Hell on Heels

by Carla Cassidy

  Back at home, she headed for the master bath and changed into her favorite silk pajamas. Sam, who was curled up in the middle of her bed, glared at her balefully as she stepped into the room.

  As she approached the bed he hissed and dove for the doorway, then disappeared down the hallway to an unknown destination. Just her luck, the one and only male she’d allowed in her house and he had attitude.

  She slid beneath the sheets and grabbed the remote control from the nightstand. She was just in time to catch the ten o’clock news.

  She sat up as an attractive reporter announced that the Willowby jury had delivered a verdict late that afternoon. “Guilty,” the reporter exclaimed, as if personally pleased with the jury decision. “But the real news is that Jonathon Mathis, Willowby’s lawyer, was unable to produce his client for the verdict. Tonight a warrant has been issued for Marcus Willowby. Anyone with any information as to his whereabouts is asked to call the TIPS hotline.”

  Chantal lowered the volume of her television and picked up the phone receiver by her bed. She quickly punched in Big Joey’s number. Busy.

  She got out of bed and headed for her computer, sleep the last thing on her mind. Her conversation with Belinda played and replayed in her mind and the rich anger that had filled her then consumed her now.

  She hadn’t realized when she’d made the promise to Belinda that Willowby had already flown the coop. Chantal didn’t make promises easily and she never made promises she didn’t intend to keep.

  Because of her love for Belinda, because of what Willowby had done to her and to so many other helpless women, Chantal would use whatever means necessary to hunt him down and see that he faced the justice that he’d managed to escape for so many years.

  “Game on,” she murmured as her computer connected her to the Internet.

  Chapter 3

  Sleep deprivation made Chantal cranky, so did dieting, rude salespeople and non-returnable policies on anything, but lack of sleep was the worst. She was a nine-hour-a-night kind of woman and actually preferred ten to twelve whenever possible.

  It used to drive her mother crazy, Chantal sleeping away half a day. “Life is passing you by while you’re dreaming,” Katherine would say. For a while Chantal had tried to exist on six to eight hours of sleep a night, but within weeks she was back to her normal pattern.

  When she pulled into Big Joey’s the next morning she was definitely feeling the effects of a night with too little sleep and she was more than a little crabby.

  She’d spent most of the night printing off whatever she could find about Marcus Willowby’s life and trial. She had a feeling that somewhere in the ream of paperwork she’d printed off was a clue as to where he might run. All she had to do was find that clue.

  Her foul mood instantly intensified when she pulled into Big Joey’s parking lot and saw Luke Coleman standing outside the bail bonds building.

  As usual, Luke was dressed in a white T-shirt that displayed muscled biceps and worn jeans that hugged his slim hips and long legs.

  Despite the early-morning hour, dark whiskers covered his firm jaw, making her wonder if the man even owned a razor. The brilliant sun managed to pull highlights from his shiny, long, dark hair.

  As she got out of her car she felt his gaze on her, and, as always, a small knot of tension balled in the pit of her stomach. What was it about the man’s very presence on the earth that bothered her?

  She wondered what he was doing standing outside the building in air that was already far too hot for mid June.

  Maybe he’d been fired, she thought optimistically. Yeah, right, and maybe Paris Hilton would go to work for the Peace Corps.

  “We need to talk,” he said as she approached.

  “I can’t imagine what we’d have to talk about,” she replied with just the right amount of cool disdain in her voice. “Unless of course you feel the need to apologize for your behavior on Saturday night.”

  One corner of his mouth curved upward and his dark eyes lightened in obvious amusement. “Why should I apologize for saving your ass?”

  “You didn’t save my ass, you stole my collar.” She tried to keep her tone cool and calm even though she wasn’t in the mood for him, especially if he intended to gloat. “I’d staked out that bar for four nights to get Wesley Baker.”

  “You’re handcuff-challenged and you made a lot of mistakes,” he returned, “but that’s not what I need to discuss with you.”

  “And I told you we have nothing to discuss.” She walked past him and headed for the door.

  “Chantal, we need to talk.”

  She froze at the sound of her real name and whirled back around to face him in horror. “How do you know my real name?” She’d been so careful to make sure nobody here knew her as anything but Carol Worth. How long had he known her real identity? How in the devil had he found out?

  He stepped closer to her, close enough that she could smell the scent of minty soap and his spicy cologne. That’s one thing she’d noticed about him, no matter how disreputable he looked, he always smelled clean and good.

  “I knew who you were the day after you started working for Joey. I make it my business to know the kind of people I work with.”

  “I don’t work with you and you need to forget anything you think you know about me.” She wasn’t sure why, but the idea that Crazy Luke Coleman knew her real identity made her feel vulnerable.

  “Don’t worry, your little secret is safe with me. I’m not worried about where you live or what’s in your bank account. I’m more worried about the fact that according to my sources you now have a price on your head.”

  “What are you talking about?” How she wished she’d gotten more than three hours sleep the night before. How she wished she’d taken the time to put on mascara before leaving the house that morning. The utter irrationality of this thought let her know she was beyond sleep-deprived. She was positively delusional.

