Guarding the Socialite (2 page)

Emma graced the scared redhead with a short smile. “It's not that simple. Forensic evidence takes weeks to sort through and I don't even know if they managed to get anything from Charlotte's body that would help. But I do know that the FBI has gotten involved, so there seems to be something out of the ordinary about her death.”

“What do you mean?” Chick narrowed her gaze with suspicion. “What's so unusual about it?”

“Well, it seems that whoever did this to Charlotte may be connected to two other murders…. Do you remember Tiffani and Sweetie?” A few nodded but Chick looked tense. “They're dead, too,” Emma finished softly, still reeling herself from the information.

Chick swore and looked away. “Stubborn girl,” she muttered angrily, but Emma knew Chick had had a soft spot for the reckless twenty-year-old Tiffani, who'd gotten herself tangled up with a notorious pimp.

Emma and Chick must've been traveling the same road in their minds as Chick said, “Maybe it's that scum licker Mad Johnny that's out slicing girls up.”

“I don't know,” Emma said, but made a note to mention
it to Agent McIntyre. Speaking of…she drew a deep breath. “There's something else…. Now that the FBI is involved they've assigned an agent to the case. His name is Dillon McIntyre and he'd like to come and talk to you tomorrow. You're not obligated but I think it would be good to be helpful. We all want the same thing and that's to bring justice to this criminal, so I say let's allow the agent to do what he can with our cooperation.”

“I hate cops,” a small voice said from the group. Emma found the source and withheld a sad sigh. Bella, the youngest of the Iris House boarders stared back at Emma with a hard look in her eyes that shouldn't belong to such an angelic face. Bella was only fifteen but she'd lived a hundred lives in misery before she came to Iris House. She was the only one Emma had had to get special clearance from the state to house, but she'd fought for that clearance because she knew that one more letdown from the system for this kid would be the end of the road. Bella would disappear forever and probably get herself killed before she reached legal age. “I ain't talking to no cops,” Bella declared, daring Emma to gainsay her.

“Bella, if you don't want to, you don't have to unless they get a warrant. But we've got nothing to hide and I would like to do whatever we can to help catch this bastard.”

Emma rarely used foul language so the momentary slip was enough to give the girls a glimpse of how affected she was by the murders. Bella seemed to settle her hackles but there was an edge to the young girl that outlined her fair features. “Fine. But cops ain't never cared about hookers getting sliced up. Far as they're concerned, it's one less stack of paperwork they gotta deal with.”

Emma recognized truth in Bella's contemptuous statement but Emma didn't get that sense from Agent McIntyre. He actually seemed to care even if he was trying not to, which
she found odd. She didn't have much experience with FBI agents as a whole, but she imagined that they had to care at some level for the people out there, otherwise why were they in the job?

“Give him a chance, Bella,” she said softly, conveying with her tone that not every man carrying a badge was like the man who'd hurt her. Bella looked away then jumped to her feet with a muttered expletive that would've made a sailor blush and disappeared up the stairs.

Chick muttered, “If she slams that door, so help me…” then everyone jumped when that's exactly what happened. Chick sighed and shared a look with Emma, which she waved away.

“Another time,” Emma said, not looking forward to another “rules of the house” discussion with the hotheaded teen. She returned her attention to the rest. “So, what do you say? Cooperation or not?”

They were all waiting on Chick, Emma knew. If Chick deemed it all right, they'd grudgingly give in, too. Emma waited. Chick didn't let her down.

“They'd better find who did this,” she said finally. “If it helps…I say fine. I just hope it doesn't blow up in our faces somehow.”

Emma nodded and agreed. Each woman who stayed at Iris House was given sanctuary with no questions asked. There were only three big rules: no drugs, no bringing anyone home, and each boarder had to hold a regular job. Emma didn't demand that they give up hooking but she tried her damndest to get them to quit on their own. Most of the time, she succeeded. Of the girls currently residing at the house, only two were openly still hitting the streets but Emma was wearing them down. Once the girls realized they could live a different life and started to rebuild their self-esteem and
self-worth from the ground up, they discovered they wanted more than the streets could offer.

