A Playboy in Peril

CHAPTER ONE

Nicky D's dead, Maizy Emerson whispered in my ear.

Maizy was an almost-eighteen-year-old with Smurf blue hair, a collection of body piercings, and an IQ that was off the charts. She was also my landlord Curt Emerson's niece and the ept half of our inept crime-solving partnership, so when Maizy whispered, I listened. Even if I had to mute Bert Convy on the Game Show Network to do it. I had a thing for Bert Convy. I think it was the dimples.

Who's Nicky D? I whispered back as I held my phone to my ear.

Why are you whispering? she asked. Oh my God, is Uncle Curt there? He is, isn't he? Are you guys doing nicky-nack?

Hardly. Thanks to the miracle of air conditioning, I was dressed for a sweltering Northeast summer in sweatpants, a long-sleeve tee, and thick gym socks; if any skin was left showing, it was purely by accident.

Nicky D? I prompted her.

They found him dead in the dressing room, Maizy said. An amplifier fell on his head.

That's horrible, I said. Who's Nicky D?

A sigh huffed into my ear. Virtual Waste.

I frowned at the phone. Give me a break. I'm not that bad. I just had a long day.

I could practically hear her eyes roll. "Virtual Waste is a band. Nicky D's the drummer. He's kind of a stud muffin. She paused. Well, not so much anymore, I guess, since the amplifier landed on his head. I haven't been able to get backstage, but you wouldn't think something like that would improve his looks, right?"

Eww.

Why would you want to go backstage? I asked.

Are you kidding? she asked. I went to the trouble of renting a Cordoba from Honest Aaron and pushing it all the way to the Pinelands Bar and Auditorium so I could sneak into the Virtual Waste concert. Who wouldn't want to get backstage?

I clamped my mouth shut. Trust me, nothing good was waiting to come out. Honest Aaron was a shyster who operated on a cash-only basis, had no regard for legalities such as a current driver's license, and carried no inventory newer than 1975.

You're not saying anything, Maizy said. You're wondering why a Cordoba, right?

I'm wondering so many things, I told her.

Let me help, Maizy said. It's easy to sneak in here. There's only one bouncer, and she's always too busy putting out dumpster fires to notice who might be avoiding an arbitrary Friday night cover charge.

"I think the word you want is evading, I said. And what's with all the dumpster fires?"

Beats me, Maizy said. They just seem to happen every time I come here. And FYI, I'm going to need you to start saving kindling for me. Newspaper, shopping bags, whatever you've got.

Ashley, the cat I'd acquired through questionable means from a murder suspect who'd turned out to be nothing more than a freaky little guy with lax property management skills, strolled in from the kitchen and stood in front of the recliner, staring at me. After a few seconds I caved and moved to the sofa. That's how it was with Ashley and me. That's how it was with almost everyone and me. Assertiveness wasn't my strong point. My name's Jamie Winters, I'm in my early thirties, I work practically for loose change as a legal secretary in a personal injury mill, I've never owned a home, and I drive an ancient Escort held together only by rust. Those are the high points of my life. Those, and a smoking-hot landlord that makes the rest of it tolerable.

I'm sorry that happened, I said, but what do you want me to do? Hopefully not drive down to the Pineland Bar and Auditorium, wherever that was. I wasn't sure I had enough gas even to make it to work on Monday morning. And I wasn't a big fan of the New Jersey Pine Barrens. The Pines were dark and spooky and full of the Jersey Devil.

I want you to drive to the Pinelands Bar and Auditorium, Maizy said.

I sighed. Why don't you just come home, Maize?

I can't, she said. The Cordoba broke down, and I need a ride.

You know your father and uncle bought you a nice reliable Civic. It's all yours as soon as you actually get a license.

I'll get around to it, she said.

I wished she'd get around to it before I hit retirement age. I was getting tired of Honest Aaron and his unending parade of automotive misfit toys, especially since I got the calls to rescue her when doors fell off or rusted floors dropped out onto the highway. In fairness, she couldn't really call her dad. Cam was a cop with no knowledge of Maizy's relationship to the Monty Hall of the junkyard set.

