4. Ivory and Cream

FOUR

Ivory and Cream

Rus had been warned.

He was still unprepared for the road to Bon Amie being so out of the way. Some of it was gravel, some of it was mud, some of it was treacherous, and all of it was through thick, coniferous forest.

He was therefore unprepared for when he saw it.

A large, two-story, stately lodge made of logs, with a wide front overhang under which guests could get out of their vehicles and they wouldn’t get pelted by rain.

That happening right then.

It looked like a rustic mansion.

He had no idea how it could serve as a burlesque theater, but as he slowed to a halt under the overhang, he was about to find out.

He’d left the Crystal Killer file with Bohannan and Moran.

Before he’d done that, Rus and Moran decided on a game plan with input from Bohannan. Moran declared he was going to be Rus’s local partner, a decision that Rus would make if he was in Moran’s boots. So the kickoff was Moran going home and getting some sleep so he didn’t fuck anything up by being dead on his feet after being awake for twenty-four hours.

Moran didn’t fight this, another indication he had his head straight, not up his ass or thinking with his balls. However, he was going to look through the file before Bohannan took it with him.

After Moran got some shuteye, he and Rus were going to do interviews with the mother and brother.

They’d also agreed his deputies were going to dig deeper, as quietly as possible, talking to the motel owner and staff and knocking on some doors.

The motel was just outside the town, on a lonesome lot set in a mountain, but up and down from it there were businesses and homes.

It was a longshot, but no stone unturned. You never knew when you were going to catch a break, and since this was a new entity he was dealing with, there were no givens.

Anything could happen.

Rus had learned prior to his arrival it had been reported by the desk clerk that Brittanie had checked in herself, and when she did, she did not seem distressed. The clerk had assumed, since she was known in town (and so was her mother), that she was there for a tryst, although to the clerk’s recollection this had never happened before.

They did not see anyone meet her in her room.

This, too, was not the MO of the Crystal Killer. He checked in himself, always in disguise at accommodations he ascertained beforehand didn’t have any security cameras in the lobby.

So, yeah.

Anything could happen.

While all this was going down, Rus was going to take their advice and go meet Lucinda Bonner.

He looked around as he exited his SUV, seeing there were only a few cars.

Considering it had just gone one, and they probably didn’t offer matinees, this didn’t seem out of place.

But Polly had set him up with a detailed who, what and where (he was correct: Polly was very short, wore a skirt and sweater set that was reminiscent of the fifties, and had a professional attitude that was liberally mingled with a friendly, I’m-the-second-mom-to-all-who-work-here feel that said she was not only down with that, she nurtured it).

She’d also shared that she’d booked him a room in the Pinetop Lodge that, “Has an amazing view of the lake, real close to Bohannan’s compound, which will be convenient for you.”

News Bohannan had a compound didn’t faze him.

Rus didn’t have the money to set roots in a town in the middle of nowhere that had amazing scenery, but if he did, he’d do it on his own compound.

Gates. Lots of fence. All of it electrified.

There was shit that went bump in the night, and Rus didn’t want it anywhere near him.

His ex, Jennifer, had remarried, and he still woke up in a sweat that something would happen to her when he wasn’t there.

Same with his kids, who were both in college, something he knew they needed to do to get on with their lives. But it messed with his head, because campus life aggravated pretty much every fucked-up scenario that could happen to your kid.

His son, Acre, could handle himself (he hoped).

His daughter, Sabrina, probably could not. She was more girl than any girl he’d ever met.

He loved it.

And it might kill him.

He had plans to meet up with Moran and Bohannan at Pinetop that evening to compare notes: Jace and Jesse coming with Bohannan. Jace, because Rus wanted to talk to him, Jesse, because Rus was intrigued about a set of twenty-eight-year-old twin PIs who were also the spawn of a legendary FBI profiler.

He hadn’t rounded his hood when one of the double doors to Bon Amie opened and a woman wearing a masculine-style black suit, black shirt and a black tie, came out. Her hair was severely pulled back from a side part into a bun at the nape of her neck, and not a stroke of makeup was on her fine-featured face.

