Beneath a Blood Red Moon
Page 7“This is a business call, gentlemen?” she asked. She tried to look at them both. She found herself staring in Sean Canady’s eyes.
He nodded grimly, watching her. She had a feeling in the few minutes they’d been together that he had done a total assessment of her—the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she spoke, the things she said. He would notice details. All the little details.
“You’re aware there was another murder?” Jack said.
She managed to draw her gaze from Sean and look at Jack Delaney. “Another murder? Not to insult the efforts of the force, gentlemen, but I’m afraid there are many murders each year in New Orleans.”
“Unfortunately, that’s true,” Sean said. He glanced at his partner, perhaps just a little irritated. “Let’s rephrase the question. You’re aware that a body was found on the street just about two blocks from here?”
She nodded. “A young man. A pimp—at least that’s the word in the cafe next door.” There was a tapping, and Cissy stuck her head in. “Coffee. May I bring it in?” Maggie nodded. “Thank you, Cissy, the desk will be fine.”
Cissy set the tray on the table, swiftly showing the officers the sugar, cream, and artificial sweetener.
Jack added cream. Sean took his black. Somehow, she knew that he would. He had the look of a dedicated man. One who would run out of his house (apartment?) with a muffin in one hand and mug of coffee—black—in the other. He wouldn’t waste time eating when time was crucial, and though he’d need the caffeine often enough to keep going, he wouldn’t spend the time to use cream or sugar. Jack might be like that one day—he just hadn’t been around the block as many times as Sean.
She realized that Canady was returning her stare. She wondered if he was imagining her lifestyle, just as she was imagining his. Those dark-blue eyes of his were studying her. They were unsettling. She wondered with a shade of unease just what he saw. And strangely enough, she felt that little surge of a flutter within her breast again. He was the kind of man who could do that to a woman. She wondered if he was aware of his appeal. He was an attractive man. Hardened, no-nonsense, all grown up. And it was annoying to realize just how deeply she was attracted to him. Almost painfully so.
And his name was Canady.
She folded her fingers before her on her desk. What was the matter with her? She was all grown up, too.
“Gentlemen, I am aware that a corpse was found near here this morning. That of a young man.”
“And he was a known pimp and petty criminal,” Jack agreed.
“Yes, I heard that as well.”
“Yeah?” Sean asked.
She shrugged. “You know that news travels fast—we’ve a little cafe just next door. Actually we’ve been wondering here this morning if there’s any connection with the poor girl found last week.”
“Obviously, we’re wondering the same thing ourselves,” Jack said.
“Because, Miss Montgomery—it is Miss?”
She nodded. “Because—?”
“Because, oddly enough, our corpse seems to be missing most of its blood,” Jack said.
“But,” Sean told her softly, watching her, always watching her, “there was a little trail of blood drops, tiny, almost minute amounts. And they led back here. To the arched doorway leading up from the street to the second-floor offices of Montgomery Enterprises.”
CHAPTER 2
“Now that,” Jack stated with surety as they left the Montgomery Building behind, “is one beautiful woman.”
Sean grunted.
Not that he didn’t agree.
Maggie Montgomery was more than beautiful. She was tall and lithe, incredibly shaped, with ample breasts, a slim waist, and flaring hips; she had long, long legs, a headful of sexy auburn hair, and gold-flecked, intelligent hazel eyes. She moved with complete confidence and grace. She smelled provocatively of some sensual perfume. The moment he’d set eyes on her, he’d thought her the most unusual woman he’d ever met, the most alluring. Incredibly, he’d all but forgotten the corpse. There was just something about her. Something that brought out raw instinct. That made a man want to—
“I mean beautiful.”
Sean grunted again.
“Really beautiful. Fantasy stuff. Movie star, model on a pedestal. Better yet, centerfold queen—”
“Jack, blood drops led right up to her place.”
“She owns her own business. Big business. She must be as rich as Midas. Did you see the outfits in those downstairs windows?”