Something gave a screeching kind of wail in the background. I hoped it was a lick on an electric guitar. The alternative gave me a full-body shudder. But I won't get there for almost an hour and a half.

That's okay, she said brightly. I'll just start investigating while I wait. You know, laying the groundwork.

Oh, boy. Groundwork. Investigating? I repeated.

You don't think that amplifier fell on Nicky D's head all on its own, do you?

Well…yeah.

Then I wasn't clear, Maizy said. It fell out of someone's hands. And I think I saw the someone going backstage before it happened. She paused. And I think he saw me. I mean, I'm not positive 'cause he had the hoodie up over a baseball cap, and it was kind of dark. But I think we looked right at each other for just a second.

I went still. Maizy, are you saying what I think you're saying?

You bet I am, she said. We've got another case.

CHAPTER TWO

The Pine Barrens sprawled over a million acres, almost a quarter of New Jersey, encompassing portions of seven different counties. It boasted cranberry farming and white sugar sand, tea-colored cedar water lakes, and enough ghost stories to bleach your hair. At night under a sky stippled with patchy clouds and a timid moon, those stories weren't so hard to believe.

When I cruised past the sign announcing my arrival at the Wharton State Forest, I released my sweaty grip on the wheel long enough to roll up the window and lock the door. Which was the equivalent of a flickering candle in a drafty house when it came to ghosts, but you work with what you've got. The road unfurled in front of my headlights like a silky black ribbon, its edges fringed by unbroken lines of pine, oak, and cedar trees. No houses. No sidewalks. No traffic lights. Just a disorienting darkness that threw shadows beneath my wheels as I drove.

Eventually I reached a break in the trees, and there was the Pinelands Bar and Auditorium, nestled into a copse of towering pines, behind a small phalanx of EMT vehicles and police cars. The dirt parking lot was full and blocked off, so I parked on the shoulder of the road and went to find Maizy.

The Auditorium part was clearly wishful thinking. It was a low-slung L-shaped building with a single front window plastered with beer signs. The short arm of the L retreated into the woods in the back. I guessed that was the auditorium. It didn't strike me as the sort of place I'd want to go see a band perform, but then I wasn't seventeen and ideological. I was thirty-two and exhausted and hot. For three months of the year, New Jerseyans lived in a broiler laden with greenhead flies and mosquitoes. It was like trying to swim through hot motor oil under heavy insect bombardment.

A decrepit Cordoba sat at the edge of the lot with two people leaning against it. One of them was tall and beefy in a black T-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots. The other inexplicably wore a black hoodie three sizes too big yet still not up to the job of containing a mushroom cloud of blue hair. Maizy.

She hurried over. Thanks for coming. You didn't tell Uncle Curt, did you?

I haven't seen him, I said. Aren't you hot?

That's nice of you to say, but looks aren't important to me.

I rolled my eyes. Ready to go?

Maizy nodded. We'll start investigating tomorrow.

Investigating what? I asked.

Nicky D's murder, Maizy said. I saw the killer, remember? Weren't you listening?

Not after the part about 'I need a ride,' I said. Did you tell the police what you saw?

Are you kidding? she said. I'm underage, in a bar. Even with persuasive ID, I don't want to risk getting anyone in trouble.

My eyebrow lifted. You mean fake ID.

An excellent fake, she said. That's what makes it persuasive. Anyway, don't worry. We can go inside tomorrow.

Like I was worried. I don't want to go inside, I said. I want to go home. I tipped my head toward the Cordoba. Who's your friend?

Huh? Oh, that's Bryn Harper. She offered to fix the car, but I told her it must've thrown a head gasket. She was just keeping me company while I waited.

Maizy did a come-here gesture, and Bryn detached herself from the car and joined us. Up close, she was even bigger and more intimidating. The sweeping curves of her quads and shoulders were apparent. Clearly Bryn was no stranger to the gym. I could relate. I'd been to a gym once. Of course, I'd been following a suspect at the time. Fortunately, he'd left before I'd been forced to pick up a dumbbell and expose my inner weakling.

Bryn's the bouncer, Maizy told me. She's also a ninth-degree black belt, third dan.

