by Sandra Hill
She smiled widely. “Yeah.”
“You’re gonna have a boatload of Rolex lawyers swarming around the police station before they’re even arraigned. They might even find a loophole to dismiss this whole bust.”
“This is a big story . . . as big as the sex club and the Mafia connection, the focus of my original story. I can see the headline: ‘Sex for Sale: Even the High and Mighty Are Buying.’” The whole time she talked in a side-of-the-mouth undertone, she studied the two Johns and a Jane, who continued to duck their heads, taking mental notes of their appearance and demeanor.
He groaned.
“I need to call my editor. You’re a cop. Why don’t you get us out of here?”
“Not yet. Can’t blow my cover. Besides, I don’t know these guys. They’re staties . . . state troopers.
Don’t worry. You’ll get your call soon. Besides, your crime reporter will have already heard about tonight’s operation on the police radio.”
“Hey, you two,” the Irish cop by the door said. “Enough chitchat. Set up a date later.”
She raised her chin at the grinning officer. “I work for the New Orleans Times-Tribune, and you’re going to be the star of my exposé if you’re not careful.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And I’m the king of Mardi Gras.”
“Listen, lady, give it up.” The black cop leaned down and picked up her purse at her feet. Opening it, he took out the Playpen admission card and waved it in her face. “Enough said.”
It was while the cop was picking up her purse that she noticed her brooch was missing. She raised her cuffed hands and felt against the place where the mike should be planted inside her bra. It was missing, too.
“That’ll be enough of that, sweet cakes,” Irish said, using a billy club to steer her hands downward, away from her chest. “No feelin’ yerself up. You can do that once you’ve bought one of these honeys here.” He glanced pointedly at John and Hal bracketing her.
“I was not—”
“Lady, give it up,” Irish said tiredly. When she opened her mouth, about to plead her case some more, the cop waved the Playpen card in front of her.
“I can explain that.” Her face was probably beet red.
The cop held up a halting hand. “Save it fer the judge, honey.”
Something occurred to her then. Turning to John, she asked with forced softness, “Did you steal my camera and mike?”
“You had a camera and mike? Tsk-tsk-tsk!”
“I want them back.”
“You do, huh? How bad?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged.
“Are you trying to sell my equipment back to me? That’s illegal.”
“How legal is it to tape people without their permission?”
“That’s different.”
“Oh?”
“Journalistic exception.”
“Bull!”
“I could make you return them.”
He just laughed.
“You’re a pig.”
“You said that before.”
Both cops walked up to stand before them. “You two are really startin’ to piss me off,” the Irish cop said. “Enough with the whispering!”
“Should I Taser them?” the black cop inquired of his pal. He was probably kidding. She hoped.
“Only if you want to lose your badges,” John told them. And he cited some police code guideline number that made both cops raise their eyebrows and back off. They kept eyeing John strangely after that.
Finally, the rat did something about their situation. Already her brain was at work, putting together the story and sidebar she would be writing later tonight. It would help to have the photos and tapes, though. “What exactly do you want in return for my camera and mike?” she gritted out.
“A number six.”
Whoever said “Any publicity is good publicity” wasnʼt a cop . .
.
It was a large conference room in police headquarters where the debriefing was held early the next morning, but still it was crowded with all personnel who had been involved, directly or indirectly, with the Playpen bust.
There were more than forty men and women from the Fontaine police and district attorney departments, FBI, ATF, state troopers, and State Organized Crime Commission—and that didn’t include uniformed arresting officers—sitting on folding chairs arranged in rows throughout the room, most of them holding Styrofoam cups of black Creole coffee. No whipped-cream-covered lattes here.
In another conference room across the hall, reporters from various media, local and nationwide, waited to get the full scoop. Separate interrogation rooms held Congressman and Mrs. Martinez, TV
mogul Ted Warner, and evangelist Leroy Evington with teams of high-priced lawyers driving cars worth more than the entire Katrina Disaster Relief Fund. They would probably get off with hefty out-of-court settlements. Clients and customers who could afford the bail had been released last night.
