“I’ll say. And anyway, even if you see the guy who killed the Elvis on your van, there’s no guarantee he’s the same guy who killed the Elvis on the other bus.”
“That may be true, but there’s got to be a connection. Two dead Elvises in two days? Say, do you know if the plural of Elvis is Elvises, or Elvi?”
Cami gave her a skeptical look. “You’ve really lost your mind, haven’t you. I think it started back in May, but now you’re past help.”
“We’ve already discussed this. My insanity began at puberty. I’ve just refined it.”
“Bobby’s right. You’re dangerous. I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming here with you. Where’s Yogi? And how soon do we get to leave?”
“Don’t listen to anything Bobby says about me. Yogi and Diva are here somewhere. I said we’d meet them at the bar when it’s over. Have I told you how good you look tonight? Your diet has really paid off.”
“Atkins was right. Low-carb works. I’m a size four, but I’d kill for a loaf of French bread or a box of Krispy Kremes. Maybe that’s what set off the guy who’s killing Elvises. A case of Diet Derangement.”
“No excuse. There aren’t any carbs in gin or vodka.”
“Good point. I’m headed for the bar. You’ll find me with a Diet 7-Up and Absolut.”
“Good thing I’m driving,” Harley called as Cami walked away. She really did look great, but almost too skinny. That’s what fooling around with a man did for women. Turned them into sticks or cat ladies. Harley wasn’t sure which one she qualified for, probably both. Her jeans had gotten loose and now she slept with a cat every night. Things were not looking up.
Not that she didn’t look nice tonight. She’d worn a thin-strapped top with a low neckline edged with a broad band of glittery embroidery, a new short, flared purple skirt, and sandals with heels. She almost never wore skirts, much less heels, but she had tonight. And she’d blown her hair dry instead of gelling it into spikes, so it feathered around her face in wispy strands. It was a disguise. Her own parents wouldn’t recognize her. Cami’s mouth had dropped open when she’d seen her.
“I forgot you could look like that,” she’d exclaimed, and Harley had told her to shut up and never mention it again. Cami had just laughed.
Harley got a Coke and wandered around the crowded room, peering at Elvises over the top of her glass, looking as nonchalant as possible. On the bandstand, different impersonators sang their hearts out, songs ranging from early Elvis to gospel. Some were really good, and some were ludicrous. Now she understood Yogi’s determination not to mar the memory of his favorite performer. A really fat Elvis with a bad wig attempted to reenact one of the Las Vegas shows, but split his pants when he went down to one knee. Or maybe that was part of the impersonation.
She knew it wasn’t going to be as easy to recognize the guy from her van as she’d hoped. While dressed in different Elvis eras ranging from fifties to seventies, they all blended together, it seemed. Except for physical size, the faces were nearly indistinguishable, save for the black and Hispanic impersonators. This definitely wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe not even possible.
Leaning up against the wall, Harley watched the crowd. She didn’t see Cami. Maybe she had run off with an Elvis or taken Harley’s advice to find a one-night stand. The latter was not at all probable, and the first was impossible. Cami’s musical preferences drifted more toward the David Lee Roth, Jon Bon Jovi type. But she hadn’t been exposed as much to the eclectic music of Harley’s childhood.
The announcer at the mike said a familiar name that grabbed her attention, and Harley looked at the slightly raised stage against the far wall as he introduced her father. Yogi came on stage with a flourish, swirling his white jeweled cape in over-the-top Elvis imitation. He belted out a favorite hit, His Latest Flame, that brought a round of applause and seemed to impress the crowd. It was the best she’d ever heard him sing. The applause verified it.
Just as Yogi left the stage, someone grabbed her arm and said, “Don’t blow my cover.”
She’d been taking a drink of her Coke, and barely kept from spilling it. She looked up angrily. Then she choked, spraying the Elvis with Coke. Coughing and spluttering, she suffered a few blows on the back before recovering enough to say, “Morgan? What the hell are you doing?”
Dressed in black leather pants, his dark hair styled in Elvis of sixty-eight, he narrowed his eyes while he brushed recycled Coke from his black leather jacket. “What does it look like?”
“You’re an Elvis impersonator? Dear God—why didn’t I know about this dark side of your personality?”
“Let’s go over here where we won’t be overheard.”
Harley allowed him to guide her into the carpeted corridor outside the room, where she stood looking at him in the dim overhead lights. He even had a gold TCB necklace around his neck. Damn, for an Elvis impersonator, he really looked good.
“I’m working a case,” he said softly, “so don’t blow my cover, okay?”
“You mean gang-bangers and drug lords dress up like Elvis, too? Or are gunrunners smuggling weapons inside their jeweled capes and pink Cadillacs?”
Mike’s mouth thinned. “Very funny.”
“No, what’s funny is seeing you like this. Are you wearing make-up?” She couldn’t help it. She had to laugh. And the more she laughed, the more he scowled, but she couldn’t seem to control it.