“She’s old money, Jack. The Montgomery name goes way, way back.”“Old money ... but I wonder if she’s closer to my age— or yours. Not that it matters. Wonder if she’d ever date a cop. Not me, of course. Despite the fact that I was drooling. In fact, it was so bad, I was afraid my tongue was going to fall right on the floor. But she was watching you. Whatever her age, she must like older men.”
“Not that forty is actually old,” Jack said quickly. “But I mean, hell, she just didn’t seem interested in me at all.”
“Jack, she could well be a murder suspect.”
“Oh, come on, Sean! She’s what? Maybe five feet eight and a hundred and thirty pounds, tops.
Slender—but, man ... nice shape. Even in that business suit. Great legs. I’ve always really liked a great set of legs. And hers ... But she’s just put together right all way around. Wonder if she works at it. I wonder if she goes to a gym. And if she does, I wonder which one. I’d like to see her in work-out clothes.”
“Jack, I repeat, she could well prove to be a murder suspect.”
“Give me a break! Can you imagine that elegant example of pure grace hacking a body to pieces and leaving the parts strewn on top of a tomb?”
“We don’t have a definite link on the murders. We found a corpse this morning, and blood drops that create a trail to her door.”
“There are several dozen people working in that office building, Sean. And we’ve got forensic guys searching for more blood, and she didn’t seem in the least disturbed that they were doing so. And if we find more blood in the building, that doesn’t label her as the killer. It’s absurd! I’m not as experienced as you are, but even I know that it takes some mean strength to sever a head that way! And if the guy was killed elsewhere and brought to the sidewalk, she’d have to be incredibly strong. With or without blood, that corpse was no lightweight.”
“So, if she didn’t kill him, she may be shielding the person who did.”
“And a psychopath could have done in our corpse, and used her building as an escape route.”
“Could have—but we’re going to have to follow every minute clue on this. A second killing of this kind in a few days’ time—the press is going to butcher us.”
“Headless corpses ... I guess it is a little unusual, even for New Orleans,” Jack said glumly. “But Maggie just has to be innocent.”
“Maggie?” Sean inquired dryly.
“Miss Montgomery. Maggie fits her.”
“Because she’s so warm and open and sweet?”
Jack grinned, shrugging. “Go on, be a cynic.”
“Right. You looked at her eyes the whole time.”
“All right, so it seems she must have great breasts, too, though can’t say that I could really judge beneath that suit.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Sean muttered.
“You’ve been around the block too many times, Sean— you’re showing your age.”
“Yeah, maybe I am.”
“What’s next?” Jack asked more seriously.
“We put together a task force and have a meeting, and hope the guys on the beat might have learned something. Then we see Pierre, and hope he’s on to something. Then, oh, hell, we’re going to have to have some kind of a press conference.”
“Yeah, right. The press will be ready to sever our heads!” Jack murmured.
Sean started to speak, then shrugged. Jack was right. The media would definitely be up for their own brand of decapitation, and if this situation couldn’t be solved quickly, they’d all be bleeding.
* * *
Some of Maggie’s employees were disturbed by the murder that had apparently taken place so close to the building.
Oddly enough, others weren’t. Maggie had asked all her employees into the downstairs shop area just after five—quitting time for most, and when the doors of the shop closed for the night. She’d made arrangements to see that those who walked to homes in the Vieux Carre did so in pairs, and those who drove out of the old town area were escorted to their cars. In the end, however, a few of her girls remained with her, seeming untouched by the events.
“Honey,” Cissy told her, “I don’t have truck with lowlifes like that pimp and a prostitute. Now, this is N’Awleans, and I do keep careful, but I keep my nose clean, walk down the right streets, and if all the drug pushers and pimps in this city have the desire to decapitate one another, then so much the better!
Now, you coming to watch Dean’s band with us tonight or what?” Dean, the twenty-five-year-old son of Chance Lebrow, one of her few male employees, and a supervisor in the sewing rooms, could play a mean jazz trumpet, along with a half dozen other instruments. He’d gone away to college and he’d just finished up his master’s degree in architecture in New York and come home, and now, nights, he was playing in one of the popular local clubs on Bourbon Street.
“I’m not sure,” Maggie told her. “I’m not in the party mood.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">