Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03] (2 page)

Morphing into professional mode, she made mental notes of what she’d seen so far and decided she would “interview” three different men before making her escape following a trip to the ladies’ room. Bruce might want her to take one of them upstairs, to see how it was done, but no way was she going that far. Pressing one of the roses in her brooch to launch the zoom lenses, she began a slow scan of the men from right to left.

Some of the prostitutes looked downright dangerous. Way too blatantly sexual for her tastes.

Okay, the young blond man would be her first. Extra long hair in a low ponytail. Clean cut. Wearing a light blue Oxford-collared shirt, tucked into dark blue chinos. He looked like a college student.

Then maybe the older gentleman with salt and pepper hair. Fiftyish. Well-built. Designer suit.

Third . . . hmmm, she couldn’t decide. She should probably invite the guy who looked like Tony from
The Sopranos,
if she had the nerve. Or the scowling man who was both homely and tempting as hell; rough sex, for sure.

She had her hand on the phone, about to request her first “date,” when she noticed two men amble into the room laughing at some private joke. Her survey started to swing on a return scan, then doubled back.

Oh. My. God!

Could it be . . . ? No, it’s impossible.

The tall man with dark hair, late twenties, wearing a black suit over a tight white silk T-shirt, stopped dead and was staring at her, too. Her camera took him in, which she intended to erase the moment she got home. Or maybe not.

This was an absolute nightmare. The worst possible thing that could have happened.

It was that slimebucket, oversexed, full-of-himself Cajun jerk. John LeDeux.

Whom she’d had a crush on as a girl and been hopelessly attracted to as a woman, despite her seeming intelligence. What was it about men like John LeDeux that caused women’s IQs to nosedive? She had successfully avoided him for five long years. Why else would she have stayed in Texas for so long? What irony, to finally run into him, after being back here for only six months, in a . . . a sex club.

If some higher power would just let a crack open in the floor, she would gladly jump in, assignment be damned.

John LeDeux ambled into the Playpen for his night shift.

The idea of him selling sex, or buying it for that matter, was ludicrous, but the dickhead managers of this place couldn’t see past their cash registers.
One hundred dollars for a blow job? I don’t think so! I’m worth way more than that.

He scanned the room, looking for potential “customers.” Then went stone cold still.

Well, well, well, lookee here. Celine Arseneaux, out to buy herself some action.

Was she that hard up? She always was a stick-up-the-ass prudish geek, too smart for her own good. Thought she was better than the rest of stupid mankind. Except for that one time that he barely recalled. She’d been hot damn non-geeky that night if his fuzzy recollection was accurate.

But wait, wasn’t she supposed to be some hotshot newspaper reporter in Dallas? No, wait, someone mentioned recently that she’d moved to the
New Orleans Times-Tribune.
Why would she be here . . . ?

Oh, good Lord. She’s here on assignment. Man, this is a FUBAR waiting to happen.

He whispered to Tank Woodrow . . . Police Lieutenant Clifford “Tank” Woodrow . . . at his side, “Nine o’clock. Lady in black and red dress. Reporter.”

“The one with the flame-colored mouth that looks like it could melt salt off a pretzel stick?”

He laughed, just knowing how much Celine would appreciate that description. Not! “That would be the one.”

“Shiiit! She’s gonna blow our cover.”

He and Tank had been undercover at the Playpen for the past week. The Fontaine police department, in conjunction with the special state organized crime unit, were about to bust this and other operations of the Dixie Mafia wide open. This woman would ruin it all.

Not if he could help it.

The instant she saw him, she recognized him, her eyes going wide as saucers.

“Watch my back,” he told Tank.

Against Playpen rules, he approached the table, amused to see Celine averting her face, hoping she could escape his notice. Fat chance!

He yanked a chair around and sat down close to her, with his back to the bar, where the client facilitator stood watching. Yeah, that’s what the pompous pimp called himself.

