49

People loitering outside in the hallway, it didn’t make any difference. Lana wasn’t in her room. She’d given her chaperone the slip.

She’d started out her morning trying on the dozen blond wigs her chaperone had found for her—that and trying to calm down.

It didn’t help that her chaperone kept saying that Cher wore wigs. Dolly Parton wore wigs. She didn’t give a damn who wore wigs. She wanted to get her hands on the bitches who had hidden the little tiny razor blades in her brush that had zipped handfuls of her hair right off at the roots.

She’d called Michelangelo and given him an earful about it. No one could do this to a DeLucca. He’d said he couldn’t agree more, but she thought it sounded like he was reading the paper at the same time.

Never mind. Just wait till this was all over. Her Uncle John knew plenty of people all over. Those two bitches could run, but they couldn’t hide.

Then she tried to read some Carl Sandburg, because he was one of Marilyn’s favorite writers. She thought maybe that’d help her calm down. He wrote about Lincoln, one of Marilyn’s heroes. Well, Lana tried. She’d tried and tried, but she just didn’t get it. All those big words didn’t make her feel any better. They made her feel stupid.

Next she sent her chaperone out to get her a turkey sandwich, no, she didn’t want the one from room service, and a big glass of milk.

With her gone Lana could tuck into the bottle of champagne in her minibar. She knew champagne calmed her down, and just like Marilyn, she drank it from a special glass with her name engraved on it.

She was sitting, just like Marilyn, wearing a bra and nothing else—she never wore panties—sipping champagne and bleaching her upper lip when suddenly she had an idea. Maybe she’d go get her evening dress from its hiding place downstairs in the wine cellar, safe from those bitches. Run through her Sugar Cane routine one more time.

So she drained her glass, found the key, threw on a pink sweater, a pair of white slacks, and her fluffiest wig. She’d take the stairs and call it exercise.

*

Darleen Carroll stepped off the elevator on 15 just in time to see Lana slip through the stair door marked Exit in green lights. She called Lana’s name, but Miss New Jersey kept going.

Damn! Here she’d just gotten up her nerve to apologize, and she was going to have to chase the silly twit all over the hotel.

But there was no other way around it. The elevators were too slow, and she didn’t know what floor to go to. Lana could be headed anywhere.

So Darleen pounded down the stairs after her. If she’d known this was going to be a foot race, she wouldn’t have worn her gold mules. “Lana! Lana!” she called. “Wait up.”

Below, Lana walked faster, then picked up speed, holding on to the stair rail and almost sliding. Her heart was in her mouth. Had those bitches sent someone else after her? Well, nobody was going to catch Lana. Nobody. Nobody.

*

“Could you come back later?” Harry called to the maid at the door. “We’ll be out in about five.”

It wasn’t the maid. It was Rashad. “Mr. Zack? Junior and I are here with the video we’d like to screen for you.”

“Yours.” Sam pointed at the door, pulling on a bright yellow sweater and black-and-white checked trousers. “Captain Kelly is waiting.”

Harry threw open the door. “You guys don’t know about calling?”

“I know that this is a heinously inappropriate intrusion upon your privacy and your time,” Rashad began. Behind him Junior stood on one foot and then the other. When he saw Harry, he almost bolted.

Harry held up a hand like a traffic cop. Junior still thought he was a detective. “Stop. Junior, I’m—listen, we’ve got to get downstairs. I’ll explain later.”

Junior still didn’t look too sure.

“Cool it,” said Rashad. “Chill, man. The dude’s not lying.”

Harry said, “We’ll meet you back here in an hour, but we’ve got to go.”

“Great!” Rashad’s smile was blinding. “We’ll wait right here in the hall.”

“Hi, Rashad. Junior.” Sam smiled, bustling out past them. “So much for our leisurely morning in bed,” she hissed in Harry’s ear as they headed for the elevator.

“Hey! Who answered the phone? Did I answer the phone?”

“Listen, why did Wayne Ward slug you in the mouth? And why does Junior think you’re a cop?”

Harry gave her his professional insurance investigator shrug.

*

By God, Darleen said to herself, panting, seriously out of breath, she was going to catch this bimbo and apologize to her if it was the last thing she ever did.

And it might be. Even the workouts with Guido, her personal trainer in Newport Beach, hadn’t prepared her to run down 15 flights of stairs in her high heels, which is why she’d kicked them off on 14.

Lana made it through the stairway door on the ground floor about 10 seconds ahead of her. It was a good thing the girl had all that shiny platinum hair—which Darleen spied at the end of the hall up ahead flashing past a sign that said Employees Only.