Death of a Beauty Queen

by Mallory Kane

  HER DISAPPEARANCE HAD HAUNTED HIM

  The detective kept calling her by some other woman’s name, but it meant nothing. Rose Bohéme had no past, not until Detective Dixon Lloyd found it worth looking for. He was a man so focused on her, he’d been searching for more than ten years.…

  HER RETURN STIRRED EVERY PROTECTIVE INSTINCT

  His first homicide case was hers, and he could never shake it. He was haunted by her—and when he found her, living, breathing, there remained only more questions and a bloody trail to follow. But was he doing her any favors seeking out those answers, so punctuated by danger? Or were they killing her second chance at life by inviting death back in?

  “I don’t remember ever being held, being kissed.” Tears welled in her eyes. “How can I not remember anything?”

  “I don’t know.” The thought that he’d been the first man in her memory to touch her lips with his was so erotic and at the same time so humbling.

  He touched her shoulder and she stepped into his arms again. He nuzzled her silky, sweet-smelling hair. “The theory of amnesia is that you’re blocking out memories that are too painful or too awful to deal with. It’s called dissociative amnesia. It’s generally caused by a traumatic event.”

  Her hand went to her temple. He wasn’t sure if she was touching the scar or massaging a headache.

  “I promise you. I’m going to find out who did this to you and I’m going to make sure he pays.”

  Mallory Kane

  Death of a Beauty Queen

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mallory has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.

  She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. After twenty-five books published, Mallory is still amazed and thrilled that she actually gets to make up stories for a living.

  Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats. She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com or via Harlequin Books.

  Books by Mallory Kane

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  738—BODYGUARD/HUSBAND*

  789—BULLETPROOF BILLIONAIRE

  809—A PROTECTED WITNESS*

  863—SEEKING ASYLUM*

  899—LULLABIES AND LIES*

  927—COVERT MAKEOVER

  965—SIX-GUN INVESTIGATION

  992—JUROR NO. 7

  1021—A FATHER’S SACRIFICE

  1037—SILENT GUARDIAN

  1069—THE HEART OF BRODY McQUADE

  1086—SOLVING THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

  1103—HIGH SCHOOL REUNION

  1158—HIS BEST FRIEND’S BABY**

  1162—THE SHARPSHOOTER’S SECRET SON**

  1168—THE COLONEL’S WIDOW?**

  1180—CLASSIFIED COWBOY

  1203—HER BODYGUARD

  1237—DOUBLE-EDGED DETECTIVE‡‡

  1243—THE PEDIATRICIAN’S PERSONAL PROTECTOR‡‡

  1275—BABY BOOTCAMP

  1300—DETECTIVE DADDY

  1351—PRIVATE SECURITY‡‡

  1356—DEATH OF A BEAUTY QUEEN‡‡

  *Ultimate Agents

  **Black Hills Brotherhood

  ‡‡The Delancey Dynasty

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Dixon Lloyd—This NOPD detective failed to solve the Beauty Queen Murders twelve years ago. Now he has a second chance. But he has led the killer to Rose. This time he will save her, even if it breaks his guarded heart.

  Rosemary Delancey/Rose Bohéme—Attacked and left for dead, she remembers nothing before waking up in the care of a motherly Cajun woman. Now her past has caught up with her. Her safety and her heart lie in the hands of the sexy, determined detective who never gave up on finding her.

  Aron Wasabe—An accomplished hit man, Wasabe is haunted by his first victim, who disappeared before he could finish her off. Now he has a second chance to kill her and get out from under the thumb of the man who ordered her death, the Boss.

  The Boss—He’s waited years for revenge. Once Rosemary is dead, the last link tying him to the Beauty Queen Murders will be broken, and her inherited fortune will be his.

  Lyndon Banker—Rosemary’s fiancé, spoiled and in debt to loan sharks, was murdered that night. The police wondered if the killer was really after the wealthy compulsive gambler and Rosemary was merely collateral damage.

  Sheldon Banker—This wealthy businessman disowned his son because of his gambling debts. Does that make him responsible for Lyndon’s and Rosemary’s deaths?

  Junior Fulbright—The city councilman’s son is in deep with the Beauty Queen killer. But does he know who’s really running the show?

  Councilman Fulbright—The influential, ambitious city councilman is so hard on crime, he let his own son go to prison. What else will he do to stop crime in New Orleans?

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  BPA

  Prologue

  Twelve Years Ago

  It was an ugly crime scene. Not that newly appointed Detective Dixon Lloyd had seen many—none as a detective, but this one was worse than most. He could tell by the other officers’ faces.

  Blood was smeared on walls, on floors, on the snow-white sheets on the young woman’s bed. A terry cloth robe’s sash had been cut in two and tied to the two headboard posts. Dixon grimaced as his stomach churned.

  He stepped into the bathroom, which didn’t help his queasiness. Water filled the large spa tub about two-thirds full. A glass of white wine sat on the imported Italian tile surrounding the tub and a pale ivory candle had burned down to the wick.

  The room appeared ready for the beauty to sweep in, slide an elegant dressing gown off her shoulders and sink into the warm, pleasantly scented water.

