The Corpse Wore Stilettos

by MJ O'Neill

  “What if things get rough?” Burns asked.

  “Sasha’s got that one,” I said.

  “A few drops of this into their drinks”—she held up a vial—“and they’ll be out like lights before we finish with the first dance.”

  “And we’ve always got you.” I patted his chest.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and went quiet. His eyes went smoky. Calculating. “You know how to use that thing?” He pointed at Sheila’s gun.

  “Yes, sir. Two tours in Iraq,” Sheila answered.

  He took my arm in his hands and squared so our eyes met. “All right. But you’re going in wired, and I want to know what’s going on every step.”

  “Sugar, you can be in any place of mine you want,” Carmen said.

  “If I get even a twitch that things are off plan, we’re coming in.”

  “Of course.” I stretched up on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

  Jen and Sasha took over, preparing me. Before I knew it, the golden locks of a long, curly-haired wig flowed down my back. They had squeezed me into a tight sailor’s halter that tied under my boobs. A fake crystal was glued to the side of my belly button just above my matching blue sailor’s skirt. I tugged on red platform boots. If Mom thought the morgue was bad, she should see me now. At least if we made the papers, no one would recognize me.

  “Sailor Moon got an older crime-fighting sister,” Neutron said when I emerged. “Not even Winston will be able to tell it’s you.”

  “I like this even more than the feathers.” A big, wide smile filled Burns’s face. It was the first time he’d smiled since getting out of the SUV. In fact, it was one of the first times I’d seen that much pleasure in him since we’d met. It suited him. He came close and tugged on the bow in front of my cleavage.

  “You can’t look at me like that,” I whispered. “I’ll never get through this.”

  “It’s not exactly easy on this side,” he said.

  Neutron wired Sheila and me. We were the only ones wearing enough clothing to disguise the wiring. He did his techie ninja thing and popped the gate. Like a bad car caravan, we headed to where DC had said the Murmansk was supposed to be. We found his Lincoln parked in the adjacent lot.

  “I think I’m getting seasick. Hurry,” DC’s text read.

  The Murmansk was a beast. More like a mini yacht and probably the largest boat on the lake. The shiny white hull stood in contrast to the dark-tinted windows. A few lights illuminated the deck.

  We all climbed aboard. A husky guard stood in front of the door that led below deck.

  “Let me do the talking,” Sasha said.

  When he saw us, the guard came to attention.

  “Hey there, sweetheart,” Sasha said. “Is this the poker game?”

  “Who are you?” he asked in a thick Russian accent. He looked nervous, shifting his weight, but he hadn’t pulled a gun.

  I took that as a good sign.

  “What’s happening?” Burns asked into my ear.

  I ignored him.

  “This has to be the place.” Carmen draped herself around the guard. “None of the other boats here look like they can afford us.”

  “You can’t be here,” he said. He didn’t swat Carmen away, though.

  “Look, we’re already bought and paid for. I can’t go back and tell my boss we didn’t deliver,” Sasha said.

  “Don’t you want to have a good time, baby?” Carmen pulled the guard around the corner.

  “We’re in,” I said into the mic.

  The luxury of the yacht didn’t stop at the door. It looked like the entire inside had been custom designed. The black-and-white theme continued throughout, with white leather and Carrara marble everywhere. The men sat in the middle of the hull at a gorgeous black Armani custom table. Cards, chips, and drinks covered it.

  “What is this?” one of the men asked as we poured into the cabin.

  “Which one of you is Vlad?” Sasha asked. DC had texted me the name he had overheard. “I have a special birthday message just for Vlad.”

  For a moment, all the men at the table froze. Then, as if in slow motion, they looked at each other and then at us. I held my breath.

  Finally, a distinguished-looking man in a gray suit stood up. He pointed at the other men around the table. Then he smiled big. “Which one of you did this? My comrades love me,” he told Sasha. The dancers didn’t wait for anyone to change their mind. They engulfed the other Russians. Music quickly blared in the cabin.

  With the Russians well occupied, Sheila and I frantically looked for DC. Once we had him safe, I could look for Sam—and Stephanie’s body.

