Two Sisters

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He got out of the car and started up the sidewalk, his thoughts turning to the woman he’d had dinner with the night before. He’d put Elizabeth Benoit into the same mold as Marsha, and he hadn’t even known her. Just because the two women were beautiful, he’d assumed Elizabeth was as self-centered as his ex. A stupid premise, he realized now. Still, he’d known other beautiful women who definitely thought the sun revolved around themselves, and to guess Elizabeth was the same hadn’t really been that far out of line.

He’d been wrong, though. Very wrong.

Knocking on the door and waiting for it to open, he thought back to the conversation at the deli. Elizabeth Benoit loved her sister, loved her and wanted her back, no matter what. Despite her innate mistrust, she’d realized she’d needed his help. He wondered once more about the pain he sometimes saw in those eyes. Who had hurt her so badly? Why hadn’t she ever married?

The doorknob turned and John smiled. Lisa always answered it when he was expected. But Lisa wasn’t standing there when the door opened. Marsha was.

She looked surprised to see him, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the woman he’d once loved. She really was beautiful. “John! What are you doing here?”

“I came to see Lisa. Since yesterday was out, I wanted to visit with her a bit.”

“John…” She shook her head and said his name with resignation. Unbelievably, just beneath the surface, he heard a hint of sympathy, then decided he was imagining it. “I told you the other day that Lisa had a birthday party to go to this evening. That was why I had to have her hair cut. Weren’t you listening?”

He inhaled deeply and let the air out on a sigh. “Obviously I wasn’t.”

“If you’d pay attention when we have a conversation, these things wouldn’t happen.”

He couldn’t argue with the truth, could he? Especially as he’d been thinking of Elizabeth at the time. “Then I have to wait until next week?”

Her expression softened minutely. “We’re going to Galveston in the morning,” she said. “If you want to come down to the beach house, you could see her there.”

Marsha’s father owned a huge beachfront villa, and every weekend in the summer, the whole family met there. “I don’t have the time. It takes two hours to get there when the traffic’s bad. And I’m on call this weekend.”

Her bitter tone returned with the mention of his job. She’d never liked his being a cop; it didn’t hold enough status, not to mention earn enough money. “Then I guess you’ll just have to wait. And don’t blame it on me, either. You have the option.”

Her changed attitude brought back all the wrong memories, and he responded in a voice less than kind. “All right. But you have her here and ready next Thursday. I don’t like going so long without seeing her.”

She gave him a curt nod, and he walked away, not even bothering to say goodbye. The door slammed behind him before he was even off the porch.

Back in the truck he sat for a moment and fumed. Why go home? He’d just sit there and get madder. He wheeled the vehicle around and headed for the Richmond strip. Within ten minutes he pulled into the parking lot of the Esquire Club.

He found a spot but didn’t get out right away, choosing instead to sit for a moment and check out the setup. He wanted to calm down, too. He couldn’t work when he was this angry. He’d miss things, important details. He took three deep breaths, then looked out the window at the nightclub.

Stuccoed and well lit, it had the appearance of a home on River Oaks Boulevard. Looking exactly like a miniature Tara, the front stretched at least seventy-five feet with white columns going from one end to the other. A series of regularly spaced windows, wide and arched, lined the wall. Behind them, he could see men and women moving about, as if at a party. The setup looked pretty good, but then these joints usually did—in the dark.

Stepping out of his vehicle, John wove his way through the parking lot, his initial impression of wealth reinforced by the cars he passed. The vehicles were mainly European: BMWs and Mercedes, even a few Rolls-Royces. No good ol’ boy pickups here—except for his. Reaching the veranda where scattered groups of men stood, John saw several faces he recognized from the news. Many of the men were smoking cigars, expensive clouds of blue hanging over their heads. Their laughter was full and assured. With a glance he could tell who they were, even the ones he didn’t recognize. They were the high-rollers of Houston. Powerful men. Rich men.

John pushed his way through the crowd and into the club where the smells of expensive perfume and call-name liquor hit him hard. People flowed around him in what looked like the entry hall of an elegant home. From somewhere in the rear came the faint strains of music, but certainly not the overwhelming blast that usually assaulted you when you entered a bar. A discreet sign near the door announced a fifty-dollar cover and a two-drink minimum. Before he could decide which role to take—cop or patron—a young woman approached him. Red sheath, high heels, blond hair.

“Welcome to the Esquire Club,” she said. “How may I direct you this evening?”

It was a novel approach, he’d give them that.