“Hey, darlin’, lookin’ fer a date?” he asked with the lazy southern drawl he had perfected over the years.

She mumbled something, her face still averted. He was pretty sure she’d told him to do something to himself that was anatomically impossible.

“Nah, I’d rather do you, sweetheart.”

She turned and stared him straight in the face. “Get lost, LeDeux.”

“Now, now. Is that any way to treat the man who’s gonna show you a good time?” He picked up the menu of services that was sitting on the table, opened it and pointed to one particular line. “I’m really good at
that
.”

Her face flushed. “You are such a pig.”

“Compliments will get you everywhere, sugar.”

“What are you doing here?”

“The better question is, what’re you doin’ here? Oooh, is that a camera in here?” He flicked the rose brooch on her chest, and felt an odd zing where the back of his fingers touched her warm skin.

He could tell by the look of horror on her face that she’d felt the zing, too. Or maybe it was because she realized that her hidden techie camera hadn’t been as hidden as she’d hoped.

“Go away,” she said with a groan. “I’ve got a job here.”

“So do I, and it’s not to dole out sexual favors. This operation is about to be busted, and we are not gonna let you jam up the works.”

“We? Who is we? Fontaine police? State police? Feds?”

“All of the above. You’re not gonna screw up this operation, babe.”

“Oh, yeah, how you gonna stop me,
babe?
”

“Just watch me.” He picked up the phone. “The lady, she wants numbers five, six, and seven. She’s too shy to tell y’all herself. Two hours. Upstairs. A rodeo, a dirty bath, and a missionary. You got her credit card number on file? Okay.”

Celine was too busy gawking at the description of five, six, and seven to notice him standing and pulling her up with him. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, tucking her tightly to his side, he prevented her from bolting, trying his best to ignore her light floral perfume and the softness of her skin. “Let’s get outta here,” he said. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll show you how well I can perform.”

She squirmed out of his hold and glared at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” She looked as if she might be about to belt him a good one.

But then all hell broke loose.

Police in SWAT uniforms rushing in all the entries and blocking all the exits. Bullhorns blaring out, “Stay where you are, people. This is a raid.” Women were screaming. Men were cursing. The band stopped dead in the middle of “Love Shack.” It was a full-blown police operation. At least fifty armed local, state, and federal law enforcement officers in the three rooms on this floor, he would estimate.

A pigload of people were going to be arrested, including himself, since his identity had to be protected. Ms. Hot Shot Reporter was not going to be able to fast talk herself out of this mess ’til later.

She was flashing her chest all over the place, taking pictures, he presumed, not showing off her assets. Maybe she wouldn’t be so mad at him now.

No, that was not to be the case.

Turning swiftly, she windmilled her arm back, then clipped him on the chin with her fist.

“What was that for?”

“Everything.”

A cop he didn’t recognize was approaching, already reading them their rights, flex-cuffs dangling from his fingertips. But first John had to do something. He grabbed Celine, tugged her flush against his body, and kissed her, long and hard. He might have even used his tongue, but who knew! He was as dazed as she was when he broke off the kiss. “Which one of you is the hooker?” the amused cop asked.

“Him,” she said.

“Her,” he said at the same time.

Smoke practically blew from her ears as she glowered at him. Wait ’til she found out that the mind- blowing kiss had been a ruse to allow himself the opportunity to slip off her brooch and the tiny mike inside her bra. They were now in his suit pocket.

“
Laissez les bons temps rouler,”
he murmured as they walked off together, in custody. “Let the good times roll.”

She gave him the finger.

Chapter
2

Celine was sitting on a bench seat in the paddy wagon, hands cuffed, ankles shackled, with the bayou bad boy on her left and Hal “I could make you scream, baby” Hopkins on her right. If Hal made another lewd suggestion to her or if John continued to chuckle, she was going to put a curse on the two of them . . . one that would impair their precious scream-maker parts for life, and she knew a French Quarter voodoo priestess who could do it, too.