  “Remember Perry Mundy?”

  “Of course,” she replied. Perry Mundy was a two-bit dope-dealing punk who had skipped bail and taken to the streets. Chantal had brought him in and she’d heard that only a week earlier he’d been sentenced to five years in prison. “What about him?”

  “My street sources tell me he’s put out the word that he wants you dead and he’s willing to pay for the job. I’d say the best thing for you to do is to take a little vacation, get out of town until Mundy cools off and calls off his dogs.”

  She stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and horror. A price on her head? Was that possible? Disbelief quickly won over horror.

  “What’s the matter, Coleman? Can’t handle a little competition?”

  He frowned, eyes narrowed to mere dark slits. “What are you talking about?”

  She shrugged. “I just find it interesting that yesterday Marcus Willowby jumped bail and this morning you’re telling me to take a vacation because some punk has put out a hit on me. The timing is just a tad suspicious to me.”

  Once again she turned to go inside, but squeaked in surprise as he grabbed her by the upper arm and spun her around to face him once again.

  Her heart thumped wildly as his gaze bored into hers. All trace of amusement had fled from his black eyes and his mouth was nothing more than a grim slash. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “This isn’t one of your little society soirees, this is a very real threat that you’d better take seriously.”

  She jerked away from his grip and stumbled two steps backward. “Fine. You’ve delivered the information. I’ll take it under consideration.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t stop her from going inside. It took her only ten minutes to find out that Big Joey knew nothing more about Willowby’s disappearance than she’d managed to glean from the news.

  However, there was an intensity vibrating in the air inside the office. Big Joey had put up the bond for Willowby and he was beside himself with rage. When Big Joey wasn’t happy, nobody in the office was happy.


  When she discovered he didn’t have any information that she could use to find Willowby, she left, realizing she was going to have to use every resource at her disposal in an attempt to figure out where he might be.

  Chantal was glad Coleman was nowhere to be seen when she left the office. She got back in her car and headed home. As she drove, she thought of what Luke had told her about the price on her head.

  As dope dealers went, Perry Mundy had been small change, but he’d considered himself a bad-ass gangsta and had surrounded himself with a couple of meatheads who he called his boys.

  She supposed it was possible Mundy had gotten word to his old friends on the street that he wanted her dead and was willing to pay for the pleasure. She just wasn’t sure she was willing to take Luke’s word on the situation.

  On impulse, instead of going directly home, she headed downtown. The smart thing to do was to check out the rumor and there was only one person she knew who might have heard this latest news about a threat to her life.

  Christopher Carson, Chubby Cheeks, lived on the streets near a homeless shelter in the blighted downtown district. Chantal had met him six months before when she’d been looking for a friend of his who had skipped out on bail.

  She’d discovered Chubby to be an invaluable source of information about all kinds of things, in particular street crimes and people. He seemed to have his ear to the ground when it came to information.

  She drove slowly down Twelfth Street and pulled to the curb in front of the Italian Pizza Place. The business had changed locations years ago, but the sign still hung in the window of the abandoned building.

  Chubby sat in the alcove of the doorway and when he saw her familiar red sports car he stood, walked to the car and got in the passenger side.

  He was a big man of an indeterminable age, and he brought with him the smell of the streets, the odor of unwashed clothing and sweat and filth. “Been waiting for you,” he said as she pulled away from the curb.

  “You got something for me?” she asked.

  “You got a price on your head, baby girl.”

  So, Luke had told her the truth. For the first time a whisper of apprehension swept through her. “And what’s the price?”

  “Five thousand,” he replied.

  Five thousand? If she wasn’t so worried she’d be offended. “I spend more than that in a year on hair products.”

  “You ain’t careful you won’t be needing any hair goop,” Chubby said. “That punk-ass kid you put away seems to think he’s some sort of a godfather.”

  Chantal slowly digested this information. Still, even though it was disturbing, she had another case to think about as well. “You know anybody in the city who provides false identification and passports?” Willowby would probably need false identification if he intended to get out of the country.

  Chubby shook his head. “I know a guy works out of his car over on Grand, mostly does fake ID for kids. I don’t think he’s good enough to do passports or nothing like that.”

  Chantal rounded the block and pulled back up in front of his alcove. “You doing okay, Chubby?”

  “You know me. I get by.”

  She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him. “Get yourself a decent meal.” She gave him a twenty anytime she talked to him, whether he had information or not. She didn’t know whether he used the money to buy food or to purchase a bottle or two of cheap wine, which he told her he had a fondness for.

  He took the bill and flashed her a bright smile. “And you watch your back.” He got out of the car and disappeared back into the shadows of the doorway.

  Five thousand dollars was definitely insulting. But, whether the bounty was five or five hundred thousand dollars, dead was dead.

  She tried to tell herself that the young men who had been friends with Mundy didn’t have the intelligence to pull off a hit on her, but she knew that wasn’t true. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to point a gun and pull the trigger.

  The only comfort she could find in the entire situation was that they would be looking for Carol Worth. This was one of the reasons Chantal had decided to use a fake name in this line of work.

