Kara Lennox - Downtown Debutante

“No, I don’t mind.” After he made a few preliminary comments for the tape—date, time, location and who was present—she told him her story, from beginning to end. She started with how the famous art agent “Seneca Dealy” had found her at a neighborhood art fair and had promised to pluck her from obscurity and make her a jeweler to the stars. “He said everything I wanted to hear,” Brenna said. “Starving artists thrive on praise and high hopes, you know.”

“And did you also have a sexual relationship with this Seneca?”

“I’m sure you know I did,” she said testily, her face burning. She wasn’t some virginal prude, easily embarrassed, but neither was she eager to dwell on her stupidity where Marvin was concerned. “I don’t see how the details of that could be any use to you.”

“His behavior is very important,” Packer countered. “I need to know the exact details of how this guy operates.”

“Fine.” She took a deep breath and gave the agent what he’d asked for—exact details. “He’s very good in bed. He always wears a condom. He prefers Trojans. Is that what you want to know?”

LaJolla was trying not to laugh, but Packer dutifully took down every word. “Interesting to know about the condoms. He takes risks in some areas, not in others. Go on.”

She sighed, her anger evaporating. “He wasn’t all bad,” she admitted. “As an artist, sometimes I lack confidence in my abilities. He boosted my self-esteem. Because of him, I got the courage to submit my designs to a committee that runs the IJC show. You know what that is?”

“I’m not familiar with IJC.”

“International Jewelry Consortium. They run the most exclusive jewelry and gem show in the country. Only a select few dealers and designers are invited to exhibit. And they chose me.” She still felt pride glowing inside her every time she thought about that phone call where they’d told her she was in the show. It was the career break she’d been working toward for five years.

“Congratulations,” Packer said politely, though she knew he had no idea what a big deal it was.

“I worked like crazy to get some very special pieces ready for the show,” she continued. “I had some fabulous stones left to me by my grandmother. Anyway, I woke up one morning and everything was gone. Everything. My checking account was empty and so was my trust fund.”

“How did he get to a trust fund?” LaJolla said, speaking up for the first time. “Don’t those have pretty strict security?”

“Well, it wasn’t a real trust fund. I just called it that. It was an account my father put money into every month for my support, because he thought I couldn’t take care of myself. But I never touched it.” She’d planned to donate it to charity someday. See, Dad? I didn’t need your old money after all.

“But you did accept the money,” said Packer.

“Why do you care about that, anyway? It’s gone, that’s what matters.”

“Just trying to get a complete picture,” he said mildly.

She told him the rest of the story—how Sonya, a debutante from Houston, had tracked her down after Marvin wiped her out, and how the two of them had followed a trail of clues to Cottonwood, where they found Cindy. The three spurned and destitute women—The Blondes, or The Blond Posse, as some people in Cottonwood affectionately called them—had pledged to bring Marvin to justice. The last time they’d seen him, he’d been running naked down the main street of a small Louisiana town—humiliated, but free.

When the story wound down, Packer shut off the recorder and packed up as if ready to leave. “So what are you going to do?” Brenna asked.

“We have to check out a few things,” Agent Packer said noncommittally. “We’ll be back in touch.” A look passed between the two agents.

Brenna was pretty sure she knew what it meant. We’ll be back in touch—when hell freezes over. “So I’ll never hear from you again. No one was murdered, no one was kidnapped. Why would the FBI waste its time?”

“Ms. Thompson, I assure you,” Packer said. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”

As he walked out of the room without a backward glance, Brenna pondered his parting shot. Had it been a promise…or a threat?

HEATH PACKER CLIMBED behind the wheel of his dark blue Chrysler LeBaron while Pete LaJolla, a bit out of breath from the short walk, slid into the passenger seat.

“You gonna tell me what that was about? I thought we were going to arrest her.”

Heath started the engine. He made one circuit around Cottonwood’s town square, marveling at the quaintness of it all as he processed what he’d just learned about Brenna Thompson. “She doesn’t know she’s a suspect.”

“Yeah, so?”

LaJolla was an okay guy, but not the brightest bulb in the marquee. “She thinks she got away with her crime. She thinks her parents would be too embarrassed to turn her in.”

“So…if she thinks she’s gotten away with her crime…she’ll get careless?”

Packer nodded. “And she’ll lead us to the Picasso.”

“You think this Marvin person has the painting? Who the hell is Marvin Carter, anyway? And what’s all this about a suitcase full of money?”

“Guess we better find out.”

Brenna Thompson had been a surprise in more ways than one. It wasn’t just her attire, or lack of it, that had thrown Heath off balance. He smiled now as he thought about how she’d looked when she’d opened the door, fuzzy from sleep, her platinum-frosted hair sticking out at odd angles from her head, mascara rings under her eyes. And that body. Small as she was, she had enough curves to inspire a roller-coaster designer. And in that tiny slip of silk she’d been wearing, he’d gotten an eyeful.

But even fully clothed—well, if you could call wearing a transparent robe fully clothed—there’d been a certain quality about her that surprised the hell out of him.

She was cute. Okay, cute and sexy as hell. And what a mouth. Not just the pink, pouty lips, but what had come through them. She seemed as open and honest and unpretentious as a daisy. Certainly not like any fugitive felon he’d ever seen.

“She was kind of hot, huh?” LaJolla commented. Then he watched Heath carefully for a reaction.

Damn. This was an important case. The Thompsons were influential people. If he solved it, if he recovered the stolen painting, maybe he could put the past behind him. Focusing on Brenna Thompson’s sexy mouth wasn’t the place to start.

Heath turned into the alley behind the empty office they’d been using as a surveillance base. “I don’t think she’s anything special.”

It was November, and Heath Packer was sweating. It was only about seventy degrees, a temperature that would have been heaven in any other part of the country. But here in New Orleans, the air was still and the humidity hovering at a hundred percent. Plus, Heath was trapped in a car. Not even the tinted windows totally protected him from the sun’s warming rays.

He’d been surprised when Brenna and Sonya had taken off in the middle of the night. He and LaJolla had gamely followed them all the way to southern Louisiana, where the two women had checked into the humble Magnolia Guest House. He could only assume this trip had something to do with Marvin Carter.

Heath’s research into the Marvin Carter case had yielded lots of fascinating information about Brenna. Since no one else at the Bureau was much interested in Carter—as Brenna had indicated—Heath had taken over the case and combined it with the Thompson case. All indications were that Marvin Carter and Brenna Thompson were partners, while Sonya Patterson and Cindy Lefler Rheems were mere patsies. However, Heath had yet to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.