me, and stay there for the next week. A pipe dream if ever there was one—still, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?
As if they had conspired to give me a miserable evening, my stomach and head bookended me with pain. On top of that I felt a little woozy, definitely not on top of my game.
As Paolo turned the car south on Koval, he hit the gas; the acceleration pressed me back into the seat. “Our luck is holding—green lights all the way. I’ll patch the television feed through. You need to see this.”
That wasn’t what I needed at all, but I didn’t have the energy to argue.
Keeping my eyes closed, I thought I recognized the voice of the talking head, Anderson Cooper. “All hell has broken loose in Pahrump, Nevada—a small town sixty miles outside of Las Vegas that many have dubbed ground zero in the attack on American morality. I’m standing in front of Mona’s Place, the self-described ‘Best Whorehouse in Nevada,’ where day after tomorrow, a young woman will auction her virginity to the highest bidder.”
My eyes snapped open and riveted on the screen as Mr. Cooper continued his explanation of Mother’s upcoming event. Behind him, people carried signs denouncing prostitution, perversion, and seemingly sex in general, as they marched in front of the unmistakable purple and pink of Mona’s establishment. A man in black, wielding a Bible, urged them on.
I pressed the intercom button. “Is CNN the only station covering this story?”
“Geraldo Rivera is on site for FOX.” Paolo turned left on Tropicana, then swung right into the Executive Terminal. “I’m sure the local stations will all have something on the late-night news, but that won’t be on for a half hour or so.”
“Turn it off, will you? I’ve seen enough.” Again, I closed my eyes and rested my head on the soft cushion behind me. Anderson Cooper had hit the nail on the head—all hell had broken loose in Pahrump—and Mother was out on a date. Briefly, I wondered if she knew about all the attention she had garnered, then laughed at my stupidity. If she knew, she’d be there, front and center.
Well, it looked like she was going to get her fifteen minutes of fame, and I couldn’t wait to watch the show.
Our timing perfect, we arrived just as Jordan Marsh’s plane taxied onto the tarmac. Paolo and I waited in the limo until the sleek silver jet came to a stop in a remote corner, far from prying eyes, and the pilots had opened the door and unfolded the stairs. Then Paolo eased the big car onto the loading area, positioning it next to the aircraft. He jumped, and grabbed a bag from one of the pilots, and stowed it in the trunk while I stepped out to greet our guest.
With a finely honed sense of timing, Jordan Marsh waited until the expectation of those of us in attendance—the two pilots, Paolo, the line boys chocking the wheels, and me—had reached a crescendo, before ducking through the doorway and stepping to the top of the stairs. Buttoning his jacket, he paused for a moment. He never could resist playing to an audience, no matter how small.
One of the line boys nudged the other, then whispered something.
Pretending he had just caught sight of me, Jordan flashed his famous smile—the one that could make a thousand women faint, or so the story went—then bounded down the steps…all three of them.
Sweeping me into an embrace, he kissed me dramatically. His lips still only inches from mine, he said, “Thanks for coming to get me.”
I eased myself out of his grasp. “My pleasure. Next time, if you’d give me a bit of warning, I could make good money auctioning the opportunity to receive that greeting from the Great Jordan Marsh.”
We both knew I was joking, but with his matinee idol looks—jet-black hair graying at the temples, hazel eyes that changed colors with his moods, high cheekbones, a Kirk Douglas divot in his chin, chiseled physique—and his reputation as a bit of a bad boy, most women would pay a king’s ransom for the opportunity I’d just had.
But they didn’t know what I knew: Jordan Marsh was gay.
He was also the reigning Hollywood romantic lead. If it became public knowledge, the truth about his sexual orientation would break female hearts the world over…and it would terminate his career.
In true Hollywood style, Jordan Marsh was an act—a carefully created, zealously guarded fantasy. And, in an ironic twist we both appreciated, he came to my little fantasyland to live his truth.
Jordan’s soul mate, Rudy Gillespi, was an entertainment lawyer in town. When I set them up three years ago, I had no idea theirs would be a love story like none other, nor that I had signed a contract to run interference for them until the end of time. As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.
Jordan and I slid into the back of the limo through the door Paolo held open for us. As the door shut, the light dimmed, and prying eyes could no longer see us behind the heavily tinted glass, we were momentarily alone and invisible. Jordan’s smile vanished. A very serious expression replaced it.