There were three female and two male prostitutes and one trick, or sex club client, or date, or customer, or whatever they wanted to call them, on one of the benches, along with her and John, and on the other facing bench were a “client facilitator,” one alleged Playpen owner . . . i.e. Mafia guy named Emile Lorenzo, a male prostitute, and three more tricks or clients. Apparently, there were other members of the Lorenzo family—an Italian-Creole unit of the Dixie mob—in the other emergency police vans. A black police officer stood near the back door with a rifle in one hand and a tear gas canister in the other. Like any one of them was in a position to bolt! Another cop—red-haired, Irish-looking, also armed—stood near her and John, with his back to the metal grill that separated them from the driver in front.

They had all been Mirandized back at the club. Not a pleasant experience, even when a person was innocent, as she was. Apparently, there was a sitting grand jury just waiting for them to be hauled in. The police would want immediate indictments for some of the flight risks.

“I was not a customer,” she told the black cop, who was closest to her, now that the hubbub had died down. “Actually, I’m a reporter. I was there to do a story.” They had all been protesting their innocence, but her claim to being a journalist caused the heads of the club owner and three clients on the other side to shoot up with interest. Emile Lorenzo glared at her with a silent warning that she would be swimming with the fishes, or rather the bayou gators, if she wrote anything about him. But the interesting thing was the way the three clients averted their faces in a panicked fashion.

Well, she supposed she would be embarrassed to be found hanging out in such a place, too. Still . . . hmmm. Celine’s journalistic instincts went on red alert, and she studied them a little closer. “Oh, no!” She
did
recognize the three of them.

“Shhh,” John murmured.

Jeesh, he was a good-looking man. He was twenty-eight to her twenty-six; she knew because she’d been two years behind him in Houma High School and then Tulane University. Tall . . . maybe six-two . . . he had dark Cajun hair and eyes. He’d probably shaved that morning, but now a dark, not unattractive, stubble covered his face. He had a smile that would melt most women’s hearts . . . and morals, truth be told. Not hers.

Well, once. Until today she’d considered that one-night stand an aberration. A blip on her intelligence radar. This rogue had a reputation throughout southern Louisiana as a world class womanizer, and any woman with a grain of good sense would steer clear of his magnetism.

After all she’d suffered . . . waitressing and attending college classes ’til her labor pains started, the embarrassment of welfare aid, the ego blaster of single motherhood, the constant financial hardships, despite her grandfather’s help . . . she had survived and thought herself stronger for the struggle. Then an hour in John’s presence, and she was right back to step one, virtually drooling over the hottest guy in town.

She was not a bad-looking woman these days, but still, she felt like Ugly Betty to John’s Hugh Jackman.

But none of that mattered. What did matter was that she get away from John as soon as possible. He could not find out about Etienne. Not after all this time. Not ever.

Even that was irrelevant now. What
was
important was that she’d just stumbled onto an even better story than the Playpen operation. These three well-known Louisianans were going to grace the centerfold of page one tomorrow. She chuckled and was about to “interview” them. Not many reporters could claim to have interviewed some prostitutes and their clients in a paddy wagon. It would be a feather in her cap at her new paper.

“
Mon Dieu!
” Leaning into her ear, he said, “Now’s not the time to out these folks, darlin’.” So, he recognized the three clients, too. And, yeah, he was right. She should wait to confront the three dodo birds back at the station. Maybe in a holding cell.

John had a heavy southern accent, which many women found attractive. Sort of a lazy, sexy drawl. She was Cajun, too, well, three-quarters Cajun, but she’d only moved to Houma to live with her grandfather at age fifteen when her mother died of cancer and her father committed suicide. Bad times then!

Trying her best to ignore the faint scent of mint, probably soap, as he continued to lean close, she nodded hesitantly. “Is that Pastor Leroy Evington? The bigshot TV evangelist from Shreveport?”

“Looks like,” he whispered. “And beside him is Ted Warner. The owner of that chain of TV stations?”

