Guarding the Socialite (4 page)

It was said in a teasing manner as Bella hated talking with the “shrink” as she called the woman. But the therapy was working—if only in fits and starts—and Emma continued to insist that she attend the sessions. Besides, the fact that Emma required Bella to attend counseling created a favorable attitude in the courts, allowing Bella to remain in the house despite the unusual circumstances.

“I ain't tired and this ain't late. I've stayed up for days at a time without no one to tell me to…” Bella's grumble trailed as she closed the door behind her but Emma didn't mind. Somehow the surly teen had become special to her though she knew it was a mistake to allow herself to get so close. Still…it was hard to keep her distance when Bella needed someone in her life who liked her for who she was, not for her body or what they could get from her.

But as soon as Bella had gone, Emma growled a nasty expletive aimed at Mad Johnny and grabbed her cell phone. Fishing in her purse, she found Agent McIntyre's business card. The late hour meant nothing in her single-minded
purpose. Without hesitation she dialed the cell number he'd scribbled on the back, and when he picked up she barely kept her temper in check as she said, “I have information you might find useful in your investigation. It seems Mad Johnny may have been blackmailing Charlotte. The girls have told me you'll find him at Sixteenth Street and Mission on most days. You'll know him by the bright purple Mohawk he wears. Feel free to use excessive force if he doesn't cooperate,” she added with a little more heat than she would usually show to a stranger. Then she added with more calm, “Happy hunting, Agent McIntyre.”

A
drenaline hummed through his veins as Dillon traversed Mission and immediately spied the man known as Mad Johnny. It was hard to miss his punk purple Mohawk as the sleaze lounged against a light pole, his indolent stare sharp and slack at the same time. He was all seemingly gangly arms and legs but Dillon recognized the malice that rolled off him like a cheap cologne. This was a dirtbag of the first order. A sweep of his person and Dillon had already surmised he was likely packing a gun in his back waistband, hidden beneath the grungy leather jacket, and a switchblade in his faded jeans pocket. Dillon smiled. This ought to be entertaining. He liked to jack around with guys like Mad Johnny because they
always
underestimated him. Kara said it was the accent. He'd joked that was their mistake. Even guys with accents can kick ass.

“Hullo,” he started congenially, walking over to the punk with a grin. “Got a minute?” Dillon cocked his head and
waited to see which route the man would go. Would he tell him to bugger off or size him up for a sale? He hoped it was the first option. Dillon was itching for a little action. And he wasn't disappointed.

“Piss off, cop. Ain't against the law to stand here doing nothing,” he said, slewing his gaze away, dismissing Dillon with a sneer that said,
you can't do shit and I know it.

Except—and here's where it got fun—Dillon wasn't a cop. And he didn't much like to play by the rules.

He tsked. “Now that's not nice, Mad Johnny. Do your friends call you Mad or just Johnny? Or even John? Nicknames can be such a pain in the ass. My nickname was… Oh, right, you don't care about that. How about this? Screw the niceties and let's get to the point. I have questions and you're going to answer them nice and tidy-like or else things are going to get a little…uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” Mad Johnny repeated, his lip curling with open scorn. “What are you going to do, cop? If you ain't got a warrant, I ain't answering shit. You savvy? Go find a doughnut shop somewhere and leave me alone.”

So much for niceties. With a quick strike and twist, Dillon had busted the man's nose and then put him in a headlock to whisper in his ear, “See, your first mistake was not knowing the difference between a cop and an FBI agent with a nasty disposition.” He tightened his hold and Mad Johnny's eyes bulged as he struggled to get free. “Your second mistake? I hate doughnuts. Clog your arteries. They're a heart attack with frosting. Now enough with the pleasantries…let's chat.”

He released the man and Mad Johnny spun away, glancing at the people who were giving them a wide berth but not making a move to help. He must've realized he was in a bad spot. He gingerly touched his nose and winced, then glared at Dillon. “You broke it, you fu—”

“Hey…watch your mouth,” Dillon warned, yet his lips twitched with the urge to dare him to push it. Damn, he was in a mood today. Mad Johnny bit back the expletive with a mutinous glare and then sucked back a wad of bloody snot with a wince. “That's better. I knew you'd see it my way with a little encouragement. Now tell me about your association with Charlotte Tedrow.”

Mad Johnny dialed back the glare as he weighed his possible answers. A moment later he must've figured it would do no harm to answer with a groan about his nose. “She's my girl.”

“You mean
was
your girl, right?”

A shaky but no less cocky grin spread across his lips but he lifted one shoulder. “Yeah…was.”

