Guarding the Socialite (3 page)

“Yes, shortly after the 1906 earthquake that nearly destroyed the city. It's one of the few brownstones in San Francisco. As you probably know, most of the architecture is Victorian.” She took a subtle breath in the hopes of steadying her nerves, wishing she could unlock the reason why the agent made her hands flutter and her mind race with things she'd put on a shelf a long time ago in her single-minded pursuit of making Iris House a success. In the seven years since she'd purchased the building she had gone on perhaps three dates. Not that she was looking to date Agent McIntyre—God, no, how inappropriate—but he was a handsome man and he stirred a hunger she'd long forgotten.

It wasn't that she
couldn't
date—for heaven's sake she wasn't a nun—but dating came with complications she had no desire to deal with simply for companionship. It was easier this way—unencumbered—but it was lonely at times and standing close to the first man who stirred anything more than casual appreciation made her nervous.

“The first level as you see is what we like to call the business level of Iris House. The second is the living quarters for the girls and the top is my personal apartment,” she said, leading him to the back where a small enclosed garden was hidden. “This is our personal oasis. We plant fresh herbs like
thyme and basil in planter boxes. It's very cathartic for the girls and it makes everything smell nice.”

“Perhaps I need to garden more often,” he quipped, though there was a darkness to his tone that perplexed her. Before she could question him on it, his expression became a neutral slate. “May I see Charlotte's room?” he asked, surprising her with his abrupt request.

“Of course.” She looked away, pausing as a ripple of grief flowed through her. She'd avoided cleaning it out, putting it off until she could enter the room without her eyes welling with tears. “What do you hope to find? Perhaps I can help?”

“I'm just trying to get a snapshot of Charlotte as a person. Might help me get an idea of what kind of victim the killer is looking for.”

She winced. It was too much of a reminder that Charlotte had been murdered by some psychotic maniac that was still out there. “Of course,” she murmured. “Follow me.”

They walked up the stairs to the second level and as soon as they hit the landing, doors to individual rooms opened and the women started appearing, some wearing openly hostile expressions and others appraising the agent with experienced eyes. “Good morning, ladies,” he offered solicitously, but he received little in response, not even from the ones who looked happy to show him a good time. Emma suppressed a smile and a grimace. Her girls were a tough crowd. Oh, well. The agent's success didn't rely on the approval of the Iris House ladies. Thank goodness. Before Bella disappeared into her room, she'd worn a look of such scathing contempt that it would've doomed him from the start.

“I see what you mean about the unfriendly part,” he remarked, unfazed by the cold reception.

“I never said they were unfriendly,” she corrected him. “I said some of my girls were uncomfortable around law
enforcement. You have to understand the place they're coming from. Many have very few good memories of police. Or men. But this is a place of healing and sanctuary and it's very generous of them to allow you in their space, given their feelings.”

He listened and nodded but didn't comment further. She wondered if he was offended, but since he didn't offer any insight to his thoughts, she let it go. She opened the door. “Here it is,” she said, swallowing the lump that had risen sharply in her throat. Charlotte's favorite perfume—Love's Baby Soft—permeated the small room as the young woman had practically bathed in it each day. It was one of the other boarders' biggest complaints about Charlotte but now that she was gone it seemed a small thing.

Dillon took one step inside and promptly sneezed. She chuckled softly. “Bless you,” she added, then explained. “It was her favorite perfume. Takes a little getting used to.”

“Right,” he said, wiping at his nose. “It's very…uh, potent.”

Emma resisted sharing more. The fact was she was seeing Charlotte as she'd seen her last, chattering about the classes she was going to take at the junior college, excited about a future she wasn't going to have. She'd had high hopes for Charlotte. She'd been so close to getting her off the streets, but Charlotte hadn't managed to sever ties with Mad Johnny, much to Emma's consternation. The memory served to remind her to mention the hot-tempered pimp to the agent. “There is someone you might want to question, Agent McIntyre,” she began. He looked up from his search, interest in his yes. “He's a pimp and a mean one. He had an obsession with Charlotte. His name was Mad Johnny.”