Not so the Dixie Mafia, fifteen of whom were already in custody and more to come. Not the big boss or godfather, but two of his sons, one counselor or consigliere, three lieutenants, and nine soldiers, several with the Lorenzo name. This bust wouldn’t break the mob in Louisiana, which included prostitution, drugs, extortion, illegal gun sales, theft, murder, and various other sundry crimes, but it would curtail it substantially. Anti-Mafia operations way back to Eliot Ness had learned that getting the bad guys often meant back-door arrests for lesser crimes with maximum punishments.
“Okay, listen up, everyone,” Captain Samuel Pinot said, stepping up to the podium. Captain Sam was head of the Fontaine police department but a Cajun, like himself, from Terrebonne Parish. John had known him since he was knee-high to a crawfish. In fact, Sam had once had the hots for his half-sister Charmaine, but a whole hell of a lot of southern Louisiana men had been bird dogging Charmaine’s tail at one time or another. “Good job!” Captain Sam yelled, pumping a fist into the air, which was met with cheers from throughout the room.
Next, the captain introduced Gil Tremaine, head of the crime commission and number one on the Dixie Mafia’s hit list. He and his team had been pursuing the mob here in Louisiana for years.
“The DA’s office will want to talk separately with each of you to prepare the case against the perps.” Tremaine motioned over to Dean Avery and his squad of assistant DAs leaning against the wall. “I don’t need to tell you to keep a low profile. The Dixie Mafia is still out there, alive and well.
We don’t want any potential witnesses, meaning some of you, found at the bottom of some bayou swamp wearing a concrete suit.”
A titter of laugher rippled through the room, but every one of them understood that this was a serious threat.
He and Tank and the other undercover cops would be small cogs in this prosecution, but that didn’t mean they were unimportant. Especially once the prosecution witness list was given to the defense.
Yeah, Tremaine and his boys were highest on the Mafia’s enemy totem pole, but everyone was at risk.
“Detectives have already taken witness statements and will expect to follow up with more,”
Tremaine continued. “That means you folks in here who were undercover, as well as club employees, hookers, male and female, and customers.”
“Hey, Lacy,” yelled Tank, who sat beside him. “I hear you got propositioned twenty-seven times in one night, working the Playpen’s black room . . . or was it the blue room?”
Lt. Lacy Jessup glared at Tank. They had a running hate/love relationship going for the past year.
“Actually, Tank, it was thirty-two, and all men.” She gave emphasis to all men, as if Tank did not fall into that category of manliness. Tank’s face flushed, but luckily he kept his mouth shut, especially since the chief was not too happy at the interruption.
“Which brings us to the three high profile ‘tricks’ caught with their pants down, so to speak,”
Tremaine said, turn
ing the podium over to Avery.
“Their embarrassment is going to be punishment enough, but they’ll be given substantial fines and community service,” the DA explained. “All hush-hush, which means you’ll read about it in the newspaper before the ink is dry on the documents.” Avery went on to detail what they had found and what needed to be done yet, including more arrests. He then discussed the schedule for handling the case; they hoped to bring the case to trial ASAP. Tank and John were expected to give their initial depositions after this meeting.
The FBI, ATF, and crime commission reps discussed their involvement in the case. Then the mike was turned back to Captain Sam. “I don’t need to tell you all to keep your mouths shut with the press.
Let our media relations personnel be the only contact persons, unless given permission otherwise.
Which leads me to this . . . ” The captain held up what looked like a copy of the New Orleans Times-Tribune. “It appears there was a reporter in the Playpen last night. Celine Arseneaux.”
“Uh-oh,” Tank said at his side.
