A diminutive man in a spotless white tux had stepped up to a microphone on the temporary stage.

"My name's Dickie. Welcome to my pah-ty," he said with what sounded like a slight Bronx accent.

Loud applause greeted the man. As it intensified, I made a study of the famed party planner. With dark hair slicked back, a spray-tanned complexion that bordered on burnt orange latte syrup, and a Botox-numbed face, the Napoleon-sized Celebratorio (whose younger photographs cast him as a Dean Martin lookalike), now struck me as a cross between George Hamilton, Austin Powers's Mini-Me, and a Madame Tussaud's wax figure.

I moved to get closer to the stage. If Dickie decided to dash away without notice, I wanted to be in a position to follow him. But my movements were halted when strong fingers wrapped tightly around my upper arm and a man's hot breath tickled my ear- "Come with me, honey."

For heaven's sake! What is it about a skimpy Santa's Helper costume that puts male libidos into overdrive?

I turned, ready to push away whoever had taken hold of me-and found a five-eleven, golden-haired elf gawking down my neckline.

Oh, no! Not Shane Holliway. Not now!

TWENTY-SEVEN.

"WE need to talk," Shane whispered in my ear.

"Let me go."

"Come on, honey." He pulled my arm again.

A few people looked our way. Darn it! Darn it! In an effort to avoid a scene, I let Shane take my hand and lead me to a corner. With a jerk, he tugged me behind an enormous glass-bulb Christmas tree ornament and quickly bent over me. I slapped his face. In an effort to avoid a scene, I let Shane take my hand and lead me to a corner. With a jerk, he tugged me behind an enormous glass-bulb Christmas tree ornament and quickly bent over me. I slapped his face.

He yelped. "What's that for?!"

"I am not not interested in you, Shane! Got that?" interested in you, Shane! Got that?"

"Wait, Clare! You've got the wrong idea-"

I turned to dash. He jumped in front of me. "Listen to me. Please, it's important."

"Ten seconds."

"Your life is in danger."

My tapping go-go boot stilled. "Okay. You've got my attention."

Shane moved closer again and whispered in my ear. "Listen, I'm in deep here, and this is my only chance to talk to you."

"Talk, then."

"You have to believe me, Clare, I never meant anyone to get hurt, and I certainly didn't know what I was getting myself into-"

"Just tell tell me." me."

"Right after Thanksgiving, Dickie Celebratorio called me up and asked me to help out a celebrity friend of his-"

"What friend?"

"Dickie wouldn't say. He wouldn't even let slip whether it was a man or woman. I only know this famous person was getting bothered and wanted the harassment to end. Dickie agreed to help this person, and I agreed to help Dickie . . ."

"Agreed to do what what exactly?" exactly?"

"To follow the dude who was hassling his famous friend. Find out the dude's movements."

"What do you mean his movements?"

"It was like an acting job. I mean, I'd already done the method research when I played a private eye on TV. It wasn't that hard. Dickie knew stuff about this dude already-had the whole 411 on his name and address. But this famous friend of Dickie's wanted the guy's routine, too. So for two days in a row, I waited outside this dude's apartment building. When he came out, all dressed for work, I followed him and made notes on where he went and when. But I thought it was all innocent-that we we were the good guys." were the good guys."

"What do you mean?"

"Clare, the dude I followed ended up murdered murdered."

"Oh, no." I felt sick, closed my eyes. "You were following Alfred Glockner."

"Yes. I followed a Traveling Santa out of his Upper West Side apartment building, down to Union Square, and then on to the Village. That's the pattern I handed over to Dickie. I didn't know there were two two Traveling Santas, with two different work routines, both living at the same address! What did they want from me? I'm not a real detective! I just played one on TV!" Traveling Santas, with two different work routines, both living at the same address! What did they want from me? I'm not a real detective! I just played one on TV!"

Oh, for pity's sake. "You're an accomplice, Shane, don't you see that? What did you do after Alf was murdered? Did you confront Dickie? Ask him if he had anything to do with Santa's getting shot?" "You're an accomplice, Shane, don't you see that? What did you do after Alf was murdered? Did you confront Dickie? Ask him if he had anything to do with Santa's getting shot?"