John had just confirmed what she’d already suspected. Holy moly! This was turning into the scoop of the decade, even better than her exposé of Katrina corruption while still working in Dallas. She was so excited she could barely restrain herself from letting loose with a whoop of joy.

“Oh, yeah! This raid is haulin’ in some big fish.”

She studied the trio again. They weren’t able to hide their faces completely, restrained as they were. But the woman . . . a sleek, expensively dressed blonde in her late forties, she would guess . . . looked familiar. Her heart rate accelerated with sudden understanding. “Do you know who that woman is?” she said against John’s ear, her voice no doubt giving away her excitement.

“No, but I like the way you keep blowin’ in my ear.”

She made a sound of disgust.

“Just in case I didn’t mention it before, you look hot tonight, Celine.” His compliment was particularly compelling with his mouth so close to her face.

“Like I care!” She moaned inwardly, not wanting to care.

He winked at her.

“Be serious.”
Oh, God! Another inward moan.

“Okay, I give up. Who is she?”

“Callie Martinez.”

His neck practically got whiplash swinging to look at the woman in question. “Congressman Martinez’s wife?” he mouthed silently to her.

She nodded.

“You can’t report this.”

“Report what? The bust? You better believe I’m going to report that.”

“Shhh. Keep your voice down. Not that. The names of those three dingbats over there. If you do, all hell is gonna break loose.”

She smiled widely. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna have a boatload of Rolex lawyers swarming around the police station before they’re even arraigned. They might even find a loophole to dismiss this whole bust.”

“This is a big story . . . as big as the sex club and the Mafia connection, the focus of my original story. I can see the headline: ‘Sex for Sale: Even the High and Mighty Are Buying.’” The whole time she talked in a side-of-the-mouth undertone, she studied the two Johns and a Jane, who continued to duck their heads, taking mental notes of their appearance and demeanor.

He groaned.

“I need to call my editor. You’re a cop. Why don’t you get us out of here?”

“Not yet. Can’t blow my cover. Besides, I don’t know these guys. They’re staties . . . state troopers. Don’t worry. You’ll get your call soon. Besides, your crime reporter will have already heard about tonight’s operation on the police radio.”

“Hey, you two,” the Irish cop by the door said. “Enough chitchat. Set up a date later.”

She raised her chin at the grinning officer. “I work for the
New Orleans Times-Tribune,
and you’re going to be the star of my exposé if you’re not careful.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And I’m the king of Mardi Gras.”

“Listen, lady, give it up.” The black cop leaned down and picked up her purse at her feet. Opening it, he took out the Playpen admission card and waved it in her face. “Enough said.”

It was while the cop was picking up her purse that she noticed her brooch was missing. She raised her cuffed hands and felt against the place where the mike should be planted inside her bra. It was missing, too.

“That’ll be enough of that, sweet cakes,” Irish said, using a billy club to steer her hands downward, away from her chest. “No feelin’ yerself up. You can do that once you’ve bought one of these honeys here.” He glanced pointedly at John and Hal bracketing her.

“I was not—”

“Lady, give it up,” Irish said tiredly. When she opened her mouth, about to plead her case some more, the cop waved the Playpen card in front of her.

“I can explain that.” Her face was probably beet red.

The cop held up a halting hand. “Save it fer the judge, honey.”

Something occurred to her then. Turning to John, she asked with forced softness, “Did you steal my camera and mike?”

“You had a camera and mike? Tsk-tsk-tsk!”

“I want them back.”

“You do, huh? How bad?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged.

“Are you trying to sell my equipment back to me? That’s illegal.”

“How legal is it to tape people without their permission?”

“That’s different.”

“Oh?”

“Journalistic exception.”

“Bull!”

“I could make you return them.”

He just laughed.

“You’re a pig.”

“You said that before.”

Both cops walked up to stand before them. “You two are really startin’ to piss me off,” the Irish cop said. “Enough with the whispering!”

