Death of a Beauty Queen Page 16

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dixon double-parked in front of the science building just about the time the double doors crashed open and kids poured out. He spotted Junior, shuffling along in skinny, ground-dragging jeans and talking to a girl in full Goth garb.

  He was already frantic with worry about Rose, so waiting while the two of them ambled in the general direction of his car was torture. His hands clenched into fists around the steering wheel so tightly that he had to consciously work at relaxing them.

  He waited until they were about to pass the car he was parked alongside, then he climbed out, his badge in his hand.

  “Hey, Junior,” he said, exercising admirable restraint, because what he wanted to do was throw the punk down on the sidewalk and cuff him. “Got a minute?”

  Junior balked and the Goth girl, who was fishing a cigarette out of her purse, almost ran into him. “Hey…” she started, then looked up. Her gaze snapped to Dixon’s badge. She froze.

  He could tell by the look in Junior’s eyes that he was considering making a run for it. “Don’t do it, Junior. Remember last time?”

  “I got away,” Junior mumbled.

  “Hah. Barely. And you won’t this time.”

  Junior met Dixon’s gaze and his eyes grew wide and round. His skinny neck moved as he swallowed.

  “Hey, man,” the Goth girl said. “You got business with Junior, that’s fine. But I gotta get out of here.” She made a show of looking at her large, black, steel-banded watch. “I’m late for—”

  Dixon glared at her. “Go on, sugar,” he said, and she went—fast. He turned to Junior.

  “Where’s Rose and who’s got her?”

  The punk still had that fight-or-flight look in his eyes, but his Birkenstocks were rooted to the sidewalk.

  “Huh? I mean—who?” Junior mumbled.

  Dixon grabbed a fistful of Junior’s T-shirt and lifted him to his tiptoes. “You know who,” he growled, his face no more than two inches from the kid’s. “The woman you were watching all night.”

  “What? I didn’t do nothing,” he whined. “You’re hurting me.”

  “You’re going to be hurt if you don’t start answering questions.” Dixon tightened his fist and lifted the skinny punk completely off the ground.

  “Hey, man!” Junior pushed at Dixon’s fist with his hands. “Lemme go!”

  A man in a suit started toward them, his face filled with concern. Dixon held up his badge. The man nodded, looking relieved, and turned in the other direction.

  Dixon dragged Junior over to the passenger door of his car, opened it and thrust him inside. He slammed the door.

  Junior eyed the door handle, then looked up at Dixon, but Dixon shook his head and slid his jacket back enough so that the edge of his holster was visible. That got the punk’s attention. He folded his arms and settled back against the seat.

  Dixon walked around the front of the car, still showing his weapon, and got in on the driver’s side.

  “Come on, man, don’t take me in. My dad’s gonna kill me,” Junior whined.

  “I’m going to kill you if you don’t give me some answers,” Dixon tossed back at him as he pressed the child-safety locks on the doors. Then he cranked the car and headed toward the station. “Now shut up and put your seat belt on.”

  “You don’t understand, man,” Junior said brokenly. “He’ll let me rot in jail this time.”

  Dixon glanced in the rearview mirror. The kid was genuinely terrified. As he drove to the station house, he kept an eye on him. When Junior dug a cell phone out of his pants, Dixon said, “Give me that.”

  “No, man, I gotta—”

  “Give it to me or I’ll pull the car over and take it.”

  “It’s my phone—”

  “It’s not your phone. It’s your daddy’s because he pays the bills.” He met Junior’s gaze in the mirror. “And he gave me permission to confiscate it. He’s worried about who you’ve been talking to.”

  It was a lie, but a calculated one. He doubted Junior would challenge him on it. Junior didn’t say anything else; he just pitched the phone over the seat. Dixon pocketed it.

  At the station house, Dixon hauled Junior up the stairs and into the squad room. Ethan was back and sitting at his desk.

  He stuck Junior in Interrogation Room One and told him to sit tight. Ethan stopped him outside the door and got in his face.

  “All right, Dix, what’s going on?” Ethan asked, nodding toward the door. “Who’s that?”