A chill washed over me. “Don’t tell me you and Rudy broke up?” “Don’t be silly.” Jordan half turned so he faced me. Grabbing my hand, he squeezed hard. “Rudy and I want to get married, and we want you to help us.”
The next thing that registered on my consciousness was the face of Forrest, the security guard for the condo-tower I called home, inches from my own, but upside-down. How did he get here? Or how did I get to where he was? And why was I lying down in the back of the limo?
“Should we call the paramedics?” he asked, his brows crinkled in concern.
“That won’t be necessary,” Jordan said, in his best doctor impersonation. “She’s just had a shock. She’ll get over it.”
“I will not,” I mumbled, more than a little peeved at him. How did he know the pounding of my heart and the cold sweat popping out all over, chilling me to the bone, weren’t harbingers of a major health event?
His face swam into view. His was right-side up.
Nose to nose, I looked up into his hazel eyes that now appeared more blue than anything—and not the least bit concerned. Of course, he was probably used to women swooning in his presence. “Jordan, you could do me a favor, though.”
“Anything.”
“Check me into one of those nice sanatoriums where they park the sane people. Three meals a day, eight hours of restful sleep, room service…and no crazy people wanting my help.” I glared at him as I pushed myself to my elbow. Stars swirled around me, then faded. Not willing to admit I needed time to pull myself together, I made a show of exasperated patience as Jordan crawled off of me.
Thank God there wasn’t anyone with a camera around. Photos of Jordan Marsh on top of anyone in the back of a limo would create a feeding frenzy. I didn’t want that person to be me. A resume line item entitled “caught in a compromising position with Jordan Marsh” would not enhance my resulting job search.
“A sane person’s sanatorium? Isn’t that an oxymoron?” Jordan looked quizzical for a moment, then a light-bulb went off. “Oh! You mean like the Ritz-Carlton?” Not looking the least bit worried, he grinned as he backed out of the car, and extended his hand to me.
“A nice long stay at the Ritz on the Place Vendôme in Paris sounds about right.” I let him help me out of the car. “In a suite.”
He raised his eyebrows at that part, but he didn’t refuse. He knew I was grandstanding.
I brushed down my pants and tried to locate my dignity…and my bearings. I was still seeing stars. I had fainted. How humiliating! The last time I’d done something like that had been ages ago when Mother had sliced open her thumb while attempting to cut frozen meat. “Forrest, I think I’m fine now. Thank you.”
The big man looked at me over the top of the car. “Man, you both sound like fruit loops. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” As he headed back to his post he muttered, “Sanatoriums for sane people. Who ever heard of such a thing?”
Steadying myself with a hand on the car, I took stock of my surroundings. Jordan watched me, a trace of concern leaking into his bemused expression. Peeking out from behind him, Paolo wrung his hands as he looked at me with eyes as big as saucers.
“Woman, you’re pale as a ghost.” Jordan leaned in for a closer look. “When did you last eat?”
“Eat?” That gave me pause. I tried to reconstruct the day. I’d picked at my breakfast with Romeo and talked to Teddie through lunch with Miss P. I’d only been able to swallow two gulps of my shake at the Peppermill. “Dinner. Last night.” And to think, I’d always thought I’d keel over if I missed a meal. Now I knew it took three missed meals for that to happen.
“Well, no wonder you feel faint.”
“My lack of sustenance may have weakened me, but you provided the knockout punch, and I’m not done with you. You’re not going to get off that easily.” No longer seeing stars, I was now starting to see red. Not only did my good friend want to throw himself in front of the train, he wanted to pull me along with him—or leave me to take the fall. I didn’t know which would be worse. “However, first things first. Do you have another mission for Paolo?”
“I’ve already given him the address.”
“Good.” I turned to my diminutive chauffeur. “On your way back with Mr. Gillespi, will you swing through In-N-Out? Buy enough animal-style burgers and fries to give us all coronaries.”
He slapped his hat on his head and turned to go.
“Oh, and some Diet Coke.”
He waved as he climbed into the car, then fired up the engine and roared away.
“Hamburgers and French fries, manna from Heaven,” Jordan said, with the slightest hint of disdain.
“Don’t give me that sanctimonious, your-body-is-a-temple BS. My body has had enough of a shock already, and I have no intention of denying it the usual dose of saturated fat. I need my strength.”
“For what?” Jordan asked, looking like a man with a clean conscience.
“For wringing your neck, that’s what.” I whirled on him. “Are you batshit insane?”