Death of a Beauty Queen Read online

  Some instinct compelled her to wrap her fingers around his hardness. He threw his head back and a shuddering breath hissed out between his teeth.

  Then his gaze met hers as he sank into her slowly, so slowly. His jaw was tense, his mouth slightly open, his breath coming fast and hard.

  She gasped as he filled her, afraid and yet hungry for him. This—this was what she’d needed. She hadn’t known it until this very moment, hadn’t been able to imagine anything as exquisitely pleasurable.

  He grimaced and for a second she thought he was going to stop. She arched against him, begging for more.

  “Dixon,” she murmured as her hands reached to press him closer, closer. Then as he finally sank to the hilt, she cried out and lost herself in the bliss of orgasm.

  Dixon buried his face in the sweet space between her shoulder and neck, panting as he slowly recovered from the most shattering climax he’d ever experienced.

  A whisper of guilt tried to edge its way into his brain, but he pushed it away. There was plenty of time later to regret what he was doing. Right now he just wanted to bask in Rose’s warm embrace. He sighed and raised his head to look at her.

  Her eyes were closed and her lips were parted. As he watched, she pursed them and blew out what could only be described as a satiated breath.

  He smiled and bussed the corner of her mouth. Her lips turned up and she opened her eyes to a slit. She looked at him sidelong for a moment, then her eyes drifted shut again.

  “Sleepy,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he responded softly, then lay alongside her and pulled her close, so her head rested on his shoulder. It wasn’t long before she was breathing evenly, sound asleep. He closed his eyes and didn’t stir until daylight peeked in through the open curtains.

  He looked down at the top of her head, where red-gold roots peeked out from her scalp in sharp contrast to the rest of her hair, which was dyed black. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and she murmured something and curled her fingers into the hairs on his chest.

  And the guilt hit him—like an uppercut to his chin.

  What the hell was he doing? He was supposed to be protecting her, and what had he done? He’d ended up screwing her.

  Even as the word flitted through his brain, he knew it was unfair—to her and to himself. What they’d done deserved so much more than the derogatory word. They’d made love.

  That didn’t make it right. He should have known

  better. He did know better, but he couldn’t regret it. He’d never experienced anything like it in his life. Making love with her was everything he’d never allowed himself to think about in the twelve years since he’d worked that horrific crime scene.

  Abruptly, he was reminded of the awful scars he’d uncovered when he’d lowered her nightgown. Crisscrossed and jagged, their ugliness was made more prominent by the creamy pale beauty of her skin and the perfect round firmness of her breasts.

  What kind of monster could cut and scar such lovely, precious skin?

  Faintly, from the next room, Dixon heard the muted ring of his cell phone. Grimacing, he slid carefully and quietly out of Rose’s bed. She stirred and turned over but didn’t wake up.

  Tiptoeing out, he pulled her door closed and hurried into the second bedroom. He snatched his phone from the bedside table.

  It was Delancey. Damn it. Guilt stabbed him again. If—when—his partner found out what he was hiding from him, he’d probably shoot him. If he ever found out that he’d slept with his cousin Rosemary, Dixon knew he’d wish for the swift death promised by a bullet.

  Chapter Eleven

  “What do you remember about your cousin Rosemary from back then?” Dixon asked his partner as they were driving to the scene of a shooting at the old St. Louis Cemetery, on the corner of St. Louis and Basin Streets. If asked, he couldn’t have said why he kept digging at Ethan’s memories of his cousin.

  Was it hunger to know more about her, or a back-handed attempt to nudge Ethan toward the realization that Rosemary was still alive, without actually having to tell him?

  Ethan yawned and took a drink from his paper cup of coffee. “Come on, Dix. Obsessed much? Why are you still on that? Didn’t you tell me that T-Bo didn’t tell you anything except for Junior Fulbright’s name?”

  Dixon had been steeped in thoughts of Rose. He forced his attention back to the subject of T-Bo. “Yeah, but now he’s been murdered.”

  “You don’t know that it has anything to do with his talking to you.”

