Death of a Beauty Queen

by Mallory Kane

  From another pocket, he pulled a small roll of paper tape, the type used in hospitals for sensitive skin. He pressed it tightly over her mouth. The tape shouldn’t bother her skin, but just to be sure, he’d take it off as soon as he got her to the warehouse.

  Just as he finished, her eyes opened. They were glassy and unfocused. It was almost comical to watch her limbs twitch uncontrollably as she struggled against her bindings.

  He jolted her again with the taser. With a strangled moan, she crumpled like a dropped marionette. He nudged her arm with his foot, but it flopped in a way that nobody could fake. She was out.

  He quickly walked past her toward the side door at the back of the house. It was locked, but the front door key opened it easily. Outside the door was a narrow concrete stoop with two steps down to the shell-and-gravel alleyway.

  Wasabe walked around the house to his car and backed it into the alley. Then he dragged Rosemary through the rooms, out the side door and down the steps. He stopped to catch his breath before hefting her into the car’s trunk. It had been years since he’d had to move a deadweight. He wasn’t used to the heavy work anymore.

  He’d disabled the trunk release as soon as he’d bought the four-door sedan several years ago. It was registered under the name of Aron Accounting, the shell business he’d set up back when he’d had to do his own heavy

  lifting. Nowadays, part of the exorbitant fee he demanded paid for underlings to handle disposal.

  Disposal. Something he hadn’t had a chance to do with Rosemary or her fiancé. That first job had been a fiasco from the start. He never should have taken it, but he’d been young and green and willing to take the dirty jobs because that was how a skinny kid from Chicago got noticed in the dank dark underbelly of New Orleans.

  Over the years he’d developed a useful set of skills, which had made him one of the most sought-after hit men in the southeastern United States.

  He’d become somewhat of a legend for his skill with a balisong, also called a butterfly knife. Its advantage was that it could be opened and ready to use with one hand. He liked it better than a switchblade because few people had ever seen one and were caught completely off guard when he slung it open. But even more than the ease of handling, he liked the symmetry of it. The way the handles swung in opposing arcs from around the blade.

  Seeing the amateurish knife work on Rosemary Delancey’s face was shocking and repulsive to him. She’d been his first actual hit, and she’d taught him a lot.

  First and foremost, only take jobs guaranteed to be quick and clean. He’d vowed that night to never accept a job that required him to torture a subject. The Beauty Queen Murder had made his career, as The Boss routinely reminded him. But while he never fretted over the people he killed, he’d never gotten over what he’d done to Rosemary.

  Now, finally, he was delivering the goods to The Boss. Once he fulfilled this obligation and put his guilt to rest, he was hanging up his knife. He’d made enough money so that he didn’t have to work ever again. He could retire, and let Wexler take complete control of Aron Accounting.

  Wasabe could putter in his yard, go fishing, never miss his little girl’s soccer games. Maybe they’d even have another baby.

  Wasabe started the car, grabbed a pair of dark glasses from the visor and put them on, then pulled out of the alley. As he did, he saw a child with a manila envelope under his arm, knocking on Rosemary Delancey’s front door.

  When the boy saw the car, his brows furrowed and his hand raised in an almost-wave.

  Wasabe changed his game plan within the blink of an eye. He’d planned to head west on Prytania to get back to St. Charles. He doubted that the kid, who looked no older than nine, would even think about memorizing the license plate, but just in case, he didn’t want to give him enough time.

  So he turned east instead and took an immediate right. That way, the kid, or anyone else who might be looking, had only a five- or six-second view of the back of the vehicle before it turned.

  Wasabe looked in his rearview mirror as he turned. The kid had stepped into the street and was watching his car.

  He drove out Gentilly Street to Chef Menteur Highway. Several miles out Chef Menteur were some warehouses that had been damaged in Katrina. Aron Accounting had purchased one a few years ago that from the outside appeared to be destroyed. Inside, however, the steel frame was intact and there were only a couple of places where the roof leaked. He stored things there that he didn’t want to keep at home, including the car.

