down the marble hall in my fuzzy feet. King Kong fleeing the slot-machine jungle. I heard my name, a shushed, muffled “Evie” as I stepped onto the escalator. It was one of those really tall ones and I almost lost my balance. My heart leapt to my throat as I grabbed the railing and someone grabbed me.
“Fuck’s sake, Sunshine. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Arch?”
“Dinnae turn around. Just hold on and…try to look inconspicuous.”
I laughed.
“You were fucking brilliant by the way.”
“You saw my performance?”
“From a distance.”
“Michael didn’t see you, did he?”
“No.”
“Is he following us now?”
“No.”
“Why did you follow me?”
“Backup.”
Oh. “That was sweet.”
“Standard procedure for team members, yeah?”
“Uh-huh.” Wearing a big smile that he couldn’t see, I bastardized a movie quote in a singsongy voice. “You were worried. Because you love me. You want to smooch me. You want to hug me.”
“Sandra Bullock. Miss Congeniality. Sort of.”
I craned my head around, but I still couldn’t see him because of the ape’s limited vision. “You’re amazing.”
“You’re a pain in the arse.”
“But an adorable pain.”
“Aye,” he said with a smile in his voice. “There is that.”
“Oh!” I cried, experiencing a bout of déjà vu. “Let me know when we near the bottom. I don’t want my fur to get eaten in the teeth of the last step. Once I was working with a group of Hollywood characters and the hem of Jean Harlow’s gown got eaten and seized up the gears. She had to be cut out of the dress and—”
Suddenly I was whisked up and into Arch’s arms. “Problem solved,” he said as he carried me across the concourse and out the front door.
I giggled. “You probably look pretty silly right now.”
“Not as silly as you, lass.”
“True.”
Ten seconds later I was seated in his car and yanking off that suffocating head. I swiped my arm across my drenched forehead. “I did it, Arch. I saw them together and I didn’t feel anything. What a huge flipping relief!”
“Good to know.”
Something in his tone. Something…fragile. I hadn’t thought about it from his point of view. Had he worried I still harbored affection for my ex? Wow. More proof of the bad boy’s vulnerability.
“You look flushed,” he said as he pulled onto Pacific Avenue. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” I said, my mind zinging with a hundred thoughts. All of them having to do with Arch and the future. “Just hot. And itchy. I can’t wait to get out of this suit. Speaking of…You’re going the wrong way. Fannie’s Flowers is south.”
“The Chameleon Club’s north.”
I flashed on The Kid’s phone call. My gut said this was about Beckett. I reached in the backseat, grabbed my tote bag and dug out my phone. “I’ll call Fannie and let her know the gig went great and that I’ll return the costume later today.”
“Good idea.”
“Oh, wait.” I squinted at the screen of my phone. “I think I have a text message. I don’t know how—”
Arch nabbed my cell, punched a couple of buttons and handed it back.
“Thanks.” I read the abbreviated text. “It’s from Nic. All it says is that Jayne’s okay and that she’ll call me later. Why didn’t she call with more of an update?”
“I can think of a couple of reasons. Neither cause for panic.”
“In other words, don’t borrow trouble.”
“Aye.”
Speaking of trouble…“So what’s the unexpected news?”
Fighting traffic, Arch cast me a quick look. “Mad Dog’s dead.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE CHAMELEON CLUB WAS LOCATED in Atlantic City’s Inlet. Only not in the newly renovated section. And though it was situated on the boardwalk, it faced the bay instead of the ocean and was a goodly distance from the casinos and souvenir tourist traps. Let’s just say I wouldn’t walk around this area after dark. Even during the day, I held my purse close and watched for muggers and drunks. No wonder Nic and Jayne had flipped when I told them I’d been hired to sing full-time in this, well—calling a spade a spade—dive.
Arch veered into the pothole-ridden parking lot and I had visions of car thieves lurking in the abandoned building a block down. “Isn’t there a nearby garage or a secret place like the Bat Cave where you can park this thing?”
“No.”
“What if we come out and all of the tires are gone?”
“I’ll buy new ones.”
“What if the car is gone?”
“Jazzman’s fine.”
“I wasn’t talking about Beckett.”
“But you’re thinking aboot him, yeah?”
I didn’t bother to lie. Arch would know. “Aren’t you?”
“Aye.”
He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t press. He’d tried calling Beckett twice since receiving the news of Mad Dog’s death. Both calls had rolled to voice mail.
On the ride over my imagination had soared. Arch had no information other than Frank Turner had been found dead this morning in his home, the seeming victim of a burglary. So I’d filled in the blanks, creating two or three different scenarios. Surely Beckett hadn’t killed the man and if he did, it must have been in self-defense only why then would he cover it up? Only maybe he didn’t cover it up. Maybe the cops were mistaken. Or maybe it was a straight up burglary and the thieves—not Beckett—killed Mad Dog. Yeah. That was it. Only I kept going, relaying the plot of a classic caper flick, to which Arch responded, “This is real life, not a movie, yeah?”
Which was his way of telling me to stuff a sock in it.
I’d
