by Rebecca York
“Nah. Just testing your reflexes. I timed your turn at under a tenth of a second.”
Alex laughed. “Yeah. I thought you were out of town.”
“Just got back. But there’s some repair work being done on my house, so I’m over at the Sheraton on Canal Street. What have we got here?” Tanner asked.
“A vehicle that wasn’t here yesterday afternoon.”
“Mmm, hmm.”
They both approached the car. Alex reached for the trunk, then stayed his hand. The buzzing of flies and the smell coming from the crack between the lid and the car body suggested that he wasn’t going to find a couple of cases of beer inside.
Tanner was getting the same signals. Backing away, he searched the ground, picked up a stick and used it to raise the lid.
Alex was pretty sure what he was going to see. His first dispassionate observation was that the sun beating down on the metal of the car hadn’t done the body sprawled inside any good. But then neither had the slash marks crisscrossing his naked chest. Somebody had taken a lot of pleasure and pride in carving him up. And Alex could make a pretty educated guess about who the butcher was.
“It appears he pissed somebody off pretty good,” Tanner muttered.
“The Cajun mob,” Alex answered. “The knifework looks like it was done by Tony Arsenault—aka Tony the Knife.”
“You’ve run into him?”
“Not face-to-face. But I know he’s an enforcer for them. Well, I can’t prove it. He’s a careful bastard, and nobody’s been able to pin a murder on him yet. But the P.D. is working on it.”
They both stared at the body. The guy had dark hair and a tough-looking face. Below his naked torso, he was wearing casual slacks. One of his large hands was turned up and Alex leaned closer, then cursed.
“What?”
He pointed at the fingertips. “Somebody gave him an acid manicure. I guess they don’t want any fingerprints.”
Tanner studied the hands. “Yeah. A nice touch. It’s gonna be tough to figure out who he is.”
“Unless maybe he’s got a scorpion tattooed on his back.”
Tanner’s head whipped toward him. “You think?”
“No, I just had those guys on the brain when I pulled in here.”
Stepping back, Harrison pulled out his cell phone and called the cops. When he finished, he looked at Alex. “They’re sending a couple of dicks. They want us to wait.”
“That’s going to play hell with your delivery schedule.”
“You’re not on truck driver duty today?” Harrison asked.
“Not for a while. I’m going in to pick up my surveillance van. The P.D. recruit is having her job interview with the madam this afternoon.” Alex kept his voice neutral, hoping Tanner didn’t pick up on his tension.
Switching the subject abruptly, the other man asked, “So what do you think? I mean, why is this body down here?”
“You mean, did somebody leave it where a Confidential agent driving to work would find it? As a warning, maybe,” Alex replied.
“Yeah.”
“That’s a possibility. Or this is just a convenient dumping ground. And they’re gonna wish they picked a different spot.”
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a siren. Both Alex and Harrison pulled their vehicles to the side to give the team from the P.D. access.
THERE WAS ONE THING to be thankful for, Gillian decided as she reached for the jacket of her expensive, formfitting silk suit.
At least Alex hadn’t made some grandstand play to prevent her from showing up at the McDonough Club.
Adjusting the jacket, she inspected her image in the mirror. She looked demure on the outside, but underneath was a different story. This woman was nothing like the tarted-up working girl who had come marching into Bourbon Street Libations the week before. No, this woman was sleek and sophisticated on the outside. Which made her role that much harder to play because her early life sure hadn’t prepared her for sleek and sophisticated.
Forty minutes later she got out of a cab in front of the McDonough Club and paid the driver.
She squelched the impulse to wipe her sweaty palm on her slender skirt, then started up the steps of the large, well-kept building. Apparently it was like her suit, deceptive on the outside. From the sidewalk, it looked like a bastion of the old-money establishment in the city. But inside was a whole different story.
Although she was facing the wide double doors, she could see a delivery van around the corner. Probably the same van where she and Alex had met a couple of nights ago. So was he in here, already watching out for her? She hated to admit that she took some comfort in knowing he was here. Alex would come rushing in if he thought she was in trouble. She had the lipstick microphone in her purse. He’d be able to listen in on her conversation with the madam—and anything else that happened while she was near the hidden microphone. She would have liked some privacy for this interview, because she didn’t love the idea of his critiquing her performance. But that was preferable to her going in here and never coming out again—with nobody knowing why.
That wasn’t going to happen, she told herself firmly. Still, she had to repress a shudder as she raised her hand and clunked the ornate brass knocker shaped like an alligator head. A nice touch, she thought. Had it come with the property or was it new?
Gillian had picked her time carefully. She hadn’t wanted to arrive too early because she expected that most of the women who lived here—Madam Dupré included—slept late. But she hadn’t wanted to interfere with the evening’s activities, either.
So it was just two in the afternoon. Still, the fit-looking man who answered the door was wearing a tuxedo, which failed to conceal the bulging muscles under his jacket.
“May I help you?” he asked. The question was polite enough, but she knew he was looking her over carefully, evaluating her purpose in coming.