“Should I Taser them?” the black cop inquired of his pal. He was probably kidding. She hoped.

“Only if you want to lose your badges,” John told them. And he cited some police code guideline number that made both cops raise their eyebrows and back off. They kept eyeing John strangely after that.

Finally, the rat did something about their situation. Already her brain was at work, putting together the story and sidebar she would be writing later tonight. It would help to have the photos and tapes, though. “What exactly do you want in return for my camera and mike?” she gritted out.

“A number six.”

It was a large conference room in police headquarters where the debriefing was held early the next morning, but still it was crowded with all personnel who had been involved, directly or indirectly, with the Playpen bust.

There were more than forty men and women from the Fontaine police and district attorney departments, FBI, ATF, state troopers, and State Organized Crime Commission—and that didn’t include uniformed arresting officers—sitting on folding chairs arranged in rows throughout the room, most of them holding Styrofoam cups of black Creole coffee. No whipped-cream-covered lattes here.

In another conference room across the hall, reporters from various media, local and nationwide, waited to get the full scoop. Separate interrogation rooms held Congressman and Mrs. Martinez, TV mogul Ted Warner, and evangelist Leroy Evington with teams of high-priced lawyers driving cars worth more than the entire Katrina Disaster Relief Fund. They would probably get off with hefty out-of-court settlements. Clients and customers who could afford the bail had been released last night.

Not so the Dixie Mafia, fifteen of whom were already in custody and more to come. Not the big boss or godfather, but two of his sons, one counselor or consigliere, three lieutenants, and nine soldiers, several with the Lorenzo name. This bust wouldn’t break the mob in Louisiana, which included prostitution, drugs, extortion, illegal gun sales, theft, murder, and various other sundry crimes, but it would curtail it substantially. Anti-Mafia operations way back to Eliot Ness had learned that getting the bad guys often meant back-door arrests for lesser crimes with maximum punishments.

“Okay, listen up, everyone,” Captain Samuel Pinot said, stepping up to the podium. Captain Sam was head of the Fontaine police department but a Cajun, like himself, from Terrebonne Parish. John had known him since he was knee-high to a crawfish. In fact, Sam had once had the hots for his half-sister Charmaine, but a whole hell of a lot of southern Louisiana men had been bird dogging Charmaine’s tail at one time or another. “Good job!” Captain Sam yelled, pumping a fist into the air, which was met with cheers from throughout the room.

Next, the captain introduced Gil Tremaine, head of the crime commission and number one on the Dixie Mafia’s hit list. He and his team had been pursuing the mob here in Louisiana for years.

“The DA’s office will want to talk separately with each of you to prepare the case against the perps.” Tremaine motioned over to Dean Avery and his squad of assistant DAs leaning against the wall. “I don’t need to tell you to keep a low profile. The Dixie Mafia is still out there, alive and well. We don’t want any potential witnesses, meaning some of you, found at the bottom of some bayou swamp wearing a concrete suit.”

A titter of laugher rippled through the room, but every one of them understood that this was a serious threat.

He and Tank and the other undercover cops would be small cogs in this prosecution, but that didn’t mean they were unimportant. Especially once the prosecution witness list was given to the defense. Yeah, Tremaine and his boys were highest on the Mafia’s enemy totem pole, but everyone was at risk.

“Detectives have already taken witness statements and will expect to follow up with more,” Tremaine continued. “That means you folks in here who were undercover, as well as club employees, hookers, male and female, and customers.”

“Hey, Lacy,” yelled Tank, who sat beside him. “I hear you got propositioned twenty-seven times in one night, working the Playpen’s black room . . . or was it the blue room?”

Lt. Lacy Jessup glared at Tank. They had a running hate/love relationship going for the past year. “Actually, Tank, it was thirty-two, and all men.” She gave emphasis to
all men
, as if Tank did not fall into that category of manliness. Tank’s face flushed, but luckily he kept his mouth shut, especially since the chief was not too happy at the interruption.