Boardroom To Bedroom. Кэрол Мортимер
“And what makes it serious?”
“Suspicious circumstances, primarily. Do you have cause to believe something’s wrong?”
Elizabeth bit her bottom lip.
“Ma’am?”
“I don’t know for sure that anything’s happened to her, but I’m worried. I mean Houston’s a dangerous place, right?”
“But do you have a specific reason to believe she might have been harmed?”
“Well, her boss—he’s an ex-boyfriend—told me she might be getting into serious trouble. He wouldn’t say more.”
“And he is…?”
Elizabeth spelled out Greg Lansing’s name, then in a halting voice, told the woman where he worked.
“He runs the Esquire Club? And your sister works there?”
“What difference does that make?” Elizabeth heard the defensiveness in her voice.
The woman on the other end of the phone hesitated. “Well, it does put a different spin on things, doesn’t it?”
“You mean if she ran an oil company, you’d start looking for her, but since she’s an exotic dancer, you’ll give it a few days first?”
“I mean, Ms. Benoit, some people have more stable lifestyles than others. It’s more significant when they disappear because of that. Has your sister ever done this type of thing before?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said quietly. “About two years ago. She went to the Caribbean for a week without telling me.” With a man she didn’t know. She’d sent Elizabeth a postcard, but then at the end of the week, she’d called Elizabeth collect. Crying and desperate, she said the man had abandoned her. He’d turned out to be different than she’d thought was her only explanation. Elizabeth had sent her money for the fare home, and April had assured her of one thing—she would never disappear that way again. She promised she’d tell Elizabeth if she was leaving town, and she had done so faithfully.
Until now.
Elizabeth tried to explain but she could almost hear the investigator’s mind slam shut.
“Why don’t you give it a few more days, Ms. Benoit? If you haven’t heard from your sister by Tuesday or so, then call us back. That would probably be the best way to handle this.”
Elizabeth thanked the woman and hung up. There was nothing else she could do.
CHAPTER TWO
JOHN STOOD in the breezeway of the town homes Wednesday evening, by the mailboxes, and watched old Mrs. LeBlanc totter away, a polite smile plastered on his face as he asked himself, for the umpteenth time, why he didn’t just move. The place had a few people his age, but most of the residents were ancient tiny women who were constantly trying to fix him up with divorced grandnieces or granddaughters who had five kids. Before he’d come here—after Marsha had gotten the house—he’d lived in an apartment, an anonymous place where no one spoke to anyone. Then his mother had passed away and left him the town house. It’d seemed easier to move in than to sell the place, and it was in a safe neighborhood. He never worried about bringing Lisa over.
There were the little old ladies, though, and women like Elizabeth Benoit to contend with. He took two steps and was tossing the junk mail from his box into the nearest trash container when the woman in question came around the corner.
She had her briefcase in one hand and her purse in the other. Tucked under one arm was a dark blue folder with the words “Benoit Consulting—Personal and Confidential” printed on the outside in silver script. His eyes went to Elizabeth herself. Her dark gold suit, like the black one she’d had on the last time he’d seen her, looked as though it’d been made for her, the jacket hugging her figure—but not too tightly—and the skirt ending at a tantalizing point just above her knees. The color was just right for her, her ivory skin glowing from its reflection, reminding him of his mother’s translucent plates still sitting in the china cabinet in his dining room. Everything about Elizabeth Benoit was polished, perfect and gorgeous—except for the ferocious frown marring her forehead.
Seeing John, she pulled up short. Her frown vanished and was replaced with studied politeness.
Normally he would have nodded, turned on his heel and left, but instead he stood and stared at her. She was the first to break eye contact. John told himself to walk away, but his feet seemed fixed to the sidewalk. She leaned past him and unlocked her mailbox. Her key ring, he noticed, had a Mercedes-Benz symbol on it. She reached inside but her fingers came out empty—she hadn’t even received the junk mail he had. When she straightened, she looked so crushed he spoke without thinking.
“No mail?”
She lifted her gaze, and he was shocked into silence. A smart-aleck reply, a cold shoulder, even a curt go-to-hell wouldn’t have surprised him as much as the sight of her exquisite dark eyes filling with tears.
Before he could react, Mrs. Beetleman from 10D came around the corner. She glanced curiously at Elizabeth, then turned her twenty-thousand-dollar face to John and seemed about to speak. Nodding quickly, John engineered their escape, taking Elizabeth’s elbow and leading her away before the old woman could ask what was wrong.
They crossed to a nearby iron bench, which was shaded by a huge pin oak. Elizabeth Benoit sat down heavily, and John, shielding her from Mrs. Beetleman’s puzzled stare, took the seat beside her, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her. She nodded her thanks and dabbed her eyes.
When she finished, she stared at the square of white cotton for a second, then finally looked up. “I haven’t seen a man with a real handkerchief in his pocket since my father died.”
Her voice was a throaty contralto and it washed over John with a heavy warmth. “I’m a cop,” he said without thinking. “Always gotta be prepared.”
She nodded as if his ridiculous answer made perfect sense. For a moment they sat side by side in the hot twilight. The traffic noise on the side street and the cries of children playing in the neighborhood park kept the moment from the awkwardness of total silence.
Finally he spoke. “Is there something I can do for you? You look upset.”
To his horror, her eyes filled up again. She shook her head, then answered unexpectedly, her voice huskier than before, the words tight and angry. “It’s my sister,” she said. “I can’t find her. I thought she might have at least sent me a postcard.”
“Are you saying she’s missing?”
She nodded. “Yes. She came over to my place for a birthday celebration. Then we…we had an argument and I haven’t seen her since. And I’m really worried.” She looked down at her hands and shook her head, speaking again, this time softly. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” She made a motion as if to get up. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be bothering you…”
He reached out and put his hand on her arm. She seemed startled by the touch and he instantly pulled back, but not before his brain had registered the sensation. Skin so warm and soft it was sinful. “Please…don’t leave. Tell me.”
She hesitated, then after a moment she sank back down to the bench. “I know you’re a policeman. Mrs. Shaftel told me.”
She blinked suddenly, as if she’d given away a secret. And maybe she had, he thought. She’d obviously had a conversation about him with her neighbor. Did that mean she’d been as aware of him as he was of her?
She spoke again, quickly this time. “What kind of cop are you?”
“I’m a detective,” he answered. “Homicide.”
She nodded, almost to herself.
“How old