But other times… Emma tried not to think of the ones she lost.

Like her sister.

D
illon stared into the mouth of his beer bottle and idly peeled at the label hugging the glass. He ought to feel better. The shrinks had cleared him for duty, not that he'd been itching to get back in the field, but a fellow had to earn a living, right? Except, he'd figured he'd take a desk job somewhere, pushing paper around, not taking on another serial killer case with more lives on the line.

Tana flashed in his memory as he liked to remember her when they were all working on the CARD Team—blond hair tucked into a ponytail, warm green eyes flashing, offering a short, enigmatic smile to one of the many smart-ass remarks that he'd enjoyed trading with his partner Kara Thistle—and he winced. Yeah…he was right as rain.

If only he'd had the stones to tell her how he'd felt. Not that it would've changed anything. She'd still be dead but maybe… No, he shook away the useless direction of those thoughts. He'd be barking mad to allow those thoughts to
continue. The shrink had advised him against playing in the field of hypothetical questions. That was one bit of advice he could see the sense in following.

Strip away his unresolved feelings for his former teammate and he was left with another uncomfortable truth. A truth that he dared not admit to anyone but was staring him in the face right now, leering in that knowing fashion that caused him to shake like a small boy caught by the headmaster doing something naughty.

Somewhere among the wreckage of timber and shattered glass of that explosion he suspected was his confidence. And now Pratt had put him front and center at the head of this investigation where women were being carved like Christmas Day turkeys because Emma Vale's daddy had pulled some strings, demanding the best.

So what if the man didn't know the best was actually retired and the second-best was damaged goods? But Pratt had to work with the tools available, and Dillon's worst day on the job was still better than most agents' best, so here he was, without a choice and feeling downright maudlin about the whole thing.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, downing the rest of his beer and rousting himself from the sofa to toss the bottle away. When'd he become such a stupid git? He rubbed at the scar on his cheek and recalled Kara's remark in the hospital as she'd tried to make light of the fact that he'd nearly died, too.

“If it weren't for that prissy accent of yours, you'd look like quite the badass,” she'd quipped, though her eyes had watered.

“Don't let the accent fool you,” he'd returned with a voice filled with rust and gravel. “I've always been a badass in disguise. Much like 007.”

Kara's voice faded as did the smile that formed briefly on
Dillon's face. He glanced longingly at his cell phone, wishing he had the bollocks to just pick up the phone and admit he was having a helluva time shaking off the last case. But his pride wouldn't let him move a muscle. Kara'd likely laugh at him, anyway.

His former partner was living her own life, and he was loath to intrude, so he had no choice but to suck it up and deal, as she'd no doubt say.

He blew out a short breath and wandered to the window to gaze out across the bay. The dark waters glinted with reflected moonlight and he could almost hear the lapping of the waves but for the reinforced glass that walled his apartment. It was a premium place—exorbitantly priced even for the Bay Area market—but Dillon appreciated the quiet peace it offered, especially right now.

His thoughts, blunted by too much beer and not enough sleep, tripped into the space holding his recent encounter with Ms. Emma Vale and blithely tumbled into places he'd never allow himself to go if he were sober.
She was hot,
was the first thing that came to mind, which was quickly followed by the inappropriate,
Wonder what it would take to get into her knickers?

“Nice, you pervert,” he muttered to himself. “Why don't you just lose everything along with your self-respect while you're at it?”

Disgusted by his lack of self-control, even in the privacy of his own mind, he forced himself to focus on something productive.

Grabbing case files from the glass-topped table, he returned to his spot on the sofa and started thumbing through them.