“I’m Gillian Stanwick,” she answered. “I believe Mrs. Dupré is expecting me.”
He ushered her into a wide front hall where what looked like an antique sideboard competed for attention with a gorgeous Oriental rug and a man’s marble bust sitting on a waist-high pedestal. Probably the founder of the club, she judged, remembering the photographs she’d seen of McDonough.
“Please wait here,” he said, indicating a small room to the side of the entrance. Again, the furnishings were lavish. And the raised ceiling panels were painted gold. Like something out of an old plantation, she thought, remembering some of the field trips she’d taken as a kid.
She’d come from a working-class neighborhood, but the teachers had wanted the students to know about the former glories of their home city.
Instead of sitting, she inspected the titles of the volumes in the floor-to-ceiling shelves along one wall. Some of them looked like classical literature, but she was startled to see naughty-looking titles among the more staid offerings. You could read anything from the complete works of Charles Dickens to The Tale of a Fallen Woman or the Bitches of Westwick.
The sound of footsteps in the doorway made her turn quickly. The strong-armed but very polite butler—or whatever he was—had come back.
“This way,” he said, ushering her down the hall toward the back of the establishment.
She concentrated on keeping her face serene as she followed him around a corner.
A young blond woman wearing a flowered dressing gown and carrying a mug of tea or coffee was coming down one of the side halls. She stopped short and gave Gillian an appraising look but said nothing.
Gillian replied with a small nod, then almost bumped into the butler’s back as he stopped in front of a wide door.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice called in answer to his discreet knock.
“Miss Gillian Stanwick to see you,” he said as though he were ushering her into the presence of British nobility.
He stepped aside and Gillian walked into the room, ordering herself not to flinch when the door closed tightly behind her.
; The woman was seated at an old-fashioned desk, the surface of which was as neat as a prop in a furniture showroom.
She was the same woman in her fifties with dyed blond hair they had seen on camera the night before. Then she’d looked impatient and angry. Now she was obviously making an effort to school her plump features into pleasant lines.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, looking Gillian up and down as though she were in the grocery store evaluating a prime steak. Since she didn’t offer her guest a seat, Gillian stood with her hands at her sides, hoping she didn’t look like a marionette waiting for the puppeteer to jerk her strings.
In the van, after they’d observed the meeting with Dupré and Smith, Alex had given her more equipment and more information. He’d told her what to expect in this interview, and now she couldn’t help picturing him sitting at his con sole critiquing every word she said and every move she made.
“I believe Tammy Ray Kemp told you I would be stopping by.”
“Tammy Ray. A lovely girl. She used to work for me before she went into business for herself.”
“Yes.”
Madam Dupré continued to study Gillian. “I’m sure she wouldn’t have sent you to me if she didn’t think you’d qualify. But there’s no point in interviewing you if you don’t meet the physical specifications. We are very select here in our choice of girls.”
“Of course.”
“Please take off your jacket. And your skirt, so I can get a look at you.”
IN THE VAN, Alex sat with his eyes glued to one of the television monitors. It was trained on the front door of the McDonough Club. And the picture hadn’t changed in the past fifteen minutes. Not since Gillian had gone inside and the big guy in the monkey suit had closed the door, shutting her away from the world.
But he knew Rich Stewart was watching him and listening to the conversation inside through another set of earphones, and Alex didn’t want to give away the fact that his stomach was so tied in knots that he might never eat again.
So he sat trying to act as though this was just a routine stakeout when the words he was hearing made him want to jump out of his chair, charge across the street and pull Gillian out of that place.
The madam had just asked her to strip to her underwear—right there in the office. He’d been waiting for that order. Probably, Gillian had, too. He was rooting for her to refuse. Then this whole charade would be over. Instead he heard her say, “Certainly.” Her voice sounded detached, as though she were getting ready to execute a school assignment.
“I’m glad I’m not in her shoes,” Rich murmured.
“Yeah,” Alex managed to say through parched lips. He’d made the mistake of bringing up Gillian’s name in the meeting last week. Now he knew that, like everyone else, Rich was curious about their relationship. But he wasn’t going to enlighten him. He was going to keep his cool as he imagined Gillian taking off her clothing in front of that malevolent toad of a woman.
Rich cleared his throat. “We’ve got an excellent sound level from that mike.”
Alex could only manage a grunt.
COOLLY, GILLIAN SET HER purse on the needlepoint cushion of a nearby chair. Then, pretending her fingers didn’t feel numb, she slipped open the buttons of the jacket and took it off, laying it beside the purse. She’d dressed carefully for the occasion. Underneath she was wearing a sheer camisole and nothing else. Next she unzipped her skirt, revealing lace bikini panties, a white garter belt and flesh-colored stockings. Very aware that her body was on display through the almost-translucent underwear, she stood with her arms at her sides, facing the madam. When Dupré twirled her hand, Gillian turned slowly around, then came back to the starting position.
“Very nice,” the older woman said. “Now just lift those nice breasts in your palms for me and stroke your fingers over the tips.”
