Guarding the Socialite

by Kimberly Van Meter

  “What makes you think that?” he asked.

  Chick gave him a look of amusement. “How do you think? When she walks into a room, his eyes are glued to her. He falls all over himself to get a smile from her and then if that wasn’t enough I’d say the dinner invitations were the clincher.”

  “Dinner? Did she accept?”

  Chick hesitated, as if suddenly realizing Emma might not appreciate her spilling such personal information, and hit the brakes. “What does that have to do with Charlotte?” she asked, frowning. “Robert Gavin ain’t your guy. He’s more likely to faint at the sight of blood than to spill it. You feeling me?”

  “Deviant people are more adept at hiding their true nature,” he supplied mildly then shrugged. “But you may be right. I’m just curious as to his association with Charlotte.”

  Mollified but still wary, Chick admitted, “I don’t know what Char was doing with Robert. Maybe you ought to ask him.”

  At that Dillon smiled. “Oh, I plan to,” he assured her. It could be nothing and this Gavin character could be exactly as Chick described but Dillon had a niggling sense that there was more to Charlotte’s relationship with the man than Emma or Chick seemed to be aware of. And that made the man just this side of suspect.

  Later that night as Emma sat among a handful of collected photographs of Charlotte that she’d gathered for the memorial, a soft knock at the door made her glance at the clock and wonder who was still awake at this wretched hour.

  It was Bella. She opened the door wider and allowed the teen to enter. “What’s wrong?” she asked, worry in her voice. She couldn’t help scanning the teenager’s thin frame for signs of abuse. Bella had often cut herself before she came to Iris House and Emma worried that she might turn to the destructive habit during times of extreme stress.

  Bella tightened her arms around her sides but didn’t answer right away. Although Bella knew a lot about things she never should’ve known, in many ways she was still a frightened girl who needed guidance. It was that vulnerable side that called to Emma. Her hand curled softly as she resisted pushing the errant strand of hair from the girl’s eyes. Bella didn’t like to be touched, not even with kindness. Not yet. Emma was still working on that broken aspect of the teen’s psyche with countless hours of therapy.

  Bella chewed the side of her lip, clearly wrestling with something but unsure how to coax it free from her own mouth. Emma smiled and gestured. “Why don’t you come and help me with the photos I’ve put aside for Charlotte’s memorial. I could use a second opinion.”

  Bella nodded and followed, taking a seat on the edge of the sofa to peer at the photos spread across the end table. She fingered a few, pushed aside others and finally picked one. “This is a good one,” she offered with a shrug that was a pathetic attempt at showing that she didn’t care when Emma knew for a certainty that she cared deeply. Charlotte’s death affected them differently. While Emma felt the weight of responsibility for the woman’s death, Bella likely felt true grief, which was something she was emotionally ill-equipped to handle.

  “I didn’t talk to that FBI agent,” she admitted in a tight, defensive voice, her gaze cutting to Emma for her reaction.

  “That’s fine,” Emma said, her tone carefully neutral while she continued to sift through pictures. She already knew that, thanks to Chick. “I told you it was your choice.” She looked up briefly. “There’s no judgment, Bella.”

  Bella nodded but a small crease appeared in her smooth brow. “You’re not mad?”

  “Of course not. Ursula didn’t choose to speak with him, either,” she pointed out mildly, returning to the pictures. “But he seems a very nice, professional man. There’s no need to be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Bella scoffed with more vehemence than the declaration warranted for the situation, and Emma knew she’d hit a nerve. She remained silent and Bella seemed to sulk for a moment, dropping the photo in her hand when she realized she was crinkling it. “What if I should’ve told him something? Something that might matter to the case, you know?”

  Emma looked up, faint alarm at the teen’s hesitant admission churning the remains of the hastily eaten dinner she’d consumed hours ago. “Such as?” she asked.

  Bella shrugged, but Emma thought she saw tears sparkling in her eyes before she skewed her gaze away. “I didn’t want to say nothing because I ain’t a snitch, but now that Charlotte’s dead I figured it’s not snitching. I mean, Charlotte was always real nice to me and we had stuff in common so I didn’t want to say…”

  “What is it, Bella?” Emma prodded gently, but her palms had begun to sweat. Unease squatted in her belly at the possibilities.