“What do you feel like tonight?” she prompted when he didn’t answer right away. “We have the club divided into different areas depending on your mood. Wild music? Something soothing? A little country or rock and roll?” She smiled seductively, then put her fingertips on his arm. “Name your pleasure, sir. We have them all.”

“I’d like to see Mr. Lansing.” He spoke politely and made no move to pull out his badge. He didn’t have to. For some reason, he felt this one would know the drill.

She blinked, then her expression hardened minutely. “Of course,” she answered, her voice still cordial but now lacking the coquettish tone. “Let me see if he’s in.” She reached for the phone sitting on a nearby desk, but John reached out faster.

Smiling, he stilled her movement. “What do you say we just go to the back? Surprise him?”

“Mr. Lansing doesn’t like surprises.”

“That’s too bad,” John said. “Just take me to his office.”

She hesitated a second, because there was nothing else she could do. With a curt nod she started toward the rear of the club. John followed, but his steps were slower. He took his time, looking into the separate areas as they passed by.

Different music flowed from each one, matched by the decor. The first resembled a gentleman’s study. Padded leather chairs were grouped around square wooden tables, and the air was filled with the same expensive smoke he’d noticed earlier. No doubt imported—and illegal—cigars. He didn’t recognize the music, but it was slow and seductive. A woman in a flowing sheer dress was moving dreamily to it on a small stage near the front of the room. Beneath the gauzy fabric, she wore a G-string and nothing more. Some of the men were watching her, but most were talking among themselves, drinks on the tables before them. There were just as many women in the room as men.

The next room thrummed with rock music, and it had the look he’d come to associate with this kind of club. Low lights, a long bar across one wall. The hazy miasma of smoke smelled cheaper here. The walls were painted black and mirrors lined the area behind the bar. Small round tables dotted the floor, just large enough for two drinks and the high heels of the women who would dance on them. It would look garish and shabby in the daylight hours, but at the moment it oozed a kind of erotic appeal, primarily due to the woman in the center of the stage.

She had the body, she had the moves, she had it all. To say she was sexy didn’t do the word justice—or her, for that matter. She wasn’t wearing much beyond a G-string and heels, and her long red hair flowed over one bare shoulder like silk. She moved in perfect time to the music, an old Santana song he recognized immediately, “Black Magic Woman.” As he stared, she caught his gaze and held it.

John was as red-blooded as the next guy, and he felt his body respond automatically. The woman grinned as if sensing his reaction, then she broke the moment, moving sinuously around the pole to the center of the stage. Putting her back to the glowing column made of neon, she bent over to the floor. The red hair followed in a graceful sweep. John stared a few seconds more, then let his interest dissipate. Up there, she was beautiful and sexy, but something told him that, like the room, she might not fare too well in brighter light.

He turned to leave, the waiting blonde watching him with a jaded expression. As he came toward her, she turned and continued to the back of the club. John followed and they passed three other rooms. Rap music, country, then finally, in the last room, a voluptuous belly dancer accompanied by a sitar.

The blonde stopped in front of a paneled door and knocked. Apparently hearing an answer over the music that John didn’t, she turned the brass handle, then stepped aside to allow John to enter. She pulled the door closed behind him, and the music was silenced. He found himself in front of a massive oak desk, a man built to match sitting in a leather chair behind it. In one meaty hand, he held a cigarette. His eyes were narrow and hard in the smoke that wafted upwards. His long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

John spoke first. “Greg Lansing?”

The man eyed him. “Who wants to know?”

It sounded like a line from a bad movie. John pulled out his badge now, flipped it open, then closed it and stuck it back in his pocket. “Detective John Mallory. H.P.D. Homicide.”

The cold blue eyes flickered once. “What’s the problem, Officer?”

“No problem. Just a few questions about one of your dancers—April Benoit.”

“She dead?”

“What makes you ask that?”

The big man shrugged. “You said homicide. And she’s been missing.”

Without being offered, John took one of the chairs in front of the desk and sat, his jacket opening just enough for Lansing to glimpse his holster. He pulled the lapels closer. “She’s not dead that I know of, but I’m looking into her disappearance.”

“I don’t know anything about it.” The answer was surly and impatient. With a quick stabbing motion, Greg Lansing leaned over and extinguished the cigarette in a chipped crystal ashtray. “Look, I’ve got work to do and even if I didn’t, I’m in the dark about April—”

“Let’s just save each other some trouble here, Mr. Lansing.” John spoke smoothly, no hint of aggression in his voice. “Elizabeth Benoit already told me what you said, and I’m here to find out what kind of trouble April’s in. Just give me the details and I’ll leave.”