“Mad Johnny? His mother must've hated him,” he quipped, earning a small smile for his effort, but he sobered quickly
when he realized she wasn't in the mood for laughs. “You don't by any chance have a real name for him?” he asked.

“No, I'm sorry, but I'm sure the police have him on file. He has a record and a reputation for beating his girls.”

“Did he ever come around here?”

“No,” she answered firmly. “Charlotte knew the house rules and wouldn't break them, not when she was so close to getting out of that lifestyle.” She pushed at the wave of sadness threatening to ruin her calm facade and lifted her chin. “Charlotte loved living at Iris House. We were her only family.”

“That seems to be a commonality with your boarders,” he mused and she couldn't deny it.

“Their biological families threw them away a long time ago. We're here to pick up the pieces so they can start fresh.”

“Why do you allow them to continue prostituting? It's against the law and you know what they're doing when they go out at night.”

She walked a fine line with law enforcement. They knew she was trying to help these ladies so they gave her some latitude, but she didn't know this agent or his philosophies and wasn't about to divulge any more than was required. “I actively encourage the girls to quit,” she said. “What they do outside of these walls is not my business. The only rule is that they don't bring it home. As I said previously, Iris House is a sanctuary. And I keep it that way.”

“So why do you care so much?” he asked, throwing her with his sudden question.

“Why wouldn't I care? They're human beings, too, with hopes and dreams, aspirations, heartaches…just like you and me.”

“Some are cons and criminals,” he countered evenly.

“Some,” she conceded then added coolly. “But mine are
not.” He seemed to catch that she'd just circled the wagons and simply nodded. She offered a small smile but it was strained around the edges. Being in Charlotte's space was harder than she imagined. Boarders came and went but she'd never lost one to violence—at least, that's what she'd thought. She suppressed a shiver and inquired, “Are we finished here?”

He shoved his hands in navy blue slacks and did a slow perusal of the mostly pink room but paused at a picture taped to the dresser mirror. He gestured. “May I?”

She hesitated but then realized no one would care what happened to Charlotte's personal effects except her and relented. He plucked the picture from the mirror. “Something tells me this isn't Mad Johnny,” he said.

Emma leaned forward for a better look. In the picture Charlotte was smiling beside a well-dressed man, her arms looped around his middle in a way that was very familiar. She frowned slightly. “No. That's Robert Gavin, a very generous man who has donated frequently to Iris House.”

“Were he and Charlotte close?”

She drew back, her frown deepening. “No…not that I'm aware,” she said, trying to remember if Charlotte had mentioned a friendship with Robert. She couldn't recall, but she wasn't privy to every aspect of her boarders' lives. She shrugged. “The girls are free to befriend whomever they choose.”

“Was he…a client?” he asked.

To that she balked. “Absolutely not. Robert Gavin is not that kind of man. His generosity comes from his heart, not from some kind of expectation of sexual favors.”

The cynical expression in the agent's eyes made her feel as if she'd just said something incredibly naive, but she refused to feel defensive about her protestation. She knew Robert and he wasn't a bad man. “Mad Johnny was a threat. I'd start
there, Agent McIntyre. Are we through here?” She didn't wait for his agreement, as she turned and exited the room. He took the hint and followed. As soon as the door closed, she released a pent-up breath and faced him, refusing to be charmed by the wayward fall of hair that was just this side of unprofessional and likely drove his superiors nuts. “Is there anything else you require, Agent McIntyre?” she asked with as much professional courtesy as she could muster under the circumstances. But the way he cocked his head to the side and openly assessed her made her shiver, and she had to snap her mouth shut for fear of emitting a breathless gasp.

Lord, was she losing her mind? The stress was making her react inappropriately. At least she hoped that was the reason she practically melted every time she looked at him. He was here to do a job and she wanted to help him in any way possible that was professional and appropriate. Still…
those dark eyes
…they were a killer unto themselves, and she'd be a liar if she didn't at least acknowledge the fact that when he settled that stare on her even the fine silk of her bra felt rough and constricting.

