by Rebecca York
Spinning on her heel, she picked up the bra that she’d recently discarded. After putting it on, she took down the lacy robe hanging on the back of the inside of the bedroom door. Then she turned back to the man who was trussed like a sacrificial buffalo.
“You’re sleeping very nicely,” she said, watching Charles’s face. But really, she was speaking for Alex. The whole time she’d been in here with her guest, she’d been half expecting Alex to come bursting into the room shouting, “Police! Freeze.”
Now she wanted him to know that everything was under control.
“You’ll sleep for about half an hour,” she said to Charles. “And when you start to wake up, I’ll tell you how much fun we had together. You’ll leave here perfectly satisfied with my performance. And you’ll give me high marks when you tell Madam Dupré what a good time you had with me.”
She hoped she’d calmed Alex down. Easing onto the bed, she whispered some more suggestions. Then she did her usual check of the john’s pockets and relayed the personal information to Alex.
“He’s Charles Pringle,” she said. “He has a small chain of grocery stores in Indiana. And a couple of hits of cocaine in his shirt pocket. Maybe you can make sure he’s searched at the airport and arrested,” she added with satisfaction.
When she’d finished with her task, she moved to the chair in the corner, picked up a magazine from the table next to it and tried to focus on the details of a French country house. It was an exercise in futility. She was too wired to focus on the magazine—or anything else.
Finally, after half an hour, she shrugged out of the clothing she’d put on and went back to the bed. Gritting her teeth, she stroked the guy’s shoulder.
“You’re going to wake up soon,” she murmured. “You were so sexy. I had a wonderful time with you. And I know you had a good time, too.”
Then she told him some of the things she had supposedly done to him. As she talked, she undid his bonds and arranged his arms at his sides. When he opened his eyes and blinked at her, she gave him a brilliant smile.
“That was fantastic, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” he said thickly.
“We had a great time, and you don’t have to worry about missing your plane.”
He sat up and reached for the clothing that she’d laid neatly on the end of the bed.
ALEX SAT WITH his teeth gritted as he listened to the dialogue in the bedroom. Gillian had pulled off another coup. He had to give her that. But she’d been in deep trouble before she’d given that guy the sleeping potion.
“Come see me the next time you’re in town,” Gillian said, and he heard the satisfaction in her voice.
“Oh, I will.” The john sounded equally satisfied. Too bad Alex McMullin was sitting in a van parked around the corner feeling like razor wire was twisting in his gut. He would like nothing better than to have airport security catch the guy with the coke in his pocket. But he wanted him out of town—away from New Orleans. Away from Gillian.
He glanced at his watch, expecting that she would start getting ready for the rest of the evening. Instead, he heard her clear her throat.
When she spoke, her voice was low. “Something happened a while ago. I was downstairs, and Frank was talking to Dolly. He told her she was going back to the bar to reel them in. I think he meant Bourbon Street Libations. She didn’t want to go, but he told her she didn’t have a choice. So maybe you can send someone over there to look for her. She’s a small blonde with shoulder-length hair. Done in a flip.”
Gillian sighed. “I can’t even be sure anyone can hear me,” she said, sounding depressed.
“I hear you,” he murmured, wishing they had two-way communications. But that would be too dangerous for her, of course.
MADAM DUPRÉ was sitting at the desk in her comfortable office when the phone rang. Perhaps it was another special customer. A customer who would pay extra for the services of one of her girls. But when she saw the name on the Caller ID, her expression of happy anticipation vanished. It was Gaspard—again.
He’d already called a little while ago to personally give some order. What did he want now? Lately he’d been stopping by and calling with orders every other day, and she didn’t like that. If the man would simply let her run the business the way she knew how, everything would go more smoothly. But he was on edge—nervous about something. And he wouldn’t tell her what.
She considered having Wilma take the call. But she knew her boss would be insulted by talking to the maid. So she sighed and pasted a smile into her voice.
“Maurice, it’s good to hear from you again.”
He made a noise that could have been agreement.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, forcing herself not to add the word “now.”
“I just learned that we will be hosting a special party,” he said. “Eight guys who are looking for a fun time.”
“Good.”
“This one’s being arranged by J.S. Of course, we’re going to give him a big discount.”
“A discount! That’s ridiculous. This place is expensive to run. I have to pay the girls, pay the liquor bill, the food bill—”
He cut her off. “Are you questioning my judgment?”
“No. Of course not,” she answered, licking her dry lips.
“Good, because I could get someone else in there to run the club.”
“No,” she said quickly, hearing the note of panic in her own voice. She needed this job until she was able to squirrel away enough for a comfortable retirement.
“Then follow my orders,” he said in the deadly quiet tone that she had grown to hate. When she’d agreed to run this house, she hadn’t known that Maurice Gaspard was part of the deal.
“Of course,” she agreed, wishing that she could put out a contract on the man. Did she dare?
