Death of a Beauty Queen

by Mallory Kane

  If Junior drove directly to the warehouse. Dixon prayed that Wexler was summoning him to the same location where Rose was being held.

  It was his only chance of saving her.

  * * *

  EVERY PART OF Rose’s body hurt. She shifted, hoping to find a more comfortable position, but as soon as she straightened her leg, her calf knotted in a painful cramp. Instinctively she flexed her foot, but that just made her toes cramp.

  Just don’t move. Her entire being was focused on stopping the tearing pain. She tried to relax, even though her muscles felt as tight as springs.

  Eventually, the pain let up, and as long as she remained perfectly still and relaxed, it stayed away.

  Still and relaxed. She huffed. Piece of cake.

  She focused on her surroundings—and her situation. Although that wasn’t easy, either. Her head throbbed and when she tried to think, her brain felt as if it were wrapped in cotton. Everything was fuzzy.

  Just as she’d experimented with tiny movements, she now exercised her hazy brain with small, careful thoughts. Like where was she? She carefully drew in a long breath. Someplace dark and musty, and smelling of something familiar. She couldn’t identify it. The other smells were too strong.

  How did she get here? Pushing through the haze in her brain, she tried to focus on the last thing she remembered.

  The man—he’d forced his way into her house and shot her with something. Something that sent excruciating pain through her whole body until she’d apparently passed out. She didn’t remember anything else until she’d woken up while he was dumping her into the trunk of a car. Then he’d shot her again.

  The next thing she remembered was lying in a cramped fetal position in the dark, with rough woven fabric scratching her cheek. Even though her thinking was fuzzy, she’d recognized the uncomfortable compartment with the smell of oil and rubber in her nose and the feel of the road under her.

  But now she’d been tossed onto a hard, rough, penetratingly cold surface. Her cheek burned and her hands and feet were numb.

  She opened her eyes to a landscape of coarse, dirty concrete. Without moving her head, she sent her gaze around, taking in her surroundings. There was very little light coming in through several high, narrow windows of the warehouse. It seemed to be dark outside.

  Warehouse. Of course. Now she saw the rivets in the metal walls. The giant wooden crates. The stacks of burlap sacks. She was in a coffee warehouse.

  That explained the damp, musty odor, too. The warehouse was on the river.

  Despair threatened to overtake her as all the separate bits of information her brain had been slowly processing slammed into her consciousness at once.

  The pain. The car trunk. She’d been kidnapped and dumped in an abandoned warehouse! Terror burned through her from the top of her head to her toes, causing her muscles to cramp again.

  Katrina had left dozens of abandoned warehouses around New Orleans in her wake. Maybe scores. She’d be as easy to find as a needle in a haystack.

  Dixon had been right all along. Whoever had tried to kill her back then had found her again. She knew with a sickening certainty that Dixon had no idea where she was. The man had snatched her out of her own home and brought her here and nobody knew.

  If she was going to survive, she’d have to save herself.

  Where was he, by the way? Her kidnapper. Was he in the shadows watching her and laughing at her pain?

  She opened her mouth and licked her lips. The tape he’d put over her mouth was gone. She took a huge breath. “Where are you, you coward!” she shouted, her neck and shoulder muscles tightening painfully with the effort.

  She had to lay her head down on the floor until the muscle cramps subsided. She listened carefully, trying to hear a movement, a cough, anything that would tell her that the monster who’d kidnapped her was here.

  She took a deep breath and tried again. “Are you hiding, watching me? Come out and show yourself like a man!” Her neck and shoulders seized again and she waited, panting, until they relaxed.

  What was she doing? Certainly not accomplishing anything by yelling, except to exhaust herself.

  Redoubling her determination, she took careful mental inventory of her body. Sometime while she was unconscious, her kidnapper had switched the elastic bandages on her wrists and ankles for cloth, which he’d wound around not just her wrists, but her forearms as well, and secured with duct tape. She couldn’t see them, but she guessed her ankles and calves were bound the same way.

