narrowed. “How?” he asked.
Dixon took a calculated risk. “You remember when she first showed up here twelve years ago?”
The Marine didn’t respond.
“Someone had tried to kill her. Maman Renée took care of her.” Dixon watched Bing’s expression.
“So you say,” the man responded, shrugging.
Dixon studied Bing as he finished his coffee. “You’re here every day?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Bing said forcefully. “And I keep an eye on things, too.”
“I could use your help, watching out for Rose,” Dixon said. “I can’t be here all the time.”
Bing’s expression didn’t soften one bit. “You say a lot, mister, but you ain’t said who you are or why Rose is your business.”
Dixon stood and slid a five-dollar bill under the empty mug. “I’m a cop, just like you figured. Detective Dixon Lloyd, Homicide.” He took out his wallet and showed Bing his badge. “But I’m working undercover. Nobody—nobody—can know I’m on the job. Rose’s safety is at stake.”
“Then why’re you telling me?”
“Because you protected her. As soon as I asked you about Maman Renée, you made me as a cop and you wouldn’t tell me anything. Can I count on you to keep an eye on her and let me know if you see anyone or anything suspicious?”
Bing nodded. They exchanged phone numbers and Dixon held out his hand.
Bing eyed it suspiciously. “I’m gonna watch out for Rose. I do anyway. And I’ll call you if I see anything. But I swear, Lloyd, if you put her in harm’s way, you’ll answer to me.”
“Understood,” Dixon said.
Bing eyed him for another couple of seconds, then he shook his hand.
Dixon walked back down the street toward Maman Renée’s shop. Once her student was gone, he’d knock on the door and ask the questions that had burned inside him for twelve years.
How had she escaped from her attacker? Where had she gone? And why had she never come forward to let her family and the police know she was alive?
Her murder case—Dixon’s first homicide—was the only case he’d never managed to solve. In the past twelve years, he’d earned a reputation in NOPD. They called him The Closer, and now he finally had the chance to earn the title. Before this week was out, he planned to close the case the press had dubbed The Beauty Queen Murder.
ROSE BOHÉME CLOSED the front door behind Mignon after warning her to go straight home. She smiled to herself. The eight-year-old had been taking piano lessons for only three weeks, and already she could sight-read five easy pieces. If she kept on like that, Rose wouldn’t be able to keep up with her for much longer.
As she climbed the wooden staircase to the apartment above, a flash of light from the window blinded her.
She froze in nameless terror as red amorphous afterimages of the flash seared into her brain.
A second later, rationality overcame the fear. She took a long, slow breath and glanced toward the uncurtained front window. Something metallic, maybe just the foil from a cigarette package or gum wrapper, had caught the late-afternoon sun.
She could hear Maman’s voice in her head, chiding her. Breathe easy, ma ‘tite. Just forget all that’s gone before. Maman put a spell on this house, keep you safe.
But behind the sweet memory of Maman’s voice lurked other unsettling voices, scurrying around the back of her mind with susurrus whispers that haunted her dreams.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. She pressed her fingers against her suddenly pounding temple and shook her head.
Stop it. Rose closed her eyes and listened for Maman’s soothing words again, but the ghostly hissing drowned out all other sound.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss.
Pain throbbed in rhythm with the voices. Pressing her fingers against her temple seemed to help. As she massaged the sore place near her hairline, her stomach rumbled.
Of course. She was hungry. That was all that was wrong with her. She hadn’t eaten at all today. She thought about the gumbo she’d made this morning. That’s what she needed. A big bowl of gumbo and some of the French bread she’d bought. Then she’d go to bed so she could get an early start tomorrow.
Just as she headed back up the stairs, a knock at the door made her jump.
Mignon? Surely not. She should have made it home by now. Rose retraced her steps, squinting against the sunlight, and flipped the light switch near the bottom of the stairs. She unlocked the door, leaving the chain on.
“Mignon?” she started before she saw the looming shadow of the man who stepped forward. “Oh,” she said, then, “the shop is closed.”
“Hold it.” He stuck his foot between the door and the facing as a glint of light on metal flashed in her eyes.
She recoiled with a cry before she realized that the shiny object he held was a badge.
“New Orleans Police, ma’am,” the man said in a low, gruff voice.
“Police?” She put a hand to her racing heart. “Has something happened to Mignon?” she rasped.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Detective Lloyd. Dixon Lloyd. I need to ask you some questions.”
Rose opened the door to the maximum width allowed by the chain and looked up at him. He was tall, three or four inches taller than her five feet eight inches. His eyes were hooded.
The badge he held reflected the waning sunlight off its burnished surface.
Rose blocked the reflection with her hand, wishing he would put the thing away. What could the police want with her? She hadn’t done anything, had she? “I’m sure you have the wrong address,” she said.
“No. I have the right address. You are Rose Bohème, right?” His voice was firm, commanding.
He knew her name. Oh, this was not good. “Yes,” she said, working for just the right tone of mild interest and slight impatience. “What is this about?”
“Could I come in, please?” he asked, only it didn’t really sound like a request. The commanding tone was still there.
“Of course.” She tried to keep the stress out of her voice as she unlatched the chain and held the door open. He stepped past her into the foyer, filling it up with his height and his broad shoulders. He brought with him the smell of sunlight, wind and the street.
She sent a glance up and down the sidewalks. Curtains fluttered and a couple of doors slammed shut. She smiled wryly as she closed the door but left it unlocked. People on this end of Prytania Street didn’t like cops. She’d have a lot of questions to answer tomorrow.
“What
