“He was paying you off, Shane, to stay quiet—”
“Well, of course! I know that now. But then Tucker happened to mention that Glockner’s daughter asked you to look into her father’s murder—” He shook his elf-capped head. “I got scared, Clare. I wanted to know what you knew. That’s why I made the pass at you today. I was going to try again tonight, too, but all that’s changed now—”
“What do you mean?”
“Half an hour ago, Dickie pulled me aside and asked me to do it again.”
“Do what again?”
“Keep an eye on someone. Report on their movements.”
“Was it Kovic?” I asked. “Karl Kovic?”
Shane blinked. “Who?”
“Alf’s roommate. I found Karl Kovic’s body in his apartment this evening. He was shot in the back.”
Shane’s glitter-dusted flesh went all the way white. “That’s it. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. After this show, I’m on the very next red-eye to L.A.!”
“Wait! You can’t leave!” Now I was the one dragging Shane back behind the giant tree ornament. “You have to talk to the police first. They’ll be here any minute.” I hope.
“And tell them what? That I followed Santa Claus around and made notes? That’s not a crime. They can’t arrest me or Dickie for that—”
“No, but—”
“Listen to me, Clare, okay? If you find a way to nail Dickie and this mysterious celebrity friend he’s covering up for, I’ll back your testimony. But until then, Hollywood here I come.”
“Shane, don’t go!”
“Sugarplum, do you know what that man’s real name is?” He pointed toward the stage where Dickie was wrapping up his remarks. “Richard Torio. He’s not some puff from Fire Island. He grew up in the Bronx—a borough so dangerous they had to film the remake of Pelham One Two Three in Woodside, Queens! This guy has the kind of associates the Sopranos’ producers used to hire for authentic-looking thug extras.”
“I get it! Just tell me one thing. Who is this new person that Dickie asked you to follow?”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s you, Clare. I swear I didn’t tell him that you knew anything, but somehow he found out you were digging into Alf’s murder, egging on the cops. They know what you look like. They know where you work and live.”
Shane met my eyes. “I’d get the hell out of here before Dickie or anyone else he’s hired spots you. Take care, Cosi Lady.”
With a kiss to my stunned cheek, the golden-haired elf was gone. Now what? From my hiding place, I tried to spot Detective Hong, but there were so many people here, who could tell? He was probably trying to call me right now, but my cell was downstairs in the dressing room locker.
I have to get out of here...
Fortunately, the lights in the reading room dimmed. Tucker’s show was about to begin. I zigzagged through the crowd and bolted for the exit, eyes peeled for Matt the whole way. But he and Breanne, the party shark, were nowhere in sight. They’d probably moved on to the next event.
I hit another knot of people and stepped around them. My timing couldn’t have been worse. I passed right by Dickie himself. He was conferring with a man whose designer suit couldn’t hide a cauliflower ear and a pockmarked face—the kind that would have been captioned “Known Associate” in a true-crime book.
Both pairs of male eyes followed me through the crowd—damn this Santa Hooker outfit!
Another mob of partygoers slowed me down, trying to maneuver their kids closer to Tucker’s show. I dodged right, then left. Finally free, I hit the deserted marble stairway. My black go-go boot heels clicked quickly on the stone. I didn’t get far before I heard heavy feet following. I glanced over my shoulder and saw what I’d dreaded—
Known Associate was on my heels. “Wait, miss!” he called. “Mr. Celebratorio would like a word with you...”
I reached the basement dressing room but didn’t go inside. I hadn’t seen another exit in there, and I didn’t want to get trapped. Instead I kept on going down a long, empty corridor. I could hear the man’s footsteps stalking me.
When I turned the first corner, I found myself trapped in a dead-end hallway with locked doors. I spun around, ready to rush back to the main corridor. But Known Associate was already on me.
“Will you stop running—” His big hands reaching, he lunged for me.
The only weapon I had was this huge bag of promo candy. Remembering Esther’s brick, I swung the sack with all my might and smacked him right in the face! The bag burst open and the cellophane-wrapped goodies went flying everywhere. Some even pelted me. Peppermint blowback!
The man stumbled and I raced past him. He yowled, turned to chase me, and slipped on the layer of cellophane that covered the polished floor. As gravity took him down, I turned the corner again, continuing down the long hallway until I saw a Fire Exit sign above a pair of wooden doors.
By now, Known Associate was on his feet again and running toward me. I pushed through the double doors and spun around. Using my empty velvet sack, I quickly tied the door handles together. Then I bolted the few yards to the steel fire door. Behind me, I could hear Known Associate violently rattling the tied double doors.
He can’t get through!
An alarm sounded as I depressed the fire door bar and stumbled into the frigid December night. When the heavy door slammed behind me, I knew I was locked outside—and that was fine with me, because the only way I was going back into that crazy holiday bash was with an armed SWAT team!
Twenty-Eight
“Hey, little elf! I like your outfit!”
“Are you coming from a Christmas party?”
“Maybe she’s from the North Pole.”
“You want a ride, sweet thing?”
“I’ll give her a ride. A real nice ride!”
The four men laughed. They were sitting in an SUV, keeping pace beside me on a dim, deserted stretch of Fortieth Street. At least three of them were sloppy drunk from some office party. Shivering in my flimsy red costume, I tightly folded my red velvet arms and quickened the pace of my black go-go boots.
With Bryant Park Grill dark, and no other open restaurants or stores on this block, I’d struck out for the police station in Times Square. If I was lucky, I figured I’d encounter a cop or squad car on my way.
So far, I wasn’t lucky.
My cell phone, wallet, and even my spare change were presently locked inside the public library’s basement. There were no pedestrians on this sleepy street paralleling the snow-covered rectangle of Bryant Park, and the only car coming down Fortieth in the last three minutes was this big, black sport-utility vehicle filled with four office workers in their late twenties, most of whom were hammered, all of whom were making assumptions about my line of work—wrong assumptions.
“Ask her how much,” one of them complained to the other.
“What’s the matter, little elf? Don’t you like us?”
Eyes forward, I shook my head. “Not interested!”
“Come on!”
They began talking lower, among themselves. “You have cash on you, right?”
“What’s she going to charge?”
I quickened my steps on the sidewalk, hurrying to reach the much brighter lights of Sixth Avenue, but the SUV continued keeping pace with me.
“We’ll treat you right,” one of them shouted. “Just get in!”
When I finally hit the corner, I figured I’d lose them. But the SUV turned sharply, cutting me off at the curb. The inebriated guy in the front passenger seat swung open his door and leaped at me—
“Hands off, asshole!” I shouted, rearing back.
WHOOP!
The earsplitting burst of a police siren cut the night. A dark blue sedan peeled through the traffic light and spun with NASCAR-level rotational drift. In seconds, the sedan’s driver screeched his vehicle to a halt, expertly boxing in the front of the SUV.