Читать книгу Death of a Beauty Queen - Mallory Kane - Страница 8

Present Day

Aron Wasabe groped in the dark for his cell phone on the bedside table and turned off the ringer before it could buzz again. He squinted at the display and grimaced, then threw back the covers and got up, sliding the phone into the pocket of his pajamas.

His wife, Carol, turned over. “Aron?” she whispered. “Don’t forget Amy’s soccer game. It’s at six.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep,” he muttered. She sighed softly. She was used to the phone calls and odd work hours. After all these years, she didn’t even ask questions.

Down in the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee, then gazed out the patio doors at the rising sun while it perked.

The president of Aron Accounting, Bruce Wexler, had worked for him for years. He was smart and capable. There wasn’t much he couldn’t handle. So if he thought something was important enough to call Wasabe this early, it probably was. It might even be important enough to warrant his having to work on Friday. He frowned. It had better not take too long. He was not going to miss another one of his daughter’s soccer games.

He decided to finish his first cup of coffee before calling Wexler back.

After filling a mug, he added a generous dollop of cream and three heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Then he walked out onto the patio where the sun bathed the flowers and trees in pale pink light.

He smiled to himself. Carol would probably call it mauve or puce or some other ridiculous word. She did a good job with the house and the yard. The patio was like an outdoor kitchen and dining room, beautifully landscaped.

She’d made a home for him and their six-year-old daughter and he loved her for it. He sat down in a glider and gently rocked back and forth as he enjoyed that first swallow of coffee of the day. It was the best.

His phone rang again. He took another long swallow before leisurely retrieving it. He checked the display. Wexler again.

“Bruce? Twice before seven? This better be good.” Wasabe allowed a slight irritation to color his voice, just enough to worry the president of his accounting firm.

“It’s important, Mr. Wasabe. There’s a kid running his mouth. Says he saw the Delancey girl. The one who was murdered twelve years ago. The Carnival Queen?”

Wasabe’s throat closed on a sip of coffee. He coughed. “So?” he asked, clearing his throat and trying to sound casual, but hearing the anxiety in his voice. “That’s what you woke me up for? Some yahoo trying to sell a bill of goods, like we hear every week?”

It couldn’t be true. Rosemary Delancey couldn’t be alive. Not after all this time. But a flutter of hope tickled the back of his throat. If she were …

“I know how you like Delancey stuff,” Wexler went on. “So I knew you’d want to hear about this.”

Wasabe had given his employees and associates hints over the years of his interest in the Delancey family. He’d never explained why. He’d left it to them to draw their own conclusions. Apparently, the majority of them believed he was obsessed with the infamous late-patriarch of the clan, Con Delancey.

Wexler was still talking and he’d missed most of it. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I said the kid is James Fulbright’s boy.”

“The loudmouth? He’s Councilman Fulbright’s son?”

“Yeah. He’s saying his pop was King of Krewe Ti Malice the year the Delancey girl was Carnival Queen.”

“Was he?” Wasabe asked. Wexler should know. The Wexlers had ridden in Mardi Gras parades for decades.

“Yes, sir. He sure was. Junior was probably about twelve. He claims she was his first crush. Said he’d recognize her in a whorehouse under a sweaty fat john.”

“How’d you hear about this?”

“Junior was bragging. He told me T-Bo Pereau was hanging around. Said Pereau sneaked off like a pup that had just snatched a bone away from a big dog.”

“And who the hell is T-Bo Pereau?”

“A nobody. In and out of prison for possession and small-time dealing.”

“Keep an eye on Pereau, and bring Junior Fulbright to the office. Noon. He knows Rosemary so well, he can find her for us. And if he talks to anybody else I’ll cut off his thumbs.” Wasabe grimaced. “And don’t be late. I’m going to my daughter’s soccer game at six.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wasabe hung up and picked up his coffee with a shaky hand. Twelve years ago, while working as a small-time collector for a loan shark, he’d made a choice that earned him a lucrative career as a contract killer. However, it left him effectively indentured to a powerful and ruthless man.

Was this his chance to close the book on that first botched job? If Rosemary Delancey really was alive, maybe he could finally earn his freedom by delivering her to The Boss.

IT WAS HER. He was sure of it. Detective Dixon Lloyd’s pulse hammered in his ears. That two-bit drug dealer he and his partner, Ethan Delancey, had collared for parole violation was right, and Ethan was wrong.

T-Bo Pereau had sworn he could tell them where Rosemary Delancey, the supposedly murdered Carnival Queen, was, in exchange for not putting him back in prison. Dixon had wanted to make the deal, but Ethan had scoffed.