“I told the woman all I know.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

“I don’t know.”

John shook his head. “Wrong answer.”

Like two alley cats, they glared at each other over the desk—a stalemate, but not really. Lansing didn’t appear to be a fool; he couldn’t be, not if he was running a club as apparently successful as this one. Bars in Houston with good clientele brought in thousands every night. Hell, maybe tens of thousands. Lansing wouldn’t jeopardize his setup by pissing off a cop.

“Tell me,” John prompted.

The door to the office opened unexpectedly. Both men stared. The red-haired dancer John had watched stood on the threshold. His impression had been right, he thought cynically. She was beautiful, but he could see her looks had just started to fade. In a few more years, the gleam in her eyes would be harder and the glow of her skin somewhat dimmer. She’d have to move down the strip to less expensive clubs where the women were older and the drinks cheaper.

For the moment, though, she still looked good. Very good, as a matter of fact. John let his eyes take her all in. Red hair framing a face with high cheekbones and a generous mouth. Short terry-cloth robe allowing a full view of long shapely legs.

Lansing introduced her.

“Detective Mallory, Tracy Kensington. Tracy, this is Detective Mallory. H.P.D.”

Her expression turned stony, giving John another glimpse of her future. Two lines formed on either side of her mouth. “I knew you were a cop. You got the look.”

“Tracy…” Lansing’s voice rose in warning.

She held up both hands, the robe gaping slightly to reveal a patch of perfect skin.

“He’s here about April.”

“Have they found her?” She sounded expectant.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about her disappearance, do you?” John said by way of an answer. “I heard you and Miss Benoit weren’t exactly close.”

“Who told you that?” she asked. Not waiting for him to answer, she spit back, “That sister of hers is—”

“Leave,” Lansing interrupted. “You can close the door on your way out.”

“But I need to talk—”

“Later.”

She sent John one last look, then left, slamming the door.

John turned back to Lansing and raised a single eyebrow.

The manager shrugged his wide shoulders at the unspoken but obvious question. “Professional jealousy, I guess you’d say.”

“How intense?”

Lansing shook his head. “Not that intense. Tracy wouldn’t hurt her. She wouldn’t want to risk breaking a nail.”

“Are you sure?”

Lansing’s eyes grew even colder. “Women are vicious creatures, Detective. I wouldn’t guarantee anything when it comes to them.” He stood up behind the desk. “I hate to be rude, but I’ve got a club to run, so if there’s nothing else…”

John made no move to get up. “Then tell me about April’s trouble and I’ll be on my way.”

“April Benoit’s biggest trouble is April Benoit. She gives everyone here a hard time, from the bar girls to Tracy. She’s got an attitude, that’s the best I can say. A chip on her shoulder.”

“But it didn’t bother you?”

Greg Lansing’s eyes were guarded when they met John’s. “What do you mean?”

“You bailed her out of jail a few months ago. Drunk and disorderly.” John had run her name the day after he’d spoken with Elizabeth. It was how he’d obtained April’s address and place of employment—along with an arrest record Elizabeth obviously didn’t know about.

He shrugged. “It wasn’t anything. The girls were having a party. One of ’em roped some poor sucker into marrying her, so they were celebrating. They got loud and out of hand. No big deal. April didn’t want her sister to know, so I helped her.”

“Tell me more.”

“There’s nothing more to tell.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“She knocked Tracy off her pedestal. What does that say?”

“Did she know how to use it?”

Lansing spoke reluctantly. “She can shine on the clients, if that’s what you’re asking. Every man in the audience thinks she’s dancing just for him—more than one always trying to make the promise real.”

“Anyone in particular? Was she going out with any of the customers?”

“That’s not something we encourage, but the girls don’t always listen. She coulda been.” He came from behind the desk, his fingers beating an impatient rap against the wood. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I really need to get out there. On the floor. We’ve got a convention of computer salesmen coming in at ten.”

John rose slowly. They were almost eye to eye. “You never defined that trouble for me, Mr. Lansing. The trouble you told Elizabeth about.”

Lansing stiffened. “Is this an official investigation?”

“It’s as official as it needs to be.”

“I don’t see a warrant.”

“That’s ’cause I don’t have one.” John smiled amicably. “But you know what? I don’t need one to make your life miserable, do I? I can call the liquor board, the restaurant inspectors, the SOB people.” He waved his hand to the hallway outside. “You know how crazy those sexually oriented businesspeople are. They’d love to see the inside of this place, I’m sure.”