Mike leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Believe me, it wasn’t my idea. I didn’t volunteer, that’s for sure.”
Finally able to talk without giggling, Harley wiped her eyes. “I believe you. I can’t imagine what kind of case you’d be working that would require dressing as Elvis, but—”
She stopped. He looked at her and she looked at him. Even though she knew he’d never admit it, she said, “You’re working the dead Elvises case, aren’t you. The police know the killer is another Elvis or someone connected to these competitions, don’t they? I knew I was on the right track.”
“And just what the hell do you mean by that? Harley, if you’re messing around in that case—”
“I never said I was.” Instant irritation set in. “Yogi is performing tonight, remember? I’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else. I just figured it had to involve an Elvis impersonator after the last murder, that’s all.”
Morgan didn’t look trustful, but after a moment he nodded. “All right. Just don’t you get involved. Whoever the murderer is, he’s bold enough to kill in plain sight of two dozen tourists. I don’t think he’d hesitate to kill anyone else who got in his way.”
“Well, I don’t have to worry about that since I don’t intend to get in his way.” That much was certainly true. She intended to pass along any information she learned to Tootsie and let him pass it on to his roommate, Steve the cop. Any credit for identifying the killer would only be made public after the police had made an arrest. While the most important thing was catching the killer, Tootsie hoped good publicity lessened any negative press generated by the murders on Memphis Tour Tyme buses. And it wouldn’t hurt Harley, either. She’d love to prove Bobby wrong, as well as Morgan. She wasn’t always a screw-up.
“I hope not,” Mike was saying, “‘cause your luck may not hold out.”
“And here I thought it was more than luck that kept me alive.”
“Right, but there won’t always be someone around to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I don’t recall anyone around in that warehouse, or showing up before I got away from that last maniac who intended to kill me.”
“We seem to remember things differently. I showed up at the warehouse, and again right in the middle of the shooting last time.”
“Yeah, but I’d already escaped. Mostly.” He just looked at her and she felt a little guilty. “Okay, I concede that part. But I probably would have gotten away both times.”
“Guess we’ll never know.”
/> “Guess not.” An awkward silence fell between them. Then he looked toward the door as the announcer’s voice came over the speakers. “They’re calling my name. Got to go do my stuff.”
“You’re actually going to sing? Good God. Can you sing?”
“I do all right.”
“I’ve got to hang around to see this.”
“Don’t stay on my account. Feel free to leave.”
“No way in hell. I’d give a week’s pay for this entertainment.”
Morgan groaned. “I’d give a month’s pay to get out of it.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am. Do me a favor. Go away.”
“Sing to me, Elvis baby. I’ll be the blonde at the bar.”
“In the short purple skirt.” He looked her up and down, and something in his gaze made her stomach flip. He still had a powerful effect on her libido. Damn him.
It seemed forever but could only have been a few seconds before the announcer’s voice came over the speakers again, his words incomprehensible over the roar in her ears as her blood surged like ocean surf. She could almost smell the seaweed, see the moonlight, feel Morgan’s hands...
“Later,” Morgan said, snapping her out of her brief trance, and she blinked as he turned and walked away.
Why did she have to run into him again? She’d been doing all right. Now she had to wait a minute for the blood that had rushed from her head to work its way back up before she tried to walk. By the time she got back inside Morgan was performing his rendition of Suspicious Minds. He would. It was her favorite Elvis song. The rat.
He gathered more than a few interested looks from the women in the crowd, swiveling his hips in a pretty good Elvis imitation, the tight black leather pants leaving little to the imagination and sparking more than a few memories. Why did they have the heat on in this place? She fanned her face with a bar napkin and tried to think of something else.
Cami found her leaning against the bar. “That guy onstage right now looks pretty familiar to me, Harley. How do I know him?”
Without taking her eyes from the stage, Harley said, “He’s Morgan’s twin brother.”
Cami squinted at the stage. “Really? I didn’t know he had a twin.”
“He doesn’t.”
Cami set her drink down on the bar, but missed. Ice and vodka spilled across the counter and onto Harley’s arm. “Damn. Sorry about that. I missed the bar. Why doesn’t he have a twin?”
“You’d have to ask his parents. I’m not going to have to carry you out to the car, am I?”
Considering that, Cami said, as the last lyrics faded into a riff of guitar chords, “I don’t think so. I’ve only had three drinks. I’m still functioning.”
Harley turned to look at her while Morgan left the stage. “Just not so well, it seems.”
Cami smiled sloppily. “I’m fine.”
“Uh huh. Here come Yogi and Diva. Straighten up, and we’ll leave soon.”
Yogi was smiling broadly. “Did you hear the applause? They loved me!”
“I’d have been shocked if they hadn’t. You were great.”
“Got any pointers for me?”
“Yes, a little less melodrama with the cape. Other than that, don’t change a thing.”
