Mallory Kane - Death of a Beauty Queen

“I don’t remember ever being held, being kissed.” Tears welled in her eyes. “How can I not remember anything?”

“I don’t know.” The thought that he’d been the first man in her memory to touch her lips with his was so erotic and at the same time so humbling.

He touched her shoulder and she stepped into his arms again. He nuzzled her silky, sweet-smelling hair. “The theory of amnesia is that you’re blocking out memories that are too painful or too awful to deal with. It’s called dissociative amnesia. It’s generally caused by a traumatic event.”

Her hand went to her temple. He wasn’t sure if she was touching the scar or massaging a headache.

“I promise you. I’m going to find out who did this to you and I’m going to make sure he pays.”

MALLORY KANEhas two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.

She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. After twenty-five books published, Mallory is still amazed and thrilled that she actually gets to make up stories for a living.

Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats. She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com.

Death of a Beauty Queen

Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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I dedicate this book to the people of New Orleans: their hearts, their courage, their indestructible optimism.

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Twelve Years Ago

It was an ugly crime scene. Not that newly appointed Detective Dixon Lloyd had seen many—none as a detective, but this one was worse than most. He could tell by the other officers’ faces.

Blood was smeared on walls, on floors, on the snow-white sheets on the young woman’s bed. A terry cloth robe’s sash had been cut in two and tied to the two headboard posts. Dixon grimaced as his stomach churned.

He stepped into the bathroom, which didn’t help his queasiness. Water filled the large spa tub about two-thirds full. A glass of white wine sat on the imported Italian tile surrounding the tub and a pale ivory candle had burned down to the wick.

The room appeared ready for the beauty to sweep in, slide an elegant dressing gown off her shoulders and sink into the warm, pleasantly scented water.

Only the water wasn’t warm or pleasantly scented. It was cold. And red. Bloodred.

Dixon’s gaze zeroed in on the smeared handprint on the tile near the glass. She must have reached for it, hoping to break it and use it as a weapon. But the smear stopped two inches from the base of the glass. She hadn’t been quick enough. He swallowed acrid saliva as a vision of what must have happened rose in his brain. He tried to concentrate on searching for anything unusual about the scene, other than the obvious.

“—make of it?” It was the voice of his partner and mentor, veteran detective James Shively, talking to the crime scene investigators in the bedroom.

“Hard to say,” the CSI replied. “There’s blood smeared everywhere, but the only spatter is on the bed. I’d guess he used a slender blade.”

“Yeah,” Shively said. “How much blood are we talking about?”

“With the blood in the bathwater and who knows how much down the drain, not to mention all this rain going down the sewer drains, too, it’s going to be hard to tell.”

Dix looked back at the tub. Down the drain. The killer must have surprised her in the bedroom, tied her to the bed and tortured her, then thrown her in the tub so that her lifeblood dripped down the drain.

“Say, Shively,” the CSI went on, “the name on the apartment is Rosemary Delancey. Wasn’t she Queen of Carnival this past Mardi Gras?”

“Yeah, not to mention the oldest granddaughter of Con Delancey.”

“Oh hell,” the CSI breathed as Dixon joined them. Dixon had heard of the Delanceys. Of course—who hadn’t? Everyone around here knew who they were. Con Delancey, the late, infamous senator from Louisiana, was as famous as Huey Long and his brother in this part of the country. And as scandalous.

Con Delancey’s granddaughter had been murdered. Which meant that this story would headline local and national news tomorrow and who knew how many more days. And the department would be under the gun to catch the killer. He raised his gaze to Shively’s.

“Yeah,” Shively said and nodded, reading his mind. “Welcome to Homicide, Lloyd. You’re in luck. Your first homicide investigation is going to be the most sensational murder New Orleans has seen in a long time.”

Dixon glanced at the bed. On the floor beside the bedside table was a small gold photo frame. It lay facedown and he could see shards of glass surrounding it. He picked it up and turned it over. The girl in the picture had on a gaudy tiara and was dressed in a silver evening gown. Over her head was a banner that read “Queen of Carnival.”

His gaze slid over the smeared and stained sheets. One particular stain looked like it had been made by the bloody side of a face—the same beautiful face as in the picture—pressed against the material. He swallowed again, not quite free of the nauseating vision of how she must have struggled. How she must have screamed and fought and even pleaded with her attacker not to kill her.

He took the back off the picture frame and slid the photo out, shaking the bits of glass off it.

“Be nice if we had a body,” he said.

Present Day

Aron Wasabe groped in the dark for his cell phone on the bedside table and turned off the ringer before it could buzz again. He squinted at the display and grimaced, then threw back the covers and got up, sliding the phone into the pocket of his pajamas.

His wife, Carol, turned over. “Aron?” she whispered. “Don’t forget Amy’s soccer game. It’s at six.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep,” he muttered. She sighed softly. She was used to the phone calls and odd work hours. After all these years, she didn’t even ask questions.

Down in the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee, then gazed out the patio doors at the rising sun while it perked.

The president of Aron Accounting, Bruce Wexler, had worked for him for years. He was smart and capable. There wasn’t much he couldn’t handle. So if he thought something was important enough to call Wasabe this early, it probably was. It might even be important enough to warrant his having to work on Friday. He frowned. It had better not take too long. He was not going to miss another one of his daughter’s soccer games.