Hell on Heels

by Carla Cassidy

  None of her calls hit pay dirt. Each establishment told her there was nobody registered by that name. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t there, it just meant that he might be smarter than she’d given him credit for or he was staying someplace other than one of the hotels listed.

  At five-thirty she was back in her car driving toward Danny’s, a diner three blocks away from Big Joey’s. She felt relatively secure in the fact that she was driving a rental car nobody would recognize and the young men who were working for Mundy would probably be watching the bail bonds business for signs of her.

  If you were into low-carb, healthy food, Danny’s was not the place to eat. The moment you walked into the small diner your very skin seemed to absorb cholesterol and carbs.

  Monica hadn’t arrived yet when Chantal walked through the door. She chose a booth toward the back of the restaurant and sat facing the door so she could see when her friend approached. She flipped open the menu even though she knew she’d probably order what she often did when eating here.

  As she read the fare offered, her thoughts were still consumed with Willowby. It was possible he hadn’t used his real name but some variation thereof.

  It was a common occurrence among criminals. Jeffrey Davidson became David Jeffries or Jeff David. She knew Willowby’s full name was Marcus Maxim Willowby. He could be registered as Max Willow, Will Marcus or any number of variations. There was no question that the easiest way to know if he was in Tamillo was to go there and look for him.

  She knew from the Web sites that Tamillo wasn’t a huge place. She couldn’t imagine that Willowby would hole up in a hotel and never step outside. He’d like his creature comforts and that would include good food and nightlife.

  Harrah was right about one thing. She needed a plan. She figured once she saw that he was there, where he was staying and the circumstances, a plan would eventually unfold. Seat-of-the-pants planning, it was the only way she knew how to work.

  She closed the menu and looked up to see Monica fly through the door. Chantal guessed that Monica was somewhere between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five, but when it came to her energy level she was like a two-year-old on speed.

  She slid into the seat across from Chantal, tossed a folder on the table, picked up a menu and signaled the waitress all at the same time. “How you doing, girlfriend?”

  “Good. What about you?”

  “I’m thinking about killing Joey.” She smiled brightly at the waitress who appeared at their booth. “I’ll have a grilled chicken salad, dressing on the side and a diet cola.”

  “I’ll take the chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy and corn. Oh, and throw an extra one of those buttered rolls on,” Chantal said.

  Monica shook her head as the waitress departed. “I don’t know how you can eat like that and stay so slender.”

  “I only eat like that occasionally,” Chantal replied. “Trust me, I suffered through plenty of fat days when I was younger. When my best friend and I were in high school our weight was a constant battle. I think we tried every diet on the market.”

  Chantal tried not to think about the hateful, vile things Marcus had said to Belinda. Maybe that was the moment in time that Belinda had begun her anorexic eating habits.

  “Well, something worked. You look great.”

  “Thanks, now tell me why you’re ready to kill Joey.”

  Monica rolled her green eyes and shoved a strand of her bright red hair off her forehead. “Joey has been an ill-tempered monster ever since Willowby skipped out. I’ve never seen him like this. It’s not just about the money, although that’s bad enough. But, for some reason he’s taking this one personally.”

  “Why?

  Monica frowned thoughtfully. “You know, Joey has been in the business for a lot of years. He’s posted bonds for thousands of people, some of them wealthy, important people. He’s used to being stiffed by the common riffraff, but until Willowby he’d never been stiffed by one of his wealthy, influential clients.”

  She picked up her fork and twirled it on the table as if to vent some of her manic energy. “I think Joey’s pissed because he believed that people who had money and influence also had honor and this has proven how wrong he was.”

  “There’s certainly no honor in what Willowby did to those women,” Chantal replied.

  The two women fell silent for a moment as the waitress reappeared with their meals. “I met him, you know,” Monica said when the waitress had left once again. “I went with Joey to get the paperwork signed.” Monica stabbed at a carrot in her salad. “I’ve got to tell you, that man is one of the most handsome I’ve ever seen, but he gave me the creeps.”

  “Was it something he said? Something he did that made you feel like that?” Chantal asked with interest.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it was because I knew what he’d been charged with, but there was something in his eyes, a cold, calculating shine that totally creeped me out.” Monica shivered.

  “He raped one of my best friends years ago.” Chantal’s heart squeezed at thoughts of Belinda. “He didn’t drug her. He raped her in the bathroom at a party.”

  “She didn’t report it?”

  Chantal shook her head. “I tried to talk her into reporting it, but she was too scared.” Again anger edged through her as she thought of everything Belinda had told her.

  Monica sighed. “Most people don’t understand the trauma of rape, the aftermath is often just as terrible as the act itself.”

  Chantal thought of Belinda popping pills and guzzling booze, taking chances by being promiscuous and playing roulette with her health with her eating habits. Monica was right. Belinda had lived through the rape, but without an angel or two watching over her she wouldn’t survive the aftermath.

  As the two women ate, their conversation flowed easily. Monica talked about her twenty-three-year-old son who had just joined the police force and they talked about the bail bonds business in general.