You’re being suckered by the Delancey mystique, he’d told him. As soon as Pereau heard my name, I saw the wheels turning in his brain and the dollar signs in his eyes. Trust me. When you’re dealing with the Delancey name there’s always a story. A few years ago a murderer tried to get immunity by telling my brother Lucas who really killed our granddad. A couple of times a year the local tabloids will carry a photo that “proves” that Con Delancey is alive and living with a Cajun woman in the bayou or something just as outrageous.

Dixon had heard the stories himself, so he figured Ethan was right. Still, he hadn’t wanted to take a chance. Poor T-Bo Pereau had gone back to Angola, but Dixon had quietly called in a favor and gotten him a few perks in exchange for what he knew about Rosemary Delancey.

T-Bo’s information had been disappointing to say the least. All he’d given Dixon was a weak story about seeing a woman who’d looked like the murdered Carnival Queen catching the Prytania streetcar on Canal. When Dixon asked him how he could be sure it was Rosemary Delancey, T-Bo had replied, Everybody knows the Delanceys.

Dixon had figured he could write off his time and the favor he’d called in.

But now, as Dixon watched the woman walking down the street, he sent up thanks that he’d followed up on the two-bit dealer’s story.

Her hair was inky black and captured into a long, loose braid. She was covered from neck to fingertips to toes by a long skirt, a gauzy long-sleeved blouse and some kind of lacy gloves. But there was no mistaking that tilt of her head or that walk.

Dixon unconsciously touched his wallet, where he carried the photo he’d taken from her apartment all those years ago. A deep sadness still weighed on his chest each time he thought about that horrific, bloody crime scene. It had been his first homicide. The upscale Garden District apartment had been drenched in her blood, but Rosemary Delancey’s body had never been found.

The woman slowed down, so he did, too, keeping her in sight but not getting too close. She glided along as if the narrow, uneven sidewalk were a beauty pageant runway, cradling a long loaf of French bread like an armful of roses.

Dixon was no expert on beauty pageants or Mardi Gras Carnival queens, but after her murder he’d searched out every photograph and video ever taken of Rosemary Delancey. He’d become an expert on what she looked like and how she walked.

At that moment she turned her head to check the traffic before crossing Prytania Street. When he saw her full-face for the first time, his certainty melted like cotton candy in the rain.

Viewed straight-on, there was something not quite right about her features. Before he had time to figure out what it was, however, she’d turned away again and crossed the street.

She said something to a newspaper kiosk vendor and he laughed. She continued on. At the door of a two-story shotgun house three doors down she produced a key from a hidden pocket in her skirt and unlocked the door.

Dixon’s pulse raced. Had he really found Rosemary Delancey? Because T-Bo Pereau’s information had her boarding the Prytania streetcar, Dixon had checked the public records of every single resident within a twenty-block radius, without much hope of success. He’d found three people with names similar to Rosemary.

Rosalie Adams, who was eighty-three; Rosemary Marsden, forty-eight, who owned a dress shop on Magazine Street; and Rose Bohème, thirty, whose signature was on Renée Pettitpas’s permit renewal for a display space on Jackson Square. Of the three, only Rose Bohème held any promise, although she was too young to be Rosemary Delancey, who would have been thirty-four. Still, it had been a place to start.

Now here he was, standing in front of Renée Pettitpas’s address, his head spinning with excitement. If Rose Bohème was Rosemary Delancey …

Dixon looked up at the house. Its chips and peels spoke of several decades of stucco and paint—white, pink, gray and most recently green. In this part of town, the effect of the crumbling layers with old brick peeking through was charming.

Dixon’s sister made quite a good living working to achieve the same effect artificially for clients who loved the look but preferred to pay outrageous sums for faux finishing for their Garden District mansions rather than live in this part of town where they could have the real thing. He ought to take a picture for her. She’d go nuts over the rainbow of colors the crumbling layers revealed.

He glanced upward at the creaky weathered sign that read Maman Renée, Vodun, Potions, Fortunes in peeling paint. She’d want to steal that, too.

Just as the black-haired woman pushed open the door, a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, ran up to her.

“Mignon!” the woman cried, leaning down to buss the girl’s cheeks. “Here you are, early as usual.” She gestured toward the canvas tote dangling from her wrist. “I have a new piece for you to learn today.”

“Miss Rose,” the little girl said with a shake of her many neatly braided pigtails, “I want to play ‘Saints Go Marchin’ In.’”

“In good time, ‘tite.” She pushed the door open and let the girl go inside ahead of her. Just as she entered, she turned back and glanced around. Dixon could have sworn her gaze lit on him for an instant before she pushed the door closed.