“The main front page article isn’t too bad,” the chief said, “though we would have preferred that we put our own spin on the story. Nope, what has my temper about to boil over is this sidebar titled,
‘Fontaine Cop Was One Hot Prostitute.’ The first sentence reads: ‘Fontaine has its very own sex cop, and he is hot, hot, hot.’ No name. No photos. Just a cutesy little article poking fun at the department.”
The chief leaned both elbows on the podium and asked in a way too sweet voice, “I wonder who it could be?”
The eyes of the chief and about thirty-nine other people turned to him.
John slid down in his seat, to no avail.
Laughter exploded throughout the room.
The general public wouldn’t know it was him, but his fellow cops and his family? Yeah, they would guess.
John would never live this down.
Two can play this game, sweet thing . . .
“What the hell is this all about?”
John, blood-curdling mad, stormed into the newspaper office the next day, waving yesterday’s issue of the New Orleans Times-Tribune at Celine Arseneaux, who had the good sense to put her desk between them.
The witch flashed him an evil smile. “What? You don’t like my story on the Playpen bust?” She batted her eyelashes with exaggerated innocence.
Man, she had the prettiest, unique pale blue eyes he’d ever seen, especially on a dark-haired Cajun.
Must be a mutant gene, or else she wasn’t pure Cajun.
And, oh, yeah, she was as innocent as a cobra at a tea party. He growled and fisted his hands to prevent himself from leaping over the desk and throttling the infuriating pain-in-the-ass idiot.
Her newspaper had run not just a front page article, but also a full-page inside spread on a history of the Playpen, sordid details of exactly what was offered and for what price, the Dixie Mafia involvement, the arrests made, including the three public figures who were surely threatening to sue, bios of the various prostitutes, some of whom were college students working there part-time . . . a real tabloid style exposé that could very well earn Celine and her colleagues who’d collaborated on the assignment some major newspaper awards. For the rest of them . . . law enforcement and the arrestees .
. . what they would earn was quite different.
The three “celebrity” clients were out on bail, their high-priced lawyers having indeed negotiated plea deals to keep them out of the courtroom and further notoriety. The prostitutes and other clients were slapped with hefty fines. Not so lucky the fifteen various-level Mafia guys for whom no bail was allowed. They were headed for a long stay in Angola if the eventual trial was successful. Unless they were willing to squeal on some of their buddies up higher in the food chain, which they would not do, having been sworn to omertà, a code of silence which pretty much said, “You talk, you die.”
But that was all out of John’s hands now . . . till the trial, when he would have to testify. Which led him right to Ms. Celine von Lois Lane here.
It wasn’t the main articles, front and inside, that had pissed off John, although he thought it was ruthless of the newspaper to use the names of people who had not yet been found guilty. No, what had his head about to explode was the sidebar Celine had done on the opposite inside page. About him! The headline read: “Fontaine Cop Was One Hot Prostitute.”
“I didn’t use your name or photograph.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
“No one would know it was about you unless you told them.”
“You can’t be that clueless. This was revenge, pure and simple, Celine, and I wanna know why.”
She shrugged. “Stealing my camera and mike. Being an asshole. One small step for womankind.
Whatever.”
“Is this about that one-night stand when we were in college?”
Her face turned a mottled beet red, and it wasn’t attractive, either. Unlike her slutty appearance the other night, she wore jeans, a Tulane T-shirt, and no makeup. Her shoulder-length hair was scrunched up on top of her head with one of those comb claw thingees. Her pale blue eyes peered up at him over a pair of half-circle, wire-rimmed reading glasses perched near the tip of her nose. “You remember that?”
she squeaked out.
“Hell, yes. Why would you think I didn’t?”
“Well . . . uh . . . ”
“Get your hand bag. We’re goin’ outside where we can talk in private.” He could see a number of her office mates eavesdropping on their conversation.
“In your dreams, bozo.”
He could flash evil smiles, too. Taking an envelope out of his sport coat pocket, he pulled out several photos and dropped them on the desk in front of her.