She was average height, average build, and even though Rus had seven inches on her, kept fit and had been trained to take care of business, he knew it’d be a crapshoot at what might happen if he was stupid enough to mess with her.

Female security.

Now Rus was even more intrigued than he’d already been about Lucinda Bonner.

“Special Agent Lazarus?” she asked.

He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer to get his credentials, but she shook her head.

“Ms. Bonner is expecting you.”

Polly had called ahead.

She held the door open for him.

He walked in, not to face a theater, but an enormous open-plan room with vaulted ceilings that looked part chic mountain getaway living room and part chic mountain getaway bar, and the last part was a high-class restaurant. There were lots of huge windows, including the entire back wall.

And the back of the building didn’t face forest. It faced a drop-away view of a massive valley, at the bottom of which was a rushing river with white water rapids and rising beyond was dense forest leading up to a snowy mountain peak in the distance.

So the show wasn’t the only hot ticket for the house.

It still begged the question as to where the theater was.

The woman who greeted him walked to the side, where there was an open staircase made of rough wood with a banister fortified by polished branches. This was set against a stone wall and rose above an enormous fireplace.

They ascended, and he saw one door at the landing. It would lead to a room situated above the overhang outside. The landing had a view of the entire bar and seating area, through to the vista out the back windows.

Security knocked twice, then opened the door.

“The agent from the FBI is here,” she said, then stepped aside on the landing, indicating Rus should walk in.

He did so.

He didn’t know what to expect, any of it, including Lucinda Bonner, but whatever it was, as usual since he hit Misted Pines, he didn’t get it.

Pure class, from the threshold to the woman rising from her chair, her attention trained on him.

She was behind a big modern desk of ivory-stained wood with an ivory leather chair behind it, the numerous nail heads that held the leather stretched in place, exposed on its edges. Two armchairs faced the desk, they were boxed in spindled wood, covered in cream upholstery and had tan and brown zebra-print pillows resting against their backs.

The wood floor had a large area rug with an ivory nap and champagne-gold highlights woven into it.

The desk was clear of everything, save an attractive, squat desk lamp at the center, front edge, a short stack of manila folders in the middle, and at one corner, a tall, perfect orchid plant with yellow blooms fading into dark pink centers, sprouting from a gold pot.

The walls were mostly windows.

The only other thing in the room was an oval plinth in a corner, on top of which was a large sculpture of a Native fetish bear crafted from what looked like solidified honey.

The desk faced the door. The armchairs faced the forest.

And the woman in a figure-skimming cream dress with a high neck, no sleeves, and bisque suede, high, stiletto-heeled pumps on her feet, had stepped to the side of the desk, and she faced Rus.

Her makeup and hair looked done by a professional. The knot at her nape the polar opposite of that worn by her security. It was soft and feminine, exposing the long line of her neck, which was a continuation of the long line of her body.

She had ass and hips.

But fuck him, he was a leg man, and her legs went on forever.

His wife had been blonde, and when she cheated on him, she’d picked a man who looked uncannily like Rus.

The man wasn’t just her type, it was a way to rub her pain into Rus’s skin, causing him to feel the same.

It had worked.

After his divorce, he’d sworn off anything but the most casual of relationships. A woman to go to dinner with. A woman to catch a movie with. A woman to sleep with. And he had two who were happy to share these things with him and nothing more.

One was redhead.

One was brunette.

They were these because, even though they were three years out on their divorce, he’d made a pact with himself that he was never going to hit Jennifer with the bullet she’d sent tearing through his flesh.

Not that she’d ever see him with either of them. Penny lived in Texas. Ruth lived in Philly. He lived in Virginia, as did Jenn.

But he wasn’t going to take the chance just in case.

So, after he tore his mind off Lucinda Bonner’s legs, then her shoes, he knew this case was going to fuck him in more ways than it already had because she was a brunette.

Fair game.

Shit.

She came forward, hand raised.

“Special Agent Lazarus.”

He was not about to tell her to call him Rus, and not only because her voice was low and sultry.