  Only the water wasn’t warm or pleasantly scented. It was cold. And red. Bloodred.

  Dixon’s gaze zeroed in on the smeared handprint on the tile near the glass. She must have reached for it, hoping to break it and use it as a weapon. But the smear stopped two inches from the base of the glass. She hadn’t been quick enough. He swallowed acrid saliva as a vision of what must have happened rose in his brain. He tried to concentrate on searching for anything unusual about the scene, other than the obvious.

  “—make of it?” It was the voice of his partner and mentor, veteran detective James Shively, talking to the crime scene investigators in the bedroom.

  “Hard to say,” the CSI replied. “There’s blood smeared everywhere, but the only spatter is on the bed. I’d guess he used a slender blade.”

  “Yeah,” Shively said. “How much blood are we talking about?”

  “With the blood in the bathwater and who knows how much down the drain, not to mention all this rain going down the sewer drains, too, it’s going to be hard to tell.”

  Dix looked back at the tub. Down the drain. The killer must have surprised her in the bedroom, tied her to the bed and tortured her, then thrown her in the tub so that her lifeblood dripped down the drain.

  “Say, Shively,” the CSI went on, “the
name on the apartment is Rosemary Delancey. Wasn’t she Queen of Carnival this past Mardi Gras?”

  “Yeah, not to mention the oldest granddaughter of Con Delancey.”

  “Oh hell,” the CSI breathed as Dixon joined them. Dixon had heard of the Delanceys. Of course—who hadn’t? Everyone around here knew who they were. Con Delancey, the late, infamous senator from Louisiana, was as famous as Huey Long and his brother in this part of the country. And as scandalous.

  Con Delancey’s granddaughter had been murdered. Which meant that this story would headline local and national news tomorrow and who knew how many more days. And the department would be under the gun to catch the killer. He raised his gaze to Shively’s.

  “Yeah,” Shively said and nodded, reading his mind. “Welcome to Homicide, Lloyd. You’re in luck. Your first homicide investigation is going to be the most sensational murder New Orleans has seen in a long time.”

  Dixon glanced at the bed. On the floor beside the bedside table was a small gold photo frame. It lay facedown and he could see shards of glass surrounding it. He picked it up and turned it over. The girl in the picture had on a gaudy tiara and was dressed in a silver evening gown. Over her head was a banner that read “Queen of Carnival.”

  His gaze slid over the smeared and stained sheets. One particular stain looked like it had been made by the bloody side of a face—the same beautiful face as in the picture—pressed against the material. He swallowed again, not quite free of the nauseating vision of how she must have struggled. How she must have screamed and fought and even pleaded with her attacker not to kill her.

  He took the back off the picture frame and slid the photo out, shaking the bits of glass off it.

  “Be nice if we had a body,” he said.

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  Aron Wasabe groped in the dark for his cell phone on the bedside table and turned off the ringer before it could buzz again. He squinted at the display and grimaced, then threw back the covers and got up, sliding the phone into the pocket of his pajamas.

  His wife, Carol, turned over. “Aron?” she whispered. “Don’t forget Amy’s soccer game. It’s at six.”

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep,” he muttered. She sighed softly. She was used to the phone calls and odd work hours. After all these years, she didn’t even ask questions.

  Down in the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee, then gazed out the patio doors at the rising sun while it perked.

  The president of Aron Accounting, Bruce Wexler, had worked for him for years. He was smart and capable. There wasn’t much he couldn’t handle. So if he thought something was important enough to call Wasabe this early, it probably was. It might even be important enough to warrant his having to work on Friday. He frowned. It had better not take too long. He was not going to miss another one of his daughter’s soccer games.

  He decided to finish his first cup of coffee before calling Wexler back.

  After filling a mug, he added a generous dollop of cream and three heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Then he walked out onto the patio where the sun bathed the flowers and trees in pale pink light.

  He smiled to himself. Carol would probably call it mauve or puce or some other ridiculous word. She did a good job with the house and the yard. The patio was like an outdoor kitchen and dining room, beautifully landscaped.

  She’d made a home for him and their six-year-old daughter and he loved her for it. He sat down in a glider and gently rocked back and forth as he enjoyed that first swallow of coffee of the day. It was the best.

  His phone rang again. He took another long swallow before leisurely retrieving it. He checked the display. Wexler again.

  “Bruce? Twice before seven? This better be good.” Wasabe allowed a slight irritation to color his voice, just enough to worry the president of his accounting firm.

  “It’s important, Mr. Wasabe. There’s a kid running his mouth. Says he saw the Delancey girl. The one who was murdered twelve years ago. The Carnival Queen?”

  Wasabe’s throat closed on a sip of coffee. He coughed. “So?” he asked, clearing his throat and trying to sound casual, but hearing the anxiety in his voice. “That’s what you woke me up for? Some yahoo trying to sell a bill of goods, like we hear every week?”

  It couldn’t be true. Rosemary Delancey couldn’t be alive. Not after all this time. But a flutter of hope tickled the back of his throat. If she were…

  “I know how you like Delancey stuff,” Wexler went on. “So I knew you’d want to hear about this.”