For a couple of seconds, he stared at the weathered wooden door with its clear-and-red leaded glass insert, his chest contracting as if a giant fist squeezed it. The little girl had called her Rose.

Rose. Thinking of the woman’s features, doubt nagged at him, but he’d come this far. He wasn’t about to give up without checking her out.

He looked around. Maman Renée’s voodoo shop was one of a row of similar two-story houses.

In a window of the house next door, he saw an elderly man’s gnarled, dusty-black fingers push the lace curtains aside, then quickly let them drop.

The house on the other side and the duplex across the street were both boarded up and the duplex’s roof was caved in. They looked as though they hadn’t been touched since Katrina.

Half a block up the street, he saw the tables and chairs of an outdoor café. The sign said Bing’s, since 1972. He walked over and sat. When a husky man with a towel slung over his shoulder and a marine tattoo came out to take his order, Dixon nodded toward the voodoo shop.

“What happened to Maman Renée?” he asked casually, but the man wasn’t fooled. He eyed him suspiciously.

“You a cop?”

Dixon gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Café au lait,” he said. So Bing was protective of Rose Bohème. Dixon had seen it a lot in the old neighborhoods during his career as a homicide detective. He was glad she had neighbors who cared for her, but it was going to make his job a lot harder if none of them would give him any information.

He’d asked his question about Maman Renée as an icebreaker. He knew that five months ago, Renée Pettitpas, seventy-eight years old, had suffered a stroke. Rose had called 911, but by the time the EMTs arrived, Renée had died.

So what now, Lloyd? he asked himself as he waited for his coffee. The little girl was there for a piano lesson. It fit. Rosemary Delancey had majored in music at Loyola University’s College of Music and Fine Arts. Everything about Rose Bohème fit, except her face and her age.

As he frowned, trying to figure out what was wrong with her features, the folded photo in his wallet that he’d taken from Rosemary Delancey’s apartment seared his buttock like a brand. He’d always hoped that one day, if she’d survived that bloodbath, someone would see her and recognize her, although truthfully, he’d never really believed the day would come. Yet here he was, about to confront the woman who everyone believed had been murdered twelve years before.

He unwrapped the cloth napkin from around a fork and spoon. The flatware rattled. He held up his hand. He was actually shaking.

Bing returned at that moment with his café au lait. He set it down, then folded his arms and watched him.

Dixon sipped the hot milk-laced coffee.

“Why’re you so interested in Maman Renée?” Bing finally asked gruffly.

Dixon didn’t answer directly. “I see you’ve been here since 1972.”

Bing looked down his crooked nose at him.

He nodded at the tattoo on the man’s forearm. “Marines,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll bet you can take care of yourself.” Dixon watched Bing.

A dark brow shot up. “Wanna try me?”

Dixon shook his head with a short laugh. “No. I guess the folks around here take care of Rose, now that Maman Renée is gone.”

“How’s any of that your business?” Bing said, unfolding his arms and clenching his fists. “‘Cause we don’t like questions and we sure as hell don’t like cops.”

Dixon leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “I’m worried that Rose could be in danger,” he murmured.

Bing stiffened and his eyes narrowed. “How?” he asked.

Dixon took a calculated risk. “You remember when she first showed up here twelve years ago?”

The Marine didn’t respond.

“Someone had tried to kill her. Maman Renée took care of her.” Dixon watched Bing’s expression.

“So you say,” the man responded, shrugging.

Dixon studied Bing as he finished his coffee. “You’re here every day?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Bing said forcefully. “And I keep an eye on things, too.”

“I could use your help, watching out for Rose,” Dixon said. “I can’t be here all the time.”

Bing’s expression didn’t soften one bit. “You say a lot, mister, but you ain’t said who you are or why Rose is your business.”

Dixon stood and slid a five-dollar bill under the empty mug. “I’m a cop, just like you figured. Detective Dixon Lloyd, Homicide.” He took out his wallet and showed Bing his badge. “But I’m working undercover. Nobody—nobody—can know I’m on the job. Rose’s safety is at stake.”

“Then why’re you telling me?”

“Because you protected her. As soon as I asked you about Maman Renée, you made me as a cop and you wouldn’t tell me anything. Can I count on you to keep an eye on her and let me know if you see anyone or anything suspicious?”

Bing nodded. They exchanged phone numbers and Dixon held out his hand.

Bing eyed it suspiciously. “I’m gonna watch out for Rose. I do anyway. And I’ll call you if I see anything. But I swear, Lloyd, if you put her in harm’s way, you’ll answer to me.”