But now that was one of the reasons.

He took her hand. “Ms. Bonner.”

“Lucinda,” she invited.

So, not everyone called her Cin.

Moran gave him the impression she was a straight arrow, but this woman could lure a man to stray.

Though, Bohannan called her Cin too. That said, it was Rus’s understanding he’d only been with Delphine Larue for a short time but had been living in Misted Pines for years. He could see how Bohannan might have earned the honor of using her shortened name too.

She swung the hand he’d let go to the chairs. “Please sit.”

He moved to do so.

She walked back behind the desk, offering, “Can I get you something to drink? Water? A soda? Coffee?”

He hadn’t had anything since breakfast on the plane. He could use a sandwich. A beverage would just remind him he needed to eat.

“No, thanks,” he answered, and then, for both their sakes, he dove in. “It’s my understanding Polly spoke to you about what’s happened.”

Her amber eyes closed slightly, the movement and the thick line of her false eyelashes hiding her response from him.

But the tone of her voice was holding nothing back.

“Brittanie,” she said softly.

“It’s been explained she worked for you.”

She nodded. “She was a dancer. In the chorus.”

At this point, she put a hand on the manila folders and slid them across the desk his way.

And again, what happened was unexpected.

“The top is for you to take with you,” she said. “It’s Britt’s schedule for the last two months. Her cell phone number and address. The name and phone number of her emergency contact, Keyleigh, another of my dancers. They were roommates, but Keyleigh moved in with her boyfriend about two months ago. Britt stayed in their old apartment. I’ve added a list of any boyfriends that she spoke to me about, friends she had outside of the club, and names of all my staff, in order of those who she was closest to who knew her the best. If you like, I’ll arrange for you to interview them here in this office when you’re ready. The bottom folder is her personnel file. I don’t mind if you take photos, but if you’d please read it here and leave it here. I’m not comfortable with you taking it.”

The first part saved time, because it was all questions he’d ask and information he’d request.

The second he was shocked about, because often, to cover their own ass, an employer demanded a warrant.

“You’re being helpful,” he noted with careful nonchalance.

And again, the amber of her eyes became slits as they narrowed, but this time her reaction wasn’t hidden.

She was peeved because she was insulted.

“One of my girls was murdered. You’re here to find who did that to her. I don’t have the skills to do what you do, or I’d be doing that. Instead, I can give you everything I have that might help.” She dipped her head to the folders. “So I’ve done that.”

“It’s appreciated,” he murmured.

Her voice was as narrow as her gaze when she replied, “I don’t want you to appreciate it, I want you to find who killed Britt.”

Yes.

Insulted.

But more.

She cared about Brittanie.

“Can I ask a few questions about Brittanie?”

She didn’t answer verbally. She sat back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her, not taking her eyes from him, but her expression told him that was perhaps the stupidest question she’d ever heard.

For the first time since he got the call that another victim had been discovered, he felt like smiling.

He didn’t do that.

He shifted the top folder aside, tapped the personnel file and said, “Tell me what’s not in here.”

No hesitation, she launched in.

“Brittanie’s mother wanted to work for my mother. She was a terrible dancer and an even worse person. And when I say she was a terrible dancer, she was dire. So that explains what kind of person Melanie Iverson is. However, all her life she wanted to work at Bon Amie. Because of this, I think the driving force of Brittanie’s life was to do what her mother could not, not so she’d live the dream for her mother, but to put it right in her face that she could do what her mother couldn’t.”

“You’re saying they aren’t close.”

“I’m saying Britt hated the woman, but then most people who meet her do,” she said coolly.

“Is she close with her brother?”

Her lip curled and she didn’t bother to hide it.

“Dakota is his father, so no.”

He nodded in understanding. “I’ve been given some insight into the family by Sheriff Moran.”

“I bet you have,” she murmured.

“Can you explain that remark?”

Her focus sharpened on him and he knew why.

The inference could be made he knew why she knew what Moran knew, and how she came about knowing it.

Pillow talk.

And Rus couldn’t say that with his quick retort, he hadn’t injected that inference when he asked the question.