  Dixon had known, ever since he’d first laid eyes on Rose, that this moment would come. But explaining to Ethan wasn’t his top priority. Finding Rose was.

  “Give me a minute,” he said, walking past him and heading to the computer tech’s desk. He handed the tech Junior’s phone. “I need to know who these numbers belong to,” he told him.

  “Sure,” the tech responded and set the phone down on the edge of his desk.

  “Now!”

  The tech looked up. His bored expression turned to apprehension when he met Dixon’s gaze. “Okay,” he mumbled, picking up the phone.

  Dixon returned to where Ethan was standing. “What did they find at the scene?” he asked.

  “Damn it, Dix.” Ethan scowled. “You can’t just go running off from a crime scene. And please don’t tell me you think the woman’s supposed disappearance has anything to do with my cousin.”

  Dixon didn’t meet Ethan’s gaze. “What did the crime scene techs say?”

  Ethan’s breath whooshed out in a frustrated sigh. “The door wasn’t forced—”

  “I know that,” Dixon interrupted.

  “Do you want to know what they said or not?” Ethan snapped back at him.

  Dixon clamped his jaw and inclined his head.

  “There were no signs of a struggle, but CSI figured the woman was dragged to the back door and put into a vehicle, which left the scene—”

  “Did you talk to Thomas? Get the license plate?”

  Ethan was so angry that Dixon wouldn’t have been surprised if smoke had come out of his ears, but his police training kept him from blowing up at Dixon—so far.

  “He’s nine,” Ethan spat.

  “But he got the number, right?” Dixon responded.

  Ethan’s lips flattened. “It belongs to an Aron Accounting Firm. Company car.”

  “Aron Accounting? That was one of the names on the building directory. Did they send someone to talk to them? Who’s handling the questioning?”

  “Dix. Slow down! What build—” Ethan bit off the word. “What the hell is going on?”

  Dread and relief mingled inside Dixon. “Let’s go in there.” He gestured toward Interrogation Room Two. Its door was ajar. Dixon walked around Ethan.

  Ethan’s expression was dark and foreboding, but he followed Dixon into the room and shut the door behind him. “Okay, I’m here. What do we need to talk about?”

  Dixon paced in front of the mirror that was actually two-way glass. He took a long breath, blew it out, then drew in another. He couldn’t believe how hard his pulse was hammering. He’d known this wouldn’t be easy, but he hadn’t figured it would be this rough.

  “Don’t start again with all that stuff about my cousin.” Ethan’s voice carried a warning, but Dixon heard something else in its tone, too. A growing apprehension. Did Ethan have an inkling of what Dixon was about to tell him?

  He turned to face Ethan, who was still standing by the closed door, and placed his fists on his hips. “Did you get the name of the woman who lived in the house?”

  “Renée Pettitpas?”

  “No. She died a few months ago. I’m talking about the younger woman. The woman who was abducted.”

  Ethan nodded, although his expression didn’t change. “Yes. Rose Bohème. Sounds like an alias to me.”

  Dixon wiped a hand down his face, then looked at Ethan. “It is an alias. For Rosemary Delancey. Your cousin is alive,” he said.

  “My—” Ethan stared at him. “My—�
� His face turned red and he doubled his fists. “Damn it, Dixon, you low-down—I’m not listening to this. I told you if you kept on—”

  Dixon broke in. “Ethan, listen to me. I swear it’s the truth.”

  Ethan’s face drained of color. “If this is some kind of joke, I swear I’ll kill you.”

  “No joke. No mistake.” Dixon wiped a hand down his face. “I know how hard this is to believe. Trust me, I do. I didn’t want to tell you until I could—” he spread his hands “—could make sure she was safe, but—”

  Ethan held up his hands. He still looked a little green around the gills. “Hold it. Just hold it!”

  He pushed the fingers of both hands through his hair, tented his hands over his mouth and nose for a few breaths, then spread his palms. “I can’t even take this in. I don’t understand. I can’t figure out—my cousin Rosemary—after twelve years— Why—how—”

  “Delancey, sit down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  Ethan scowled darkly. “I’ll tell you what I’m about to do. I’m about to pound you into next week if you don’t tell me just exactly what you’re talking about. Because I don’t believe she’s alive. What I believe is that you have finally gone round the bend.” His hands clenched into fists. “I told you to stop obsessing over her. I understand that she was your first case. I get that you want it closed. But damn it. It’s been so long. It’s not possible.” He stopped and pushed his fingers through his hair again.