Impressive, I said, although I had no idea what that meant.

My Uncle Doug taught me, Bryn said in a lilting, girly voice about two octaves higher than I'd expected. Little pink combs swept back her hair. Her eye shadow was sparkly peach. He practically raised us, and I learned a lot from him. It's not easy to be a woman in a man's world, he always said.

Preach, Maizy said.

I rolled my eyes.

Bryn was a Marine, Maizy told me. She's fierce.

Semper fi, Bryn said with a little fist pump.

She offered to give me lessons, Maizy added. I'm going to be a lethal weapon.

I can teach you, too, if you want, Bryn said. It's a dangerous world out there.

"It's a dangerous world in there, I said, tipping my head toward the bar. Did she see the guy go backstage?" I asked Maizy.

Bryn snapped to attention. What's this?

It was before Mike found Nicky D, Maizy said. I don't know who it was, but he didn't belong there. I know unauthorized-access-into-a-restricted-area when I see it.

Bryn crossed her arms. I don't like the sound of that. Any idea who it was?

Maizy shook her head. I didn't get a look at his face. Didn't you see him?

Afraid not, Bryn said. I was taking out the garbage.

Doesn't the janitorial staff do that? I asked.

She means she went nuclear on some goober, Maizy said.

Oh, that cleared it up.

Can you describe this guy? Bryn asked.

Another headshake. But I'll find out who he is, Maizy said. It's what I do.

I thought you were a PhD candidate in economics, Bryn said.

Good grief.

Come on, I said. We should be heading home.

I'll be back, Maizy told Bryn. Just so you know.

Let me know if I can help, Bryn said. Good luck with the dissertation defense.

I gave Bryn a wave and pulled Maizy in the direction of the Escort. Dissertation defense? I asked in a low voice, in case Bryn had bionic hearing to go along with her Steve Austin physique.

That reminds me. Maizy grinned. Next time we're around Bryn, call me Doctor. I'd hate to disappoint her.

"I hate to disappoint you, I said, but you're still in high school."

Only in body, she said. Mentally, I left years ago.

Couldn't argue with her there.

We got in the car. Don't tell me she buys that story.

Sure she does. Bryn trusts me. Maizy snapped her seat belt into place. She said I remind her of her little sister Brianne. You know, a real sensitive soul. Hey, look at that ubergoober over there.

Sensitive soul, I repeated dryly. Is Brianne a lethal weapon like Bryn?

Probably not anymore, Maizy said. She killed herself eight months ago. Something to do with a guy, I think. I know they were really close. Bryn said Brianne came to all the Virtual Waste shows and hung out, but I didn't want to ask too many questions. It made Bryn sad to talk about it.

I glanced at her, surprised. That's pretty mature for a girl with blue hair.

She did a dismissive wave. The hair's window dressing. Like Bryn's muscles. They help 'cause she's working in a male-dominated field. Below all that brawn she's pretty girly.

Maybe so, but I wouldn't mess with her, I said.

Who's messing? Maizy asked. "We may need her help to find out who killed Nicky D. She's got connections."

About that. I started the car. "Why are you so sure anyone killed him? Maybe the amplifier did fall on him by accident."

I don't think so. Maizy's fingers drummed on her thigh. She sported a summer motif on her nails: green polish with a tiny white daisy on each middle finger. Sometimes Maizy's means of communication were less than socially acceptable. Virtual Waste plays two sets on Friday nights. I was talking to Tommy between sets when I saw some guy sneaking backstage, toward the dressing room. It was only like ten minutes later that Mike started shouting for help.

I aimed the Escort back in the direction from which I'd come before realizing I had no idea where my first turn was. How was it possible that every road looked exactly alike? No landmarks or signposts. Just trees, trees, and more trees. And maybe I was wrong, but that lake should be on the other side of the car.

Who are Tommy and Mike? I asked. I should've invested in a GPS.

Are you serious? Maizy asked. Mike Crescenzo? He's the bass player. All the girls think he's pretty hot, but he's old. He's like 27.

I shrugged. I thought her Uncle Curt had cornered the market on hotness. All that dark hair and those dark eyes and that innate sense of direction. Very sexy.

