Killer In High Heels by Halliday Gemma

Author:Halliday, Gemma [Halliday, Gemma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Romance, Thriller, Crime, Contemporary, Chick-Lit, Humor
ISBN: 9780505527127
Google: kmUeAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 050552712X
Goodreads: 204475
Publisher: Making It
Published: 2007-01-29T00:00:00+00:00

I was deep into a dream starring Ramirez’s six-pack abs when I felt something smack me across my cheek. “Uhn.”

I opened one eye. Dana’s arm was covering my face. I pushed her off and got a foot in the stomach.

“Ow,” I whined.

Dana just grunted and mumbled something about “frontal assaults.” Then she turned over and elbowed me in the ribs.

Note to self: Never sleep with an Urban Soldierette. I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 6:20 A.M. I groaned, but, due to the imminent risk of bruising, I rolled myself out from under my best friend and took my beaten body into the shower anyway.

I let the hot water rush over me and closed my eyes, trying to shake off the semi-coma state early mornings put me into. Today of all days, I needed my mind to be sharp. It was Wednesday, my last day in Vegas. Unless a) prices in the Marquis Suites plummeted into a reasonable (read “low rent”) rate, and b) Tot Trots miraculously decided to extend my deadline for the Rainbow Brite jellies designs (which I’d woefully neglected since I’d first gotten Larry’s message), I had only one day left to help Larry.

It was painfully clear at this point that I was in way over my blond little head. Whatever dealings Larry had stumbled into, I had little hope I that could get him out, especially when we threw Mafiosos into the mix. The best I could do was, as Ramirez had said, convince Larry to turn himself in. I hoped Larry showed up at the funeral, because I was running out of places to look.

As a concession to sleepless night number four, I put on my shortest skirt, highest heels, and more eye makeup than my mother. Or father, for that matter.

The look was a little on the slutty side but at least it distracted from the bags under my eyes (which were so big I was pretty sure they wouldn’t even qualify as carry-ons anymore). Ten minutes later I was dressed, blow-dried, and standing at the front desk before Slim Jim again.

“Checking out today?” he asked, searching behind me for a glimpse of Dana. Or, more accurately, Dana’s breasts.

“Yes, I am. And by the way, the bed’s broken in our room.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “How did that happen?”

I shrugged. “Search me.”

He contemplated the offer for about half a second. That is, until his eyes rested on my barely-B chest and decided I wasn’t worth the effort. “Fine. I’ll tell maintenance.”

“So any way I could get a discount for the broken bed?”

He gave me a look. “Don’t push it.”

I didn’t. Instead, I signed the bill (cringing just a little at the total), and told him we’d vacate the room by noon.

That done, I headed in the direction of the American Restaurant, hoping a big latte and an even bigger plate of pancakes with gooey maple syrup might help me wake up. I was halfway across the casino floor, picking my way through the fake trees and corridors of slot machines, when my cell chirped.

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