  “Listen to me,” Dixon pleaded. “She’s got amnesia. The trauma of the attack was too much. She doesn’t remember anything about the attack or anything before it.”

  “Amnes—” Ethan barked a short, unamused laugh. “Come on.” He walked to the other side of the room, stood there with his back to Dixon for a few seconds, then whirled around. “You’re telling me that this Bohème woman is my—” He stopped, as if he’d run out of steam.

  “Son of a—” He rubbed his forehead, then his eyes. He looked up at Dixon, sucked in a deep breath, then started pacing. He tented his fingers over his mouth again. “Do you know what this is going to do to my family?”

  “You can’t tell them anything. Not yet.”

  Ethan whirled and glared at Dixon. “You think I’m stupid enough to go to them with this cock-and-bull story?” He laughed again, a dangerous sound. “You’re completely crazy. My partner’s lost his mind.”

  “Ethan, I can’t force you to believe me, but I’m begging you to trust me. Rose is in danger, and I don’t know where she is. The man who abducted her is the same man who tried to kill her back then.”

  Ethan just stared at him. “How in the hell do you know that?”

  Dixon closed his eyes and turned away from Ethan, toward the mirror. “Because I’m the one who led him to her.”

  He felt Ethan’s fist grab his sleeve and jerk him around. He didn’t balk or duck, just went with the momentum and braced himself. He opened his eyes to a slit and saw Ethan pulling back his right fist, his teeth set in a grimace and his eyes dark as the night.

  Dixon waited.

  Ethan let go of his sleeve and cursed.

  “Come on, Delancey. Hit me.”

  Ethan threw a derogatory name at him. “It’s too easy. You’re just standing there, hoping I’ll knock all your teeth out because you know you deserve it.” He did an about-face and walked over to the door. But instead of slamming it open and walking out, he leaned against the jamb.

  Dixon watched him closely, but Ethan just looked back at him.

  “What now?” Ethan finally asked. “What do we do now? How do we find her?”

  Dixon breathed a sigh of relief. “That punk in the next room?” he said, gesturing. “I’ll bet you a month’s salary that he knows where she is, or at least who has her. I need to talk to him, see what he’s willing to tell me.” Dixon met Ethan’s gaze. “I’ve LoJacked his car. I’m going to grill him enough that when he leaves here, I’m hoping he’ll lead us to her.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Ethan said, his voice and manner now deadly calm. “You found my cousin, you’ve been meeting with her, talking with her? You know she has amnesia? And now you’re telling me you let some maniac abduct her? Oh and by the way, it’s all your fault?”

  Dixon’s breath whooshed out in a frustrated sigh. “I can make it right. I can rescue her if I can get Junior to lead me to where she is.”

  “Fine,” Ethan said on a sigh. “Fine. Are you going in to question him now?”

  Dixon nodded.

  “I’ve got to get some water,” Ethan said. He still looked shell-shocked. “I’ll be in the viewing room if you need me.” He wrenched the door open and stalked out, not waiting for an answer from Dixon.

  Dixon took a long, slow breath and rubbed his eyes. That went about as badly as he’d figured it would. Only he’d expected to be sporting a black eye or a sore jaw right about now. His partner had shown remarkable restraint.

  He headed for the door of Interrogation Room One, but the computer tech stopped him.

  “I’ve got the information from that phone.” He handed Dixon the phone and a computer printout. “By the way, there’s a message.”

  Dixon glanced at the phone’s display. Sure enough it said One new message. He slipped it into his pocket and quickly scanned the printout. His eyes stopped on a familiar name and number.

  Wexler. Where had he seen that name before? He pulled out his own phone and accessed the business directory Reed had sent him for the building on Tchoupitoulas. There it was, the first business on the list. Aron Accounting. Bruce Wexler was listed as the president and senior accountant. The car whose tag Thomas had memorized belonged to Aron Accounting, too.

