Chapter One

April 1982

"Billie, you have a run in your stocking. Again." Helen's voice is cool as she hands over an unopened package of fishnets. "Have my spares." Billie has been in this position before and knows better than to argue with Helen's eye for detail.

"Just like the last time," Billie says with a grin.

She changes stockings and shimmies back into her costume. "I think I'm going to have to burn my feminist card when this is done," Billie says as she tweaks her Bunny ears in the mirror. Three months of working undercover at the Playboy Club and her blue satin ears are still a constant source of irritation.

Mary Alice, sitting next to her in the dressing room, purses her mouth as she flicks black eyeliner into a sharp wing. She moves back, admiring the effect. "I kind of like it."

"That's because you don't need to stuff your damned bra," Natalie counters from the other side of the room. The lower half of the corseted costumes are altered to slim the waist, elongating the legs and making the hips appear fuller. But the cups only come in 34 or 36D, forcing most of the Bunnies to augment their curves with whatever is lying around-gym socks, fresh maxi pads. Billie needs only a powder puff of a Bunny tail in each cup, while Helen requires a rolled gym sock and Natalie needs three pairs of pantyhose. Mary Alice, whose resemblance to Marilyn Monroe has been deliberately heightened by lightening her hair with a platinum rinse, is the only one of the four whose seams have had to be reinforced. Makeup finished, she stands, straightening the little starched collar and cuffs that finish off the uniform. Like everything else in the club, the costumes-witty and modern twenty years before-are now seedy and tired. The club has been refurbished in an attempt to make it relevant again, but a long decade has passed since it was anything but tacky. The veneer of forced, flirty fun is wearing thin, and they are tired of smiling at the same jokes, ignoring the same worn-out come-ons.

For three months they have carried drinks and sold cigarettes and checked coats. Every shift they have come prepared, ready to carry out their mission, and every shift they have clocked out with aching feet and a rising rage that they have to repeat the cycle all over again. Billie hardly remembers a time she wasn't schlepping drinks with a perky smile. Their current target is the nephew of a Toronto gangster, heir apparent to his uncle's crew. The gangster is happy with his protection racket and gambling, but the nephew is ambitious, pushing the gang into drugs and underage prostitution. He likes violence for its own sake, and his plan is to expand into Chicago, upsetting the status quo.

The old man visits Chicago every few months and he brings the nephew with him, making the rounds of his connections, renewing contacts, smoothing the way for the succession. In his prime, he was a keyholder, dining at the club every night, harassing the girls and paying off the bouncers to look the other way. He's trained the nephew well. The younger man grins as they make their way to the table and he sees a new server approaching. This one has ash blond hair brushing her shoulders, a mouth with a tiny scar just above the top lip, and an ass he'd like to get to know better. He drops a casual hand to her hip as she takes the drink order and watches her reaction. She's good; she almost masks the flinch but not completely, and this is the part he likes best-when they realize he can touch them and there's nothing they can do about it. He relaxes back into his chair and bobs his head to the music as the server slips out of his grasp and heads to the bar to put in the order. She's got a small smile set on her lips and so he has no idea what she's really thinking.

It's only when she turns her back that the smile drops. Mary Alice slides up to Billie after Billie relates the order to the bartender. "How's our boy?" Mary Alice asks.

"Peachy. He copped a feel and smells like a bottle of Drakkar Noir threw up on him," Billie tells her. "Just once, I'd like to kill a gentleman."

"If they were gentlemen, they probably wouldn't need killing."

Mary Alice puts in her own order and turns to scan the room. It's a slow night, with less than half of the tables occupied. To make it seem like the place is swinging, the music has been turned up and the lights down. Olivia Newton-John is blaring from the speakers, wanting to get physical.

Near the entrance, Helen is working the coat check. Her job is to remove the EpiPen that the nephew's bodyguard carries in his overcoat, substituting it with the one they've prepared specially. According to the dossier they've received, the nephew is highly allergic to peanuts. The plan is to induce an allergy attack, mild enough not to kill, but severe enough to require the EpiPen.

