In lieu of cocktails, we pulled into a McDonald’s on Maryland and after a Quarter Pounder, Diet Coke, and hot apple pie (hey, I did go for the diet soda), we changed for Hank’s funeral. I paired my mostly clean black leather skirt with the most demure white blouse I’d packed and a dark blazer I borrowed from Marco. Finished off with a pair of casual black Cavalli pumps, I looked conservative enough to blend in at a memorial service.
I wish I could have said the same for Marco. He emerged from the men’s room wearing a pair of gray slacks with an iridescent purple sheen to them, a skintight black shirt and the jaunty black beret again. And to think this was the man worried about being conspicuous.
Dana followed my lead, wearing a little black dress with a black leather jacket over the top. Okay, so our hemlines were a bit higher than true mourning called for, but hey, this was Vegas.
And, as we entered the church at Alta and Campbell, I realized that a Vegas funeral has a whole different meaning than a Beverly Hills funeral. The Vegas funeral made West Hollywood on Liberace’s birthday look tame.
While the church was a subdued stained-glass affair with dark pews, light flower arrangements, and soft organ music, the inhabitants of the large room were anything but.
The first couple of pews held what I assumed were Hank’s family-an older couple in grays and navy blues, a man in a dark suit, and two squirmy children who were probably glad they’d gotten to miss school for “Auntie” Hank’s funeral. But the pews behind them were a mix between the circus and a soap-opera audition. Three full rows of aging drag queens in unrelieved black. Long, lacy dresses, wide-brimmed hats (one with an ostrich plume sticking two feet into the air), and somber black veils. The handful whose faces were visible were fully made up, big fat tears running a marathon down their powdered cheeks as they sobbed into little white hankies. Oh boy, did they sob. Not a dry eye in the house. And none of this dainty eyedabbing stuff either. These ladies were doing the kind of sobs usually only heard from toddlers at naptime. Big, full-blown body-sobs that echoed under the high ceilings like a symphony of dying geese. Punctuated by the occasional nose blown loud enough to shake the stained-glass windows.
I tried to look past the veils and hankies to see whether Larry was among them. But, honestly, I couldn’t tell one from another. A different wig, a different girdle, and I wasn’t sure I’d even recognize my father.
Beside the painted ladies sat Maurice. His face looked like it had aged a couple hundred years since I’d last seen him. And the somber music wafting in through the sound system didn’t do anything to ease the grief lines etched around his eyes. He reminded me a little of Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh. His eyes were downcast, his skin taking on a little of a gray color that perfectly matched the suit he donned in lieu of his trademark turtleneck. I wondered if he’d slept at all since Hank died. His bags looked bigger than mine.
Across the aisle from Maurice sat Monaldo and his line of henchmen. To his right was Unibrow and to the left, Ramirez.
Marco, Dana, and I settled into an empty pew behind the painted ladies. Luckily, Monaldo didn’t notice us.
Unluckily, Ramirez did.
He craned his head back, letting his eyes casually scan the room until they met mine. Then they went all big and round as his jaw dropped open like it was on overoiled hinges. He blinked a couple of times, then mouthed at me, “What are you doing here?”
I just smiled and shrugged. What else could I do?
Ramirez pulled his jaw into a tight Bad Cop face and narrowed his eyes, staring me down. I could feel those eyes boring a hole right through me. I hoped I’d never have to face him across an interrogation table. I had a pretty good idea I’d crack.
We all settled into our places as a white-haired priest took to the pulpit and began waxing poetic about Hank’s life and the hereafter. I admit, I kind of tuned him out, instead searching the sobbing painted ladies again for any sign of Larry. Unibrow kept glancing behind him, toward the open church doors, doing, I supposed, the same thing. I felt like I was on a Where’s Waldo hunt and the first one to spot Waldo’s miniskirt won the prize of Larry-dead or alive.
The ceremony was short, thankfully, and then we all shuffled out of the church to drive single file the short distance to the cemetery. On the off chance Monaldo and his crew might recognize the Mustang, Dana, Marco and I held back. I noticed Ramirez scanning the crowd for me. I ducked behind the woman with the ostrich feather until Monaldo motioned him into the long black Lincoln and shut the door behind him.