She turned abruptly, anxious to get away and put an end to the disconcerting noise inside her head before she said or did something completely out of character and humiliated herself. “Chick will see you out, Agent McIntyre. Duty calls and Iris House never sleeps.”

And thank God for that, she said to herself as she made her escape.

She needed the distraction.

“I
s there anything else you require?”

The agent side of his brain received the question and immediately lobbed it to the reckless, panting fanny hound that was currently salivating at the multitude of sinful ideas happily being tossed about. Thankfully, it was the agent that responded, halting Emma's retreat.

“Actually, is there a place where I could speak to your boarders?” he asked, his tone all business by the grace of God. She didn't look happy about it. In fact, she might've been more pleased if he'd just asked if he could urinate in her herb garden, but she nodded stiffly and knocked on one of the doors in the hallway.

A woman with close-cropped black hair poked her head out, a short glance came his way while Emma talked. The woman nodded but her mouth was a tight slash of compressed lips that spoke volumes.

He rubbed at his forehead. “Nice to be so loved and admired,” he said under his breath as Emma returned.

“Chick will bring the girls who are willing to talk with you down in the garden outside.”

He refrained from commenting on the unusual moniker until they were out of earshot and heading down the stairs.

“Tell me there's a story behind Chick,” he said, pulling his gaze from the gentle sway of her backside with great effort. The woman could stop traffic with that bum. He was thankful she hadn't turned around to answer otherwise she might've caught him staring.

“Story? What makes you think there's a story?” she asked mildly, returning them to the garden, the fresh scent of growing things teasing his nostrils and causing his stomach to twist with hunger. He followed her to the small glass table in the corner near a stone fountain that gurgled soothingly. She took a seat and gestured for him to do the same. When he simply gave her an arched brow, she relented with the tiniest of smiles. “Chick was my first boarder.”

“Why didn't she ever leave? Go on to bigger and better things?”

She shrugged. “She finds purpose here. Where else can you spend a day at work and go home feeling as if you've made a difference in someone's life?”

“So she's on the payroll?” he asked.

“Yes. She's my assistant.”

“Why didn't you send Chick to identify Charlotte's body? Surely that must've been terrible for you.”

“It was awful,” she agreed, then met his stare and held it as she said, “But why would it be any less horrible for Chick? She'd known Charlotte as long as I had. Besides, the boarders of Iris House are my responsibility. I don't take that lightly.”

He believed her. The fierce flare in her eyes told him that
much and more. Emma Vale was a mystery begging to be uncovered, and he was drawn to that unknown variable in the worst way. Was it because she reminded him so much of Tana? They seemed to share that self-contained quality that hinted at great depth but kept people at a distance with the emotional equivalent of an electric fence. Even their hair color was similar. A shocking question poked at him. Was he attracted to Emma because of Tana? He shook off the fear. They were alike in some ways, but even as much as he'd been taken with Tana, he was feeling something quite different with Emma, which was damn unsettling.

Worse than inappropriate. Worse than ill timed. Just plain…bad.

 

Emma's chest tightened with the need to breathe freely, but around Agent McIntyre she felt constantly on edge. Law enforcement did not generally rattle her cage, nor was she a badge bunny, prone to salivating at the sight of a uniform. In fact, often quite the opposite was the case as most times her dealings with police were taxing at best. Cops—at least the ones she'd been subjected to in her association with her boarders—were surly, obnoxious and downright rude. Prostitutes represented a mountain of paperwork for very little reward. The judges let them off because there were bigger fish to fry in the city, and the cops ended up feeling ineffectual, which was often a nasty cocktail when handling men hyped up on misplaced machismo. But she knew simply by looking at Dillon McIntyre that he wasn't cut from the same cloth as some of the men she dealt with on an everyday basis. There was a quiet, understated strength that radiated from those dark eyes that was impossible to miss in spite of that lingering flippant sarcasm that saturated his voice when he spoke. And that accent, stubbornly clinging to his inflections, sent a thrill skipping across her pulse points,
awakening her senses when that door ought to be shut, locked and perhaps padlocked for good measure.

When had she become such a deep well of bubbling hormones? She gave herself a subtle shake and returned her attention to what he was saying in just the nick of time.