  “You’ve come to float my boat.” A short Russian with a mustache grabbed my skirt.

  I jumped at the touch and squealed when he pinched me. “Did you know the Egyptians created the first navy in 2300 BC?” I asked.

  He looked at me strangely.

  “Sweetie?” I added tentatively. “Sorry, I need a... pit stop. Can’t hold my liquor.”

  “Did someone put their hands on you?” Burns asked.

  It didn’t bother me that it bothered him. “Relax. It’s handled.”

  “Psst. Over here.” DC’s head popped out from in between the white leather cushions.

  “Quick, put this on.” Sheila pulled out the sparkly gown.

  “I am not wearing that,” DC said.

  “Oh no.” I spied Sam Winston emerging from a small room off the main cabin.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Burns asked.

  “It’s Sam.” He wore a white chef’s jacket and hat.

  He wasn’t working with them. He was cooking for them. “If you want to get out of here in one piece, put on the damn dress.” I shoved the dress into DC’s face.

  “No need to get persnickety.” He disappeared into the cushions.

  Sam looked around nervously. He pushed away one of the girls. I saw Sasha dosing the drinks and knew it wouldn’t be long before Russians started dropping.

  “A toast,” she said, raising the bottle after filling all the glasses. “What happens on the high seas stays on the high seas.”

  Sam didn’t have a glass. He would be the last man standing if we couldn’t get a drink in his hand.

  DC popped out of the couch, wearing the dress.

  “You look beautiful,” Sheila said.

  “I look like a fool. Get me out of here.”

  Sheila and I formed a semicircle around him and scooted toward the door.

  Sam stalked the room. He obviously knew something wasn’t right, and he wasn’t letting it go.

  “We’re halfway there,” I said as much to Burns as DC.

  A body dropped in front of me. Then another. When the third guy fell, the rest of them appeared to become alarmed.

  “What is going...” Vlad hit the floor next, quickly followed by the last two.

  “Everyone freeze or the girl gets it.” Sam had Sasha with a gun to her head.

  Sheila freaked, pulled the stashed gun from her holster, and pointed it at Sam. “Let her go!”

  The other strippers hit the floor.

  “We’re coming, Kat. Hold on,” Burns said into my ear.

  “Everyone needs to take a deep cleansing breath,” I said.

  “Someone needs to tell me what is going on here, or she and I are going to take a ride.”

  I pulled off my wig. “Sam, we aren’t here to hurt anyone.”

  “Kat? What the... DC? Is that you?”

  “Yes, but if you tell anyone I’m wearing this dress, I’ll let Sheila shoot you.”

  Burns and Flynn appeared in the doorway, guns drawn.

  “Let Sasha go, Sam. We’re just here to talk, I swear,” I said.

  Sam lowered his gun. Sasha ran to Sheila. Flynn helped Sheila get the rest of the strippers off the boat, leaving Burns, DC, and me alone with Sam.

  “Someone want to tell me what you’re doing here?” Sam asked.

  “We wanted to ask you the same thing,” DC said.


  “I’m working.”

  “For the Russian Mafia,” Burns said.

  “It’s not illegal to like good cooking.”

  “But it is illegal to chop up a dead body,” I said.

  “Dead body?” He looked surprised.

  “The missing morgue girl. The Russians took her. When you saw her picture today, you freaked,” DC said.

  “These Russians didn’t do anything. They’re into vodka and food. This was my tryout for their new restaurant.”

  “Tryout?” I asked.

  “I work at the morgue to pay for my culinary classes. I’m graduating.”

  “Still, when you saw the picture of Stephanie, the missing dead body, you disappeared,” I said.

  “Stephanie?” Burns turned his attention to me.

  “You’re right about the Russians. You just have the wrong ones. You want Chentinko.”

  I was happy Sam had started talking again. It gave me something to focus on besides Burns’s relentless glare.

  “I saw him meeting with that woman right before she turned up dead,” Sam said. “I didn’t want to get involved. It’s not my job to go poking my nose in other people’s troubles. Especially people I work with.”