Since we’d brought up the rear of the parade, most of the crowd had already assembled at the grave site by the time we arrived. Hank’s eternal rest would be under a large tree, atop a small, manmade hill, covered in a lawn that must have used half of Lake Mead to keep watered in the summer. We parked the car on the gravel road and hiked to the top where the coffin sat, now lying next to a tarp-covered pile of dirt. Carnations, roses, and fragrant lilies of the valley lay on the polished mahogany surface. Maurice started bawling as he laid a single red rose on the pile. Which of course set off the painted ladies (who would take any excuse to pull out a hankie), and pretty soon everyone was in tears again.
Except for Monaldo. While his face was a placid mask, I was pretty sure that on the inside he was celebrating having just gotten away with murder.
Beside him Ramirez just glared at me, his eyes silently cursing at me in Spanish. I tried to ignore him, instead focusing on the priest as he said a final few words over the grave site.
Something about funerals always depresses me. Usually it’s the idea that my own end is somewhere in sight. It raises the big scary question of what is there after this life? Do we really ascend, as the priest promised, to a beautiful magical plane where there is no pain, sorrow, or shoes that pinch your toes five minutes after you put them on? Or do we simply die, turn to dust, and that’s all she wrote?
Only today, the questions of the universe were taking a backseat to questions about my father. I wondered where he was. I wondered if Monaldo might have already gotten to him. I wondered if I’d ever be able to picture him again without thinking of Raspberry Perfection lip gloss.
I scanned the faces of the mourners for Larry again. Most were the same from the church, though a few had opted to join the group here. So far none was six feet tall in a red wig.
Once the priest said his final “ashes to ashes,” the crowd began to disperse, lingering in small groups to console each other. I casually mingled amongst them, searching each veiled face for any signs of my father. It had been a longshot that he’d even show up, but I hated to let go of that small hope I’d see him once more.
I was circling a group of painted ladies (still sobbing into their hankies), when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I felt him before I even heard him. That’s how hot the anger radiating off his body was.
“What are you doing here?” Ramirez growled in my ear.
I froze. “Paying my last respects.”
“You are supposed to be on your way back to Los Angeles,” he said in a tightly restrained whisper. I was pretty sure that if I turned around now I’d see that vein bulging in his neck again.
“Maurice invited me. It would have been rude not to come.”
Ramirez muttered something in Spanish. But before I could figure out which creative swear word he was employing now, he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down the hill and into the back of Monaldo’s Lincoln.
“I swear, I’m leaving right after-”
But I didn’t get to finish. As soon as he had the door shut behind us, Ramirez grabbed me by the shoulders and planted his lips on mine.
I shuddered from the impact. Or maybe it was from the volcanic heat instantly settling south of my belly button.
“God, you look sexy in black,” he murmured, coming up for air.
“I’m wearing Marco’s clothes.”
Ramirez looked down. Then he shrugged. “It’s been six weeks. You’d look sexy in anything.”
I was about to protest, but he didn’t give me a chance, taking my lips in his and thoroughly kissing me again.
“Or better yet,” he amended, “nothing at all.”
He slid his hand up my shirt, his fingers closing around the clasp of my bra.
“Whoa, boy!” I pushed him away, both hands flat against his chest. “You’re kidding, right? You want to do this now?”
He paused, looking around the backseat. “What? The windows are tinted.”
“We’re at a funeral!”
“So…is that wrong?”
I’m ashamed to say that with my hands still glued to his rock-hard pecs, I actually thought about it for a minute.
“Yes, of course it’s wrong. And by the way, have you noticed that every time we’re together we’re either ripping each other’s clothes off or fighting?”
“Yeah, we should do a lot less fighting.”
“I’m serious.”
He flashed me his big bad wolf smile. “So am I.”
I rolled my eyes. “Why can’t we just have a normal conversation like normal people in a normal relationship”
“So you wanna talk now?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Yes.”
He sighed. Then he tilted his head from side to side, as if working out tension kinks that magically appeared whenever I did. “Okay. Fine. Let’s talk.”
“Good.”
Then we both stared at each other. Silent.
Great. Turns out we had nothing to talk about.
“So…” I said, grasping for anything. “How was your day?”
He raised one eyebrow at me. “My day?”
“Yes. This is what normal couples talk about. They talk about their day. So how was your day?”
Ramirez rubbed the back of his neck, relieving a little more of that tension. “Okay. My day was fine.”
