Death of a Beauty Queen

by Mallory Kane

  Rose bit her lips nearly through, tasting blood. She was not going to scream or whimper again. She was not going to give the monster the satisfaction of hearing her beg.

  Dixon’s navy blue eyes and beautiful smile rose before her inner vision. She loved him so much. Partly because he’d tried so hard to save her, and partly because for twelve years he’d never given up on finding her. Mostly, though, she loved him because of the kind of man he was.

  Dixon, I’m sorry. I wanted to live my life with you. Dear God, please let him know that.

  The man jerked her hair hard enough to bring more tears to her eyes. Then he lay the blade of the knife against the left side of her throat, under her ear. She felt the sting as the sharp blade sank into her skin.

  * * *

  “DO YOU KNOW how bad I want to shoot you right now, Junior?” Dixon growled. He had the punk spread-eagled across the hood of his car. “There’s a woman in there—” he indicated the dilapidated warehouse “—who might be dead—” His voice broke on the word. He cleared his throat.

  “Who might be dead right now, and it’s your fault. I swear you’ll go to prison for this and your skinny butt probably won’t last a week.”

  “Don’t—please—” Junior blubbered. His whole body was quaking. “I didn’t—I didn’t know what he was doing. I swear he didn’t tell me anything. Please!” He started crying like a baby.

  Dixon dragged the punk over to his car and threw him to the ground. He cuffed him around the car’s axle with his arms stretched as far as they would go. There was no way Junior could escape. Hell, he could barely move. Dixon stuffed his handkerchief in Junior’s mouth and left him there.

  He glanced around, wondering how far away the SWAT team was. It hardly mattered, though, because Dixon wasn’t about to wait for them. What he’d told Junior was true. Rose could be dead by now. Dixon had to get in there. If she was still alive, he didn’t want to waste one second.

  For the first time, he turned his attention to the cars that were parked in the shade of the warehouse. One was the sedan owned by Aron Accounting. The other was a black Lexus. He didn’t know whose it was and he didn’t care. The SWAT team and the local police could figure that out.

  All Dixon wanted to do was find Rose. He saw the small door in the side of the building, a darker rectangle than the metal walls. It was slightly ajar. So he stepped over to it, drawing his weapon, and slipped inside.

  It took his eyes a few long seconds to dark-adapt. Finally he was able to distinguish walls and furniture. It was a small room, maybe an office, judging by the silhouettes of file cabinets and desks. At the far end of the room was another door standing ajar. Pale light glowed from the room beyond. He heard voices echoing as if they were bouncing off the metal walls of an empty room. The main room of the warehouse.

  Dixon moved silently over to the lit doorway. He flattened himself against the wall, his weapon at the ready, and listened.

  “Stop!” a commanding voice said.

  Dixon froze. Had he been spotted? But the voice kept talking.

  “What the hell are you doing? Get that knife away from her throat.”

  At the same time, he heard a soft, feminine whimper.

  A relief so profound it brought tears to his eyes whooshed through Dixon. Rose was alive. For now. The muscles in his arms and legs quivered like jelly. He took a deep silent breath and tightened his grip on his handgun. Had someone else come to Rose’s rescue?

  “I just wanted to scare her, Boss,” a second voice responded.

  “Get those bindings off her arms and legs,” the commanding voice continued. “Now!”

  While the voice was speaking, Dixon had eased the door open several inches, enough that he could slip through. His initial urge was to rush forward and join the man who sounded like he was rescuing Rose. But something held him back—maybe the fact that the man with the knife had called the other man Boss.

  The sight that greeted Dixon took his breath away. Rose was on her knees, her legs and forearms bound with some kind of cloth. Standing behind her was a wiry man with his fist in her hair and what looked like a butterfly knife held to her throat.

  As Dixon watched, the man shrugged, then with

  lightning-fast precision, he slit the cloth bindings on her arms.

  Rose cried out as the cloths fell away. When the man let go of her hair, she collapsed like a rag doll.

  “Her feet, Wasabe,” The Boss said.