Yogi nodded happily. Diva smiled serenely. Harley sighed enviously. It’d be nice to live in their world.
Her world currently required that she get her drunken friend to the car, however. Of course, they’d had to park in the very back of the crowded lot. I-55 and a chain link fence edged the parking area, and she tried to remember just where she’d left her Toyota. Headlights of passing cars on the interstate and overhead vapor lights provided enough illumination for her to walk Cami across the asphalt without falling into a pothole, though she wasn’t navigating much better than her friend. Stupid of her to wear sandals with heels. Not used to them, she wobbled like a drunken sailor.
It took luck and skill, but she managed to get the passenger side door open and Cami safely wedged inside without too much damage to either of them. Humidity and effort took its toll, however. This year summer had swung between steaming heat and monsoons. She wasn’t sure which was worse. At least it wasn’t as hot as previous years, though tourists unfamiliar with southern summers found that hard to believe.
Leaning back against the side of the car to catch her breath, Harley happened to look over when a vehicle stopped in the aisle between cars. An Elvis impersonator opened the back door to the taxi, and when he straightened up and looked in her direction, something about him struck her as very familiar. It wasn’t until the taxi had pulled away to go out the exit that it hit her—the missing Elvis killer!
“Hey, wait a minute,” she shouted, and started running after the taxi, but it’d gone around the far end of parked cars by then. She kicked off her heels to run faster and try to catch the taxi driver’s attention, but that didn’t help. As it passed under a vapor light, she saw the Elvis looking back at her.
* * * *
Harley spent the better part of the next morning at the Memphis Tour Tyme office tracking down the taxi and driver that had made a pickup at Dad’s Place around ten. How did the police do it? No wonder it took them so long to solve cases, when they had to follow so many leads that ended in dead-ends before they got lucky.
“Where are you going?” Tootsie asked as she stuck the paper with the name and address into her backpack. “And leave your cell phone on. Just in case.”
“Just in case what? Never mind. Stupid question. I’m following up a lead, talking to the taxi driver who picked up the missing Elvis last night to see if I can get an address where he took him. With any luck, he took him home and we can get a name as well.”
“That wouldn’t be luck, baby, that’d be a miracle. If the guy recognized you running after him, he’s probably smart enough not to go straight home. Not with that taxi driver, anyway.”
Harley sighed. “I know. I wasn’t thinking. I was just so surprised to see him after I’d looked all night, watching all those Elvis guys onstage—and some of them are really bad—that when I recognized him as the Elvis killer on my van, I just took off. And let me tell you, it’s not a good thing to run in parking lots in your bare feet. I’ll have bruises for a week.”
She’d already told Tootsie about Morgan, and knowing he’d never endanger an undercover cop, it was important for him to know that the police were obviously following in the same direction in their investigation. They’d gotten on it pretty fast, sending in an undercover guy. Of course, there’d be a lot of pressure from the Convention and Visitors Bureau, as well as the city officials, who’d want any hint of danger for tourists to be quickly squelched. That’d be a lot of dollars to lose in a month-long Elvis celebration.
Tootsie leaned back in his chair. He was once more his impeccable self, well-groomed and his shoulder-length auburn hair tied in a ponytail at his nape. The lines around his mouth had eased, but he still had bags under his eyes that told her he hadn’t stopped worrying. He smiled slightly.
“I don’t even want to know why you weren’t wearing shoes. And remember, don’t try to talk to this guy on your own. All you have to do is—”
“I know. Get you the information. You’ll take it from there.”
“Right. Whatever the reason this guy is taking out Elvis impersonators, I don’t want him doing it on our buses. It’s not good for business.”
“Not good for the Elvises either.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s not. The thing is, we aren’t really sure it’s about Elvis impersonators anyway. It could just be a guy with a grudge against the victims for some other reason. Maybe they had a disagreement, lover’s spat, a difference of opinion over politics, religion, women, whatever. The police are checking out all those leads, but you’re the one who can possibly identify the killer.”
“So can Lydia, if we can get her to be coherent. I don’t think the police were able to get much from her that made sense. Anyway, I cou
ld be remembering the wrong guy, you know. Maybe it’s just one of the other passengers that had absolutely nothing to do with it.”
Tootsie nodded. “The process of elimination will determine that. Meanwhile, see if you think this guy’s a likely suspect, and if you find out his name, I’ll turn it over to Steve. I guess you’ve already given a description of him to the police?”
“As much as I could. I mean, he looked like Elvis. I gave his height, approximate weight, and all that, but I couldn’t remember any distinguishing features for the police artist. All I can say is that he had a different walk. Yeah, I know, that sounds stupid, but it was something about the way he moves. Really, it’s the perfect disguise, hiding as Elvis in a bunch of Elvis impersonators. I mean, they may dress a little differently, in white jumpsuits, or in baggy suits of the fifties, or in black leather, but they’re all so similar it’s hard to pinpoint any big differences between them.”
Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis Page 7