Instead of epinephrine, the pen he will use has been loaded with a mixture of Versed and potassium chloride, a cocktail that will stop his heart almost instantly, mimicking the heart attack that could follow severe anaphylactic shock. Traces of peanut oil will be present in his stomach, and the death will be certified as natural causes after accidental ingestion of an allergen. The plan is elegant in its simplicity, but it requires perfect preparation and timing from every member of the team.

Both trays of drinks land at the same time, and Mary Alice takes hers. As she leaves, Billie catches Helen's eye at the coat check counter. With her dark hair and Jackie O posture, Helen is the most patrician of the group. On her, the satin costume looks almost classy, and it occurs to Billie the nephew would never have dared to grab Helen's ass. Helen touches her left cheek with a fingertip, the signal that the switch has happened. Billie turns back just as Natalie joins her at the bar.

Without taking her eyes off the bartender as she relates her order, Natalie passes a hand over Billie's tray, pouring the contents of a tiny vial into one of the drinks-a lurid-looking grasshopper. Her gift for sleight of hand is so good, not even Billie, who is watching closely, sees the moment she adulterates the drink. Billie glances down to see the shreds of dark chocolate that garnish the drink are glistening with unrefined peanut oil.

Billie hoists the tray with a sense of elation, the same sort of buzz actors feel after months of rehearsal, when the curtain is about to rise on opening night. This hit has been too long in the making. They anticipated finishing it in six weeks, but it's been double that. Twice she's had to make a phone call she dreaded, postponing a trip to Bermuda with a man she needs to see again. Taverner. An image of him as she last saw him springs to mind. Sheets bunched around his hips, sleepy smile and open arms beckoning her back to bed for so long she misses her train. She shoves the memory away. She can't afford distractions now. And the sooner she kills this man, the sooner she can get back to that one.

She approaches the table and performs the trademark move of the servers, a dip that calls for her to gracefully bend at the knees instead of the waist. It requires a slight backbend, putting stress on the knees, but the move prevents a wardrobe malfunction. Billie serves the other two gentlemen at the table first. She doesn't recognize them from the dossier, but they are hanging on the nephew's every word as he tells a joke, a filthy one that Billie has heard at least seven times since coming to work at the club. The uncle is beaming at his nephew, a chip off a particularly nasty block. She deliberately leaves the grasshopper for last, as much to enjoy the anticipation as to make sure it is delivered perfectly. Just as she moves to set it in front of the nephew, he reaches the punchline and throws his hands wide, catching her arm. The grasshopper goes flying, the sticky green liquid hitting her squarely in the chest. It drips into her costume and the nephew, initially irritated at the loss of his drink, makes a vulgar suggestion as to how to clean it up.

Billie gives him a tight smile and apologizes, promising to replace the drink. She hurries up to the bar, where the bartender hands her a towel. She's discreetly blotting her chest when Natalie appears. "Bad news," Billie says from the side of her mouth. "He spilled it. I need a refill."

"Worse news," Nat tells her. "I haven't got one."

Billie turns to look directly at Nat. "Are you shitting me?" she hisses.

Natalie shrugs. "Mary Alice only has one vial."

"One? We've been prepping for three months and she has one?"

"She made a second one, but it got broken. It's not her fault."

Billie is fairly spitting at this point, and Nat gives her a warning look. Billie darts a glance in the mirror behind the bar and sees the uncle watching her. He signals for the check. Billie presents it and he shoves a few bills inside the leather folder-exact change for the drinks.

The nephew grins as he stands. "Sorry, tits. But if you want a tip, here you go-be a little friendlier." He leaves, snickering with the others. Billie, her costume sticky with crème de menthe, heads for the dressing room, where she grabs a trench coat from her locker. She throws it on over her costume and belts it tightly. Mary Alice appears just as Billie jerks the bunny ears off her head and tosses them into the corner.

"Where are you going?" Mary Alice demands.

"Plan B," Billie tells her.