I threw my hands up. “No, that’s not how it goes. You’re supposed to tell me what you did, where you went, who you talked to. You’re supposed to tell me how you felt about your day so I can be all supportive and stuff. Like, here, I’ll go first. I had a call from my mother. She was pissed and I feel like crap for lying to her and am pretty sure she’s going to either disown me or at the very least take back my new ficus. After that I punched my stalker in the nose, which felt a lot better than it should have. Then we went to FlyBoyz, which just made me feel like I needed a shower. There. That was my day. Now your turn. What did you do today?”
Ramirez just stared. “Whoa. Back up-stalker?”
Whoops.
“Did I say ‘stalker’? Okay, well, see he’s really more of a follower than a stalker, to be honest. He just kind of follows me around town and occasionally takes pictures that he occasionally prints in his newspaper.”
“A reporter?” he shouted. That vein started to bulge in his neck and I wondered if maybe I should have stuck with the stalker story instead. “You’re telling me you have a reporter following you?”
I heaved a deep sigh. This was so not how normal couples had conversations. But it was too late to put that horse back in the barn. Instead, I told Ramirez all about my encounter with Felix and the many Dodge Neon sightings I’d been privy to in the last week, ending with the Informer’s piece this morning.
When I finished he did one of those foreign curses again and I made a mental note to sign up for Spanish class at the rec center.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “The worst has already happened. Mom saw it.”
“Maddie, I’m not worried about your mom,” he said, the vein staring to pulsate now. “I’m worried about Monaldo! If he sees this, how long do you think it will take before he puts two and two together? He saw you at the club. He knows your face and if he sees that paper he’ll know your name and where to find you.”
The thought sent a cold chill right up my spine. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Obviously.”
“Hey, it’s not like I asked to have my picture in the paper.”
“Yet somehow the other ninety-nine point nine percent of the population can manage to stay the hell out of things that don’t concern them.”
“Larry’s my father. It concerns me!”
Ramirez rubbed his neck again. “Look, just leave it alone, okay? Go home, design a few SpongeBob boots or whatever it is you do and let me do my job, okay?”
While his tone was way over the border of condescension, making me want to quote last quarter’s sales figures for my “whatever it is you do” shoes, I knew he was right. The best thing for me to do was get out of town before I messed up his investigation any more than I already had. The sooner he put Monaldo behind bars, the sooner I could breathe easily abut my father’s safety. So instead of taking a stand for shoe designers everywhere, this time I let the comment go.
“Fine. But,” I added, “just so you know, we’re doing it again.”
He paused, a blank look on his face. “Doing what?”
“Fighting. See?”
He took a deep breath, then looked toward the sky as if asking for patience from somewhere above. “I told you we should have just had sex.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Hmph.” It was the best response I could come up with because I was kind of thinking he might be right. “Look, I’ll go away and let you do your job, but just promise me you won’t let anything happen to Larry while-”
But he cut me off, shoving my head down in his lap.
“Um, hello? Ever heard of foreplay?” I mumbled against his thigh.
“Shhhh. Someone’s coming.”
I shifted my body down to a crouching position on the floor mats as someone knocked on Ramirez’s window. I held my breath, trying to make myself as small as possible.
Ramirez cracked the window open. “Yeah?”
“There you are, Bruno.”
That artic freeze tickled my spinal column again as I recognized the voice. Monaldo.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Ramirez answered, doing an Oscarworthy impression of cool, casual Goon Number Two. Even though I could feel his leg muscles tense beneath my palms.
“What’s going on in there?” Monaldo asked.
I scrunched my eyes tight, my fingers digging into Ramirez’s thighs as I willed the bad man to just go away.
“Nothin’,” Ramirez answered in a lazy drawl. “I just had enough of the bawling, you know?”
Monaldo was silent for a moment. And I was on the verge of wetting my pants when he finally said, “Fine. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
I did an internal sigh of relief.
“You’re the boss,” Ramirez responded, then I heard the sweet sound of the window being rolled back up.
I let out a long breath as Ramirez helped me back up onto the seat.
“Those are some claws you’ve got.” He rubbed his leg where I could see the distinct impression of my fingernails in his slacks.
“Sorry,” I said, still shaking a monster case of the heebie jeebies off me.
“No problem. Just promise me you’ll file those things down before our next ‘normal conversation.’”