  “Enough about business, tell me about your love life because I’m sure not having any fun with mine,” Monica said. “The last time I had sex a Democrat was in the White House.”

  Chantal laughed. “Love life? What’s that?”

  “Damn, I thought maybe I could live vicariously through you.”

  “Not when it comes to men.” Chantal raked her fork through the mound of mashed potatoes on her plate. “I can’t even remember the last time I had a warm, hard body next to me. I’ve been so focused on work.”

  “Speaking of work.” Monica checked her watch and grimaced. “I’d love to sit around and chew the fat, but I’ve got to get back.”

  She forked the last bite of salad into her mouth and motioned the waitress to bring her check. She motioned to the folder on the table. “That’s copies of anything I thought might be of interest to you that’s come in during the last week.”

  “Thanks, Monica. I appreciate it.”

  Monica grabbed a twenty from her purse, wiggled her fingers in a goodbye, then walked toward the cash register right inside the restaurant entrance.

  There was no way Chantal was leaving until she’d eaten every bite of the fattening food on her plate. She rarely indulged herself so, but when she did she enjoyed it.

  As she ate she opened the folder Monica had brought and flipped through the pages inside. Several mug shots with accompanying information about the latest bail jumpers. A robbery suspect, a flasher, but nothing concerning the Willowby case.

  She’d just finished eating and had signaled the waitress for her check when the door to the diner burst open. Two men wearing ski masks stepped inside. Chantal didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to realize she was in deep shit.

  She grabbed her purse and dove to the floor.

  Chapter 6

  There was a moment of silence, then all hell broke loose. Several people screamed, dishes crashed to the floor and in the melee Chantal grabbed her gun from her purse and slithered on the floor across the aisle to the booth on the
opposite side of the restaurant. It was an act of pure survival based on nothing more than instinct.

  “Maple syrup on pancakes…Sex and the City reruns…books that make me cry…” she muttered under her breath as she flipped the safety off her gun.

  A shot rang out followed by more screams and the meal she’d just consumed threatened to come up. She’d never had a reason to pull her gun before this moment, had never really contemplated whether she could aim and fire at another human being.

  She didn’t need to contemplate it now. As another shot rang out she knew if she could, she’d have no problem taking down the gunmen. Were they here to rob the place? If so, she hoped they grabbed the cash from the register and ran before somebody got hurt.

  With her gun gripped firmly in her hand and adrenaline pumping wildly, she peeked her head around the base of the booth.

  Two more shots rang out, the bullets slamming into the booth where she had just been sitting enjoying her meal. The acrid scent of gunsmoke filled the air.

  Her blood iced as she recognized that these men weren’t interested in robbing the establishment. If they had only been interested in robbery they’d have already reached for the cash register and been gone.

  The red leather of the booth where she had been sitting now sported bullet holes with foam stuffing showing through. No, these men weren’t here for money—They were here for her.

  As they fired several more times at the booth across the aisle, she also realized they didn’t know she’d changed positions.

  She pressed herself against the floor, considering her options. She knew the minute she returned fire they’d realize she was no longer where they thought she was. But, if she didn’t do something fast, somebody was going to get seriously hurt.

  “Get down! Stay down!” A male voice shouted.

  “Help us, Jesus,” a woman cried.

  Chantal couldn’t wait for the cops to arrive or for divine intervention. Once again she peeked around the corner, this time with her gun leading the way.

  One of the masked men stood in the aisle between the booths. Beneath the ski mask his eyes looked wild as he waved his gun first in one direction, then another. He was a perfect target.

  She drew a breath, aimed and fired. He screamed and dropped his gun, grabbing his bloody thigh as he fell to the floor.

  She flattened herself on the floor as bullets ripped through the booth. Above the gunshots and screams she heard the faint sound of an approaching siren.

  But the cops couldn’t get here fast enough to stop the second gunman. He screamed obscenities and fired again, one of the bullets ripping into the wood base less than an inch from her head.

  “Put down your weapon,” a deep, familiar voice yelled from the back of the restaurant.

  “Screw you!” the gunman screamed and fired again.

  Luke returned fire from his position behind Chantal. Chantal looked around the corner of the booth once again and saw several police cars squeal to a halt out on the street. Right behind them was a news van.

  “Throw your gun down, because if the cops don’t kill you, she will,” Luke said.

  With a sob of outrage, the gunman looked around frantically, then threw down his gun. Chantal stood and Luke was instantly by her side.

  “If you don’t want the entire city to know what Ms. Worthington does in her spare time, I suggest you go out the back door and get the hell out of here,” he said quietly.

  She didn’t wait to be told twice. As police stormed through the front door, Chantal raced through the back. The kitchen help were huddled together in a corner, their faces frozen in various expressions of terror.

  “It’s all right now. The police are here,” she said to them as she flew out the back door. Her car was parked out front and there was no way she was going back for it. Instead she ran as fast as her legs would carry her to the next block.

  She ran until she could run no further, then stopped to catch her breath, pulled her cell phone from her purse and called for a taxi.

