Death of a Beauty Queen

by Mallory Kane

  “He’s the punk—” Dixon almost said who was following Rose. He stopped himself just in time. He wasn’t ready to tell Ethan that he’d found his cousin. “—who told Pereau about spotting your cousin. If he’d really told him. Hard to believe that even on the street, Junior Fulbright would be hanging with the likes of T-Bo. My bet is that T-Bo overheard Junior talking to someone else.”

  Ethan shot him a disgusted look. “What did Pereau tell you Junior said?”

  “Said Junior claimed he knew her from Mardi Gras the year she was queen of Carnival.”

  Ethan tossed the photo back to Dixon. “Right. What is he? Twenty-something? Like he’d recognize Rosemary even if he did see her, which, may I remind you, is a crock.”

  Dixon picked up the photo where it had fluttered to the floor. “Yeah, well. T-Bo isn’t super-reliable.”

  “So it was a dead end after all? See, Dix? What did I tell you? There’s always a story about a Delancey floating around out there.”

  Dixon didn’t even try to argue. He didn’t want to get into whether Rosemary was really alive with Ethan again. His partner was not a bit happy that Dixon had pursued T-Bo’s remark this long. He put the mug shot in a binder and set it on the edge of his desk to take home with him. “Yeah,” he said grudgingly, “I see what you mean.”

  He hated lying to his partner, even by omission, but both Rose and Ethan, as well as the rest of their family, deserved answers, and all he had right now were questions.

  * * *

  THAT EVENING AFTER he got off work, Dixon drove to the Fulbrights’ home in Metairie, the only address he had for Junior. When he knocked on the door, the councilman answered.

  “Councilman Fulbright, I’m Dixon Lloyd. I’m a detective with NOPD. We’ve met before, twelve years ago, when I was investigating the murder of Rosemary Delancey.”

  Fulbright nodded, frowning. “Yes?”

  “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about your son?”

  Fulbright went pale. “Is he all right?”

  Dixon held up his hands. “He’s fine as far as I know, sir. I apologize for giving you a scare. My questions involve something he told another party regarding another case I’m working on.”

  Fulbright stepped backward to let Dixon inside. “Go right in there, to the left. That’s my study.”

  Dixon waited for the councilman to sit in a leather club chair, then sat himself.

  “I haven’t seen my son in a couple of months,” Fulbright said. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Actually, I’d like to talk to him, so if you have any idea where he is, I’d appreciate the information.”

  The older man eyed Dixon with suspicion. “You’re sure you’re not looking for him in connection with a crime?”

  “I have no knowledge of any illegal activities on your son’s part. It seems that he may have seen a missing person. I want to talk to him to find out if he has any information about that person’s whereabouts.”

  “What missing person?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, sir. It’s confidential.”

  Fulbright frowned. “I’m familiar with police tactics, Detective. I need your word that you’re not going to arrest him.”

  Dixon nodded. “Unless he does something between now and the time I talk to him, I have no reason to do anything except ask him some questions,” he said. “You do have my word.”

  Fulbright rubbed his chin as he studied Dixon. Finally, he sighed. “My son has been in some trouble in the past, but he tells me he’s trying to straighten up. He enrolled in Delgado Community College. Last time I talked to him, he said he was looking to rent a house near the campus.”

  “Which campus? City Park?”

  The councilman nodded.

  “Does he have a cell phone?”

  “It’s on my plan.” Fulbright gave Dixon his son’s cell phone number.

  Dixon thanked him for his cooperation. As he left, Fulbright stood at the front door and called out to him.

  “Detective, if my son has broken the law, don’t give him special treatment. My stance on crime—you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dixon answered. He drove over to the Delgado campus at City Park and checked with the registrar’s office. He didn’t want to call Junior and alert him that he was looking for him. Sure enough James Fulbright Jr., was registered for twelve hours of class work, enough to qualify him as a full-time student.

  After getting his address by flashing his badge, Dixon drove to the Premier Apartments on General Diaz Street and knocked on Unit 5.