“Understood,” Dixon said.

Bing eyed him for another couple of seconds, then he shook his hand.

Dixon walked back down the street toward Maman Renée’s shop. Once her student was gone, he’d knock on the door and ask the questions that had burned inside him for twelve years.

How had she escaped from her attacker? Where had she gone? And why had she never come forward to let her family and the police know she was alive?

Her murder case—Dixon’s first homicide—was the only case he’d never managed to solve. In the past twelve years, he’d earned a reputation in NOPD. They called him The Closer, and now he finally had the chance to earn the title. Before this week was out, he planned to close the case the press had dubbed The Beauty Queen Murder.

ROSE BOHÉME CLOSED the front door behind Mignon after warning her to go straight home. She smiled to herself. The eight-year-old had been taking piano lessons for only three weeks, and already she could sight-read five easy pieces. If she kept on like that, Rose wouldn’t be able to keep up with her for much longer.

As she climbed the wooden staircase to the apartment above, a flash of light from the window blinded her.

She froze in nameless terror as red amorphous afterimages of the flash seared into her brain.

A second later, rationality overcame the fear. She took a long, slow breath and glanced toward the uncurtained front window. Something metallic, maybe just the foil from a cigarette package or gum wrapper, had caught the late-afternoon sun.

She could hear Maman’s voice in her head, chiding her. Breathe easy, ma ‘tite. Just forget all that’s gone before. Maman put a spell on this house, keep you safe.

But behind the sweet memory of Maman’s voice lurked other unsettling voices, scurrying around the back of her mind with susurrus whispers that haunted her dreams.

Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. She pressed her fingers against her suddenly pounding temple and shook her head.

Stop it. Rose closed her eyes and listened for Maman’s soothing words again, but the ghostly hissing drowned out all other sound.

Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.

Pain throbbed in rhythm with the voices. Pressing her fingers against her temple seemed to help. As she massaged the sore place near her hairline, her stomach rumbled.

Of course. She was hungry. That was all that was wrong with her. She hadn’t eaten at all today. She thought about the gumbo she’d made this morning. That’s what she needed. A big bowl of gumbo and some of the French bread she’d bought. Then she’d go to bed so she could get an early start tomorrow.

Just as she headed back up the stairs, a knock at the door made her jump.

Mignon? Surely not. She should have made it home by now. Rose retraced her steps, squinting against the sunlight, and flipped the light switch near the bottom of the stairs. She unlocked the door, leaving the chain on.

“Mignon?” she started before she saw the looming shadow of the man who stepped forward. “Oh,” she said, then, “the shop is closed.”

“Hold it.” He stuck his foot between the door and the facing as a glint of light on metal flashed in her eyes.

She recoiled with a cry before she realized that the shiny object he held was a badge.

“New Orleans Police, ma’am,” the man said in a low, gruff voice.

“Police?” She put a hand to her racing heart. “Has something happened to Mignon?” she rasped.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Detective Lloyd. Dixon Lloyd. I need to ask you some questions.”

Rose opened the door to the maximum width allowed by the chain and looked up at him. He was tall, three or four inches taller than her five feet eight inches. His eyes were hooded.

The badge he held reflected the waning sunlight off its burnished surface.

Rose blocked the reflection with her hand, wishing he would put the thing away. What could the police want with her? She hadn’t done anything, had she? “I’m sure you have the wrong address,” she said.

“No. I have the right address. You are Rose Bohème, right?” His voice was firm, commanding.

He knew her name. Oh, this was not good. “Yes,” she said, working for just the right tone of mild interest and slight impatience. “What is this about?”

“Could I come in, please?” he asked, only it didn’t really sound like a request. The commanding tone was still there.

“Of course.” She tried to keep the stress out of her voice as she unlatched the chain and held the door open. He stepped past her into the foyer, filling it up with his height and his broad shoulders. He brought with him the smell of sunlight, wind and the street.

She sent a glance up and down the sidewalks. Curtains fluttered and a couple of doors slammed shut. She smiled wryly as she closed the door but left it unlocked. People on this end of Prytania Street didn’t like cops. She’d have a lot of questions to answer tomorrow.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked, studying his shadowed face and wishing she’d replaced the second bulb in the foyer fixture. The single pale globe did little more than create eerie shadows along the dusty, bottle-lined shelves and counters of Maman’s shop.

The detective didn’t answer her. His head turned as he checked around him. Rose didn’t like the imperious way he took in the entire room with one sweeping glance and then dismissed it. The only thing that seemed to catch his attention was the stairs. His head tilted as he looked up to the top of them.