  And that’s where he’d keep Rosemary until The Boss was ready for her.

  Up ahead was the turn for the warehouse. He took a right off Chef Menteur and wound around the freight roads to the front of the building, which faced a small canal. After pulling into the shade of the building, he dialed The Boss on a throwaway cell phone.

  “The package is in storage,” he said.

  He heard The Boss suck in a deep breath. “I can’t get away until late. Keep it secure. I’ll call you.”

  “My kid’s got a soccer game, so I’ll be back here—”

  “Your kid will have to play without you.”

  Wasabe frowned. “Wait a minute. I don’t miss my little girl’s games. You know that.”

  “This time you do, if you know what’s good for you. You let her slip through your fingers this time, you won’t have any left.” The Boss hung up.

  Wasabe’s breath hissed out between his teeth. “I’m not missing the soccer game,” he muttered. “Not even for you.” But even while he was furious at The Boss for ordering him around, he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been afraid The Boss would order him to work on her. He wouldn’t have been able to say no.

  After all, he’d failed The Boss last time.

  * * *

  THE SECOND LIST Reed had sent Dixon placed Junior in an English Literature class at two o’clock and a Biology lab at four. If Dixon timed it right, he could LoJack Junior’s car, go check on Rose and get back before the lab was over.

  When Dixon drove by Junior’s apartment around three-fifteen, his car wasn’t there. So Dixon headed over to Delgado Community College and checked around the English building. Sure enough, he spotted it. He hung around until class let out and followed Junior home. As soon as the punk was inside his apartment, Dixon quickly LoJacked his car.

  He checked his watch. He had an hour and a half to drive over to Prytania and check on Rose.

  She’d been so angry this morning. He’d known as soon as he’d opened his mouth that she hadn’t understood what he was trying to tell her. And the more he’d talked, the worse it had gotten.

  He’d decided he had to use her piano students as leverage. He should have yesterday. She wouldn’t refuse to go with him if by staying, she thought she was putting her students at risk.

  His phone rang. A glance told him it was the crime lab.

  “Detective Lloyd? This is Bearden at the crime lab. I’ve got the results on that robe you brought in on Monday.”

  Dixon’s heart rate tripled. “Yeah?”

  “The blood type is a match for Rosemary Delancey. And the fabric is a match for the terry cloth sash that was found at the scene.”

  Relief washed over him. It was proof—legal proof that Rose was Rosemary Delancey. Now he had more than just his own conviction. She was Rosemary Delancey.

  Now if he could just catch the man who had tried to kill her.

  “Detective?”

  The criminalist’s voice reminded Dixon that he was still on the phone. “Yeah? Is there something else?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve got a second blood type on the robe.”

  “A second— Are you telling me—”

  “Can’t say for sure, of course,” the criminalist continued. “But it could be her attacker’s blood. She might have scratched him or he might have cut himself with his own knife. Most people who use a knife to attack someone end up cutting themselves as well.”

  “Thanks,” Dixon said. “Good work.” He parked a
t the curb and stuck his phone back into his jacket pocket as he walked up to Rosemary’s door. Suddenly, he had a whole new outlook on the day. He couldn’t wait to tell her that the robe had turned up irrefutable proof that she was Rosemary Delancey. He couldn’t wait to wipe the doubt and fear from her eyes.

  He rang Rose’s doorbell and listened to the peals echo through the house as if it were empty. Dread chased away his good mood. Where was she? He rang the bell again and again. Then he knocked loudly. Finally, he used the key Rose had given him.

  Slipping inside, he started toward the stairs. “Rose?” he called, just as his foot slipped on something wet. He looked down.

  What he saw enveloped his heart in a deep, sick horror, like nothing he’d ever experienced. The hardwood floor was streaked with blood. He swayed and caught himself on the doorjamb. He leaned there for a few seconds, until the nauseating haze finally cleared from his brain and eyes. He wiped a hand down his face, smearing cold sweat across his skin, then finally, after a deep fortifying breath, he forced himself to look at the floor again.