  When the door swung open and the bleary-eyed punk who’d followed Rose on the streetcar focused his squinty eyes on Dixon, he tried to shove the door shut, but Dixon easily stopped it.

  He held up his badge. “James Fulbright Jr.?”

  “Whaddaya want?” the kid mumbled.

  “I think you know what I want,” Dixon said, still blocking the door. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “Whatever,” Junior mumbled. He turned and shuffled over to the couch and flopped down.

  Dixon entered the dark, musty apartment and closed the door behind him. The air was redolent with marijuana smoke and mildew. The rickety, scarred coffee table held an assortment of chip and cookie bags, empty beer and soda cans and an ashtray full of pinched, hand-rolled butts, or roaches.

  Dixon didn’t miss the baggie Junior stuck behind the couch cushions as he lay down. “Come on, Junior. I didn’t come here to bust you.”

  “Yeah?” he drawled. “Tell me another one.”

  “Sit up and concentrate,” Dixon ordered him.

  Junior just gave him a heavy-lidded stare, so Dixon walked over and with one sweeping gesture, pushed his dirty sneaker-clad feet off the couch.

  “Hey!” Junior scrambled to a sitting position.

  “Good. Now concentrate. I’ll go slow for you. If you’ll take a look at me I think you’ll figure out why I’m here.”

  He sagged back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes.

  Tired of the kid’s rotten attitude, Dixon grabbed the neck of his ragged Saints sweatshirt and yanked him up until his face was within spitting distance.

  “I said, look at me!”

  “Okay, okay, geez!” Junior whined.

  Dixon let go of his shirt.

  Junior squinted. After a few seconds, his face became slightly more animated. “I know you,” he said. “You’re that hotshot who chased me all over town on Saturday.”

  “Right. I chased you. I think you’ve got it wrong. How about you followed a friend of mine.”

  “Huh?” Junior blinked, trying without success to pull off an innocent expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Listen to me, punk. Did you get a good look at this?” Dixon thrust his badge in front of Junior’s eyes. “You know what it means? It means I can take you in and hold you for twenty-four hours for no reason at all. But…oh wait. Let me think a minute. I’ve got a reason, don’t I? That baggie you hid. I’ll bet it’s got enough stuff in it to get you some time.”

  Junior’s face drained of color. “Hey, you said you weren’t going to bust me,” he whined. “Please. My dad won’t bail me out and I can’t do time again.”

  The kid was really scared. “I said I didn’t come here to bust you. I didn’t say I wouldn’t change my mind.”

  “Aw, man,” the punk whined again. “What do you want? I’ll tell you. Just don’t arrest me.”

  “Then listen closely. I want to know who sicced you on the fortune-teller.” He was careful not to give the slightest hint of Rose’s name.

  “The fortune-teller?” Junior was going bleary-eyed again, so Dixon grabbed his shirt.

  “Stay with me, Junior. You think I missed the look you gave me as you swung up onto the streetcar? You knew exactly what you were doing. Now, you tell me who paid you to follow her and I might forget that bag of weed. I’m sure it must have set you—or should I say, your daddy—back a c
ouple of C-notes.”

  Suddenly, James Fulbright Jr. didn’t look so good. His face turned pasty and sweat broke out on his forehead. “Nobody, I swear.”

  Dixon raised a brow. “Nobody can make you sweat in two seconds flat?”

  “No,” Junior said without conviction. His hand stole up to his temple to wipe away a drop of sweat.

  “Come on, Junior. I know what you told T-Bo, and—”

  “T-Bo ratted?” Junior spat out. “That stinking polecat. He’s a dead man.”

  Dixon clucked. “Now, now, Junior. Are you threatening his life?”

  Junior slumped. “No.” He sniffled and wiped the back of his hand across his nose.

  “That’s good. You’ve got exactly three seconds to decide what you want to do. Get busted for possession or tell me who hired you to follow the fortune-teller?”

  Junior shook his head in defeat. “I’m screwed. You take me in, I’ll die in jail. If I rat, I’ll be dead as T-Bo.”

  Dixon eyed the young punk. “What do you mean, ‘dead as T-Bo’?” he asked. Had Junior heard somebody threatening the little Cajun?