Before anyone can stop her, she's out on the street. In the regulation club stilettos her feet hurt, but now she doesn't mind the pain. It keeps her sharp, focused, and in ten minutes she is at the front entrance of his hotel. The bellman sweeps open the door and she crosses directly to the registration desk, sliding a hundred-dollar bill towards the clerk as she gives the nephew's name.

"I'm sorry-" he begins.

Billie sighs to herself, but she knows what she has to do. She lets the coat fall open a little, just enough so that the clerk can see the distinctive satin costume, the collar with its trademark bow tie, the shadow at her cleavage. "Look, he's my boyfriend, and we had a fight before he came to Chicago. I just want to surprise him with his favorite fantasy," she tells him in a breathy tone.

His hands are shaking as he looks up the number. "612."

"Thank you," she says, pulling her coat closed. She's broken every rule of their organization. She's gone alone to finish a group mission. She's made herself obvious, memorable. She's guaranteed that if the desk clerk is ever questioned, he will be able to describe her down to the little freckle on her collarbone. But she doesn't care. She is allowing anger to fuel the job, and it feels good.

She rides the elevator up to the sixth floor and heads for the room. She tests the door handle-a shocking number of people forget to lock up when they leave-but it doesn't give. She is just about to pick the lock when a cheerful voice calls out from down the hall.

"Ma'am? Are you locked out?" It's a housekeeper, about twenty, too young to be tired of the job yet. Most hotel maids hurry past with their eyes down, worn down by drudgery, but this one is still shiny and bright as a new penny as she approaches.

Billie gives her a smile and rolls her eyes in mock annoyance. "I forgot my key and my husband must be in the shower. So stupid of me!"

The maid reaches past her and uses the passkey. "No problem."

"You're a doll." Billie blows her a kiss as she slips into the room. She closes the door behind her, careful to lock it again. She's not surprised to find the nephew is a slob. Traces of cut lines powder the coffee table, and empty champagne bottles are upended into a potted tree in the corner. Heaps of discarded clothes litter the floor. She steps over the pile nearest the bed, noting the pair of skid-marked underwear on the top. She kicks them aside and surveys the room. Outside the bathroom door is a small alcove with a vanity and a pair of marble sinks. The complimentary toiletries are all open, some spilling their contents onto the counter. She flicks all the lights off, plunging the room into darkness. She's left the curtains slightly parted, and the only illumination in the room comes from the street outside. She has prepared the trap. There is nothing to do now but wait.

It's only a quarter of an hour later when the door opens. The man who enters fumbles with the light switch but can't manage it, swearing softly. Billie can smell the liquor fumes as he stumbles towards the bathroom, and her eyes, accustomed to the darkness, can just make out his silhouette. Silently, she slips off her shoes and lunges, crossing the space between them in three steps, and gathering just enough speed to vault herself upwards, using his thigh as a launchpad. In one fluid motion she wraps her legs around his neck and twists her entire body, whipping him onto his back as she lands in a crouch over him. The air is knocked out of his lungs, leaving him gasping and disoriented. Before he can recover his breath, she flips him onto his belly, grinding his face into the carpet. With one knee in the small of his back, she brings her arm around his neck, clasping her elbow with her other hand, drawing it tight and cutting off his air. The whole maneuver has been completely silent and executed in almost total darkness. It has taken less than ten seconds. If she had been in a better mood, she would have held him gently in that position until he slipped into unconsciousness, then strangled him.

But Billie is not in a good mood. Just before he loses consciousness, she grabs either side of his head, using his chin for leverage as she jerks her hands in opposite directions. The snap, she always thinks, sounds like cracking a stalk of celery. He goes boneless and soft in her arms and she lets his torso fall to the floor. It will be simple to make it look like a drunken accident, a fall into the coffee table, maybe. She switches on the light, planning where to stage the body. She will have to slam his head into the corner of the coffee table to get a little blood flowing, but that doesn't bother her. She turns him over, and when the light falls on his face, she stares at him for a long minute, realizing just how much trouble she is in.