And Tommy is the bartender, Maizy was saying. Not that I was drinking, being underage and all. Well, I mean, he offered me a Screaming Mimi—he named that after his wife—but I said no, alcohol kills brain cells, and I have just the right amount.

Pretty sure I hadn't driven five miles on this same road before. How did anyone find their way around in this godforsaken wilderness? Every tree, every dirt road shooting off into darkness, every unmarked intersection looked exactly alike.

You've got a signal on your cell, right? I asked her. You called me.

I used the phone at the bar. She pulled her phone out of the acres of hoodie and checked the screen. I got nothing. Why? Her eyes got wide. Are you lost? You're lost, aren't you?

I'm not lost, I said. I'm temporarily misplaced.

Dude, it was like two turns, she said. How could you get misplaced?

Because my initials aren't GPS, I snapped. Do you have any idea where we are?

Maizy looked out the window at unbroken blackness. No clue, she said.

Haven't you been here before?

"I've been there before, she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward the bar. Not here. I know. Let's go to Apple Pie Hill, and then we can probably get a cell signal."

Great. I nodded. Where's Apple Pie Hill?

Beats me, Maizy said. It's supposed to be the highest point in South Jersey. How hard can it be to find?

We leaned forward to scope out the horizon. No hills or high points of any kind. Only trees.

We must have passed the fork, Maizy said. You probably didn't see it. I hear cataracts can distort night vision.

I don't have cataracts, I snapped. And I didn't see any fork.

My point exactly, Maizy said. Maybe you should let me drive.

I glanced at the gas gauge. I'm getting really low on fuel. Think there's a gas station around here anywhere?

Oh, sure, Maizy said. Right up there next to the Walmart and the Home Depot.

I gave her a look. Not helpful, Maize. We're only in this situation because I was trying to help you out.

A set of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror.

We're not the only survivors, I muttered. Could do without the high beams, though.

Maybe we could flag him down, Maizy said. Ask him where we are.

Are you kidding? I said. "We're two women in the wilderness in the middle of the night. We're an episode of CSI waiting to happen."

Not if we have a rocket launcher, Maizy said.

My jaw went slack. Do you have a rocket launcher?

Where would I put it? I'm just saying. She glanced in the side mirror. He's really moving, isn't he.

She was right. The car had just about closed the distance between us. The glare from the high beams lit up the Escort's interior brightly enough to read a road map. If I'd had a road map to read. The headlights sat up high, which had to mean either a pickup truck or an SUV. Either way, my car was no match for it.

I was getting a bad feeling, maybe thanks to all those old Movies of the Week I'd watched featuring women in jeopardy making inexplicably poor decisions, like pulling over on a desolate road in the middle of the night.

Lock your door, I told her. I waited until I heard the click of the lock before I slid over toward the tree line, giving the truck ample space to pass. Because of the high beams, I couldn't tell what make it was or see who was driving it. But I could tell it had no intention of passing, because a second later it nudged up against my bumper and pushed. The Escort lurched sickeningly.

Hey! Maizy twisted to look behind us. What's he doing?

I had both hands on the wheel, fighting to stay on the pavement. I think he's trying to run us off the road. Can you see who's driving?

She tried to shield her eyes against the high beams. It's too bright. Or too dark. Anyway, I can't tell.

Thump.

The Escort's front right tire veered into dirt shoulder and skidded along for a foot or two before I pulled it back onto the pavement.

That cuts it, Maizy said. First Nicky D, now this. I've had it. Clutching her cell phone, she unbuckled her seat belt, rolled down her window, and pushed herself up so she was sitting on the passenger door, half inside the car and half outside.

What are you doing! I yelled at her. You're going to get killed!

I'm filming this moron, she yelled back. Just keep us on the road!

Thump. Swerve. Straighten. Maizy kicked me in the shoulder.

Hold it steady! she yelled. I can't get a clean shot!

Get back in here, and put your seat belt on! I yelled back. I sounded panicked even to my own ears. I was panicked. The Escort wasn't exactly an impenetrable fortress. It wouldn't take