  It wasn’t until she was in the back of the taxi taking her home that she allowed herself to think and to process what had just occurred.

  That had been close…too close. Once again she recognized that she’d made a mistake, underestimated the men who wanted her dead.

  Damn it, it was bad enough she’d put herself at risk, but it was unforgivable that she’d put innocent people in danger. She hoped, prayed that nobody had gotten hurt. It had been impossible to know in the chaos.

  She would have never guessed there would be a time when she’d be glad to hear Luke Coleman’s voice, be grateful for his presence. While she’d been confident she could have handled the situation, without his help she would right now be talking to police and reporters.

  Her life would get considerably more complicated if reporters had gotten hold of the information that socialite Chantal Worthington moonlighted as Carol Worth, bounty hunter. It would make a wonderful human-interest story and would destroy not only her credibility but her ability to sneak up on bail jumpers.

  She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes as the adrenaline that had pumped through her slowly began to ebb away.

  Maybe it was a good thing she was leaving tomorrow on the trip to Mexico. Some time and distance from the problem might give her a reasonable solution where Mundy and his death threat was concerned.

  She prayed nobody had gotten hurt or killed at Danny’s, and until the price on her head was resolved she’d take care to make sure she didn’t do anything or go anywhere that might put others at risk.

  The moment she entered her house, she went directly to the television and turned it on, seeking news of the gun battle that had taken place at the diner.

  She channel-surfed, finally seeing a breaking news flash. “This just in,” a male reporter said. “A shooting at a local diner. Details are sketchy at this time, but at approximately six-thirty this evening two gunmen entered Danny’s Diner on Grand Avenue and began shooting. It’s unclear at this time if it was an attempted robbery or something else. Both suspects are in custody. One is being treated at an area hospital for a gunshot wound to the leg.”

  As regular programming resumed, she shut off the television and went into the kitchen. She needed a drink and she wasn’t even considering coffee or tea.

  She fixed herself a gin and tonic with a double lime twist, then carried the drink out on her back porch and sipped it as she watched a group of golfers scrambling to finish their round before night crept in.

  The sight of normal life going on reassured her after the scene she’d just left. The scent of gunsmoke left her senses, being replaced by the smell of green grass and summer flowers.

  Definitely time to get out of Dodge for a while, she thought. Maybe by the time she returned from Mexico Mundy’s thugs either would have killed each other or all been arrested. And if that didn’t happen she was going to have to figure something out, because she was not going to be ruled by a little creep and his power play.

  She didn’t realize she’d been expecting him until she heard the doorbell. She carried her drink with her to the front door.

  “You okay?” Luke asked as he strode past her and into the entry. He turned to face her, his eyes as dark, as fathomless as she’d ever seen them.

  “Fine. Was anyone hurt?” Although the news report hadn’t indicated injuries to anyone other than the gunman, she held her breath as she waited for his reply.

  He smiled then, that slow lazy grin that caused a slight burn to begin in the very pit of her stomach. “You mean other than the one you got with a perfectly well-executed shot?”

  His backhanded compliment sent a ridiculous wave of pleasure through her. She nodded. “Nobody else was shot?”

  “No. You got another one of those?” He gestured to the drink in her hand.

  “Yeah, come on in.” Under normal circumstances she never would have invited him in or offered him a drink, but these weren’t normal circumstances an
d she figured she owed him a drink, at the very least.

  He followed her through the living room and into the kitchen where he sat on one of the stools at the counter while she got out the gin and tonic to fix his drink.

  As always, he seemed to command the space around him and brought with him a frenetic energy that pulsed in the air. He was dressed as usual in a pair of worn jeans and a T-shirt. Although his facial expression appeared relaxed, his eyes held a dark intensity that unsettled her.

  “You know you could have been killed in there,” he said.

  By nature Chantal was not a woman who blushed easily, but she felt the warmth that colored her cheeks. It wasn’t a blush of embarrassment but rather one of guilt.

  “I know, but more importantly, innocent people could have been killed.” She set the drink in front of him and pulled up a stool across from him.

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “I figured you’d tell me you had it all under control and that I just got in your way.”

  “You didn’t get in my way. If you hadn’t been there I’d still be there probably fighting off reporters. Besides, I’m not stupid enough to think that in a situation like that anyone is in complete control.”

  She raised her glass to take a drink and tried to ignore the tension that coiled in her stomach, tension that was always present when he was near.

  The bite of the gin tingled in her mouth and warmed her stomach, relaxing some of the taut tension. “I’m guessing it was some of Mundy’s boys?”

  Luke nodded. “Two of his lieutenants in his little army of lowlifes.”

  “The one I shot? He’s going to be all right?”

  “He’ll survive.”

  “I wonder how they knew I’d be in the diner? I’m not driving my own car.”

  “You made a mistake,” he said, his smile gone. “You reverted to habit by going to Danny’s. It’s possible they followed Monica and saw you there. You only get so many mistakes in this business, and then you get dead.”

  She frowned at his words, wishing she had the ammunition to protest, but she didn’t. She knew he was right. “How did you know I was there?”