It was because he wanted to know if she was sleeping with, or had in the past slept with the sheriff.

This wasn’t important for him to know, exactly.

But it put him at a disadvantage not knowing it.

It was a small town and the personalities in it were going to be intertwined. He didn’t have ten years to untangle that mess, but messes like that always had some bearing on small-town crime.

He had no idea if he, in Moran’s position, colleague to colleague, would admit to having had an intimate relationship with a victim’s employer.

Then again, he married at nineteen and never considered stepping out on his wife, so it wasn’t something he’d ever have to consider.

He couldn’t deny he’d also made this inference simply because he wanted to know.

This was because, complicating matters, at least for him, he wanted to sleep with Lucinda Bonner.

No, he couldn’t deny that, even to himself.

“Everyone knows about the Iversons, Agent Lazarus,” she said. “And just so you won’t put your foot in that stinking pile again, you should know Harry’s wife died some time ago. They’d been married a year when it happened. And the reason he still wears her ring tells you all about the devotion he had to the woman who slid it on his finger.”

He thought of the pretty, smiling woman in the picture on Moran’s credenza.

Fucking hell.

Poor Moran.

Right.

Next.

“What else do I need to know about Brittanie?”

Lucinda let it go without hesitation.

“She didn’t want to be like her mother, but in some ways, she was. She called in sick often. It got to the point of a written warning. It was the only way I could put a stop to it.”

This, he could learn in her personnel file.

Lucinda kept talking.

“She wasn’t very smart about money, and she’d sometimes ask to wait the floor on nights she wasn’t performing. She’d get in trouble when it was time to pay rent, but she had a new Louis Vuitton bag. That kind of thing.”

This was important.

He could imagine someone who wanted a life that included designer bags finding ways to get them that might lead her to trouble.

Though, if she found that trouble, it’s unlikely that person would rape her, sodomize her and cave her skull in. It’s hard to pay back a loan or work it off when you’re dead.

However, that didn’t rule out the possibility by what means she might work off a loan would put her in a position she’d be left in a hotel room by a copycat murderer.

“I have a no fraternization policy,” Lucinda carried on. “And she consistently fraternized. She got a verbal about that as well. This was an issue for her. She had a small cadre of friends because she tended to try to steal boyfriends, and sometimes succeeded. All she knew in her life was drama, and she didn’t understand how to live without it. So she created it in order to find her safe space, not comprehending it wasn’t actually safe.”

“It’s my understanding she dated Cade Bohannan’s son.”

She perked up. “Has Cade waded into this?”

“I wish I could share with you, Ms. Bonner, but in terms of how we investigate, I can’t.”

She let that go immediately too.

“Yes, she dated Jace. I was pleased when they started going out. He’s young, but he’s also his father’s son, so he’s a good man, he knows what he wants, and what he doesn’t. Sadly, he didn’t want drama, and it didn’t last.”

“You cared about her.”

She uncrossed her arms, set her hand on the desk and drummed fingers that were tipped in nails that weren’t long, nor were they short. But they were perfectly symmetrical, squared off and painted a soft beige.

Enough to dig into your skin, not enough to tear it.

Unless she lost control.

He took his mind off her nails by looking at her face, which of course made him think about her nails sinking into his skin if he made her lose control.

She was staring at the bare corner of the desk when she said quietly, “She was a talented dancer. And she was a good kid. She wasn’t brought up right, but she listened, and sometimes she learned. She was very funny and very full of life. People she cared about, she’d do anything for them if it was within her power.” Lucinda lifted her gaze to his. “I liked her. I don’t take all my girls under my wing because most of them don’t need it. But Brittanie was different.”

Lucinda Bonner wasn’t as old as he was, he’d put her at thirty-five, tops, so she was nowhere near old enough to be Brittanie Iverson’s mother.

But that feeling was there. Her eyes glowed with something deeper.

I don’t have the skills to do what you do, or I’d be doing that.

“Did taking Brittanie under your wing pass beyond Bon Amie?” he asked.

She shook her head, the movement melancholy, like she wished she had.