  The way her arms were wrapped forced her elbows together in front of her and put a lot of pressure on her shoulders. Every slight movement made them feel as if they were being pulled out of their sockets.

  In the dim light, she examined the duct tape that held the cloth in place. It was wrapped tightly, but without too much contortion, she should be able to grab an edge of the tape in her teeth. And if she could bite it, she could tear it—she hoped.

  The first thing she had to do, before she could try to peel the duct tape off with her teeth, was sit up. She lay there for a few seconds, preparing for the agonizing task of rolling over and pushing herself upright. She took a long breath and started drawing up her legs.

  If she couldn’t get free of her bonds and somehow get out of here, the dark-eyed man who’d brought her here would kill her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dixon shook his head and glared at his partner. “No,” he said firmly. “You won’t be going with me. I need you on the GPS.”

  “I need to be there,” Ethan had objected. “If you’re right, that’s my cousin.”

  “Listen to me, Delancey. I can take care of Rose. But I can’t trust that smart-ass computer tech. If Junior leaves his car, I’m going to need you to guide me. It’s the best chance we have.”

  Ethan looked at Dixon, then at his car. For a moment Dixon thought he was going to jump into the passenger seat and dare Dixon to drag him out bodily.

  Finally, he huffed out a frustrated breath. “You’re taking SWAT!” he commanded.

  “I’ve got them on notice.”

  “On notice? No! You get them out there. They need to be in position.”

  “Ethan,” Dixon said somberly, “if this is the same monster who attacked Rose, he cut her—cut her bad. If SWAT goes storming in, what’s going to stop him from slitting her throat?”

  Ethan winced and his face turned pale. “If you don’t give them the location as soon as you have it, I will.” He got in Dixon’s face. “Do you understand me?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Dixon said. “You give it to them—right after you tell me Junior’s exact location.”

  “How do you know Junior won’t just run?” Ethan asked.

  “I looked him in the eye and told him I’d send him back to jail if he didn’t tell me who had ordered him to watch Rose. He’s too scared of this guy Wasabe to even blink at being threatened with prison.”

  Dixon studied Ethan.

  “So can I count on you?” He held out his hand.

  Ethan lifted his chin in a gesture that reminded Dixon of Rose, then after a second he shook Dixon’s hand.

  Dixon nodded and clapped his partner on the shoulder, then turned and got into his car. He called a number on his cell phone. “Okay,” he said. “You can let Junior go now.”

  He’d had the receptionist hold off on giving Junior his belongings back until she heard from him. Now he waited for her to tell him that Junior had left the squad room.

  “Okay, he just got on the elevator,” she said.

  “He’s got his cell phone, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks, Ann,” he said and hung up. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes, he saw Junior come tearing out of the front of the building, his cell phone to his ear. He headed straight for his car, which a uniformed policeman had brought to the station. Dixon started his engine and let it idle as he waited to see where Junior went.

  He followed him east on Interstate 10. As h
e drove, he dialed Ethan and put his phone on Bluetooth, so he could hear Ethan through the radio speakers.

  “So far he’s heading out I-10,” Ethan said. “Do you see him?”

  “Yeah. I hope he’s heading to that warehouse and I hope to God that’s where Rose is. As long as he stays in his car, I’ve got him. If you’ll stay there, I’ll call you if the LoJack indicates that he’s stopped.”

  “Okay. By the way, I’m keeping SWAT informed of your route,” Ethan said. “They’re coming up behind you.”

  “You make sure they hang back until I give the word.”

  “I heard you the first twenty times, Dix.”

  “At least he’s heading toward Chef Menteur Highway.”

  “I guess,” Ethan said. “There are dozens of abandoned warehouses out that way.”

  Dixon growled. “I know. And Rose is in one of them.”