First case, Sweetie, aka Sarah Kuper—the body had been badly decomposed, which hadn't encouraged a real thorough search of the scene where she'd been found, but detectives
had managed to get an ID on her from a fingerprint. She'd been bagged and tagged and then stuck unceremoniously in the ground—paid for by the City, of course—when no leads surfaced. Next came Tiffani Blue aka Darla York, a pretty girl with faded red hair and a riot of freckles that made her look younger than her actual age of twenty-one—pervs probably loved the illusion of banging a kid without the penalty of a felony crashing on your buzz. She'd been basically eviscerated.

He blinked, willing himself to sobriety, and refocused. Common cocktail for disaster, he noted as he read her background. Abusive father—started stripping at a young age, which segued to hooking. It was a damn playbook for nearly every sad case walking the streets. They were so easy to select as victims. A dime a dozen, really. No one would miss them and usually, as in the case with Sweetie, no one claimed their bodies as they chilled in the morgue.

Except for Ms. Vale.

She cared. Deeply. The question was why? Not to be a heartless bastard but she was a refined lady, and he could tell from the way she carried herself she didn't grow up on the wrong side of the tracks. He suspected he had that in common with her. He'd grown up with a fair amount of privilege himself as a lad in Hammersmith, London. He could spot a silver spoon upbringing from a mile off, and Ms. Vale wasn't even trying to hide her upscale roots in spite of her penchant for managing a safe house for prostitutes. That in itself made him grudgingly curious as to the why of it, even if he was trying to keep his interest focused on the case.

No…she had an air about her that screamed
wealth
and
privilege.
She'd fit in quite nicely at one his mother's social teas and brunches, he suspected. Lord, he was glad there was an ocean between him and home. If not, his mother—bless
her soul—would be dragging him around London to find a wife of some sort, forcing him to choke down biscuits and scones in the presence of some high-bred society girl that bored him to tears. He sighed. Mother may have liked Tana, once she got over the shock of meeting a woman who had a weapon collection that could outfit a small army. Ah, Tana…a world of hurt had awaited anyone who had mistaken the willowy blonde for anything soft and easily pushed around. He missed that woman. Something as horrifying as tears pricked his eyes and he ground them out with a muttered curse.

“Fabulous. I've turned into a country song, crying in my beer like a wanker,” he said to the empty room. “Perhaps I should get a hound and a pickup truck and be done with it.”

He closed Tiffani's file and sorted through the other folders until he found the one marked Iris House.

He skimmed the contents. Nothing really stood out. The house was purchased seven years ago from the City of San Francisco for a paltry sum as part of a bid to revitalize the historic buildings, and a company named Vale Enterprises had financed the refurbishing. Vale Enterprises—his mouth twitched. Family perhaps? He made a mental note—as far as his soggy brain would allow—to ask Ms. Vale about the connection tomorrow. Likely she'd respond politely yet coolly that it was none of his business, but he was curious nonetheless. Kara was always accusing him of doing things his own way. Well, that much hadn't changed.

He flipped the pages, looking for something that stood out. He found a biography page on Ms. Vale, short and to the point, and completely impersonal. Not that he'd expected all her secrets to be splayed in a nice, neat manner for him but one could hope for small breaks.

Dillon closed the file and tossed it on the pile on the fine
leather ottoman before falling back against the cushions of the sofa, his momentary hold on sobriety loosening.

Tomorrow…he was going to crack the first mystery of why a society girl would choose to spend her time running a group home when she was clearly raised to do so much more.

Somehow he couldn't picture Ms. Vale sitting through a tedious dinner while her guests prattled on endlessly. He could only imagine the conversation around the table with her boarders, full of ribald humor, probably enough to curl her straight, fine locks that fell to her shoulders in a fall of honey… Oh bollocks. He was turning into damn William Wordsworth, waxing on about the color of her hair.

He needed to get it together. He needed to blow this case apart and put that sick bastard away.

But at the moment…he needed to bloody well pass out.

 

Emma was waist-deep in a conversation with Bella's probation officer—and losing ground—when Chick showed Agent McIntyre into her office. She didn't have time to lament Chick's choice of ushering him straight in instead of having him wait in the foyer for she was fighting a battle over Bella.