And with that, he opened the door and gave me a little push out of the car, punctuated by a swat on the bottom, before shutting the door again behind me.
Sadly, it was the most action I’d gotten in months.
I straightened up and smoothed out my blouse, wiping the carpet lint off my skirt as I scurried across the dirt road lest Monaldo catch a memory-jogging glimpse of me.
The painted ladies were still chatting graveside with the reverend, most still leaking from the eyes, though I noticed as they lifted their veils, they’d invested wisely in waterproof mascara. I spotted Marco standing under a tree chatting up Madonna from the club-resplendent in knee-length black lace, leather ankle boots, jelly bracelets up both arms, and crimped hair that added a full six inches to “her” height. (Sigh. Part of me, the part that barely makes the height requirements on the Six Flags rides, still yearned for the bighair days of the eighties.) Dana was off to the side of the group, chatting with the Crew Cut bouncer from the club. Okay, maybe “chatting” wasn’t the right word. Shamelessly flirting might better describe the poutylipped, jutty-chest thing she was doing. After his noninterest the other night, I’d say Dana was on a mission to prove the powers of a 36 double D aerobics queen.
Off to the side of the cemetery were a few mourners in pairs, talking quietly, consoling each other, some stopping to smell the fragrant bouquets of flowers flanking the grave site. I watched as one mourner leaned down to sniff a gardenia, her hat tilting ever so slightly forward on her head to reveal a hint of red hair beneath.
I froze. Larry.
My instinct was to sprint the short distance between us, but I didn’t want to scare him off. I already knew he could outrun me. Instead, I casually strolled across the lawn, adrenaline pumping through my veins with every step. I clenched my teeth together to keep from calling out his name as the closer I got the more sure I was it was him. The same tall frame, same slightly paunchy middle, and the same impossible shade of red hair, just barely visible beneath the long opaque veil covering his face.
I was a mere three steps away when a light flashed from the trees to my right. Larry saw it too, quickly straightening up like a deer in the headlights. The flash went off again.
Larry looked up, our eyes connecting for one brief second before he took off like a shot, disappearing behind a stone mausoleum.
“Wait!” I called, dashing after him. I rounded the stone building and saw a flash of black take the corner, flying through a grove of trees down to the road where the line of waiting cars sat. “Please!” I pleaded. I hated how desperate I sounded. I tried to tell myself it was for Larry’s safety but part of me just wished my father would quit darting in the opposite direction whenever he saw me. It was enough to give a girl a complex.
Instead of following him into the grove of trees, I cut across the lawn, taking a more direct route to the cars. I was almost to the road when another flash of light went off, this time so close it momentarily blinded me.
“Uhn.” I did a perfect ten-point face plant into the grass, my torso skidding like I was on a Slip ‘n’ Slide as my hands splayed out in front of me.
I heard a car engine turn over and regained my fuzzy vision just in time to see a beat-up Volvo pulling down the road.
Damn! I pounded one fist on the ground.
Then I saw that flash of light behind me again. I twisted around on the ground and looked up to find a pair of blue eyes smirking at me.
Felix.
“A bit out of shape, aren’t we, love?” he asked. He was dressed in the same rumpled khaki, today paired with a blue striped button-down, open at the neck as he casually leaned against a tree, his camera dangling from one hand. Though, I was satisfied to see, his blue eyes were rimmed in purple today, a white bandage taped across his nose.
“You!” I said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I should have known.” I stood up, trying in vain to wipe the grass off of me. I had a nice green skid mark down the front of my once-white shirt and a deep scratch punctuated the leather skirt, spanning from my hips all the way down to the hem.
“You all right, love?” Felix asked. Though I noticed he didn’t stop clicking that damn camera.
“I’m fine,” I said, blinking away the little points of light dancing across my vision. “No thanks to you.”
“Now, now. Don’t blame it all on me. You’re the one tottering about in those ridiculous shoes.”
I sucked in a shocked breath. “Ridiculous? I’ll have you know these are Roberto Cavalli, Italian calfskin pumps worth more than your monthly salary, pal. These are not ridiculous. They’re fabulous,” I said, with as much dignity as a woman in a ruined skirt and a grass-stained blouse could muster.
His eyes roved down to my feet. “They don’t look very fabulous to me.”