  Bella looked up and this time there was no hiding the sheen of tears as she said, “Mad Johnny was making Char run drugs again. She tried not to but he caught up to her and he must’ve had something on her because she was real upset about it. He was gonna make her hook again, too, if she didn’t agree to deliver a package into Chinatown for him.”

  Silent rage turned Emma’s blood to ice as she mentally counted to ten so as not to frighten away the already skittish teen. Mad Johnny, and the men like him, were a cancer that never failed to return if given the slightest invitation. Charlotte had been terrified of her former pimp, but somehow he’d gotten to her and that was what had likely gotten her killed. She smiled at Bella for her courage, hoping the action came off kindly instead of full of the malice she struggled to contain. “You’ve done a good thing in sharing this information with me, Bella. Thank you. Now, I want you to stop worrying. I will take care of this and share the information with Agent McIntyre so you don’t have to.” A look of gratitude flashed her way and Emma gestured toward the door. “Off to bed. It’s late and you have a meeting with your counselor tomorrow. I know how you love those sessions and look forward to them.”

  It was said in a teasing manner as Bella hated talking with the “shrink” as she called the woman. But the therapy was working—if only in fits and starts—and Emma continued to insist that she attend the sessions. Besides, the fact that Emma required Bella to attend counseling created a favorable attitude in the courts, allowing Bella to remain in the house despite the unusual circumstances.

  “I ain’t tired and this ain’t late. I’ve stayed up for days at a time without no one to tell me to…” Bella’s grumble trailed as she closed the door behind her but Emma didn’t mind. Somehow the surly teen had become special to her though she knew it was a mistake to allow herself to get so close. Still…it was hard to keep her distance when Bella needed someone in her life who liked her for who she was, not for her body or what they could get from her.

  But as soon as Bella had gone, Emma growled a nasty expletive aimed at Mad Johnny and grabbed her cell phone. Fishing in her purse, she found Agent McIntyre’s business card. The late hour meant nothing in her single-minded purpose. Without hesitation she dialed the cell number he’d scribbled on the back, and when he picked up she barely kept her temper in check as she said, “I have information you might find useful in your investigation. It seems Mad Johnny may have been blackmailing Charlotte. The girls have told me you’ll find him at Sixteenth Street and Mission on most days. You’ll know him by the bright purple Mohawk he wears. Feel free to use excessive force if he doesn’t cooperate,” she added with a little more heat than she would usually show to a stranger. Then she added with more calm, “Happy hunting, Agent McIntyre.”

  Chapter 4

  Adrenaline hummed through his veins as Dillon traversed Mission and immediately spied the man known as Mad Johnny. It was hard to miss his punk purple Mohawk as the sleaze lounged against a light pole, his indolent stare sharp and slack at the same time. He was all seemingly gangly arms and legs but Dillon recognized the malice that rolled off him like a cheap cologne. This was a dirtbag of the first order. A sweep of his person and Dillon had already surmised he was likely packing a gun in his back waistband, hidden beneath the grungy leather jacket, and a switchblade in his faded jean
s pocket. Dillon smiled. This ought to be entertaining. He liked to jack around with guys like Mad Johnny because they always underestimated him. Kara said it was the accent. He’d joked that was their mistake. Even guys with accents can kick ass.

  “Hullo,” he started congenially, walking over to the punk with a grin. “Got a minute?” Dillon cocked his head and waited to see which route the man would go. Would he tell him to bugger off or size him up for a sale? He hoped it was the first option. Dillon was itching for a little action. And he wasn’t disappointed.

  “Piss off, cop. Ain’t against the law to stand here doing nothing,” he said, slewing his gaze away, dismissing Dillon with a sneer that said, you can’t do shit and I know it.

  Except—and here’s where it got fun—Dillon wasn’t a cop. And he didn’t much like to play by the rules.