  Wasabe had given his employees and associates hints over the years of his interest in the Delancey family. He’d never explained why. He’d left it to them to draw their own conclusions. Apparently, the majority of them believed he was obsessed with the infamous late-patriarch of the clan, Con Delancey.

  Wexler was still talking and he’d missed most of it. “What did you say?” he asked.

  “I said the kid is James Fulbright’s boy.”

  “The loudmouth? He’s Councilman Fulbright’s son?”

  “Yeah. He’s saying his pop was King of Krewe Ti Malice the year the Delancey girl was Carnival Queen.”

  “Was he?” Wasabe asked. Wexler should know. The Wexlers had ridden in Mardi Gras parades for decades.

  “Yes, sir. He sure was. Junior was probably about twelve. He claims she was his first crush. Said he’d recognize her in a whorehouse under a sweaty fat john.”

  “How’d you hear about this?”

  “Junior was bragging. He told me T-Bo Pereau was hanging around. Said Pereau sneaked off like a pup that had just snatched a bone away from a big dog.”

  “And who the hell is T-Bo Pereau?”

  “A nobody. In and out of prison for possession and small-time dealing.”

  “Keep an eye on Pereau, and bring Junior Fulbright to the office. Noon. He knows Rosemary so well, he can find her for us. And if he talks to anybody else I’ll cut off his thumbs.” Wasabe grimaced. “And don’t be late. I’m going to my daughter’s soccer game at six.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wasabe hung up and picked up his coffee with a shaky hand. Twelve years ago, while working as a small-time collector for a loan shark, he’d made a choice that earned him a lucrative career as a contract killer. However, it left him effectively indentured to a powerful and ruthless man.

  Was this his chance to close the book on that first botched job? If Rosemary Delancey really was alive, maybe he could finally earn his freedom by delivering her to The Boss.

  * * *

  IT WAS HER. He was sure of it. Detective Dixon Lloyd’s pulse hammered in his ears. That two-bit drug dealer he and his partner, Ethan Delancey, had collared for parole violation was right, and Ethan was wrong.

  T-Bo Pereau had sworn he could tell them where Rosemary Delancey, the supposedly murdered Carnival Queen, was, in exchange for not putting him back in prison. Dixon had wanted to make the deal, but Ethan had scoffed.

  You’re being suckered by the Delancey mystique, he’d told him. As soon as Pereau heard my name, I saw the wheels turning in his brain and the dollar signs in his eyes. Trust me. When you’re dealing with the Delancey name there’s always a story. A few years ago a murderer tried to get immunity by telling my brother Lucas who really killed our granddad. A couple of times a year the local tabloids will carry a photo that “proves” that Con Delancey is alive and living with a Cajun woman in the bayou or something just as outrageous.

  Dixon had heard the stories himself, so he figured Ethan was right. Still, he hadn’t wanted to take a chance. Poor T-Bo Pereau had gone back to Angola, but Dixon had quietly called in a favor and gotten him a few perks in exchange for what he knew about Rosemary Delancey.

  T-Bo’s information had been disappointing to say the least. All he’d given Dixon was a weak story about seeing a woman who’d looked like the murdered Carnival Queen catching the Prytania streetcar on Canal. When Dixon asked him how he could be sure it was Rosema
ry Delancey, T-Bo had replied, Everybody knows the Delanceys.

  Dixon had figured he could write off his time and the favor he’d called in.

  But now, as Dixon watched the woman walking down the street, he sent up thanks that he’d followed up on the two-bit dealer’s story.

  Her hair was inky black and captured into a long, loose braid. She was covered from neck to fingertips to toes by a long skirt, a gauzy long-sleeved blouse and some kind of lacy gloves. But there was no mistaking that tilt of her head or that walk.

  Dixon unconsciously touched his wallet, where he carried the photo he’d taken from her apartment all those years ago. A deep sadness still weighed on his chest each time he thought about that horrific, bloody crime scene. It had been his first homicide. The upscale Garden District apartment had been drenched in her blood, but Rosemary Delancey’s body had never been found.

  The woman slowed down, so he did, too, keeping her in sight but not getting too close. She glided along as if the narrow, uneven sidewalk were a beauty pageant runway, cradling a long loaf of French bread like an armful of roses.

  Dixon was no expert on beauty pageants or Mardi Gras Carnival queens, but after her murder he’d searched out every photograph and video ever taken of Rosemary Delancey. He’d become an expert on what she looked like and how she walked.

  At that moment she turned her head to check the traffic before crossing Prytania Street. When he saw her

  full-face for the first time, his certainty melted like cotton candy in the rain.

  Viewed straight-on, there was something not quite right about her features. Before he had time to figure out what it was, however, she’d turned away again and crossed the street.

  She said something to a newspaper kiosk vendor and he laughed. She continued on. At the door of a two-story shotgun house three doors down she produced a key from a hidden pocket in her skirt and unlocked the door.

  Dixon’s pulse raced. Had he really found Rosemary Delancey? Because T-Bo Pereau’s information had her boarding the Prytania streetcar, Dixon had checked the public records of every single resident within a twenty-block radius, without much hope of success. He’d found three people with names similar to Rosemary.