Downtown Debutante. Kara Lennox
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voice. It made all her hair follicles stand at attention.
“Yes, that’s me.” He didn’t smile, and a frisson of alarm wiggled through her body. “Is something wrong? Oh, my God, did something happen to someone in my family?”
He hesitated fractionally. “No. I’m Special Agent Heath Packer with the FBI. This is Special Agent Pete LaJolla.”
The other man stepped closer and nodded a greeting. They both looked as if they expected to enter.
Brenna glanced over her shoulder. The room was a complete wreck. Every available surface was covered with clothes and girlie stuff, not to mention baby things belonging to Cindy’s little boy. Even fastidious Sonya’s bed was unmade. Sonya was used to servants doing that sort of thing for her.
Special Agent No. 1 didn’t wait for her consent. He eased past her into the room, his observant gaze taking everything in.
“If you’d given me some warning, I could have tidied up,” she groused, pulling the robe more tightly around her. She hadn’t realized how thin the fabric was.
Mustering her manners, Brenna cleared off a cosmetics case and a pair of shoes from the room’s only chair. “Here, sit down. You’re making me nervous. And…Agent LaJolla, was it?” She brushed some clothes off Sonya’s twin bed. La Jolla nodded and sat gingerly on the bed while Brenna retreated to her own bed. She sat cross-legged on it, drawing the covers over her legs both for warmth and modesty.
“I assume you know why we’re here,” Packer said, easing his tall frame into the wingback chair. He looked even more masculine, surrounded by chintz and lace and cabbage roses.
“Something to do with Marvin Carter, I would guess. Does this mean someone is finally taking our case seriously? That other FBI guy in Louisiana—Del Roy or whatever his name was—he could hardly be bothered.” Indignation welled up in Brenna’s chest. “Big deal, three dumb blondes lost their life savings. Like, who cares? But I guess that suitcase full of cash caught your attention.” Brenna, Cindy and Sonya, all of them victims of the same con man, had tracked him to Louisiana and flushed him out, with no help from the FBI. As a result, they recovered Cindy’s money—$300,000 in cash—though Marvin himself got away.
While LaJolla studied his fingernails in a bored manner, Packer studied Brenna, and she could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, carefully calculating his answer. “We’d like to hear the facts of the case from you firsthand. And, if you don’t mind…” He pulled a microcassette recorder from his jacket pocket and set it on the tiny table next to the chair. He also brought out a notebook and pen.
“No, I don’t mind.” After he made a few preliminary comments for the tape—date, time, location and who was present—she told him her story, from beginning to end. She started with how the famous art agent “Seneca Dealy” had found her at a neighborhood art fair and had promised to pluck her from obscurity and make her a jeweler to the stars. “He said everything I wanted to hear,” Brenna said. “Starving artists thrive on praise and high hopes, you know.”
“And did you also have a sexual relationship with this Seneca?”
“I’m sure you know I did,” she said testily, her face burning. She wasn’t some virginal prude, easily embarrassed, but neither was she eager to dwell on her stupidity where Marvin was concerned. “I don’t see how the details of that could be any use to you.”
“His behavior is very important,” Packer countered. “I need to know the exact details of how this guy operates.”
“Fine.” She took a deep breath and gave the agent what he’d asked for—exact details. “He’s very good in bed. He always wears a condom. He prefers Trojans. Is that what you want to know?”
LaJolla was trying not to laugh, but Packer dutifully took down every word. “Interesting to know about the condoms. He takes risks in some areas, not in others. Go on.”
She sighed, her anger evaporating. “He wasn’t all bad,” she admitted. “As an artist, sometimes I lack confidence in my abilities. He boosted my self-esteem. Because of him, I got the courage to submit my designs to a committee that runs the IJC show. You know what that is?”
“I’m not familiar with IJC.”
“International Jewelry Consortium. They run the most exclusive jewelry and gem show in the country. Only a select few dealers and designers are invited to exhibit. And they chose me.” She still felt pride glowing inside her every time she thought about that phone call where they’d told her she was in the show. It was the career break she’d been working toward for five years.
“Congratulations,” Packer said politely, though she knew he had no idea what a big deal it was.
“I worked like crazy to get some very special pieces ready for the show,” she continued. “I had some fabulous stones left to me by my grandmother. Anyway, I woke up one morning and everything was gone. Everything. My checking account was empty and so was my trust fund.”
“How did he get to a trust fund?” LaJolla said, speaking up for the first time. “Don’t those have pretty strict security?”
“Well, it wasn’t a real trust fund. I just called it that. It was an account my father put money into every month for my support, because he thought I couldn’t take care of myself. But I never touched it.” She’d planned to donate it to charity someday. See, Dad? I didn’t need your old money after all.
“But you did accept the money,” said Packer.
“Why do you care about that, anyway? It’s gone, that’s what matters.”
“Just trying to get a complete picture,” he said mildly.
She told him the rest of the story—how Sonya, a debutante from Houston, had tracked her down after Marvin wiped her out, and how the two of them had followed a trail of clues to Cottonwood, where they found Cindy. The three spurned and destitute women—The Blondes, or The Blond Posse, as some people in Cottonwood affectionately called them—had pledged to bring Marvin to justice. The last time they’d seen him, he’d been running naked down the main street of a small Louisiana town—humiliated, but free.
When the story wound down, Packer shut off the recorder and packed up as if ready to leave. “So what are you going to do?” Brenna asked.
“We have to check out a few things,” Agent Packer said noncommittally. “We’ll be back in touch.” A look passed between the two agents.
Brenna was pretty sure she knew what it meant. We’ll be back in touch—when hell freezes over. “So I’ll never hear from you again. No one was murdered, no one was kidnapped. Why would the FBI waste its time?”
“Ms. Thompson, I assure you,” Packer said. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”
As he walked out of the room without a backward glance, Brenna pondered his parting shot. Had it been a promise…or a threat?
HEATH PACKER CLIMBED behind the wheel of his dark blue Chrysler LeBaron while Pete LaJolla, a bit out of breath from the short walk, slid into the passenger seat.
“You gonna tell me what that was about? I thought we were going to arrest her.”
Heath started the engine. He made one circuit around Cottonwood’s town square, marveling at the quaintness of it all as he processed what he’d just learned about Brenna Thompson. “She doesn’t know she’s a suspect.”
“Yeah, so?”
LaJolla was an okay guy, but not the brightest bulb in the marquee. “She thinks she got away with her crime. She thinks her parents would be too embarrassed to turn her in.”
“So…if she thinks she’s gotten away with her crime…she’ll get careless?”
Packer nodded. “And she’ll lead us to the Picasso.”
“You think this Marvin person