Gaspard was speaking again, giving orders about getting the house ready for the guests as if she didn’t know how to do that. But she took notes, wondering if she could cut corners on the food and liquor.
“And what about that new girl, Gillian Seymour?” he asked, his voice still low.
“What about her?”
“How is she performing?”
“Very well. She’s quite popular with the men. She has a special guest this afternoon, a man who asked for her specifically—on the recommendation of one of his friends.”
“All right. But I want to look at the tapes from her room.”
“Yes, of course,” she answered, thinking that she’d better get the camera in room eight working. It had been out of commission off and on since the girl arrived. She’d have to get Frank to go up there again. But not now, of course.
However, waiting created a problem. Gaspard had said he wanted to see some footage, and she’d better have some to show him.
Chapter Ten
The blond girl lay on her narrow bed, pretending to be so worn out that there was nothing she could do besides sleep. She’d been using that tactic for the past few days, and she was thinking that it could only work for so long.
She’d made a big mistake by letting that greasy-haired guy chat her up on the street. But he’d told her he worked for an organization that helped kids in trouble. Still, she hadn’t quite trusted him—not for him to take her anywhere. Although she’d let him buy her some food from an outdoor hotdog stand. Which should have been safe.
But the bastard had managed to slip something into her drink—something that had made her woozy. She’d tried to run, then had ended up slumping against him. When she’d woken up, she’d found herself in this hellhole, and she knew she had to get out before something really bad happened.
Someone came to the door, but she kept her eyes closed, praying that they’d go away. And the footsteps receded. Heavy footsteps. One of the men who was in charge of this basement prison.
She’d asked one of the other girls, a little bit of a thing named Sally, how to get out of here.
Sally had shrugged. “There ain’t no way. U
ntil they’re through with you and toss you out.”
“I’m getting away.”
“Good luck. If they catch you, they’ll wupp your hide.”
She’d given the other girl a defiant look, but her insides had been twisting themselves in knots. At least she’d found something in the medicine cabinet that she’d been able to use. A laxative. It would give her the runs. And she was going to take it, as soon as she got over the sleeping sickness bit. The runs were a good excuse to keep her out of some guy’s bed. Some guy who liked teenage girls. Like her stepfather. That’s why she was here. She’d tried to get away from a bad situation and she’d ended up in worse trouble.
Meanwhile, she was praying that she’d figure a way out before anything really gross happened.
CONRAD BURKE LOOKED DOWN at the folder on his desk. In it were the latest medical reports on Wiley Longbottom. The hospital was keeping NOC in the loop. But, really, there was no change in the former Colorado Department of Public Safety director’s condition. And the longer he stayed unconscious, the worse the prognosis.
Conrad closed his eyes for a moment. In a frantic effort to find the bastards who had put Wiley in the hospital, he’d rushed New Orleans Confidential into operation months before they’d planned to be up and running. Since then, he’d had occasion to wonder if he’d made a mistake. If they’d waited and gotten themselves better prepared, would they be further ahead now?
Standing up, he walked to the window and looked out at weeds baking in the sun. The view matched his present mood. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there when the phone rang and he turned back to the desk. When he saw from the Caller ID that Police Chief Henri Courville was on the line, he stifled a groan.
“Just what I need,” he muttered, then cleared his throat, adopting a commanding tone as he picked up the receiver. “Burke here.”
“Henri Courville.”
“What can I do for you, Chief?”
“How long are you going to keep one of my cops playing prostitute in that bordello?”
Conrad held his temper. The chief had loved the idea of the undercover operation when it had first been proposed. Now he was acting like he wanted immediate results. “We’re getting a better handle on the prostitute operation.”
“What specifically?”
“We have a code book that your officer and one of our agents were able to photograph.”
“And?”
“We think it may be a list of clients.”
“But you don’t know for sure,” Courville snapped.
“We’re working on it.” He debated mentioning the underage prostitutes Gillian Seymour had reported were in the house, then decided it was better to keep that piece of information to himself.
“Seymour has been working undercover at the bordello for two weeks. I may want to pull her out of there. It’s only a matter of time before that girl gets herself in trouble.”
That girl? Was that how the chief thought of his police officer? Of course, the chief had a point. In fact, Gillian Seymour had had a close call a few days earlier. But she’d gotten herself out of hot water with some pretty clever maneuvering.
Instead of sharing that news, he said, “If you shut her down, you’ll cancel weeks of work. She’s just now coming up with some information we can use.”
“Like what?”
“She’s confirmed that the prostitutes going after the drugged Category Five customers are from the McDonough Club,” Conrad said, glad that he’d read Alex’s reports as soon as they’d arrived on his desk.
“She has to do better than that.”
“Undercover operations take time,” Conrad reminded him.
“Are you telling me how to do my job?” Courville snapped.
“Of course not,” Conrad answered in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone.
“Don’t worry—we’re working this case from all angles to find out where the drugs are coming from and what’s running the show.”
“I’m listening,” Courville said.