  “It was the same day,” Dixon reminded Ethan.

  “Exactly,” Ethan responded. “Isn’t that mighty fast to order and carry out a hit?”

  “Maybe, but he had a bar of soap stuffed down his throat. You know what that means.”

  “Sure. Somebody didn’t like something he said—or did—with his mouth. Maybe it was a lover’s quarrel.”

  “I got a list of everyone who visited inmates that day. There were over forty. That plus three hundred phone calls equals a long list of possibles for who might have ordered the hit on T-Bo.” He sighed. “And that doesn’t count the guards or trustees who might have been involved in getting a message to an inmate.”

  “You’re going to go through all of them? On a hunch?”

  Dixon shook his head. “I’ve asked the warden to take a look and tell me if he’s ever had even a whisper of trouble out of any of the names on the lists.”

  Ethan huffed and drank his coffee.

  “I’m serious, Delancey. I want to know about Rosemary. What do you remember about her?”

  “And I’m serious, Dix. I’m about to get really tired of this. Why in hell can’t you stop obsessing over her? She’s dead.”

  “The answer’s the same as the last dozen times. In the twelve years I’ve been a homicide detective, hers is the only case I’ve never closed.”

  “Well, get over it, because you’re never going to close that one. Hell, Shively was the lead detective and he managed to retire happy without closing it.”

  Dixon turned onto St. Louis Street and parked at the curb behind one of two patrol cars whose blue lights were flashing. On the other side of the street, an ambulance idled. He killed the engine and then turned to look at Ethan.

  “Think about it for a minute. What if T-Bo was telling the truth? What if she’s out there—maybe with amnesia or something. What if your cousin was still alive and you did nothing to help her?

  Ethan sent him an are-you-completely-nuts? look, then shook his head in exasperation. “I was sixteen when it happened,” he said grudgingly. “Rosemary was twenty-two. She was a lifetime older than me—or that’s what I thought at the time. I was interested in girls, not cousins.”

  Dixon waited.

  “Rosemary had moved out when she started college, gotten her own apartment. She was majoring in Music, I think, but she did modeling jobs—runway jobs—too.”

  “Did she have a lot of money? A trust fund? Money from her folks?”

  Ethan shook his head. “Our trust funds don’t kick in until our twenty-fifth birthday. I’m pretty sure Grandmother paid for her apartment and car. Or maybe Uncle Robert. Why?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out why she was targeted. So you’re saying she probably couldn’t get her hands on a large amount of cash.”

  “All I can do is tell you what I think now, looking back. I have no idea. Why the question about money anyhow?”

  Dixon shrugged. “She was a Delancey. Maybe the murder was about money.”

  “Her fiancé’s money maybe. He was Eldridge Banker’s son. Wasn’t he killed that night, too?”

  Dixon nodded. “Two buildings away from her apartment. We figured he came in, surprised the killer and ran.”

  “Ran? I don’t think I ever knew that. What a guy!”

  “Yeah. The killer chased him and shot him in an alley, then dragged his body behind a trash bin. And that’s where things get weird.”

  Ethan eyed him. “You think the killer went back to her
apartment and she was gone.”

  “That’s the best guess. Or at least it’s my guess. The M.E. never made a ruling because the body was missing. The case is officially still open.”

  “And there was nothing at the scene that could identify the killer.”

  “Right.”

  “No DNA? No trace of any kind? No fingerprint?”

  Dixon shook his head.

  “The killer was that good?”

  “I’m just telling you what the M.E. and the crime scene investigators put in their official reports.”

  “So what happened? You think Rosemary just got up and walked out—totally naked and covered with blood?”

  “I don’t know. There was a sash for a terry cloth robe…” Dixon stopped. How much could he—should he—tell Ethan? He gave a mental shrug. “The sash appeared to have been used to tie her hands to the bedposts. It was soaked in blood, but CSU never turned up a robe.”

  Ethan winced at Dixon’s words. “Why didn’t y’all follow her footprints? She couldn’t have gotten very far.”