Dillon considered the scum before him and speculated whether he knew about Charlotte's death. His instinct told him he didn't know. There was one way to find out. “Did you kill her?” The startled look said it all. The punk wasn't a very good liar, and Dillon didn't figure he was putting on a show for his benefit. Damn. Why couldn't it be simple? This tosser probably didn't have the brains required to finish a Scrabble game much less orchestrate a complex killing spree. “When was the last time you saw her?” he asked.

“Are you messing with me?” Mad Johnny demanded, but there was uncertainty in his bloodshot eyes. “I just saw her—”

“A few days ago when you forced her to deliver a package to Chinatown?” Dillon affected a bored expression but he watched the pimp with shark eyes. “Yeah, I know about that. What was in the package?”

“Aren't you supposed to take me down to the station or something if you're going to be interrogating me like this?”

Dillon waved his question away. “We're just talking, right?
But no worries. I'll have a uniform pick you up later when I find out what was in that package. Heroin? Meth? Pot? Did I hit the jackpot? So damn unoriginal. Not that I'd expect more from a grammar school reject like yourself but one can hope for a little variation on the usual theme.”

Uncertainty crossed Mad Johnny's features as he tried to think of something equally insulting to counter with but his swelling nose tempered his mean streak as he finally spat, “Yeah? What do you know?” with a fair bit of nervousness.

“I know you're a small-time criminal with no brains and a taste for hitting women. You use as much as you sell which puts you in debt more often than you're flush and you're probably secretly homosexual considering your attitude toward women.” He winked and the pimp's cheeks turned scarlet—whether from rage or embarrassment he wasn't sure—and Dillon shook his head. “As fun as it is playing around with your personal tragedy, I have work to do solving a murder and all that, but do yourself a favor and don't leave town. I suspect we're going to become well acquainted in the next few days.”

“I didn't kill her,” Mad Johnny blurted out, wiping at the watery red dribble coming from his nose. “You can't pin that on me. That bitch was always getting herself into trouble. If she's dead I didn't have nothing to do with it.”

“Ironically, in spite of the fact that you're most likely a habitual liar, a thief and a drug addict, I believe you. Still…don't go anywhere.”

“I ain't got nothing to hide,” Mad Johnny shot back, but his eyes darted for an escape route, which gave him away. He was going to bolt, the little coward.

“If I have to find you…a broken nose will be the least of your worries, mate,” Dillon warned, giving him another smile with the promise in his tone. “I'm a bit of a loose
cannon, if you know what I mean. Rules? Eh. Like you…I find my way
around
them.”

Mad Johnny sputtered but his pasty expression turned to gray dough and Dillon nearly laughed out loud. That felt good. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten breakfast. “I wonder if that bagel place is still around?” he mused, checking out the neighborhood, the pimp dismissed for now. Then he headed off in the direction his stomach required.

 

Emma was at her desk when Chick came in with the mail, a quizzical expression on her face. “This came in but there's no postage,” she said, handing Emma the large, white envelope. Just as Emma reached for her letter opener, Chick stilled her hand, saying, “Maybe you should give it to the cops. What if it's anthrax or something?”

“Anthrax?” Emma repeated with a patient smile. “How would anyone we know get a hold of anthrax? It's not like you can buy it at the store. The stamp probably fell off in transit or something.”

“Wait,” Chick said, her eyes worried. “Why don't you call that FBI agent before you open it. I got a bad feeling.”

“Chick…really?” Emma stopped and stared at her friend, prepared to tease her a little for being paranoid, but there was something about the true distress in Chick's eyes that gave her pause. Maybe Chick was right. “I suppose it wouldn't hurt to be safe rather than sorry,” she conceded, setting the envelope aside. The relief on Chick's face was worth it, considering the emotional strain they were all suffering since Charlotte's death. “Anything else?” she asked, returning to the other mail.

“Yeah…Ursula was out last night. A john roughed her up.” At that Emma bolted from her chair but Chick stayed
her. “She's in her room and she doesn't want you to know. She's afraid you're going to kick her out.”

“Why would she think that?” Emma asked, distressed. “Unless she broke the house rules. Did she?”

“No. She submitted a urine sample and I tested it. Came back clean.”

Relief swept through her. As much as she stood by her rules, it killed her each time she had to send a girl packing for breaking them. And she'd come to care for Ursula…just like the rest. Mercy, she thought, her hand going to her forehead to massage away the tension. And it was still early in the day. “Does she need to go to the hospital?” she asked.