  Her mother was a wealthy woman all alone and Chantal’s main reason for not using her real name was to protect her mother from any form of revenge that might happen because of Chantal’s work.

  Chantal would be a fool not to take this threat seriously. She recognized that the first thing she needed to do was stay away from Big Joey’s, which wouldn’t be a problem since she intended to spend the bulk of her time hunting for Marcus Willowby. He certainly wasn’t going to be found at Big Joey’s Bail Bonds.

  A smug smile curved her lips. She had a feeling all of Luke’s contacts would be of no use to him when it came to locating Willowby. The “social soirees” he’d mentioned earlier would be her ticket to the information she needed.

  Willowby wasn’t a common criminal and he was a creature accustomed to certain comforts. He wouldn’t be found in a hole or a hovel. He wouldn’t take to the streets to evade capture. She would eventually talk to somebody, one of her social peers, who would have a clue as to Willowby’s whereabouts. All she had to do was identify who that peer might be.

  Harrah met her at the front door of Chantal’s house, notebook in hand. “Enrique called. He wants to go over the menu with you for Saturday night. Your mother called and wants you to call her. Belinda called and said they’re releasing her from the hospital around noon so she’s planning on being here by one or two at the latest.”

  Chantal had insisted that Belinda come stay with her for several days when she was released from the hospital. Chantal hadn’t wanted her friend to go home and be alone while she was so emotionally vulnerable.

  “Call Enrique back and tell him I trust him with the menu,” Chantal said as she walked through the living room toward her office. Harrah followed behind her and stopped in the doorway as Chantal sank down at her desk. “Then call Sarah Birmington and see if it’s too late for me to get a ticket to the fund-raiser tomorrow night.”

  Harrah raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d decided not to go.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Chantal replied. “It might be the perfect place for me to hear some snippet of news about Willowby. Would you check to see if my red Gaultier is back from the cleaners?” Chantal picked up the phone to call her mother while Harrah disappeared from the doorway.

  Her mother’s housekeeper, Edna, answered the phone and connected Chantal. “Darling,” Katherine said. “I called earlier to see if maybe you were free for lunch today.”

  “No way. I’ve got tons of work to do. You heard Willowby skipped out?”

  “I spoke with Rebecca this morning. The poor woman is beside herself. You know she absolutely dotes on that boy, both she and Roger do.”

  “Does she know where he might be? Is it possible she’d help him get away?”

  Katherine paused thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. She has certainly been eager for the trial to be over with and didn’t believe he was guilty of the charges, but I don’t think she’d encourage him to run. Rebecca isn’t that kind of a woman.”

  Chantal frowned. She wasn’t so sure. Rebecca’s devotion to her only son was legendary, which Chantal suspected was part of Marcus’s problem. He’d been spoiled and indulged from the moment he been born.

  Rumor had it that Roger and Rebecca had suffered infertility issues and that at the age of thirty-seven, Rebecca had finally gotten pregnant with Marcus. She and Roger had considered the boy a gift from God.

  “She’s distraught over the fact that reporters have camped out in front of her house,” Katherine continued.

  Chantal had suspected as much. The odds were minimal that Willowby had gone to his parents’ house. But the moment he’d missed his check-in, cops and reporters would have descended not only on his condo, but also his parents’ residence.

  “I’ve decided to go to the Folly Theater open house tomorrow evening,” C
hantal said. “Are you going?”

  “Yes, and I’m so pleased that you’re going. It seems lately the only time I see you is at a social event.”

  “Do you have an escort?” Sometimes Katherine talked Jeffrey Barnes into attending functions with her.

  “No, I’d planned to go alone.”

  “Why don’t we go together? I can pick you up,” Chantal offered.

  “That would be lovely,” Katherine exclaimed, her pleasure obvious. “It will be a girls’ night out.”

  “Why don’t I plan on picking you up at seven?”

  With arrangements made for the next evening, Chantal logged on to the Internet and checked for any updates on the Willowby case.

  “If I were a convicted rapist and had money and connections, where would I run? Where would I hide?” she muttered aloud.

  Somehow, someway, she needed to get into Willowby’s head. She needed to find out what made him tick, his thoughts, his fears, his friends and his fantasies.

  She had a feeling that if she succeeded and did manage to get into his head, it would be an ugly, perverted place to be.

  Chantal stood in front of her dresser mirror, giving herself one last look before leaving to pick up her mother. Chantal had never had any illusions about her physical appearance.

  She was average height and average weight. Her shoulder-length hair was a medium blond, not ash or wheat, and her eyes were a simple blue, not azure or sapphire.

  Her features were regular and she’d long ago accepted the fact that she would always be average. Average wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she supposed. She never had to worry about being particularly memorable.

  The fire-engine-red Jean Paul Gaultier gown, with its plunging neckline and cut-out shoulders definitely made her figure look better than average. Harrah had provided her jewelry, a dazzling pair of gold earrings and a necklace to match.

  She turned from the mirror to look at Belinda, who was sprawled on her bed with a drink in her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”