I looked down. He was right. One sad little heel was jutting out at an unhealthy angle. “Noooo!” I wailed. This day just kept getting better and better. I stood up and took my shoe off, inspecting the damage. There was a slim possibility it could be repaired by a professional, but it would require major surgery.
I was just contemplating whether my MasterCard had enough room on it for a replacement pair when Felix took a picture of the poor damaged victim.
“No pictures of my shoes!” I yelled.
“Shhhh,” Felix said, putting a finger to his lips. “Your boyfriend might hear us.” He gestured to “Bruno,” now lounging against the side of the Lincoln.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I argued. Which was, sadly, only too true. We couldn’t even have a conversation together, let alone a relationship.
“No? Because I could have sworn I saw you two making a little time in the back of that Lincoln there.”
Damn. This guy didn’t miss a thing.
“We weren’t making time. We were…” Arguing about reporters? Discussing an ongoing investigation? “I mean, he was…” Undercover? Ordering me back home? “Well, I was kind of…” Hiding from a mobster with my head in his lap?
Felix raised one eyebrow. “Indeed.”
“Look, it’s not important.”
“It’s not?”
“No. He’s nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“Nobody.”
“You routinely hop into the backseat with nobodies?” he asked.
“No! Look, maybe I kind of know him, but not like that. Not like you’re thinking. He’s not…and we’re not…and there’s nothing going on. I mean, we haven’t done anything. I haven’t done anything in months. So long that I’m three weeks overdue with Joanie Loves Chachi and at this rate Blockbuster’s going to make me pay for a new one.”
Felix raised the other eyebrow. “Indeed.” Then he snapped another picture of me.
“I swear to god if you take one more picture of me, I’m going to kill you.”
He grinned, showing off his slightly crooked teeth. “Can I quote you on that, love?”
I felt my left eye starting to twitch. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then counted to ten again. I was pretty sure that strangling him with his own camera strap would be bad funeral etiquette.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked instead.
Felix shrugged. “Paying my respects.”
“You didn’t even know Hank!”
“Did you?” he asked, leaning in.
I narrowed my eyes. “Oh no. No. You’re not getting a story out of me, pal.”
“Too late.” He grinned. Then shot another picture.
“Stop that!” I yelled, waving away the little flying specks of light. “I’m going to go blind.”
He cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes as he stared at me. “You’ve got a little something…” He trailed off, pointing to his upper lip.
“Yes, I know! I’m growing a mustache. Okay? So freaking what? You want to make a story out of that? Oh I know, how about calling me the hairy yeti woman of Los Angeles, that oughta sell copies for you. Hey, maybe you’ll even be up for a Pulitzer. Go ahead, take a picture of me with my big fat hairy lip. I dare you.”
Felix’s lips quivered, threatening to explode into full-blown laughter any second.
“Uh, actually, I think it’s grass.”
“Huh?” I put my hand to my lip. Sure enough, I came away with three little blades of green grass. Mental forehead smack.
“Oh.”
The laughter broke free, and Felix shook with it, his entire body spasming as he clicked away, taking a series of pictures he’d have to caption, “Woman dies of embarrassment-police investigating the role of lip hair in her untimely demise.”
Before I could make any more of a fool of myself in front of the press, I turned and hobbled over to where Marco was chatting up his Material Girl.
“I have to go,” I whispered. “Now!”
I waited while Marco and Madonna exchanged phone numbers, hugs, jelly bracelets, and a series of air kisses, then dragged him and Dana back to the Mustang where we all piled in. (Me behind the wheel this time as I still had an indentation of cardboard Elvis’s microphone on my tush.) I pulled the car back onto the main road and out to the 15. True to my word, we were leaving Vegas. But…I had one quick little stop to make first. The Regis Salon. I had a four-thirty lip waxing and after the embarrassing monologue I’d given Tabloid Boy about my yeti lip, there was no way I was going to miss it this time. I glanced down at my watch. 4:22. I eased the gas pedal just a little farther down, zipping by a sports car in the left lane.
“Slow down,” Marco whined. “Dahling, this car is a classic. She’s not a dragster.”
I ignored him, passing a pickup on the right. It may be a classic, but I was on a mission.
“Seriously, Maddie, slow down. Elvis keeps falling in my lap,” Dana whined from the backseat.