  “Yeah, yeah. I know he’s not dead, yet. He ratted to a cop, though. He won’t see another birthday.” Junior smiled. “Maybe not even another sunrise.”

  A cold chill slid down Dixon’s spine. He’d call Angola just as soon as he finished here and tell the warden to put T-Bo in solitary. At that point, the little Cajun would definitely be exposed as a snitch, but at least he’d be alive.

  “You better hope he sees a lot of sunrises and birthdays because otherwise, I’ll make sure you get his old cell.”

  At those words Junior looked up, wide-eyed. “No, man,” he whined. “I can’t go back to prison.”

  “Totally up to you.” Dixon watched him. The fear in his eyes turned to outright terror. Junior was more afraid of whoever had hired him than he was of prison.

  Which was unfortunate for Dixon. He’d thought his best bet was to stick Junior behind bars and then bargain with him to get out. But in the last couple of minutes he’d decided that under the circumstances, the last place he wanted Junior was in jail. He’d rather have him free, so he could follow him and find out where he went and who he met.

  “Tell you what, punk. I’ll just check back with you in a few days. How about that? Meanwhile, I’d suggest you quit lying around here and go to class, like you promised your daddy you would.”

  Junior sat up and narrowed his barely focused eyes at him. “Yeah, sure. Okay. So you’re not running me in?”

  “Not today. But you think long and hard while I’m gone, and when I come back, you see if there isn’t something you want to tell me. Got it?”

  The kid was so relieved he looked like he might cry. “Yeah. Yes, sir. I got it. Yes, sir.”

  Dixon left the apartment and looked at his watch. He got into his car and drove a block away, then called Ethan’s cousin Dawson Delancey. Dawson had a security agency, D&D Services. He just recently set up his new bride, Juliana, as his partner.

  “Hey, Dawson, what’s up?” he said when Dawson answered.

  “Lloyd, you still babysitting my cousin?” Dawson replied.

  “Ethan’s coming along,” Dixon said. “Doing pretty good.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Listen, Dawson, I’ve got a job for you, if you’ve got someone available. But I need him now.”

  “Grey Reed isn’t on assignment. You mean literally now?”

  Dixon didn’t know Grey Reed, but he did know Dawson, and if Reed wasn’t top-notch he wouldn’t be working for him. “Yep, within the hour. I need him to follow Junior Fulbright around. I want to know who he talks to, who he goes to see…everything he does for the next couple of days.”

  “Junior Fulbright? The city councilman’s son?”

  “That’s the one.” Dixon gave him Junior’s address.

  “Reed will be there within a half hour.”

  Dixon thanked him, then hung up. He felt like he should stick around the punk’s apartment until Reed got there, but he knew Dawson was as good as his word. Anyhow, he needed to go check on Rose.

  Back in his car, he dialed Angola and got through to the warden. “I was afraid you’d be gone for the day,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about T-Bo Pereau—getting him into solitary, for his own safety.”

  “I’m afraid you’re too late for that,” the warden sighed. “I was just about to pick up the phone and call you.”

  “Why? What happened?” Dixon asked.

  “Pereau was found in the showers, a bar of soap stuffed down his throat.”

  Chapter Ten

  Dixon’s stomach sank to his toes. Pereau was dead. “Did anyone see anything.”

  “No.” The warden paused for a second, then said, “What the hell did you talk to him about?”

  Dixon had anticipated that question, but he still grimaced as he dodged it. “I was just trying to confirm an ID. Who was in the showers with him?”

  The warden gave a harsh laugh. “If I knew that, Lloyd, I wouldn’t be in this job. I’d be a talk show psychic.”

  Anger and frustration sizzled through Dixon’s veins. “When are you going to get some security cameras up there?”

  The warden let go a few words that turned the air around Dixon’s cell phone blue. He winced.

  “I know, I know. So nobody saw nothing, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “And you don’t have any ideas?”

  “I know who all I’ve got up here, and I know that a lot of them are connected, if you get my drift. But T-Bo ain’t nothing but a two-bit drug dealer. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “The soap down the gullet? That’s usually a message. Keep your mouth shut.”