“To that end, we’re keeping a close eye on the Nilia rebels. It might be a long shot but these two investigations could be linked somehow. Our sources tell us that more of the drugs have been on the streets since the rebels paid us a visit.”
“I need more to go on than speculation!” Courville demanded.
Changing tactics, Conrad couldn’t keep himself from asking, “I was wondering if you’d made any progress in identifying the dead guy stuffed into the trunk of that car?”
“Not yet,” Courville growled. “It’s a difficult case since his fingerprints were missing. I’ll let you know as soon as we get an ID.”
“I appreciate that,” Conrad answered, again keeping his voice mild, although he was sure that the police chief had taken his point.
“I haven’t seen any of the reports from your surveillance team at the bordello,” the chief said pointedly, putting the heat back on Conrad.
“I assumed you wouldn’t want to plow through the day-to-day operations.”
“I’d appreciate seeing a copy of what you have to date.”
“Of course. I’ll get them to you as soon as possible,” Conrad said, thinking that he was going to be up all night editing the text to take out sensitive information.
TWO DAYS AFTER the incident with Charles Pringle, Gillian was heading back to her room when she heard footsteps on the stairs behind her. Looking around, she saw it was Pam, who had a strained expression on her face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, trying not to sound like her throat had suddenly clogged.
“Nothing,” Pam insisted.
“You don’t look like it’s nothing.”
“Madam Dupré said to tell everyone to take special care with their appearance tonight. We’re having honored guests,” she added somewhat breathlessly.
“Who?”
Pam looked over her shoulder. “Some important guys.”
“If we’re supposed to look our best, maybe you can give me some advice on what to wear,” Gillian said.
Pam hesitated for a moment. “Okay.”
Gillian led the way to her room, then ushered the other woman inside. She hadn’t been out of the McDonough Club since she’d arrived, and she only had the outfits she’d brought with her. But that wasn’t her only reason for asking Pam to her room. She wanted to know what was going on.
Opening her closet, she began sorting through the collection of working-girl outfits. “So, are these rich guys? What should I try for? Elegant?”
Pam laughed. “Skimpy. Sexy. Provocative is more like it.” She walked to the closet and pulled out a dress with shiny blue spangles that would dip low over the breasts. The skirt was long but slit up to the hips so that lots of leg would show with every step she took. “Wear this blue one. The color will be good on you.”
“Where it covers my skin, you mean,” Gillian answered, a sardonic note in her voice.
Pam laughed again. “Yeah. But, you know, it’s part of the deal working here.”
Gillian nodded. “So what can you tell me about this special company?”
“All I know is that they’re important visitors. We get them from time to time. And we’re paraded out as a special treat.”
“For whom?”
“Sometimes I think they’re people who are part of the city establishment.”
“You mean, public officials.”
“Sometimes.”
“Like who?” Gillian persisted, hoping she wasn’t going too far with her questions.
Pam glanced toward the door as though someone might be in the hall, listening. Lowering her voice, she said, “It’s better not to be too nosy. But I did hear Madam Dupré asking which of us spoke Spanish. So I assume that would be a plus with these guys.”
That got Gillian’s attention. Spanish. Like the thugs from Nilia?
Pam looked toward the closed door again. “The last time we had special company…one of the girls got hurt.”
“Badly?
”
“They took her to the hospital. The guy she was entertaining did something to her. We never did know what.”
Gillian’s heart had started pounding.
“If one of them picks you, be careful.”
“Okay. Thanks for the tip. How many of them are coming?”
“I don’t know.” Pam glanced toward the door. “I’d better get ready.”
Gillian hesitated, then introduced a topic that had been nagging at her for several days.
“I want to ask you about Babs,” she said.
“What about her?”
“Everyone here has been pretty nice to me. But she’s always acting hostile. Do you have any idea why?”
Pam gave a tight nod. “You threaten her.”
“How? I haven’t done anything.”
“I know. You wouldn’t. But she’s getting a little old for this business. The guys aren’t asking for her as often as they used to. On the other hand, you’re getting a lot of attention.”
“Oh,” Gillian murmured. “What should I do?”
“There’s nothing you can do—except stay out of her way.”
“Thanks for the advice,” she said, thinking that it wasn’t going to do her a lot of good. This house might be relatively large, but there was no way to completely avoid anyone—especially when the women who worked here all congregated in the lounge in the evenings.
“And thanks for listening,” Gillian said.
“Any time.”
Pam departed, leaving Gillian standing by the closet staring at the blue dress. She might have cursed under her breath, but she was afraid Alex would pick it up, and she didn’t want him to worry about her.
“Nice turn of events,” she said instead, picturing him sitting at the metal table in the van.
Of course, maybe he was on another assignment. There was no way of knowing, because she hadn’t seen him since the day he’d come in to deliver coffee and then had pretended he was her boyfriend. He’d taken her in his arms that day. Now it seemed like he was deliberately staying away from her.