“Is there somewhere we can sit?” he asked.

Rose considered saying no. He’d dismissed Maman’s shop as beneath his notice, so she didn’t feel the need to be even nominally polite. As she opened her mouth to speak, he turned his dark eyes to meet hers.

She looked away. The throbbing in her head increased, flaring into a hot, bright pain. Her personal warning system. This detective wasn’t here to ask about some crime or other that had happened in the neighborhood.

He was here for her.

So this was it—the day Rose had dreaded for ever since she could remember. The police had come for her and she had no idea why.

Her entire body tensed as awful, encompassing fear blanketed her. She felt helpless and lost, like she had twelve years ago when she’d woken up to stare blankly at a wizened woman who was wrapping her cuts in soft white bandages.

It took all her strength not to bolt past Detective Lloyd out the door. She clenched her fists and the skin of the scar that ran along her hairline and down her cheek stretched as she frowned. She consciously relaxed her features until she could no longer feel her skin drawing.

“It’s okay,” he said, watching her closely. “We can talk standing here if you’d rather not allow me upstairs.”

His tone worried her and those eyes were positively searing. Was she acting suspiciously? “No, no. Please, come in.”

She ascended the stairs, conscious of his heavier, masculine footsteps, his eyes boring into her back and his thoughts, which of course she couldn’t read, swirling around her. At least that’s how she imagined them.

At the top of the stairs she stepped aside and turned on the landing light. Then she led the way into Maman’s living room, where the curtains were open and the waning sunlight was brighter than downstairs.

The detective stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room before he entered. Rose squirmed as she looked at the furniture through his eyes. The green velvet chairs and the old burgundy brocade couch looked threadbare, not fit even for Goodwill. Its frame was in good shape, though, sturdy.

The grand piano’s gloss was dazzling under the light, but big and little finger smudges marred the surface.

Fingerprints. Her hands began to tremble. She tried to relax them, but despite her effort they clenched into fists. Her gaze darted back to the piano. Her gloves were there, where she’d removed them for Mignon’s lesson.

“P-please sit,” she said unsteadily, unwrapping her fingers and gesturing toward the couch. She walked over to the piano and picked up the black lace fingerless gloves and slipped them on as unobtrusively as she could. She perched on the edge of the piano bench and clasped her hands in her lap.

The detective sat down on a chair and turned it to face the piano bench. Then he leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, which were mere inches from hers. He sat there, saying nothing, his gaze on her hands—her gloves. It took all her strength not to hide them behind her back like a child.

After what seemed like an eternity, he shifted his gaze to his badge, regarding it as if he’d forgotten he was still holding it. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Rose tried to concentrate on studying him instead of wondering what he was thinking about her. She noticed what she hadn’t seen at the door or in the dim light of the shop downstairs.

Detective Lloyd was very well-dressed. Her interest piqued, she assessed him with the eye of an experienced fortune-teller. Maman had taught her that understanding people was all in the subtle details. Rose had a feeling that knowing as much as possible about this detective might be a good idea.

His clothes weren’t expensive, but he wore them well. His broad, straight shoulders told her he was proud and confident. A large watch that must have cost a significant portion of his salary rode across his left wrist, its face canted toward his thumb. No wasted effort. He could glance at its face without having to stop and cock his wrist.

His brilliant white shirt was long-sleeved, its cuffs shot perfectly beneath the lightweight sport coat. One edge of his right cuff was beginning to fray. He was frugal, or at least not wasteful, but a faint crease across the shirtfront indicated that he didn’t bother with washing his clothes. He had them laundered and folded.

He appeared lean and hard. His thighs were long and lean beneath the dress pants.

His hands were nice. Large and well-shaped, with long, spatulate fingers and short, clean nails. According to Maman, those types of fingers indicated a pragmatic and dedicated person who viewed their work as their top priority. That fit with what she’d already gleaned from his appearance.

The watch was his only accessory and his only indulgence. He didn’t even wear a ring. She stared at the fourth finger on his left hand, shifting slightly so that the light caught it at a different angle. Nope. As far as she could tell, he’d never worn a wedding band.

“Ma’am?”

She forced her gaze away from his hands and looked at him, with what she hoped was polite but mild curiosity.

“As I said, I’m looking into an unsolved murder case from several years ago.” He fished a small notepad and a pen out of his inside jacket pocket.

“An—unsolved murder?” she rasped. “Whose?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the pad and studied a page for a few seconds. Then he raised his head and fixed her with that dark, sharp gaze. “Now, is it true that you call yourself Rose Bohème?”