  “People you work with?” I asked.

  “They were having a heated conversation with Dr. Jaffe.”

  Chapter 21

  “We should go see Jaffe,” I said. DC and I stood in the parking lot of the marina with Burns and his crew.

  Sheila had made sure all the ladies made it back to Roxy’s. We had left Sam working on making it look like the boat had succumbed to the hottest party ever. He would insist that he couldn’t believe the Russians didn’t remember what had happened—a handy side effect of Sasha’s drug—and remind them that they did have an awful lot to drink. Along with reminding them of their other epic antics that he was now constructing. That should have been enough to get him out of trouble.

  “We can’t just barge in on the Russians,” Flynn said.

  “No one’s barging, and we need to stay away from Chentinko until we know more. Jaffe knows something about Stephanie Jackson. And he didn’t kill her. He didn’t kill anyone.”

  Burns stood by the SUV, his hands in his pockets. I figured there was no point in wasting the outfit. I moved closer and ran my hands up his chest.

  “I’m not feeling comfortable having this discussion while looking like a reject from a Sailor Moon cartoon. Why doesn’t Flynn drive my car back to the McPhee garage, and I’ll ride with you and explain everything.”

  “Good idea. These sequins are causing me to chafe,” DC said. He pulled at the hemline of my gown.

  On the way to McPhee’s, I told Burns how I’d found out about Stephanie Jackson and my theory on Jaffe’s connection to her. He didn’t show any emotion. He didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he listened and, apparently, stewed.

  “Jaffe might know something that could help us. Really, unless you’re ready to storm Chentinko, it’s our only play.” I brushed my fingers through his floppy hair. Our eyes locked. His heart beat faster under my hand, but he didn’t move a muscle.

  “Uh, Boss.” Neutron’s voice cracked. “I got him. Jaffe’s at a nursing home.”

  “HOT DAMN!” GRAND SAID. “If I’m going investigating, I’m going to have to change. You should change too.” She tugged on my bow. “In that place, an outfit like that could cause a medical event with one of the residents.”

  If we were going to get to Jaffe at a nursing home, we needed backup. Nursing homes didn’t let just anyone near their old people. Burns wanted to argue, but after managing Grand these last six months, I’d earned a PhD in geriatric supervision.

  “I’ll have to find something to go with my hardcore Sherlock hat,” Grand said.

  Through some miracle of the gods, Grand had found a Sherlock Holmes detective kit at the thrift store when she and Mom had bought china for the lunch with Mrs. Scott. The kit included a brown gingham deerstalker cap, the kind that had a bill on each side. Master Tahkaswami would remind me there was no such thing as cosmic coincidence.

  “It’s brown. No one looks good in brown,” I said. “Use it as an accent and combine it with a blue or a green.”

  “Green makes me look like an elf,” Grand said.

  Considering everything we knew about Jaffe, I figured confronting him would be relatively low-risk. He had come unglued at both my mention of him being involved with Stephanie’s disappearance and at seeing her likeness on the cake. Maybe he was nervous enough to give up Chentinko in exchange for a way out of the mess he was tangled up in.

  Besides, our only other play would be to confront Chentinko. If we were going to do that, the more we armed ourselves with information, the better.

  JAFFE WAS AT THE NURSING home, visiting his grandmother. According to Neutron, it was a ritual he undertook every Friday. I knew I needed to look upscale if we were going to convince the tour guide at the home that we were serious about placing Grand there. That would be our cover, which meant I had put back on a power suit and accessorized with pearls.

  “Does this thing come with a stepladder?” Grand asked. She tried to jump up into the seat of the McPhee SUV. “Damn newfangled vehicles,” she said as Burns boosted her in.

  “I like your cape,” Grand said, scooting in next to DC. He had switched into his superhero costume in case we ran into Chentinko—or things with Jaffe went sideways.

  “I like your hat,” he replied.

  “It’s infusing me with the skills of a great detective.” She clutched her matching brown bag, which she’d filled with the rest of the Sherlock detective kit. “You’ll get wrinkles if you keep your face that way,” Grand said, sizing up Burns once we were rolling and I had made the introductions. “I like the other one better,” she told me.