“I didn’t let her waitress when she needed money because I didn’t need an exhausted girl dragging on the chorus line. Also because she needed to learn how to manage her money. We had conversations. We had moments. And with Britt, there were more of those than any others, past or present. But all within these walls. As much as my girls matter to me, all my staff matters to me, boundaries are essential. If I didn’t set them, I’d have a revolving door of broken hearts, girl fights, loan requests and my couch would never be empty.”

She took her hand from the desk, put it in her lap, and straightened her shoulders.

“This business has been in my family for six generations. I grew up learning how to compartmentalize while fostering. My family is my family, Agent Lazarus, and my business is my business.”

“Understandable,” he murmured, holding her eyes.

She didn’t need his validation, she didn’t say that, not audibly, but he got it.

“Do you think she would do something ill-advised if she had money issues?” he asked.

“I haven’t come right out and said it, though I’ve implied it, but I’ll be clear. Brittanie was the master of doing things that were ill-advised. So yes.”

“But she didn’t tell you of anything that might cause you concern.”

She shook her head. “Keyleigh might know something, but I doubt it. Britt was getting old enough to know better. She’d almost lost her job with me, twice. Keyleigh, who’s older than Britt and would definitely cast herself as Britt’s older sister, could get impatient with her too. I’m sure you can guess why, but she’ll also tell you. So if she was up to something she shouldn’t be, I’m not sure she’d confide that in anyone. Though, Keyleigh can speak to that better than me.”

“I’ll need to talk with Keyleigh right away.”

“I can arrange for that while you’re reading Britt’s file.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

She nodded.

“Was Brittanie seeing someone?”

She shook her head again. “She hadn’t been serious about anyone since Jace. And losing Jace was a blow. She suffered for that. But she was a dancer at Bon Amie. If she wanted attention, she could find it. And she liked attention.”

Now they were into something sticky because they were talking patrons.

“Would you have names of those who paid Brittanie attention?”

She leaned forward, put her elbow on her desk and flicked out her hand, palm up.

“Hand me the top file. I’ll write them down. At least the ones I know.”

Again, unexpected.

He handed her the file.

She took it, put it in front of her, then opened the middle drawer of her desk.

She pulled out an iPhone and a gold pen he knew was Cartier, because he’d bought one like it for his wife for their fifteenth wedding anniversary.

She didn’t open the folder and start writing, though.

She remarked, “Polly told me she’d been killed. She didn’t get into specifics.”

Before she could continue, Rus spoke. He did it low and with feeling because he couldn’t talk to her about this, but he didn’t want to rebuff her unduly.

“I’m sorry, Lucinda, I can’t share much about the case.”

“Can you at least tell me she didn’t suffer?”

He couldn’t so he didn’t say anything.

And that was when it happened.

When Lucinda Bonner stopped being the most fuckable woman he’d laid eyes on, including his wife, but only because she hadn’t been a woman when he met her, since they met at fifteen.

It was also when Lucinda stopped being a woman he’d consider proposing a friends with benefits arrangement to, because he wouldn’t mind long weekends in the Pacific Northwest. Not simply because it was gorgeous out here, mostly because she was gorgeous so he’d be spending that time with her.

Instead, she became the first woman since his ex-wife that he wanted to know everything about. What she looked like when she smiled. What she sounded like when she laughed. Both when she orgasmed. And everything else he could learn about a sixth-generation woman who turned catering to the base needs of a man into a living that involved her wearing eight-hundred-dollar shoes and using Cartier pens.

This happened when tears shimmered in her eyes momentarily, before she sniffed, set her pen aside, picked up her phone, touched the screen and put it to her ear.

She said into it, “Call Keyleigh. Tell her I need her up here immediately.”

With that, she put her phone down, picked up the pen, opened the folder, flipped the top page to its back and started writing a list of names.

But even if Rus knew he was in trouble when it came to Lucinda, he also knew that she’d lied.

He was sure she could compartmentalize like a pro.

But Brittanie Iverson meant something to her.

And that didn’t stay within these walls.