  He tsked. “Now that’s not nice, Mad Johnny. Do your friends call you Mad or just Johnny? Or even John? Nicknames can be such a pain in the ass. My nickname was… Oh, right, you don’t care about that. How about this? Screw the niceties and let’s get to the point. I have questions and you’re going to answer them nice and tidy-like or else things are going to get a little…uncomfortable.”

  “Uncomfortable?” Mad Johnny repeated, his lip curling with open scorn. “What are you going to do, cop? If you ain’t got a warrant, I ain’t answering shit. You savvy? Go find a doughnut shop somewhere and leave me alone.”

  So much for niceties. With a quick strike and twist, Dillon had busted the man’s nose and then put him in a headlock to whisper in his ear, “See, your first mistake was not knowing the difference between a cop and an FBI agent with a nasty disposition.” He tightened his hold and Mad Johnny’s eyes bulged as he struggled to get free. “Your second mistake? I hate doughnuts. Clog your arteries. They’re a heart attack with frosting. Now enough with the pleasantries…let’s chat.”

  He released the man and Mad Johnny spun away, glancing at the people who were giving them a wide berth but not making a move to help. He must’ve realized he was in a bad spot. He gingerly touched his nose and winced, then glared at Dillon. “You broke it, you fu—”

  “Hey…watch your mouth,” Dillon warned, yet his lips twitched with the urge to dare him to push it. Damn, he was in a mood today. Mad Johnny bit back the expletive with a mutinous glare and then sucked back a wad of bloody snot with a wince. “That’s better. I knew you’d see it my way with a little encouragement. Now tell me about your association with Charlotte Tedrow.”

  Mad Johnny dialed back the glare as he weighed his possible answers. A moment later he must’ve figured it would do no harm to answer with a groan about his nose. “She’s my girl.”

  “You mean was your girl, right?”

  A shaky but no less cocky grin spread across his lips but he lifted one shoulder. “Yeah…was.”

  Dillon considered the scum before him and speculated whether he knew about Charlotte’s death. His instinct told him he didn’t know. There was one way to find out. “Did you kill her?” The startled look said it all. The punk wasn’t a very good liar, and Dillon didn’t figure he was putting on a show for his benefit. Damn. Why couldn’t it be simple? This tosser probably didn’t have the brains required to finish a Scrabble game much less orchestrate a complex killing spree. “When was the last time you saw her?” he asked.

  “Are you messing with me?” Mad Johnny demanded, but there was uncertainty in his bloodshot eyes. “I just saw her—”

  “A few days ago when you forced her to deliver a package to Chinatown?” Dillon affected a bored expression but he watched the pimp with shark eyes. “Yeah, I know about that. What was in the package?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to take me down to the station or something if you’re going to be interrogating me like this?”

  Dillon waved his question away. “We’re just talking, right? But no worries. I’ll have a uniform pick you up later when I find out what was in that package. Heroin? Meth? Pot? Did I hit the jackpot? So damn unoriginal. Not that I’d expect more from a grammar school reject like yourself but one can hope for a little variation on the usual theme.”

  Uncertainty crossed Mad Johnny’s features as he tried to think of something equally insulting to counter with but his swelling nose tempered his mean streak as he finally spat, “Yeah? What do you know?” with a fair bit of nervousness.

  “I know you’re a small-time criminal with no brains and a taste for hitting women. You use as much as you sell which puts you in debt more often than you’re flush and you’re probably secretly homosexual considering your attitude toward women.” He winked and the pimp’s cheeks turned scarlet—whether from rage or embarrassment he wasn’t sure—and Dillon shook his head. “As fun as it is playing around with your personal tragedy, I have work to do solving a murder and all that, but do yourself a favor and don’t leave town. I suspect we’re going to become well acquainted in the next few days.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Mad Johnny blurted out, wiping at the watery red dribble coming from his nose. “You can’t pin that on me. That bitch was always getting herself into trouble. If she’s dead I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”

  “Ironically, in spite of the fact that you’re most likely a habitual liar, a thief and a drug addict, I believe you. Still…don’t go anywhere.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to hide,” Mad Johnny shot back, but his eyes darted for an escape route, which gave him away. He was going to bolt, the little coward.