  So that was Wasabe. Dixon watched as he slit the bindings on her feet and legs.

  Dixon moved carefully and quietly out of the doorway. He stood, his feet apart, and aimed the barrel of the gun at Wasabe’s head, holding it with both hands for steadiness and accuracy. He didn’t want to make himself known as long as Wasabe still held the knife.

  He would wait for The Boss to make his move, then back him up.

  “Put the knife away and get on with it,” The Boss said and stepped out of the shadows.

  When the pale light played over The Boss’s features, Dixon gaped. He knew him. Immediately, he understood why he was determined to stop Wasabe from hurting Rose.

  At that instant The Boss raised his arms and leveled the barrel of a gun at the man’s head. Dixon rose to the balls of his feet, ready to help him stop Wasabe from killing Rose.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rose couldn’t believe her ears. She knew that voice, didn’t she?

  “Lyndon?” she said, not completely sure where the name or the memory of the voice came from. All she knew was that they were emerging from behind the blank wall in her brain that blocked her past from her.

  But hadn’t Dixon told her that Lyndon was dead? That he’d been killed by the same man who’d tortured her? This man who’d brought her here.

  Wasabe laughed as he dragged a galvanized tub over near her. Then he grabbed her hair again. “Not Lyndon, little Irish Rose,” he said, dragging her toward the tub.

  “Wait, Wasabe,” Lyndon’s voice said.

  Wasabe clenched his fist more tightly in her hair, bringing tears to her eyes again. “What is it now, Boss? Want to tell her why you’re doing this? Get on with it, then, because I’m tired. I’d like to get this over with and get home.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  No, Rose realized. That voice wasn’t Lyndon’s. It was older, deeper and the tone was ominous. The voice she remembered had never sounded like that.

  “No, Boss,” Wasabe’s tone turned from impatient to placating. “It’s just that I’ve waited for twelve years for this, just like you have. I’m as ready to be done with it as you are.”

  “You’re right,” the voice said. “I am ready to be done with it. I’m tired of listening to your rusty voice and your excuses. This is for killing my son.”

  “Wha—” Wasabe started, but his voice was drowned out by a loud pop.

  Rose jumped. Wasabe’s hand released her hair. She threw herself to the side, away from him, but he didn’t come after her.

  He dropped to the concrete floor like a rock.

  Rose whirled. Dark blood covered the front of his shirt, and his eyes were open and staring. She covered her mouth with her hands and turned her gaze to the man who had shot him.

  It was Eldridge Banker, Lyndon’s father.

  “M-Mr. Banker—” she stammered as he came toward her and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. He dragged her up close to him, his dark eyes staring into hers.

  “I tried to save you,” he said, “but I was too late.”

  Rose stared at him, trying to make sense out of what he was saying. “No,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  But Lyndon’s father shook his head. “No. I’m so sorry. I really tried.”

  He must be talking about before. “I’m sorry, too,” Rose said. “I’m so sorry Lyndon was killed.” She moved to step away from him, but he tightened his grip.

  “At least you managed to get Wasabe’s gun away from him and shoot him,” Banker went on in that somber
, deadly tone. “But seeing Wasabe triggered your lost memories of that night, and you realized Lyndon, the man you loved, was dead.”

  “Gun?” Rose echoed.

  “Devastated now that you remembered your fiancé, you wrote a note, explaining that you and Lyndon were secretly married before he died. Then you turned Wasabe’s gun on yourself and committed suicide.”

  Rose shook her head. “No, no, that’s not right. What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve got your marriage license right here,” Banker said. “Lyndon had put it in his safety deposit box.”

  “Mr. Banker, I don’t understand,” Rose said. But she was afraid she was beginning to. Had Lyndon’s father been looking for her all this time to kill her?

  “Don’t you?” he asked. “It’s simple. Surely, you knew Lyndon well enough to know what a good-for-nothing he was. His gambling bankrupted me.” He gestured toward the dead man with a nod. “Wasabe was supposed to scare you into giving him your money. Clever of your grandfather to put it in trust until you were twenty-five.”

