Killer in High Heels Read Online Free PDF

fat right into your veins.”
    I did a deep sigh. “I’ll come in tomorrow and do sit-up penance.”

    “Promise?”
    Reluctantly I nodded, feeling my stomach muscles clench around my Quarter Pounder in protest.
    “So,” Dana said, sipping her water, “if you’re not here for pole dancing, what’s up?”
    “I was wondering if you still have the number of that guy you dated at the phone company.”
    “Verizon Ted? Yeah, sure. Why?”
    I filled Dana in on my freaky phone message and subsequent calling quest as she downed the rest of her vitamin water, her eyes growing bigger as I talked.
    “So you think he was shot?” she asked when I’d finished.
    I bit my lip. “I don’t know.”
    “I bet it was the Mob. Those Mob guys are all up in Vegas.” Dana bobbed her head up and down for emphasis.
    “It wasn’t the Mob.”
    “Rico told me the Mob uses forty-five-caliber Berettas for all their executions. Did it sound like a forty-five?”
    Mental eye roll. “Look, I don’t even really know if he was shot. I just think…well, it might warrant a phone call to the police to check it out. Provided I can give them some idea of where to check.”
    Dana shrugged. “Okay, sure. I’ll call Verizon Ted right after my pole dancing class and see if he can get us an address.”
    “Thanks.” I handed Dana the numbers and she trotted off to the group of eighty-year-old stripper wannabes. I shuddered. Mostly because as they started dancing to the tune of “I’m Too Sexy,” I realized they were more limber than I was even after three margaritas. Depressing thought.

    After seeing Dana I felt just a little guilty about my zillion-calorie lunch and decided to do better for dinner. I made a quick stop at the Magic Happy Time Noodle for a double order of moo shoo chicken (chicken was a lean meat, right?) with rice noodles (’cause who can get fat eating rice?) before heading back home to my studio.
    As I followed the trail of red brake lights down the 405, I tried calling the two Larrys one more time for good measure. Same thing. Ringing at the first and that mechanical voice at number two. I thought about leaving a message, but I still didn’t quite know what to say. Instead I did a fast hang-up before the machine kicked in and hoped that Verizon Ted was in a good mood tonight.
    I pulled up to my building, parking my Jeep on the street, and started up the steps to my studio, fragrant bags of Chinese food in hand. I was halfway up the stairs when the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up and I had the oddest sensation of being watched. I slowly turned around and scanned the street, my eyes immediately narrowing in on a blue Dodge Neon with a dented fender parked in front of the building next door. I couldn’t be sure it was the same one that had been tailgating Dana and me the day before, but since there were probably only two people in the entire L.A. basin who would be caught dead driving a blue Dodge Neon, I figured it was an odd coincidence.
    I walked back down the stairs, casually strolling along the sidewalk toward the car. I was a couple of feet away when it suddenly roared to life, squealing away from the curb like some bad cop movie from the ’seventies. I only got the vaguest glimpse of the driver—just enough to tell it was a guy—before he disappeared down the street, taking the corner so fast his tail spun out behind him.

    If I’d believed in coincidences, I’d have said that was a doozy. Even though Mr. Neon was gone, I suddenly felt very exposed standing out in the open. I took the stairs two at a time up to my studio and locked the door behind me. Just for good measure (and because I’ve seen way too many teen horror flicks), I checked under the futon, behind the bathroom door and in the closet. Predictably, no bogey men in waiting. Which, of course, made me realize how foolish I was being. The Neon probably belonged to my neighbor’s son. Probably how fast he pulled away from the curb had nothing