“I understand completely your predicament. All I'm asking for is a short reprieve. She's been through a lot lately and I'm sure Bella is simply acting out inappropriately due to grief and stress.” She refused to look at the agent, afraid her stomach might do that odd flippity-flip that it'd done at their first meeting, and she needed her wits firmly in focus if she were going to keep Bella from being ripped out of her care and returned to a foster home for her latest stunt.

“The girl is a loose cannon and she's dangerous,” the probation officer stated, his voice devoid of any hint of warmth, not that Emma was surprised. Bella had once kicked
the man in the balls during an altercation at the detention center and he hadn't forgotten. Emma had tried to get a different probation officer due to their history, but the system was overloaded and no one was willing to take on a case like Bella's if they didn't have to. “This latest incident proves she isn't doing well in your care.”

“No,” she returned evenly, her own hackles rising. “She was doing quite well until a house member recently died. You, with all your experience, should recognize that she's clearly acting out but it will pass. The worst thing we could do is uproot her at this time.”

He grunted something in answer that may have been a grudging agreement and Emma took advantage of that small break. “We have a counselor on retainer, and in her last report she stated Bella was making wonderful progress. I assume you've read the report?”

“I glanced at it,” he said, which told Emma he'd completely ignored the file but wouldn't admit to it. “But you're missing the point. She punched a man in the face today. That's felony assault.”

“And from what Bella said, the man had grabbed her inappropriately. Sounds like self-defense to me.”

“Yeah, she would say that,” he grumbled, and Emma's hand curled into a fist until she made a conscious effort to relax. She didn't need to get riled up and lose her cool over this, especially while Agent McIntyre was watching and listening. She caught his faintly quizzical expression and she nearly winced. “I'm afraid if you take her from Iris House she will regress—”

“Listen, Ms. Vale, here's the deal. You have temporary guardianship that can be revoked at any time if it seems this experimental program is failing. We have to go with what works and obviously this isn't working as well as we would've liked. Frankly, she belongs in a mental institution
with very thick bars.” The last part was muttered and likely said before he could stop himself but the momentary slip gave her the ammunition she needed.

“If you take Bella from Iris House I will have no choice but to speak to your superiors about your bias against this young girl. You're looking for a reason to put her away instead of trying to help her. You're not the only one who keeps
files,
Mr. Lufty.” She let that sink in for a moment and then said in the nicest tone possible, “I appreciate our little chats. It's nice to know someone cares about our Bella as much as you do. I will have a talk with Bella about her actions today so we can all work toward putting this unfortunate incident behind us. Good day, Mr. Lufty.”

She carefully replaced the phone and took a minute to collect herself then presented a calm and pleasant expression to the agent, if only to hide the turmoil making mincemeat of her nerves. She stood and extended a hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Agent McIntyre. I apologize for the wait,” she said, gesturing to the chair across her desk.

He regarded her closely, his eyes dancing with a light that bordered on intrigued and impressed as he said, “No worries. Sounds like you have your hands full with someone in your care. She's lucky to have you on her side.”

Bella was more than a handful, she wanted to quip but didn't. Bella was a private person and wouldn't appreciate it if Emma shared details. “Yes, well, comes with the job,” was all she said and then folded her arms in front of her. “Where should we start? A tour, perhaps? Some of the girls have agreed to talk to you but a few have declined for obvious reasons.”

“Obvious?” he repeated.

She cleared her throat and gave him an apologetic look. “It's not personal. Some are uncomfortable with law
enforcement as you may imagine. Some have not had the best experiences with police.”

“Ah, right. But I'm not a cop so they can rest easy,” he said with a grin that was incredibly charming, but Emma resisted offering a reaction. Noting her lack of appreciation for his attempt at softening her, he narrowed his gaze then said, “A tour would be a good start, I suppose.”

“Fabulous,” she said, rising. “If you'll follow me.”

“Lead the way.” He paused as she moved past him. “So, according to the information I have on Iris House, it was built in 1907.”