Boardroom To Bedroom. Кэрол Мортимер
foolish, then Elizabeth would get angry and worried. They’d make up, then the dance would begin all over again. They knew their respective roles well, Elizabeth thought, shaking her head in disgust. Too well.
Twenty minutes later she walked into her office, determined to focus on her job. It was what people paid her for. Betty Starnes, her secretary, greeted her as she opened the door.
“Oh, good morning, Elizabeth. Did you have a nice birthday celebration?”
Elizabeth groaned. “Not really.” With as little detail as possible, she explained the situation while Betty nodded in sympathy. She’d been with Elizabeth for years, so she understood completely.
“And you still haven’t heard from her?”
Elizabeth tamped down a knot of anxiety. “Not a word. So, if she calls…”
“I’ll put her through immediately, don’t worry.”
Elizabeth entered her office. As a consulting tax attorney, her practice ran the gamut from financial planning to settling estates. Lately most of her cases had been coming from the federal government. She was fast earning a reputation for being able to uncover the most clever of frauds, and with the government attorneys overworked and underpaid, more and more work was being sent to attorneys like her. Just the previous week she’d received a file involving a woman named Linda Tremont and her brother, Tony Masterson. They owned a family investment firm, and several of the investors had complained to the S.E.C. Mainly elderly people, most felt something was wrong with their accounts, because the only one making any money seemed to be Master-son. When Elizabeth had made the initial call to Masterson’s office, Linda Tremont had answered, explaining that she was in charge of the firm and her brother primarily gathered new accounts. Tremont was cooperating fully and appeared horrified there could be a problem. She was a leader in Houston’s high society, Elizabeth knew. She chaired all the galas and raised incredible amounts of money for the local art scene. How awful to have a brother and business partner who might ruin their family name. From what Elizabeth had seen so far, Anthony Masterson seemed as irresponsible as April.
With a heavy sigh Elizabeth opened the file and began to work.
Hours later, when she took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, Elizabeth was shocked to see the time. Almost six! The day had disappeared, and she still hadn’t heard from April. Elizabeth quickly dialed her sister’s number, but just as before, the line rang emptily. Her worry rising once more, she pulled out her address book, looked up the number of the place on Richmond Avenue where April danced, then punched in the number.
“Esquire Club.” The husky female voice that answered on the third ring was one Elizabeth recognized. She’d talked to Tracy on the phone several times, and they’d met once in person. Elizabeth had recognized Tracy’s type immediately, and she’d tried to warn her sister, but as usual April had blown off the advice. Red-haired and curvaceous, Tracy Kensington had been the most popular dancer at the club—until April’s arrival. In that business, the younger the girl, the better the tips, and Tracy was a few years older than April. To make up for that she vied with April for the top spot, the best time, the hottest music. Despite that, April had always been friendly toward her and still was, but Tracy didn’t return the favor. Every time she had a chance, she tried to sabotage April.
“Tracy, this is Elizabeth Benoit, April’s sister. I was wondering if you’ve seen April today?”
“Haven’t seen her,” Tracy replied, her west-Texas drawl replacing some of the sexy purr but not all of it. “Your sister gone missin’?”
“She’s not missing. I just can’t get an answer at her place. She works tonight, doesn’t she?”
“I guess so.”
“What time is she supposed to be there?”
“I’m not sure.”
Elizabeth tried to stifle her irritation. The dancers were all very tight-lipped, not just to people who weren’t part of the life, but among themselves; there wasn’t a lot of sharing. Elizabeth suspected that it was simply a result of the competitiveness of the work, each dancer playing her cards close to her chest so as not to give anyone else an edge. It did not, however, make Elizabeth’s situation less frustrating. She was April’s sister, for God’s sake, not some weirdo stranger.
She kept the annoyance from her voice. “Could I talk to Mr. Lansing, then, please?”
Without replying, the woman dropped the phone and walked away—Elizabeth could hear her high heels clacking on the hard floor at the club. Then she heard Tracy call out, “Greg! You there? Phone call!”
Elizabeth tapped her pen against her desk impatiently. After an interminable wait, Greg Lansing, the manager of the club, picked up the phone and said hello. His voice was as gravelly as Tracy’s, but raspier, the result, Elizabeth was sure, of too many years of booze, cigarettes and shouting over hundred-decibel rock music for hours at a time. They’d never met, but she’d seen him one night when she’d worn glasses and a scarf and sneaked into the club to watch April dance.
Elizabeth could see why April found him attractive. Tall and well built, he had long blond hair and radiated the kind of bad-boy attitude some women found really appealing. Not Elizabeth. She’d met too many men just like him, and she could easily recognize the sleaze beneath the thin veneer of handsomeness.
“Mr. Lansing, this is Elizabeth Benoit. I’m looking for April.”
“Haven’t seen her.” His voice started fading even before he finished speaking. She realized he was about to hang up.
“Wait—wait, Mr. Lansing! Please…”
There was a second’s silence and she thought she’d lost him. Then he said, “What?”
“What time is she due in tonight?”
“I don’t keep track of when the different girls come on.” She heard him pull on a cigarette. “Probably around twelve, one. Something like that.” Above the clink of glasses and laughter, music throbbed in the background. An old Aerosmith hit, the bass rumbling out with a downbeat rhythm.
He was lying, of course. He kept track of everything at the club, down to the last penny and the closing minute. She ignored his prevarication and concentrated on finding out more. “I thought April was more than just one of the girls to you.”
He hesitated for a moment, then his voice went into an even lower-pitched growl. “Your sister’s a nutcase. I’m trying to stay away from her, and if you had any sense, you would, too.”
Elizabeth tensed. “What are you talking about?”
“April’s gettin’ into some bad shit. She don’t watch out, she’s gonna be in some serious trouble.” Again he drew on the cigarette, the sound harsh in her ear. “The kind of trouble that hurts. Permanently.”
Elizabeth’s fingers stilled, her pen clattering to the desk. “What are you saying? What’s going on with April?”
“She’s your sister. Ask her if you wanna know.” He paused and drew yet again on the cigarette, this time even more deeply. As though she were standing in the darkened club beside him, Elizabeth could almost feel the music, almost smell the smoke.
When he spoke, his voice was so full of warning Elizabeth shivered. “But don’t wait too long to ask her, or you might lose your chance.”
SHE WORRIED until she could stand it no longer. Late that night, she gave in and called the police. The woman who took the information was polite, but just barely. They covered the basics—name, address, age—then she asked a few more questions.
“How long has your sister been gone?”
“I saw her last night. She slept at my place, but this morning, when I got up, she had left.”
“Less than twenty-four hours….” The woman spoke as if to herself, obviously filling out some kind of report.
“Does