  It was definitely blood—and still wet. Dixon immediately drew his weapon. Quickly and carefully, he searched the first floor, then the second. When he was sure the house was empty, he came back downstairs and bent to study the blood-streaked wood more closely.

  For an instant, he stared at the sight that mirrored the bloody crime scene from twelve years ago. Blinking and shaking his head, he forced himself to think logically, like a police detective.

  The amount of blood was actually minimal. Except for the fact that it was smeared and there were a pair of scrapes running through it, he could have believed that Rose had cut herself on a piece of glass or a splinter of wood.

  He fished his high-powered flashlight out of his pocket and studied the scrapes more closely. They were faint, having only scratched the top layer of polish off the wood. He stood and followed their path with his gaze. The two lines were parallel and ran essentially straight back through the house until they disappeared into darkness.

  He knew exactly what the scrapes were. The backs of a small pair of boot heels had scratched the glossy surface as someone had dragged the wearer.

  Fear wrapped icy fingers around his heart as his brain replayed what must have happened. Someone, Junior’s boss probably, had rung the doorbell. When Rose opened the door, he’d incapacitated her, maybe with a taser or ether or some other fast-acting, inhaled anesthetic. He swallowed against nausea.

  Or a knife.

  Whatever the means, the attacker had made sure she couldn’t fight him, then he’d dragged her to the back door. But what had happened to cause the blood? There was so little of it. Barely enough to see. Had Rose scratched her attacker?

  His hand automatically went to the pocket of his jacket where he always carried a pair of gloves. Then it hit him.

  The blood was a message, to him. He’d been there in that bloody apartment. The monster who had taken Rose was the same person who’d cut her before. He’d spilled Rose’s blood as a message to Dixon.

  “I’ll get you, bastard. You’ll pay for hurting her,” he muttered as he walked through the long, narrow first floor of the house, following the parallel marks all the way to the back door. It was standing open. He stepped outside onto the concrete stoop. Sure enough there were two scrapes marring the concrete, identical to the ones in the house.

  Stepping down onto the shell-and-gravel driveway, he spotted tire tracks. Fresh ones. He hugged the side of the house as he studied them. He’d dragged her back here and out the door, stuffed her into his car, probably his trunk, and taken off.

  Pulling out his phone, he called Dispatch.

  “This is Detective Dixon Lloyd,” he told the dispatcher and recited his badge number. “I’ve got a home invasion and possible abduction.” He quickly recited the address and named Rose Bohème as the victim.

  As he hung up, a voice called to him.

  “Hey, mister!”

  When he turned, he saw a boy around nine years old rounding the corner of the house, followed by a tired-looking woman with a dish towel in her hand.

  “Thomas, come back here,” the woman called, but the boy didn’t listen to her. “Thomas!” she called again.

  “Whoa,” Dixon said, holding up a hand as he walked toward the boy. “Hold it. Don’t mess up those tire tracks.”

  “No, sir,” the boy said, hugging the wall. “I mean yes, sir. Are you the detective?”

  Dixon’s brows rose. “Thomas, is it? I’m Detective Dixon Lloyd. How’d you know?”

  Thomas stopped in front of Dixon and glanced around. “Everybody knows you’ve been bothering Miss Rose.”

  Dixon didn’t know what to say to that.

  “So, Mr. Detective, I need to tell you what happened. I was s’posed to have a piano lesson, but Miss Rose didn’t come to the door.” Thomas took a deep breath. “Then I seen somebody had backed a car into the alley there. About the time I was banging on the door, in case Miss Rose’s doorbell was broke, that car—it burned rubber pulling out of there.” He gestured behind him toward the road.

  “Did you see Miss Rose?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thomas—” his mother admonished. “I’m sorry, Detective. Thomas, come with me right now. We need to leave the detective alone so he can work.”

  “Mom, wait. He asked me to help. I didn’t see Miss Rose, but I think she was in the car.”