“I have an idea,” he said suddenly. “You can call me Dillon and I'll call you Emma,” he supplied as if it were the most sensible thing in the world when it most certainly was not. She couldn't imagine that was proper procedure and she hoped her expression echoed that sentiment.

“I don't think that's appropriate,” she demurred quietly; just the thought of feeling his name on her tongue felt delicious and sinful. Her gaze surreptitiously drifted to his ring finger and bounced away when she saw it was bereft of a wedding ring. So he wasn't wearing a ring. It meant nothing. Many men, particularly in law enforcement, didn't wear a ring. “I would feel more comfortable keeping the professional lines drawn,” she said truthfully. She could only imagine how easy it might be to trip over that line with too much familiarity. Yet, for a moment she allowed herself to savor the idea of such a possibility. Lord, she needed to date more often. This forced moratorium on dating and sex had pickled her brain. Painful as it was, she forced an image of Charlotte back into her mental theater and nearly flinched at the sting. That was better. Best to remember what was at stake. “Agent McIntyre, please tell me you have a suspect in mind? Some clue as to who this person is so you can stop him before he kills again?”

He sobered, the mention of Charlotte serving to douse the teasing light in his eyes. “We're doing our best to catch this person before that happens but that's all I can divulge at this time,” he answered, a weight settling heavily around his shoulders that even Emma could see pulling him down. She wondered what caused him to withdraw into himself
like that. A previous case? This case? Her curiosity was distracting. As was this overwhelming sense of impropriety that caused her to wonder if he had someone special in his life or if he were a solitary type person, like herself.

She heard the footfalls of Chick and the boarders willing to talk and she rose from her seat. Agent McIntyre followed suit and she smiled for his courtesy. “I'll leave you to your questions,” she murmured before taking her leave, brushing past Chick with a quick look of gratitude for her hand in convincing the girls to cooperate.

She wanted whoever killed Charlotte, Sweetie and Tiffani to get his due and if Agent McIntyre could accomplish that, she'd give him every resource she had.

 

With Emma gone from the room it was much easier to concentrate, which, considering how tough Chick seemed to be with her harsh haircut and equally menacing demeanor, was a good thing.

“What do you want to know?” Chick cut in, wasting no time on chitchat, idle conversation or even pleasant banter.

“What do you know of Robert Gavin?” he said.

She gave him a quizzical look as if to ask
what's your angle
and then answered, “He's a man with soft, girlie hands who's never seen a day of hard work in his life but he has plenty of money and he likes to give some of it to Iris House, so whatever. Why?”

“What do you think of him?”

She shrugged. “He's all right.”

“Just all right? Did you know Charlotte had a picture of him on her mirror in her bedroom? To your knowledge were he and Charlotte an item?”

“Char and Robert? Hell no. Maybe there were feelings on Charlotte's side, but everyone knows Robert has had a thing for Emma since the day he laid eyes on her.”

Dillon mulled that information over in his mind for a moment. That just made Robert public enemy No. 1 and someone he wanted to get to know better.

“What makes you think that?” he asked.

Chick gave him a look of amusement. “How do you think? When she walks into a room, his eyes are glued to her. He falls all over himself to get a smile from her and then if that wasn't enough I'd say the dinner invitations were the clincher.”

“Dinner? Did she accept?”

Chick hesitated, as if suddenly realizing Emma might not appreciate her spilling such personal information, and hit the brakes. “What does that have to do with Charlotte?” she asked, frowning. “Robert Gavin ain't your guy. He's more likely to faint at the sight of blood than to spill it. You feeling me?”

“Deviant people are more adept at hiding their true nature,” he supplied mildly then shrugged. “But you may be right. I'm just curious as to his association with Charlotte.”

Mollified but still wary, Chick admitted, “I don't know what Char was doing with Robert. Maybe you ought to ask him.”

At that Dillon smiled. “Oh, I plan to,” he assured her. It could be nothing and this Gavin character could be exactly as Chick described but Dillon had a niggling sense that there was more to Charlotte's relationship with the man than Emma or Chick seemed to be aware of. And that made the man just this side of suspect.