"God, no. Are you kidding? I played the dumb soap actor. By then he'd already paid me for the surveillance job and even sent me to the Blend to see Tucker. He said Tuck could give me a high-paying acting gig, and he was right. I needed the money, and I didn't want to upset the man, so I put on the elf suit-"

"He was paying you off, Shane, to stay quiet-"

"Well, of course! I know that now now. But then Tucker happened to mention that Glockner's daughter asked you to look into her father's murder-" He shook his elf-capped head. "I got scared, Clare. I wanted to know what you knew. That's why I made the pass at you today. I was going to try again tonight, too, but all that's changed now-"

"What do you mean?"

"Half an hour ago, Dickie pulled me aside and asked me to do it again."

"Do what again?"

"Keep an eye on someone. Report on their movements."

"Was it Kovic?" I asked. "Karl Kovic?"

Shane blinked. "Who?"

"Alf's roommate. I found Karl Kovic's body in his apartment this evening. He was shot in the back."

Shane's glitter-dusted flesh went all the way white. "That's it. I'm not waiting until tomorrow. After this show, I'm on the very next red-eye to L.A.!"

"Wait! You can't leave!" Now I was the one dragging Shane back behind the giant tree ornament. "You have to talk to the police first. They'll be here any minute." I hope. I hope.

"And tell them what? That I followed Santa Claus around and made notes? That's not a crime. They can't arrest me or or Dickie for that-" Dickie for that-"

"No, but-"

"Listen to me, Clare, okay? If you find a way to nail Dickie and this mysterious celebrity friend he's covering up for, I'll back your testimony. But until then, Hollywood here I come."

"Shane, don't go!"

"Sugarplum, do you know what that man's real name is?" He pointed toward the stage where Dickie was wrapping up his remarks. "Richard Torio. He's not some puff from Fire Island. He grew up in the Bronx-a borough so dangerous they had to film the remake of Pelham One Two Three Pelham One Two Three in Woodside, Queens! This guy has the kind of associates the in Woodside, Queens! This guy has the kind of associates the Sopranos Sopranos' producers used to hire for authentic-looking thug extras."

"I get it! Just tell me one thing. Who is this new person that Dickie asked you to follow?"

He put a hand on my shoulder. "It's you you, Clare. I swear I didn't tell him that you knew anything, but somehow he found out you were digging into Alf's murder, egging on the cops. They know what you look like. They know where you work and live."

Shane met my eyes. "I'd get the hell out of here before Dickie or anyone else he's hired spots you. Take care, Cosi Lady."

With a kiss to my stunned cheek, the golden-haired elf was gone. Now what? Now what? From my hiding place, I tried to spot Detective Hong, but there were so many people here, who could tell? He was probably trying to call me right now, but my cell was downstairs in the dressing room locker. From my hiding place, I tried to spot Detective Hong, but there were so many people here, who could tell? He was probably trying to call me right now, but my cell was downstairs in the dressing room locker.

I have to get out of here . . .

Fortunately, the lights in the reading room dimmed. Tucker's show was about to begin. I zigzagged through the crowd and bolted for the exit, eyes peeled for Matt the whole way. But he and Breanne, the party shark, were nowhere in sight. They'd probably moved on to the next event.

I hit another knot of people and stepped around them. My timing couldn't have been worse. I passed right by Dickie himself. He was conferring with a man whose designer suit couldn't hide a cauliflower ear and a pockmarked face-the kind that would have been captioned "Known Associate" in a true-crime book.

Both pairs of male eyes followed me through the crowd-damn this Santa Hooker outfit!

Another mob of partygoers slowed me down, trying to maneuver their kids closer to Tucker's show. I dodged right, then left. Finally free, I hit the deserted marble stairway. My black go-go boot heels clicked quickly on the stone. I didn't get far before I heard heavy feet following. I glanced over my shoulder and saw what I'd dreaded- Known Associate was on my heels. "Wait, miss!" he called. "Mr. Celebratorio would like a word with you . . ."