  “There was a thunderstorm that night. There weren’t any footprints to follow.”

  Ethan put his coffee in the cup holder and opened the passenger door. Dixon caught up with him. They strode over to join a small crowd.

  “All right, folks,” Ethan said, holding up his badge. “The show’s over. Get out of here or I’ll pull you in for loitering.”

  By the time the crowd had thinned out, the EMTs had draped a sheet over a body on the ground and loaded a large, unconscious man onto a gurney, rolling it toward the ambulance.

  “Hey,” Ethan called to the EMTs. “Who you got there?”

  The EMT shrugged. “The officers have his wallet. They said we could take him on to the hospital. He’s going to need surgery.”

  Ethan stepped over to the gurney. Dixon followed.

  “I know this guy,” Ethan said. “He’s a bouncer at the Top Hat.”

  “The topless place on Bourbon?” the younger EMT asked, staring down at the unconscious man with renewed interest. “Wow. Well, he’s big enough for sure. Wonder if he did any bouncing with the girls?”

  Dixon shot him a disgusted look. “Weren’t you on your way to the hospital?” he snapped, then turned to his partner. “You have a history with this guy?”

  “I’ve talked to him a few times, mostly back when I was a patrolman. His name’s Gordon Blunt. People call him BFT.”

  “BFT?” Dixon repeated.

  Ethan smirked. “Blunt force trauma. He moonlighted as protection for some of the ladies. I was called to a domestic dispute one night. Girl and her pimp had gotten into it. I couldn’t find the pimp, but I took her in to a clinic to get her stitched up. A few days later, I get word the pimp got his ear bitten off.”

  “And you think it was…” Dixon gestured toward the ambulance that was pulling away.

  “I sure do.” Ethan turned as the uniformed officer walked up. “Who’s that?” he asked, jerking a thumb toward the body.

  “Lavonne Dufour,” the officer answered, drawing out the name sarcastically. He held up a card. “I’m pretty sure this driver’s license is bogus.”

  “That’s him.” Ethan grinned. “That’s the pimp that got into it with BFT.” He lifted the sheet. “Take a look at that ear.”

  Dixon dutifully leaned over and checked out the dead man’s missing ear. It did look like it had been bitten off.

  Just then his phone rang. He grabbed it and looked at the display. It was Bing, the café owner. His blood chilled.

  “Got to take this,” he said, walking away from them. He didn’t miss the curious look Ethan gave him.

  “Lloyd,” he said into the phone.

  “Yeah, Detective. I got something for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a guy been hanging around Rose’s. Acts like he’s part of the neighborhood, but he ain’t. Least I’ve never seen him before.”

  “What’s he doing exactly?”

  “Exactly? Smoking lots of cigarettes, watching her door. Talking on his phone.”

  “I’ll be over there as soon as I can.”

  “I’m gonna try and get a picture of him with my camera.”

  “Bing, don’t. Don’t try anything like that. He could be dangerous.”

  Bing laughed. “I’ll be careful,” he said, then the line went dead.

  “Bing?” Dixon looked at his display. Plenty of bars. Bing had hung up. “Damn it.”

  He walked back over to where Ethan was making sure the CSI got pictures of the body and the crime scene from all angles and listening to the kid’s account of the first time he’d ever been in a topless club.

  “I got to go. Got a situation with a—CI.”

  “Who?” Ethan asked, pocketing his smartphone.

  “You don’t know him.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Dixon shook his head. “Nope, not this time. Can you get home?”

  “Sure, one of the patrolmen will give me a ride.” Ethan gave Dixon an odd look. “What’s going on with you?” he asked.

  Dixon had already turned to head for his car. “Nothing,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you about it later—if there’s anything to tell.”

  * * *

  BING SET A cup of café au lait down in front of a sleepy-eyed man in a rumpled suit and wiped his hands on the towel that was draped across his shoulder. As he turned to head back into the kitchen, his gaze lit on Dixon. His brows went up and he stepped over to the table Dixon had chosen because it was nearest to the voodoo shop.