  Rose’s head was spinning. Banker’s words were triggering fragments of memories. “He kept telling me to give him the money and he’d stop,” she said, turning her head toward the man Banker had shot. “But I couldn’t. I didn’t have any money to give him.”

  “Well, you do now,” Banker said. “Now shut up and listen. I’ve got two documents for you to sign. Your suicide note and your marriage license. Your note is simple and to the point. Now that you remember your fiancé—no, your husband—you can’t live without him.”

  “You’re crazy!” She yanked against his punishing fingers. “You had your own son murdered?”

  Banker jerked her up against him. “He wasn’t supposed to die!” he spat. “And neither were you. I waited twelve years for Wasabe to find you. Why do you think I shot him? He murdered my son.”

  Banker forced Rose over to a table and shoved her down in a chair. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot you in the leg.”

  “No, you won’t. Not if you want the police to believe I killed myself.”

  Banker’s already red face turned purple. “Shut up! I don’t need you. I’ll forge your handwriting. Nobody will question it after all this time.” Suddenly, he raised his arm and swung the butt of the gun at her head.

  Rose dived, turning over the wooden chair. Banker’s gun scraped the side of her head as she fell. She scrambled away, trying to get her feet under her so she could run. But her feet were still numb from being tied up. She tripped and fell.

  At the very instant she hit the floor a shot rang out.

  Rose stiffened, waiting for the unimaginable pain of a bullet tearing into her flesh, but it didn’t come.

  Behind her, Eldridge Banker grunted. Rose heard the clatter of heavy metal against the concrete floor, then the thunk of a body.

  She twisted around. Banker was down, the gun he’d held lying about a foot from his hand. Crying, panting, Rose flung herself toward the weapon, reaching for it.

  “Rose!”

  She heard the voice, but she didn’t believe her ears or her brain. She was too confused, too stunned by what had happened to trust anything. She had to get to the gun. She was in an abandoned warehouse with two men who wanted her dead. It didn’t matter that they were both on the floor with blood spilling onto the concrete. They’d tried to kill her and Banker’s gun was the closest weapon.

  She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the barrel of the gun, eyeing Banker, terrified that he’d grab her again.

  “Rose, stop! That gun’s loaded!”

  She gripped the handle of the gun and pointed it toward the familiar, treacherous voice. Lyndon’s voice hadn’t been Lyndon. There was no way that the voice she was hearing now was really Dixon.

  Pointing the gun toward the voice, she shouted, “Don’t come near me! I’ll shoot!”

  “Rose, it’s me. It’s Dixon. SWAT is right behind me.”

  She shook her head. “No, you can’t be Dixon. He’s not here. Who are you?” She had her back to Banker and Wasabe, and she didn’t like that, so she scooted sideways, so she could see each of them and keep the gun trained on the bodiless voice coming from the shadows.

  “I’m coming closer, Rose. Be careful. It’s me, Dixon. Remember? You told my fortune?”

  It was Dixon. She shook her head. No. It couldn’t be.

  As she watched, holding the gun in both hands and aiming in the direction of the voice, she saw a movement in the shadows. She sat up straighter and held the gun out at arm’s length.

  It was heavy.

  “Rose, it’s me,” he said, moving closer. “I was afraid I’d never find you.”

  He kept saying things—repeating things he’d said to her. Her arms were trembling, still shaky and weak from being bound. And the gun was so heavy.

  He stepped out of the shadows, his broad shoulders and blue-black hair so familiar. He had his hands up, palms out. She saw the silhouette of a gun in his waistband.

  He took one more step and the light caught his eyes—his navy blue eyes. They were glistening oddly.

  “I’m so sorry, Rose. I swore I’d keep you safe and I didn’t.” He took a shuddering breath. “I was afraid the way Banker was holding on to you I wouldn’t be able to get a shot off before he killed you—” His voice broke.

  Rose stared at him. He was there. Strong, confident and everything she’d never known she wanted.

  “Dixon—” she said and let the gun fall from her fingers as she tried to stand.

  He ran to her and lifted her into his arms.