  Something Shively had said niggled at the edge of Dixon’s brain. Something about the people who’d led the turf war that exploded when Innes had retired from the loan-sharking business. One of them had a name similar to the name of the accounting firm.

  He snapped his fingers. That was it. Shively had said that an Aaron or Allen Wasabe was one of the contenders to take over the loan-sharking business when Innes retired.

  Aron Accounting. Aron Wasabe.

  Excitement rushed through Dixon’s veins, energizing him. Was Aron Wasabe the monster who’d hurt Rose? And who had her in his clutches now?

  He grabbed Junior’s phone and accessed the message.

  W needs u @ C.M. whs asap. call me.

  Dixon opened the phone’s inbox. There were other messages from Wexler. He strode over to the computer tech’s desk.

  “I need a transcript of all these messages,” he said, holding out the phone.

  “Done,” the tech said, rooting around on his paper-

  littered desk. He picked up a sheet and handed it to Dixon.

  “Why didn’t you give this to me earlier?” Dixon said, frowning as he skimmed the messages. They were incriminating, but none of them mentioned whs or C.M.

  “You didn’t ask for it.”

  Dixon wanted to grab the collar of the kid’s shirt and jerk him up, but he restrained himself. “What do you think this means?” He held out the phone.

  “C.M.? No clue. W-H-S is probably warehouse.” The tech sent him a sidelong glance. “I’m assuming you know what the ‘at’ sign means.”

  Dixon ignored him. “What if I want to make sure I can track this phone, no matter whether it’s on or off?”

  The kid looked up at him, smirking. “Done.”

  “What do you mean, ‘done’?”

  “I mean I figured you might want to give it back to the guy. You know how there’s a backup battery in cell phones?”

  Dixon shrugged.

  “Yeah, man. A lot of phones have a clock battery, so the time function is always running. So I took the GPS tracking off the main battery and hooked it to the backup. It won’t last long, but it’ll be on even if he turns the phone off.”

  “How long will it last?”

  “Maybe twenty-four hours. Maybe less. Depends on how long he’s h
ad the phone—you know, how old the battery is.”

  “What the hell else did you do to it?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s a throwaway. Not much technology in there. Want to see the

  location?” He pointed at one of the computer screens where a red dot was blinking. “There you are, right in the middle of this building.”

  “What’s the range of this thing?” Dixon said, tamping down on his excitement.

  The kid shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe twenty miles?”

  “Is there any way I can see that from my car—like loaded into my car’s GPS?”

  “No, man.” The kid laughed. “Not without some major equipment. But I can track it here and guide you.”

  “Good.” Dixon pointed a finger at him. “You’re officially on duty until I say otherwise.”

  “Sure, as long as I get overtime.”

  Dixon leaned over the desk and got in the kid’s face. “Listen to me, punk. A woman’s life is in danger. If I can’t track this phone, she will die. Is that enough overtime for you?”

  “Uh, yeah. I mean, yes, sir.”

  “Now, I want you to send a reply to Wexler’s last message.” It was a big risk, pretending to be Junior. Wexler could get suspicious and warn Wasabe. But Dixon figured it would be an even bigger risk to try to use Junior. The kid was already nearly paralyzed with fear.

  “Type this. CM question mark. WHS question mark.”

  The tech did it, then handed the cell phone back to Dixon. He straightened and stalked toward Interrogation Room Two.

  He’d known when he brought Junior here that he wouldn’t get anything useful from him. He’d brought him solely to feed him a line. He needed Junior to believe that the police knew more than Dixon was letting on. He’d LoJacked Junior’s car in hope that when he let him go, Junior would hightail it to the man who had taken Rose.

  Now he had a better plan—he hoped.

  A soft bell sounded from Junior’s phone. A response from Wexler? Dixon checked the display. The message was cryptic.

  Warehouse out Chef Menteur idiot. Ditch phone now.

  Wexler was careful. Dixon would give Junior his cell phone back, and track him. Even if Junior tossed the cell phone, Dixon could track him with the LoJack.