  * * *

  WASABE TURNED ONTO Chef Menteur Highway and hit the accelerator, climbing up to about ten miles per hour over the speed limit. It was after nine o’clock. He was late getting back to the warehouse. After Amy’s soccer game was over, the Clampettes had cornered him and Carol, wanting to talk about getting together for dinner on the weekend.

  He didn’t know what The Boss was doing this evening that was going to make him late, but he sure hoped he was still doing it. Wasabe did not want The Boss to get to the warehouse before he did. He’d warned him not to go to his daughter’s game, and he did not like to be disobeyed.

  Damn he hated the man.

  His car’s Bluetooth buzzed. He glanced at the display on the dashboard. Speak of the devil. Grimacing, he pressed the answer button on the steering wheel. “Hello?”

  “Where the hell are you?” The Boss’s gravely voice demanded. “I’m here at the warehouse and I don’t see your car.”

  “I’m almost there,” Wasabe said as calmly and matter-of-factly as he could.

  “Almost? Almost!” The Boss’s voice reverberated through the car. “What did I tell you? How dare you disobey my specific orders!”

  “Boss, I—”

  But his effort at an explanation was drowned out by the cursing coming through his radio speakers. He clenched his fists around the steering wheel and determinedly kept his eyes on the road.

  Once The Boss wound down, Wasabe spoke up. “I’m less than five minutes away,” he said.

  More cursing. “I’m ready to get this taken care of. Don’t make me wait!”

  Wasabe hung up the phone and wiped a hand down his face. He wasn’t afraid of The Boss. Not physically. The man was about twenty years older than he was and not in good health, so he knew he could take him in a fight.

  Plus, in this situation, The Boss needed him. The two of them were the only ones in the world who knew what had really happened on the night Rosemary Delancey disappeared, and why. The only other person who’d seen anything had died that night.

  Wasabe turned off the highway and pulled around to the back side of the warehouse. He saw the black Lexus that belonged to The Boss. His headlights revealed that the only occupant of the car was the driver. A shiver of relief slid down his spine. Even though he wasn’t really afraid of The Boss, it was still good to know that the man was here alone.

  He got out of the car and walked over to the driver’s side window of The Boss’s car, his right hand in his pocket, fingering the butterfly knife.

  The Boss opened the door and got out. “You alone?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wasabe said. “How do you want to play this?”

  The older man glared at him. “We’ve been over it. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

  The Boss’s voice and demeanor had taken on an

  uber-calmness that Wasabe recognized. When he contacted Wasabe to order a hit, it was always this voice he used. Different and much more terrifying than the fury he’d unleashed over the phone a few minutes before.

  “Right,” Wasabe said. “Just checking on the details. She’s trussed just like you told me to do—nothing that will leave a mark. I’ve already got a tub full of river water. I’ll hold her head under. Trussed up like she is, she won’t be able to fight, so she should be dead in under two minutes.”

  The Boss nodded. “Where can I stand? I want to watch this. There will be no mistake this time.”

  “I can guarantee she’ll be dead. I’ll dump her body in the water and within twenty-four hours she’ll be washed out to sea. You know I told you this area of the river has some killer whirlpools in it.”

  “Fine,” the other man said. “Good. Let’s get going.”

  Wasabe frowned. He wasn’t sure exactly what The Boss’s purpose was in wanting to watch Rosemary Delancey die. To tell the truth, he wasn’t completely sure he understood what The Boss hoped to gain by killing her now, after all these years. Except revenge. And maybe that was it.

  Maybe his whole purpose was to achieve closure. Wasabe shrugged to himself. Whatever The Boss wanted. All Wasabe was interested in was getting out from under the man’s thumb.

  “You’re sure you want to be there?” he asked. Not many people were interested in actually witnessing the deaths they paid so dearly for. The Boss had never been—before.

  “Don’t ask me that again, punk,” he said. “You botched everything last time. You know what you owe me, and I plan to stand right there and make sure not one thing goes wrong. Not this time.”