  “A message to whom? Once you’ve got a bar of soap down your throat you’re not going to talk.”

  Another grating laugh crackled through the phone. “To his buddies, or to anybody else who thinks about ratting to a cop.”

  Dixon bristled, partly in indignation at the accusation, but also because he knew that he bore a lot of the responsibility for T-Bo’s death. “T-Bo made it real clear that he wasn’t talking to me.”

  “Don’t play me for a fool, Lloyd. Your performance was hardly Oscar-worthy. You don’t think the other inmates in the visitor room missed the fact that no matter what you said, T-Bo got his cigarettes?” The warden paused for a beat. “And I sure didn’t forget that not three weeks ago, you called up here and asked for television privileges for him. If you know who did this, or why, you’d better tell me now.”

  “I wish I knew who. As far as why, T-Bo offered me some information having to do with an old case. But when I tracked it down, it was practically worthless.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, Dixon rationalized to himself. Yes, he’d found Rosemary Delancey because of T-Bo, but he wasn’t any closer to figuring out who had attacked her.

  “That’s why I came back to see him.”

  “And you gave him the cigarettes even though he refused to talk to you?”

  “He didn’t tell me anything that helped me on my case.”

  The warden spewed another mouthful of blue words. “If you’re lying to me, Lloyd, you’re an accessory.”

  “Give me a break,” Dixon laughed. “You are doing an autopsy, aren’t you?”

  “S.O.P. And before you ask, yes, I’ll give you the results. Although I don’t think there’s any doubt what killed him. I’ll be in touch with you anyhow,” the warden said. “I’m going to need a deposition about what you two talked about.”

  “No problem,” Dixon said. “Let me know what the autopsy shows.” He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, then slammed the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Damn it!” he grated.

  The danger was real. T-Bo’s death confirmed it. Whoever had ordered T-Bo killed was the same person who’d tortured Rose. And Dixon knew without a doubt that he was coming to kill her.

  * * *
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br />   SOMETHING WOKE DIXON. He was immediately aware that he wasn’t in his bed at home. It took him no more than a fraction of a second to remember exactly where he was. He was in Rose’s bed and she was on the other side of the wall.

  He lay without moving, listening. Rain pelted the panes of the window beside his bed. He could see droplets crashing against the panes at an angle and running down in rivulets. Was that what had woken him?

  No, he knew it wasn’t. He’d heard something else. He pressed the lighted dial on his watch. It was a little after three in the morning. He pushed back the covers and pulled on his pants. He picked up his paddle holster and stuck it in his waistband and drew his weapon. It was probably nothing, but he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Rose that she was in danger.

  Standing motionless, he listened. There. He heard it again. It was Rose. She was crying. He debated whether to check on her—for about two seconds. She was probably dreaming, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Opening the door to the hall, he saw the glow from a night-light shining through the open bathroom door.

  He was at Rose’s door in two steps. He stopped outside the door and listened again. He heard a strangled cry, then a wordless whimper. The muffled tone of her voice confirmed that she was in the throes of a bad dream. Again he debated. Check on her or leave her to ride out her nightmare alone?

  Then, through the door, he heard her gasp and cry.

  “No, no,” she moaned. “No—” The word was cut off by another gasp.

  He quit questioning whether it was any of his business whether she slept well or badly. He was going in. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing while she cried and gasped in fear—even if the fear wasn’t grounded in reality.

  Reaching out he grasped the glass doorknob and turned it slowly, carefully. It was almost noiseless. Then he eased the door open. The door slid smoothly and quietly on its hinges.

  Rain was pounding against the windows of this room, too. Vague glows from the streetlamps cast eerie shadows on the walls. Shadows of translucent splashes and rivulets of droplets cascading downward like tears.

  Rose was drawn up into fetal position under an intricately stitched, colorful quilt. Her black hair was splayed out across the pillow like ink swirling in water. She hadn’t stirred when he’d slipped through the door. He could still hear her whimpering quietly. She seemed to be all right except for the dream that held her in thrall.