“I don't think so. Black eye, some pretty bad bruising but no broken bones.”

Something to be grateful for, Emma thought with a grimace. Their hospital fund was dangerously low, as were all their line items in the budget, but that's how it was every year around this time before the annual winter ball fundraiser. Which reminded her, she realized with an unhappy private sigh…time to visit her parents.

“Keep an eye on her. Make sure she's comfortable and reassure her that she's not going to be kicked out, but I will need to see her sometime today to talk with her.”

Chick nodded and then gestured at the envelope. “Let me know how that goes. If it's anthrax, you owe me a beer for saving your life,” she joked.

Emma chuckled. “If it's anthrax, I'll buy you dinner.”

“I'll take that bet,” Chick said, but then gestured toward the foyer. “We have a visitor. Father Andre came by to talk with the girls.”

Emma sighed. “Let me guess, Cari called him?” Chick nodded in answer and Emma pinched the bridge of her nose to stave off the headache that was bound to come after a visit from the friendly priest. Cari, known affectionately as Bambi
because she had doe-brown eyes and looked as innocent as they came even though she was eight months pregnant, had found a kinship with the Catholic priest and had since started inviting the man to the house for spiritual guidance. While most of the girls tolerated his visits, Evie turned into a screaming shrew every time he came around. Emma rose and forced a smile. “I suppose I ought to say hello to our guest while you try and encourage Evie to stay in her room. I don't think I can handle that today.”

“You got it,” Chick said, leaving to head Evie off at the stairs while Emma went in search of Father Andre.

She found him sitting with Cari and Olivia, a Bible clasped between his palms, as he finished a prayer. He caught sight of Emma and rose, concern in his expression. “Ms. Vale, I came as soon as I heard…such terrible business. How are you holding up under the strain?”

“We're all holding up just fine, Father Andre,” she answered, wishing she knew why she didn't particularly like the man. She forced a smile. “Thank you for coming to comfort Cari and Olivia.”

“I'm here for you, as well,” he reminded her with a kindly smile. “‘If you are tired from carrying heavy burdens, come to me and I will give you rest. Take the yoke I give you. Put it on your shoulders and learn from me. I am gentle and humble and you will find rest. This yoke is easy to bear, and you will find rest because this burden is light.' Matthew 11:28–30.”

She hated when he quoted Scripture at her. She'd never been particularly pious, though she didn't begrudge anyone the right to practice their faith, but when Father Andre whipped out his Scripture she never knew how to react. So she simply smiled and said nothing in return. Chick appeared at the top of the stairs and gave Emma a subtle nod indicating she'd handled Evie, for which Emma was tremendously grateful.

“Have the police discovered any leads as to who might have committed these heinous acts against God's wayward flock?”

Emma returned to Father Andre. “Well, the police are no longer investigating. The case has been handed over to the FBI and I don't know what they've discovered thus far.”

“Let us pray that the Lord delivers swift and terrible justice to the wicked who have perpetrated these crimes,” he said solemnly and Emma nodded in agreement. He gazed at her expectantly as he said, “Ms. Vale would you like to join us in our prayer circle today?”

She might've heard Chick smother a laugh but when she turned to glare at the woman, she was gone. Emma offered Father Andre an apologetic smile as she declined. “Too much to do, but I appreciate the offer. Please, stay as long as you like,” she said, eager to leave but Cari stopped her.

“Father Andre offered to set up a Bible study if that's all right with you,” she said, her brown eyes pleading, as she clasped her hands beneath the bulge of her rounded belly.

Emma withheld a sigh. She appreciated that Cari had found God with Father Andre's assistance and that Olivia—though she struggled with her vices—enjoyed the Catholic priest's visits, but she knew she'd have a riot on her hands with the other boarders if she allowed a Bible study in the house. “I'm sorry, Cari. You know I can't do that,” she said, noting the thin line of disapproval forming on Father Andre's mouth. “Father Andre is always welcome to visit but I can't sanction a Bible study. You know not everyone is comfortable with organized religion and I won't willingly cause dissension in the house.” She offered an apologetic look Father Andre's way but added, “Of course, Cari you are free to come and go as you please and if you would like to go to Bible study, then by all means, do.”

Cari nodded, shooting an uncertain glance at Father
Andre as if she feared his reaction, and Emma took quiet note. Perhaps there was a reason she didn't quite care for the older gentleman that went beyond the clammy feel of his hands when he shook hers. She resolved to talk with Chick about her concerns. “Well, I just thought it would be nice to offer….” Cari's voice trailed off with a small shrug.