 

Later that night as Emma sat among a handful of collected photographs of Charlotte that she'd gathered for the memorial, a soft knock at the door made her glance at the clock and wonder who was still awake at this wretched hour.

It was Bella. She opened the door wider and allowed the
teen to enter. “What's wrong?” she asked, worry in her voice. She couldn't help scanning the teenager's thin frame for signs of abuse. Bella had often cut herself before she came to Iris House and Emma worried that she might turn to the destructive habit during times of extreme stress.

Bella tightened her arms around her sides but didn't answer right away. Although Bella knew a lot about things she never should've known, in many ways she was still a frightened girl who needed guidance. It was that vulnerable side that called to Emma. Her hand curled softly as she resisted pushing the errant strand of hair from the girl's eyes. Bella didn't like to be touched, not even with kindness. Not yet. Emma was still working on that broken aspect of the teen's psyche with countless hours of therapy.

Bella chewed the side of her lip, clearly wrestling with something but unsure how to coax it free from her own mouth. Emma smiled and gestured. “Why don't you come and help me with the photos I've put aside for Charlotte's memorial. I could use a second opinion.”

Bella nodded and followed, taking a seat on the edge of the sofa to peer at the photos spread across the end table. She fingered a few, pushed aside others and finally picked one. “This is a good one,” she offered with a shrug that was a pathetic attempt at showing that she didn't care when Emma knew for a certainty that she cared deeply. Charlotte's death affected them differently. While Emma felt the weight of responsibility for the woman's death, Bella likely felt true grief, which was something she was emotionally ill-equipped to handle.

“I didn't talk to that FBI agent,” she admitted in a tight, defensive voice, her gaze cutting to Emma for her reaction.

“That's fine,” Emma said, her tone carefully neutral while she continued to sift through pictures. She already knew that,
thanks to Chick. “I told you it was your choice.” She looked up briefly. “There's no judgment, Bella.”

Bella nodded but a small crease appeared in her smooth brow. “You're not mad?”

“Of course not. Ursula didn't choose to speak with him, either,” she pointed out mildly, returning to the pictures. “But he seems a very nice, professional man. There's no need to be afraid.”

“I'm not afraid,” Bella scoffed with more vehemence than the declaration warranted for the situation, and Emma knew she'd hit a nerve. She remained silent and Bella seemed to sulk for a moment, dropping the photo in her hand when she realized she was crinkling it. “What if I should've told him something? Something that might matter to the case, you know?”

Emma looked up, faint alarm at the teen's hesitant admission churning the remains of the hastily eaten dinner she'd consumed hours ago. “Such as?” she asked.

Bella shrugged, but Emma thought she saw tears sparkling in her eyes before she skewed her gaze away. “I didn't want to say nothing because I ain't a snitch, but now that Charlotte's dead I figured it's not snitching. I mean, Charlotte was always real nice to me and we had stuff in common so I didn't want to say…”

“What is it, Bella?” Emma prodded gently, but her palms had begun to sweat. Unease squatted in her belly at the possibilities.

Bella looked up and this time there was no hiding the sheen of tears as she said, “Mad Johnny was making Char run drugs again. She tried not to but he caught up to her and he must've had something on her because she was real upset about it. He was gonna make her hook again, too, if she didn't agree to deliver a package into Chinatown for him.”

Silent rage turned Emma's blood to ice as she mentally
counted to ten so as not to frighten away the already skittish teen. Mad Johnny, and the men like him, were a cancer that never failed to return if given the slightest invitation. Charlotte had been terrified of her former pimp, but somehow he'd gotten to her and that was what had likely gotten her killed. She smiled at Bella for her courage, hoping the action came off kindly instead of full of the malice she struggled to contain. “You've done a good thing in sharing this information with me, Bella. Thank you. Now, I want you to stop worrying. I will take care of this and share the information with Agent McIntyre so you don't have to.” A look of gratitude flashed her way and Emma gestured toward the door. “Off to bed. It's late and you have a meeting with your counselor tomorrow. I know how you
love
those sessions and look forward to them.”