  “What other one?” Burns asked.

  “The surfer-stud reporter who’s got the hots for us,” she said. “This one’s broody.”

  “Reid’s a hack,” he said.

  I smiled. Grand hadn’t known Burns five minutes and had somehow managed to poke him with the one thing guaranteed to irritate him.

  We pulled into the parking lot of Arbor Retreat Retirement Village. The home was a high-end monstrosity, much like the one Grand had been in. A circular driveway mirrored the semicircular configuration of the home. A lobby with a three-story arched atrium more appropriate for a luxury hotel was the centerpiece, with the residential units symmetrically spanning out from it.

  “Showtime,” I told Grand. “Remember, Burns and I are your grandchildren, looking to help you find bliss in your twilight years. Jaffe’s grandmother is on the fourth floor, so we’ll have to figure out a way to get up there.” Ambrosia Rutledge lived in room 415.

  “I think I’m having PTSD flashbacks,” Grand said as we approached the entry.

  “Comm check,” Burns said into his mic.

  “Hey, Burns. Isn’t this terrific?” DC replied.

  “Sorry, Boss,” Neutron said.

  We’d left Flynn to fit the rest of us in the SUV. That meant DC was playing backup.

  “I feel the power,” DC said.

  “Well, helllloo there.” A redhead wearing too much makeup poked her head up from the reception desk. Her voice was two octaves higher than a normal person’s.

  To the side of the reception area was a common room. Several residents were hanging out, but there was no sign of Jaffe.

  “Hi there, gorgeous.” An extremely wrinkled man with oxygen tubing protruding from his nose wheeled up to us. Two tanks were mounted on the back of his chair.

  “Back off, Casanova. I’m spoken for,” Grand said.

  “Me too,” the man said. “Want to be naughty?” He winked.

  “George, what are the rules?” The redhead moved from around the counter and stepped between Grand and George. She was only slightly taller than Grand. She wore a navy suit and clutched a folder.

  “Gold digger,” George said to the redhead. “She jus
t wants your money, sexy. I’m all about the giving. Come see me.” He winked at Grand then rolled back into the common room.

  “It’s okay, honey. I’m used to it. I’m a magnet,” Grand told the redhead.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure you would make fast friends if you took up residence here at Heaven’s Gate. And who have you brought with you to help you make this important decision?”

  “What, you don’t think I can make decisions on my own?”

  “Hi, I’m Vicki,” I said, offering my hand. “And this is my husband, B... B...” I needed a fake name.

  “Barkley,” Grand said. “And they say I’m the one on the decline. Let’s get this show on the road.” Grand shuffled forward.

  Burns twitched his neck.

  “Yes, well, a pleasure to meet you. My name is Margret, and I’ll be your guide today.” She began her practiced script.

  We’d completed the tour of the dining room, rec room, chapel, garden, exercise complex, and treatment rooms and still hadn’t seen any sign of Jaffe.

  “Chickie, if I’m going to live here, I have to see a room on the fourth floor.” Grand laid it out.

  “I’m sorry. That’s a residential floor. We don’t open that for tours.”

  “I’m afraid my grandmother is very particular,” I said.

  “The fourth floor is my Frank’s and my lucky floor,” Grand said.

  “I see. I would love to accommodate you, but I’m sure you understand that we have our rules.”

  “Look, honey, what I understand is that we’re about to drop enough money on this place to support a small Guatemalan village. If I want to see a room on the fourth floor, I’m sure a bright woman like you will figure it out.”

  Margret blinked her fake eyelashes so fast I thought one of them might fly off and injure us. “Yes, well. Let me get some keys.” Margret disappeared back to the reception area.

  “Dang. Your granny is a force,” DC said.

  “Follow me,” Margret said. “Like the main floor, each of our residential floors has its own reading room.”

  “Here, stop here. I think I’m having a spell.” Grand had stopped in front of 415.

  “Oh my, should I call for a doctor?” Margret went white.