She gasped.
There were a half-dozen photos of her on the night of the Playpen bust. And she sure as hell didn’t look like any hoity-toity I-am-so-pure newspaper journalist. Nope, she looked like a high class slut on the hunt for what his great aunt would call hanky-panky. She hadn’t been the only one with a hidden camera.
“Where did you get these?” she gritted out.
Gritting is good. Turning the tables when attacked is good. Rule number one of police training.
What is that old saying? “You can be the hammer or the nail.”Well, I pick hammer. “You weren’t the only one wired, baby.”
Setting her glasses on the desk, she exhaled on a loud whoosh which caused her breasts to move under her T-shirt. Which he was not noticing.
“Can I assume there are copies?”
“What do you think? Frankly, you look pretty good, sugar. Betcha Penthouse would offer you a mint to pose, based on these pictures alone. It could have the headline: ‘New Orleans Reporter Was One Hot Sex Mole.’”
She said something under her breath that most refined southern belles didn’t. Not that she was a belle. Nope, she was more like that other B-word.
“Tsk-tsk. ‘Ya gotta wash the okra if ya want a good gumbo,’ as my Tante Lulu would say. You better wash your okra, Celine.” He used an exaggerated Cajun accent, then drawled out her name so it sounded like saaay-lean.
“Screw you!”
“No thanks.”
She picked her purse up off the floor. “Let’s go.”
As he followed her swinging hips through the cube farm to the elevator, heads were popping out of office cubicles, like gophers in a Bill Murray movie. A few of the men flashed him surreptitious high fives.
When they were enclosed in the elevator, she glared at him, then hit the down button so hard it was a wonder it didn’t fall off.
“You don’t really think I’m going to be intimidated by a sissy glare, do you?”
She pressed her lips together—very nice lips, even without lipstick, dammit!—forcibly preventing herself from reacting to his comment. Smart girl!
There were about six feet between them. No way was he getting within smacking distance Into the silence, he grinned at her. W
hy? Because she hated his grinning at her. “Ain’t payback sweet, chère?”
Chapter 3
He . . . rather, the food . . . was yummy . . .
A short time later, they were in the Oyster Bar of the Red Fish Grill on Bourbon Street, feasting on barbecued oyster po’-boys . . . a Louisiana specialty served on loaves of French bread overflowing with red onions, lettuce, tomatoes, and homemade blue cheese dressing. If that wasn’t enough, there were sides of Creole potato salad and tall glasses of sweet tea.
She demurred on a dessert after the huge meal, but then found herself picking at John’s double chocolate bread pudding. An oddly intimate and strange thing for her to do. But everything about the angry sparks that flew between the two of them was strange.
They were seated before a long bar, on sculpted metal sea creature barstools. The atmosphere was heightened by the giant oyster mirrors on the ancient brick wall behind the bar and by the black and white photographs of Louisiana bayous and residents taken in the 1940s. The artwork had been part of a dissertation at Newcomb College of Tulane by Claire Brennan, mother of Ralph Brennan, the original owner. Those who had grown up in southern Louisiana, like her and John, knew this establishment and frequented it often.
Many restaurants and businesses in the quarter had suffered and still suffered from Katrina. But New Orleaners were survivors, as evidenced by how busy the streets were this afternoon.
She turned her stool to face him, even as she continued nibbling at his sinfully delicious dessert. As she ate, he watched her closely in a disturbing way she didn’t want to analyze.
“Okay, you made me come—”
“Hardly.”
“You are so crude.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m trying to say, you made me come with you. So, spill.”
He used his thumb to sweep some chocolate off her bottom lip, then sucked on his thumb. He honest-to-God didn’t seem to have done it for sexual reasons, but she felt his action all the way to her curling toes. Whoo-boy, he was one potent male. Especially clean-shaven today, wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a blue linen sport coat with the sleeves pushed up, Miami Vice style.