  “If I have to find you…a broken nose will be the least of your worries, mate,” Dillon warned, giving him another smile with the promise in his tone. “I’m a bit of a loose cannon, if you know what I mean. Rules? Eh. Like you…I find my way around them.”

  Mad Johnny sputtered but his pasty expression turned to gray dough and Dillon nearly laughed out loud. That felt good. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. “I wonder if that bagel place is still around?” he mused, checking out the neighborhood, the pimp dismissed for now. Then he headed off in the direction his stomach required.

  Emma was at her desk when Chick came in with the mail, a quizzical expression on her face. “This came in but there’s no postage,” she said, handing Emma the large, white envelope. Just as Emma reached for her letter opener, Chick stilled her hand, saying, “Maybe you should give it to the cops. What if it’s anthrax or something?”

  “Anthrax?” Emma repeated with a patient smile. “How would anyone we know get a hold of anthrax? It’s not like you can buy it at the store. The stamp probably fell off in transit or something.”

  “Wait,” Chick said, her eyes worried. “Why don’t you call that FBI agent before you open it. I got a bad feeling.”

  “Chick…really?” Emma stopped and stared at her friend, prepared to tease her a little for being paranoid, but there was something about the true distress in Chick’s eyes that gave her pause. Maybe Chick was right. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to be safe rather than sorry,” she conceded, setting the envelope aside. The relief on Chick’s face was worth it, considering the emotional strain they were all suffering since Charlotte’s death. “Anything else?” she asked, returning to the other mail.

  “Yeah…Ursula was out last night. A john roughed her up.” At that Emma bolted from her chair but Chick stayed her. “She’s in her room and she doesn’t want you to know. She’s afraid you’re going to kick her out.”

  “Why would she think that?” Emma asked, distressed. “Unless she broke the house rules. Did she?”

  “No. She submitted a urine sample and I tested it. Came back clean.”

  Relief swept through her. As much as she stood by her rules, it killed her each time she had to send a girl packing for breaking them. And she’d come to care for Ursula…just like the rest. Mercy, she thought, her hand going to her forehead to massage away the tension. And it was still early in the day. “Does she need to go to the hospital?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. Black eye, so
me pretty bad bruising but no broken bones.”

  Something to be grateful for, Emma thought with a grimace. Their hospital fund was dangerously low, as were all their line items in the budget, but that’s how it was every year around this time before the annual winter ball fundraiser. Which reminded her, she realized with an unhappy private sigh…time to visit her parents.

  “Keep an eye on her. Make sure she’s comfortable and reassure her that she’s not going to be kicked out, but I will need to see her sometime today to talk with her.”

  Chick nodded and then gestured at the envelope. “Let me know how that goes. If it’s anthrax, you owe me a beer for saving your life,” she joked.

  Emma chuckled. “If it’s anthrax, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “I’ll take that bet,” Chick said, but then gestured toward the foyer. “We have a visitor. Father Andre came by to talk with the girls.”

  Emma sighed. “Let me guess, Cari called him?” Chick nodded in answer and Emma pinched the bridge of her nose to stave off the headache that was bound to come after a visit from the friendly priest. Cari, known affectionately as Bambi because she had doe-brown eyes and looked as innocent as they came even though she was eight months pregnant, had found a kinship with the Catholic priest and had since started inviting the man to the house for spiritual guidance. While most of the girls tolerated his visits, Evie turned into a screaming shrew every time he came around. Emma rose and forced a smile. “I suppose I ought to say hello to our guest while you try and encourage Evie to stay in her room. I don’t think I can handle that today.”

  “You got it,” Chick said, leaving to head Evie off at the stairs while Emma went in search of Father Andre.

  She found him sitting with Cari and Olivia, a Bible clasped between his palms, as he finished a prayer. He caught sight of Emma and rose, concern in his expression. “Ms. Vale, I came as soon as I heard…such terrible business. How are you holding up under the strain?”