  She buried her face in the curve of his neck and cried as doors crashed open and the SWAT team stormed the warehouse.

  * * *

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON Rose stood in Maman’s living room, letting her fingertips drift over the ivory keys of Maman’s grand piano. She didn’t try to play. She wouldn’t have been able to distinguish the keys through her tear-filled eyes.

  The night before had been as chaotic and confusing as a Mardi Gras parade. Just as Dixon was promising to stay at her side, no matter what, someone had whisked her away and deposited her in front of a female emergency medical technician, who gave her a quick examination and pronounced her unhurt. She gave Rose two tablets in a small envelope and told her to take them if she had trouble sleeping.

  Then a police detective had cornered her and fired questions at her about what had happened, from the moment she’d first seen Aron Wasabe.

  A young man in jeans and an NOPD jacket took her fingerprints, swabbed her fingers and palms with a giant cotton swab that he stored in a plastic tube, then swabbed the inside of her cheek with another swab. “Just routine,” he’d told her with an engaging smile.

  In the middle of all that, she’d watched EMTs crowding around Eldridge Banker, then placing him on a gurney and rushing him out of the warehouse. Aron Wasabe’s body was carried out, too, in a body bag.

  By the time Dixon had made it back to her side, she’d been numb with cold and exhaustion. So he’d brought her home, watched to make sure she took the tablets the EMT had given her, and put her to bed, promising to stay with her all night.

  When she’d finally woken up around noon, she’d found a note on her bedside table.

  Gone to work. I’ll be back as soon as I can. REST! Love, D.

  Rose stopped playing with the piano keys and picked up her mug of tea. It was cold, so she went into the kitchen to warm it in the microwave. As she took a careful sip to test its heat, she heard the doorbell ring. Then she heard the lock click open.

  “Rose?”

  It was Dixon. A flurry of emotions kicked her pulse into high gear. Paramount was the fear of facing him in the light of day. He’d said things to her last night, things she wanted to believe so badly her heart ached. But did she dare?

  “Rose, can we come up? I’ve got someone with me.”

  “Sure—” she tried to call, but her voice was raspy. She cleared her throat. “Sure.” She looked down a
t herself. She had on the kimono over her nightgown and one of Maman’s lacy shawls over that. Decent enough for giving a statement to the police, she supposed.

  She listened to the hard, masculine footsteps on the stairs as she put on more water to heat for tea. When she turned around, Dixon was standing in the kitchen doorway with a younger man standing beside him.

  “How’re you doing this morning?” Dixon asked. “Did you sleep late?”

  She nodded with a forced smile. “I didn’t wake up until around noon. Would you—either of you—like some tea?”

  “I had coffee,” Dixon said as he turned to look at the second man. “Rose—this is my partner. Ethan Delancey.”

  The name cut through her like a knife. She stared at him—she couldn’t tear her eyes away. His hair was dark and his eyes were an odd golden-brown. He smiled tentatively and nodded a cautious greeting.

  “Ethan is your cousin,” Dixon said gently.

  “E-Ethan,” she said, trying out the name. “I—I don’t know what to say.” She caught the edges of the shawl and wrapped it tightly around her.

  “It’s okay,” Ethan said, holding his hands out, palms up. “I don’t either—except that I’m so glad to see you. So glad you’re not—”

  “Dead?” she finished for him on a laugh. “Me, too. But it’s not quite that simple.”

  Ethan nodded. “Dixon filled me in, finally. You don’t remember anything from before your attack?”

  Rose compressed her lips and shook her head. “Last night, during all that happened, I began to remember things. Mostly about the attack. It was strange.” She stopped, trying to think how to describe the sensations. “Kind of like a double exposure. You know? Like two movies running at the same time on the same screen.” She stopped talking and looked at Ethan more closely.

  “You’re my cousin? How, exactly?”

  Ethan sent Dixon a quick glance. “I tell you what, Rosemary. You’re trying to process a lot of stuff right now. Why don’t I come back this evening and we can talk some more. Your—” He paused for a second, then continued. “A member of our family is a chef. I’ll pick up something for dinner.”