  Thomas looked Dixon in the eye, really getting into his theory. “In the trunk. I think the man dragged her out the back door. He probably drugged her to keep her quiet.”

  “Thomas!” his mother cried, but Dixon held up a hand.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because she’s always here. Always, plus nobody ever parks their car in the alley. Not ever.”

  It was nine-year-old reasoning. Simple but sound. Dixon couldn’t argue with Thomas’s logic. “I see. Can you tell me anything about the car?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know much about cars. It was black and big. It wasn’t an SUV. It had a trunk.”

  Dixon caught Thomas’s mother’s eye over his head. “Thanks, Thomas. That helps a lot. Now go on back to your house with your mom. I’ll call you if I need any more information.”

  “Come on, Thomas,” his mother said, and held out her hand.

  “Mom, wait! I’ve got to tell him—”

  “Thomas!”

  Dixon regarded the boy. He seemed desperate to tell Dixon his last bit of information. So he sent the boy’s mother a nod. “Okay, Thomas, what else?”

  “I got the car tag, or at least most of it,” Thomas said, lifting his chin and puffing out his chest.

  Dixon’s breath caught and his pulse hammered. “You did?” he said, hardly daring to believe that the boy had actually memorized the license plate. He sent up a quick prayer. “What was the number?”

  Thomas rattled off the number. “I’m good with numbers. Mom, tell him.”

  Dixon’s pulse thudded in his ears. The sequence was right for a Louisiana tag. “Way to go, Thomas! I’m going to have to see that you get a commendation for bravery.”

  “Really? A condation? Mom, I’m going to get a condation!”

  “I know, sweetheart. I heard,” she said, her eyes on Dixon’s, questioning.

  He knew what she wanted to ask him. “I think Miss Rose is going to be all right,” he said. “But until we’re sure, everybody needs to stay safe. Lock your doors. Let the police know of any suspicious people you see hanging around. And Thomas,” he put his hands on Thomas’s shoulders, “you need to protect your mom. So don’t go running around without her. Okay? Stay near your mom and keep her safe.”

  Thomas straightened. “Yes, sir.” He sent Dixon a sly look. “I probably shouldn’t go to school, should I? I need to stay home and protect my mom.”

  Dixon smiled. “I’m pretty sure your mom will be okay while you’re in school. Right now, I need you to take her back home and make sure you k
eep the doors locked. Okay?” He sent a brief nod to the boy’s mom.

  “Thank you, Detective,” she said. “Come on, Thomas. Let’s go.”

  As they walked up the sidewalk toward their house, Dixon heard sirens. He glanced at his watch. It was after four. As much as he wanted to stay there and work the scene, he knew he needed to get back to the school so he could pick up Junior when he got out of class. He was more convinced than ever that Junior knew who had taken Rose.

  As two police cruisers roared up, sirens blasting, a vintage black Camaro pulled up behind them and his partner jumped out.

  “Dix, what the hell? You called this in? What are you doing down here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Somebody told me you called in a home invasion over here on Prytania. I figured I’d better come see what you’d got yourself into.”

  “I don’t have time to talk. I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Dixon actually considered that for about half a second. But he wasn’t ready to explain everything to Ethan. It would take too long, and he couldn’t let Junior slip out of his hands.

  He shook his head. “Sorry. I’ll fill you in when I get back to the station.”

  “Dix!”

  Dixon opened his car door, then glanced back at Ethan. “Write this down.” He recited the license plate number.

  Ethan scowled, but grabbed a pen from his pocket and wrote on his palm.

  “Kid named Thomas—he lives two doors that way—” Dixon jerked his head. “He can verify the tag. He saw the vehicle. May be able to give you a description of the driver.”

  “What vehicle? Dix, get back here!”

  But Dixon had jumped into his car and cranked it. In his rearview mirror, he saw Ethan standing with his fists on his hips, glaring at him as he pulled away from the curb and took off toward Delgado Community College.