I reached the basement dressing room but didn't go inside. I hadn't seen another exit in there, and I didn't want to get trapped. Instead I kept on going down a long, empty corridor. I could hear the man's footsteps stalking me.

When I turned the first corner, I found myself trapped in a dead-end hallway with locked doors. I spun around, ready to rush back to the main corridor. But Known Associate was already on me.

"Will you stop stop running-" His big hands reaching, he lunged for me. running-" His big hands reaching, he lunged for me.

The only weapon I had was this huge bag of promo candy. Remembering Esther's brick, I swung the sack with all my might and smacked him right in the face! The bag burst open and the cellophane-wrapped goodies went flying everywhere. Some even pelted me. Peppermint blowback! Peppermint blowback!

The man stumbled and I raced past him. He yowled, turned to chase me, and slipped on the layer of cellophane that covered the polished floor. As gravity took him down, I turned the corner again, continuing down the long hallway until I saw a Fire Exit Fire Exit sign above a pair of wooden doors. sign above a pair of wooden doors.

By now, Known Associate was on his feet again and running toward me. I pushed through the double doors and spun around. Using my empty velvet sack, I quickly tied the door handles together. Then I bolted the few yards to the steel fire door. Behind me, I could hear Known Associate violently rattling the tied double doors.

He can't get through!

An alarm sounded as I depressed the fire door bar and stumbled into the frigid December night. When the heavy door slammed behind me, I knew I was locked outside-and that was fine with me, because the only way I was going back into that crazy holiday bash was with an armed SWAT team!

TWENTY-EIGHT.

"HEY, little elf! I like your outfit!"

"Are you coming from a Christmas party?"

"Maybe she's from the North Pole."

"You want a ride, sweet thing?"

"I'll give her a ride. A real nice nice ride!" ride!"

The four men laughed. They were sitting in an SUV, keeping pace beside me on a dim, deserted stretch of Fortieth Street. At least three of them were sloppy drunk from some office party. Shivering in my flimsy red costume, I tightly folded my red velvet arms and quickened the pace of my black go-go boots.

With Bryant Park Grill dark, and no other open restaurants or stores on this block, I'd struck out for the police station in Times Square. If I was lucky, I figured I'd encounter a cop or squad car on my way.

So far, I wasn't lucky.

My cell phone, wallet, and even my spare change were presently locked inside the public library's basement. There were no pedestrians on this sleepy street paralleling the snow-covered rectangle of Bryant Park, and the only car coming down Fortieth in the last three minutes was this big, black sport-utility vehicle filled with four office workers in their late twenties, most of whom were hammered, all of whom were making assumptions about my line of work-wrong assumptions. assumptions.

"Ask her how much," one of them complained to the other.

"What's the matter, little elf? Don't you like us?"

Eyes forward, I shook my head. "Not interested!"

"Come on!"

They began talking lower, among themselves. "You have cash on you, right?"

"What's she going to charge?"

I quickened my steps on the sidewalk, hurrying to reach the much brighter lights of Sixth Avenue, but the SUV continued keeping pace with me.

"We'll treat you right," one of them shouted. "Just get in!"

When I finally hit the corner, I figured I'd lose them. But the SUV turned sharply, cutting me off at the curb. The inebriated guy in the front passenger seat swung open his door and leaped at me- "Hands off, asshole!" I shouted, rearing back.

WHOOP!.

The earsplitting burst of a police siren cut the night. A dark blue sedan peeled through the traffic light and spun with NASCAR-level rotational drift. In seconds, the sedan's driver screeched his vehicle to a halt, expertly boxing in the front of the SUV.

I noticed the revolving red bubble light on the sedan's dashboard and sagged with relief. Sergeant Emmanuel Franco climbed out of his unmarked car, swaggered over to the men in the SUV, and flashed his gold shield. I was never so happy to see a red, white, and blue do-rag in all my life.

"Now I ask you, gentlemen: Is that any way to treat Santa's Little Helper?" His dark eyes speared the four. "You should be ashamed of yourselves. I ought to throw the book at you. Or maybe give your so-called designated driver a Breathalyzer."