Nothing doing. We were two exits from the Strip with a minute and a half to spare. I could make it this time. The next time Ramirez pulled one of his surprise lip-locks, I was going to be smooth as a baby’s behind.
Then the unthinkable happened. Blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror.
Marco turned around. “Uh oh.”
“Uh oh” was right. I spun my head around. “Shit!” A police car was glued to my bumper. He turned on his siren and motioned for me to pull over.
“I told you to slow down,” Macro said.
I gave him the death look as I eased the car over to the right shoulder.
The police car parked behind me. I looked at my watch. 4:29. Shit, shit, shit!
The highway patrolman motioned for Marco to roll down the passenger-side window. He was in his late thirties with a pronounced midsection and wore mirrored aviator glasses and a little brown Magnum P.I. mustache. He placed his hands on his hips and popped a piece of gum between his teeth. “License and registration, ma’am.”
Marco opened the glove box and fished around for the registration while I searched my purse for my driver’s license.
“I’m sorry, was I going too fast?” I asked, batting my eyelashes at him.
“License and registration,” he repeated. Clearly he was not into the flirtatious blonde routine. Damn. In L.A. that shtick killed.
Marco finally found the registration and handed it over to the officer. I was still searching.
“Look, maybe I was going just a teeny tiny bit too fast, but I had a really, really good reason. See, I’m late for an appointment and I can’t miss it this time.”
I looked up. No sympathy at all.
“I mean, it’s very important,” I said, still rummaging through my purse as I pleaded my case. “I have a waxing I’m late for. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had one, but they’re essential to preventing a mustache.”
Officer Magnum twitched his upper lip and did a little grunt.
“Oh! I mean, not that some people might not want a mustache. Mustaches can be wonderful. You for instance look stunning in one. Very hip. Right, Marco?”
Marco nodded. “Right.”
“See, on you it looks fantastic. But on a woman, well, not the same effect. Women have to wax. Take your mother, for instance. I’m sure she waxes all the time.”
He clenched his jaw and gave me a hard stare.
“Not, of course, that your mother needs to wax. I mean, I’m sure she’s not at all hairy. She’s probably a very hairless woman in fact. I mean, not totally hairless because then she’d be bald which wouldn’t be very attractive either. Which I’m sure your mother is. Attractive that is, not bald.”
Officer Magnum took off his mirrored glasses and narrowed his eyes at me. “Li-cense and reg-is-tra-tion,” he said, sharply enunciating each syllable.
“Right.” I dumped the contents of my purse onto my lap. Bingo. My license fell out and I handed it to him.
“Hairless mother?” Dana asked, poking me from behind as the officer walked back to his car with my ID.
“What?” I shrugged. “I was nervous.”
Marco just shook his head at me.
I looked down at my watch, watching the digital numbers tick by. 4:32. 4:33. “Come on, come on, come on,” I chanted. If he would just write me the dang ticket already, there was still a chance I could make it to the salon before the next appointment.
Finally Officer Magnum got out of his squad car again. He put his shades back on and made purposeful strides to the driver’s side window, one hand on his utility belt.
“Ma’am, I need you to get out of the car.”
Marco and I looked at each other. Huh?
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“Ma’am, please step out of the vehicle.” His hand hovered over his revolver.
“Look, I’m sorry for the crack about your mother. I’m sure she’s a very lovely person. Really. Just the appropriate amount of hair.”
“Ma’am, please don’t make me ask you again.”
“Maddie,” Marco whispered. “I think he’s serious. You better do it.”
I bit my lip, feeling my heart sink down to the tip of my toes as I realized I might never see the end of this upper lip dust. I slowly opened the driver’s side door and stepped out.
“Look, officer, I’m sure that whatever this is about-”
But before I could finish, Officer Magnum had my arms twisted behind my back and was clicking a pair of handcuffs on my wrists.
“Hey!”
“Hey!” Marco and Dana echoed in unison from the car.
“What’s going on here?” Dana demanded.
“Madison Springer,” the officer recited as he clicked the second cuff on my wrist. “You’re under arrest.”
“Under arrest! For speeding?” I asked, my voice going into mezzo-soprano range.
Officer Magnum spun me around to face him, his mirrored glasses reflecting the look of fear and confusion on my face.
“No. You’re under arrest,” he repeated, “for the murder of Bob Hostetler.”