Gillian wanted to focus her gaze on the wall in back of the woman. Instead she deliberately made eye contact as she complied with the request. She managed to hold the woman’s gaze, but her mind conjured up another scene. Inside her head, she was pretending that it was Alex who was touching her as she felt her nipples harden.
Gillian forced herself to keep breathing evenly—in and out, in and out. And forced herself not to ask if she’d passed the test.
“Very nice,” the madam said again. “Your figure is good. And you seem comfortable with displaying your body. You can put your jacket and skirt back on. Sit down and we’ll talk.”
Gillian reached for the skirt, gracefully stepping back into it and pulling up the zipper.
“How long have you been working as a prostitute?” the madam inquired as the would-be new hire buttoned her jacket.
Using the scenario she’d been given, Gillian was ready with an answer. “Two years.”
“Why?”
She delicately lifted one shoulder. “The pay is good. The work is easy. I’m not going to be doing this for the rest of my life. I’m saving up to buy my own business.”
“What kind of business?”
“A dress shop, catering to rich women who will never suspect that I bought my way into respectability by screwing men like their husbands.”
The madam laughed, the sound like breaking glass. “A very elegant plan. But why do you want to work for me? You won’t be making as much as if you were out on your own.”
“That’s true. But I had a little trouble with the cops. I’ve researched your house, and I understand you can offer me a pleasant and secure environment.”
“And I’ll take thirty percent of what you make with each john.”
Gillian pretended surprise. “That’s a little high.”
“As you say, I can offer you a secure and pleasant working environment.”
Gillian looked down at her polished nails while she thought over the terms. “I can live with that,” she finally said.
“If a patron wants to enjoy the favors of two females, how do you feel about working with another girl?”
The question was the first one that had really thrown her off stride. “I prefer entertaining my customers alone,” she said.
“And if I insist you do an occasional threesome?”
“I guess I made a mistake in coming here,” she said in a quiet but firm voice, then held her breath, wondering if she’d just blown the job interview. But teaming up with another woman would put her in a position she couldn’t accept, not if she was going to avoid doing her job.
“I can work around that,” the madam said. “There are other girls in the house who will be glad to take the assignment.”
“Thank you,” Gillian said, hoping that relief didn’t flood her voice.
“But you’d better be good enough to bring in the big bucks on your own. What acts are you willing to perform?”
As Gillian coolly listed the usual sexual repertory, she couldn’t help flashing on Alex again, picturing him glued to the conversation. Determinedly she forced him out of her mind.
“What if a client wants to be disciplined?”
“Whipped?”
“Yes.”
“I can handle that. But I don’t want to go the other way. I don’t want to accept physical abuse.”
“Again, we have other girls who enjoy it, so that won’t be a problem.”
Unfortunately that was probably true, Gillian thought. Then she brought her attention firmly back to the interview as the madam asked a question about her early life. Keeping her mind off her own warm and loving family, she mentally flipped through the pages she’d memorized and answered smoothly.
When they finished, Madam Dupré leaned back in her chair. “You sound like you’d work out very well here. But you understand that there will be a probation period.”
“Of course.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“Yes. How are payments from customers handled?”
“Discreetly. We take care of that for you. And a record is kept of your earnings. The money can be transferred to your account mon
thly.”
Gillian nodded.
They went on to discuss some of the house rules. Gillian must be available for work every evening from seven on. She would have one day off each week, but in the beginning she would be expected to work the weekends.
“And finally, you will not be allowed to leave the house without asking my explicit permission. Frank, the man who showed you in here, will strictly enforce that rule. He has orders to be quite rigorous.”
“Yes. I understand,” she answered, glad the sleeves of her jacket hid the goose bumps that had suddenly risen on her arms. She’d expected that she wouldn’t simply be allowed to waltz in and out of the place. But she couldn’t help feeling the walls of the little room closing in around her.
The madam tipped her head to the side. “How soon can you start?” she asked.
“I was prepared to come to work this evening, if you needed me that soon. But I do want to go home and get a few things. My makeup. Some working clothes.”
“I have everything you need right here,” Madam Dupré said. “You could just go in the back and meet some of the other girls. Then you could make yourself comfortable until customers start arriving.”
Gillian fought to keep her face neutral. She hadn’t brought her makeup kit along, and she needed it. Without the special contents, there was no way to keep from having sex with the men who came here. “I’ll be more comfortable with my own things,” she said, then waited with bated breath for the madam to seal her fate.
Chapter Six
“You can go home and pack,” Madam Dupré said.
“Thank you.”
“I want you back here within the next two hours,” the woman added, her voice brisk now that she and Gillian had struck a deal. “And don’t come in the front door again. There’s an employee’s entrance in the alley in back.”
“Yes.”
“Go down the hall and turn right.”
Feeling as if she’d won a victory and at the same time sold her immortal soul to the devil, Gillian escaped from the little office. In the hallway, she let out a small sigh. She was waiting for the man called Frank to put a hand on her shoulder and ask her where she thought she was going. But she didn’t see him around.