  “Didn’t see you sit down,” Bing said. “Want a café au lait?”

  Dixon shook his head. “I’m not going to be here that long. Tell me about the guy.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I got a picture of him.” Bing reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his camera.

  “I told you not to take that chance,” Dixon snapped. “He could be dangerous.”

  Bing’s broad, florid face wrinkled into a scowl. “You also remarked that you bet I could take care of myself. Remember?” He pointed to the tattoo on his left forearm.

  “Sure, but—”

  “You don’t think I stay prepared in this neck of the woods?” Bing cast a sly glance down toward his ample waist. Dixon followed his gaze and saw the vague outline Bing was referring to. He considered himself to be observant but he hadn’t spotted the gun until Bing pointed it out.

  “Impressive,” he said.

  “Yeah? Wait ’til you find out what it is,” Bing said, grinning. “Then you really will be impressed. It’s a SIG SAUER P226.”

  Dixon murmured agreement. “You got a carry permit?”

  Bing gave a one-shouldered shrug.

  Dixon sighed. “Okay, never mind. I don’t want to know the answer to that. Let’s see the picture you took.”

  Bing glanced around, checking the tables to be sure nobody needed his attention, then he perched on the edge of one of the chairs, if a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man could be described as perching. He pulled his phone out of his left front pants pocket and pressed a button.

  The photo was a long-shot, but Dixon recognized the subject immediately. “Junior,” he said disgustedly.

  “You know him?” Bing said.

  “Yeah. Two-bit punk. I’d jerk a knot in him and send him dragging his tail back to his daddy, if I thought it would do any good.”

  “You his babysitter?”

  Dixon shook his head. “Nah, but he needs one. He’s probably going to end up dead.” He stood and tossed a five from his pocket onto the table. If Junior was skulking around here, Reed should have been stuck to him like glue.

  “Did you see anybody else who looked out of place?”

  When Bing shook his head, Dixon was relieved. If Bing, who’d been on the lookout for anyone or anything unusual, hadn’t spotted Reed, then Dixon had confirmation of just how good the private investigator was.

  Bing picked up the fi
ve-dollar bill and held it out. “That’s not necessary,” he said. “We watch out for each other in this neighborhood.”

  “Keep it. You can buy me a café au lait next time.”

  Bing grinned as a young woman at a nearby table waved a hand in the air. “Deal,” he said, pocketing the bill.

  “And Bing, get a carry permit.”

  The Marine nodded as he headed toward the woman’s table.

  * * *

  ROSE SQUEEZED HER eyes shut, but she couldn’t block out the sun. Opening one eye to a narrow slit, she looked toward the window. What time was it anyway?

  Late. That much she knew. Dixon had left before dawn. She’d woken slightly when his cell phone rang, then had gone back to sleep almost immediately once she heard him lock the front door.

  She turned over onto her back and stretched luxuriously, enjoying the feel of the cotton sheets against her bare skin. She felt soft, supple, satiated.

  She shivered as a memory of Dixon holding her, loving her, filling her, sang through her core. It had been exciting and scary, and better than she’d ever imagined sex could be.

  She stretched again, sighing contentedly, then laid her head on the pillow. In the middle of a jaw-stretching yawn, she gulped.

  She’d gone to bed with Dixon. And although it hadn’t seemed natural—after all it was her first time, or the first time she ever remembered—it had seemed right.

  Right and comfortable and amazing, there in the dark with the rain drumming against the window panes. Dixon had come to her and chased away her nightmares. He’d banished the susurrus whisperings. He’d doused the brilliant, deadly flashes.

  But now that she was awake and bathed in bright rational daylight, it seemed reckless of her to have given herself so completely to him. She’d invited into her bed the one man in the world who could ruin her life. He’d already disrupted her safe, quiet existence in ways her imagination had never conceived.

  Because of him, she was afraid in her own home for the first time in her memory. Because of him, she’d lost the innocence in which Maman had cloaked her. She’d moved in here after Maman died because sleeping in her own room just made Maman’s bedroom feel more empty.