  There it was. The reason Wasabe was here. Every job he’d ever done, throughout his entire career, had been clean and clear. One-hundred percent satisfaction guaranteed and delivered. Except for this one. He’d been effectively indentured to The Boss for twelve years because of the two mistakes he’d made.

  Now, finally, freedom was only a few minutes away. The Boss had promised him that as soon as Rosemary Delancey was dead and could never expose him, Wasabe could walk away.

  He planned to retire and spend time with his wife and his little girl. He had enough money to be comfortable the rest of his life.

  After he disposed of Rosemary Delancey, he only had one last job to do. He glanced at his watch. Junior Fulbright should be getting here soon.

  He led The Boss to the unobtrusive door in the side of the warehouse. As he opened the door and gestured for The Boss to follow him into a small room that had once been an office, he spoke softly.

  “The main floor is through that door. She’s at the front near the roll-up doors. If you want, you can stand here in the doorway. Or if you want to be closer, you can hug the north wall and get as close as you want. There are no windows on that side. Either way, when I turn on the front row of lights, you’ll still be in shadow. There’s no way she can see you.”

  The Boss didn’t say anything. He just nodded.

  “Okay,” Wasabe said. He could taste the freedom that was within his grasp. “Let’s do this.”

  * * *

  ROSE’S JAW ACHED and she felt like she was going to pull her front teeth right out of her gums. She’d been biting and pulling at the duct tape for what seemed like an hour. And in all that time she’d only managed to peel off a couple of narrow strips.

  The first one had come off smoothly, unwinding three times from around her wrists. She’d had to stop, spit it out and grip another piece with her teeth.

  But the second strip she’d managed to catch and pull had ripped away after only five inches or so.

  She arched her neck and opened her mouth wide, stretching her jaw, trying to relax the aching muscles. She wriggled her cold, tingling fingers and bent her head to grab and peel another narrow strip. At the rate she was going, it could take all night to free her arms.

  Then she heard something. She froze, holding her breath, but everything was quiet. What had she heard? A door? A river rat? The wind?

  She bent her head and grabbed the frayed end of the duct tape between her teeth.

  There it was again. That noise. Now she recognized it.

  Terror ripped through her, paralyzing her. For a moment, all she could do
was wait, unable to move, praying that she was wrong.

  Let it be a rat, she begged, but she knew no four-legged vermin had made that noise. What she’d heard was footsteps on concrete. And as she held her breath, listening, they came closer, passed her and walked away.

  Rose still didn’t move a muscle. She waited, struggling to control her breathing, hoping that by some miracle the person walking toward her was not her abductor. But knowing with a grave certainty that he was.

  Then suddenly, lights clicked on, blinding her. Her muscles, not entirely recovered from the taser, cramped and she whimpered involuntarily.

  “Hi, Rosemary,” the voice from her nightmares said.

  She couldn’t see, couldn’t open her eyes even to a squint, because of the brightness of the lights. She heard the footsteps approaching, closer and closer.

  She cringed.

  “Well, look at you, little Irish Rose,” the man said, his voice grating along her nerve endings.

  Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.

  “Look at you. You figured out that you could get yourself untied,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed. “If you had eight or ten hours. You know, I thought from the beginning that you were a remarkably brave young woman.”

  Rose managed to open her eyes to narrow slits and look at him. She still thought the face was vaguely familiar, but she didn’t remember it. Not really. She did, however, know that voice. It still haunted her dreams.

  “I apologize for what I did to you, Rosemary. Given my preference, I would have made it quick and clean, like I plan to do now.” As he spoke, he pulled something from his pocket and held it up. It was silver—made of some kind of metal.

  Rose’s pulse thrummed painfully in her throat and a chill slid down her spine.

  As he flipped his wrist, a silvery flash blinded her.

  She screamed.

  “So you do remember,” he said, flipping his wrist again. Another flash, this time accompanied by the snick-snick of metal on metal.

  As tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, the man stepped around behind her and grabbed a fistful of her hair. He pulled her head back.