Fat Tuesday(9)

She was alone. For a time, she leaned into one of the support columns, then she made a slow circuit around the gazebo, trailing her hand along the ivy-covered railing. When she returned to her original spot, she leaned against the support column again, this time placing her back to it.

Burke saw her face for the first time and, although he didn't speak it out loud, he thought, Wow.

Her black hair looked iridescent in the cool, bluish light, while that same moonlight made her skin appear as pale and translucent as alabaster. The short black cocktail dress showed off a lot of leg.

Her breasts swelled above the scooped neckline.

Burke immediately pegged her as one of the expensive whores who worked the classy hotel bars where conventioneers from out of town were eager to spend huge sums of money for an hour or two of carnality with what they were promised was a genuine, hot-blooded Creole gal.

Burke smiled grimly. He bet this one was higher priced than most. She had a look about her that said I'm expensive and worth every penny.

She was the kind who could hold out for clients with Duvall's flash and finances.

Not that she would have to hold out. A man with a bankroll like Pinkie Duvall's didn't have to surround himself with ugly women. Maybe this one had been hired only for the night as a party decoration Or maybe she was the girlfriend of one of the guests. Or she could be a permanent hanger-on who put out routinely for Duvall and his friends in exchange for designer clothes and good drugs.

The keeping of mistresses had been an accepted practice in New Orleans since the city was first settled. Flesh peddling was a major industry in any convention town, New Orleans was certainly no exception. Every cab driver in the city knew the address of Ruby Bouchereaux's place.

Her girls were top-notch. Ruby herself was one of the richest women in the state.

But there were also the street hookers who worked the dark corners of the Quarter. They would give blow jobs in an alley for a hit of crack.

They were no more selective than the crib girls who had made Storyville one of the most notorious red-light districts in the world.

Regardless of the price tag, there was no shortage of work in the Big Easy for a hard-core whore.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Burke realized that this one didn't look hard-core. Since drug dealing and prostitution often crossed lines with each other, he'd learned a lot from watching these girls. He could size one up and know immediately if she was going to succumb to the life or if she possessed the killer instincts to survive.

He wouldn't put his money on this one to make it. She was classy, all right. But she didn't look rapacious and calculating. She looked. sad.

Still unaware that she was being watched, she relaxed her head against the ornate ironwork and closed her eyes. Then she slid her hands down her body until they met at the center of her lower abdomen.

Burke's mouth went dry. His gut clenched.

The guys working Vice routinely circulated pornographic videos, films, or magazines that had been confiscated for evidence. It wasn't Burke's habit to watch them, but he was as normal as the next guy, and what man, cop or otherwise, could turn away from this scene without waiting to see what was going to happen next.

Actually, nothing did. She didn't remove her clothing. She didn't actually fondle that erogenous zone. She didn't moan or groan or gyrate or breathe heavily through partially opened lips.

Nevertheless, her pose was arresting. Arousing, even.

And apparently he wasn't the only one who thought so.

Burke had been so transfixed by her that he saw the approaching man only seconds before she herself became aware of Wayne Bardo.

Bardo, Basile thought, contempt causing his mustache to curl downward.

He'd mistaken her for a classy chick, when she'd been waiting on Bardo, lord of the lowlives, a career criminal who always beat the rap with the able assistance of Pinkie Duvall.

Did she know that Bardo had killed a prostitute when he was only sixteen? They'd been playing tie-me-up-and-hurt-me when he'd gotten her neck confused with her wrist and strangled her with her own stocking.

He'd been tried as a juvenile for involuntary manslaughter and served only a year of his sentence before being placed on probation. If that's the kind of creep this high-ticket whore pandered to, she deserved no better than she got.

Bardo was all over her now, and she was squirming against him.

Turning away in disgust, Burke thrashed through the hedge and returned to his Toyota, parked among the Beemers and Jags belonging to Duvall's guests.

"Taking the evening air?"

Remy's heart jumped when she opened her eyes and saw Wayne Bardo standing poised in the entrance of the gazebo. He had been intentionally stealthy, wanting to startle her. His dark features were heavily shadowed and indiscernible, like a figure in a nightmare.

Instantly she lowered her hands, but she knew he'd seen her pressing them against her body because his grin was even more suggestive than usual. He was blocking her exit. Short of vaulting the railing, there was nowhere for her to run.

Without bothering to conceal her dislike, she asked, "What are you doing out here?" "I missed you at the party. Came looking for you."

He stepped forward.

Although it took an act of will not to recoil from him, Remy stood her ground. When he was only inches from her, he gave her an insulting once-over, his eyes lingering on her chest. Lowering his voice to a confidential level, he said, "And here you are."