Chapter Twenty-Four
The Fox Theatre in Midtown Atlanta was even bigger and more problematic than the Music Hall in Dallas. Called the Fabulous Fox, it was built in 1929, one of the great movie houses of the pre-Depression era. Done in an Arabian motif, the auditorium boasted an image of the night sky filled with crystal stars and clouds that drifted across a midnight-blue ceiling.
There were ballrooms and smaller private venues, rooms as opulent as a sultan’s palace, a maze of chambers and hallways that offered potential hiding places for any determined intruder.
It was a security nightmare and to make matters worse, the top floor of the theater was a thirty-six-hundred square-foot apartment. The tenant, in his late eighties, was an icon in the community who had worked at the Fox since the seventies and been granted a lease for life.
The apartment was hands-off to the La Belle security crew. They would have to do exterior surveillance only and hope it was enough.
“All right, you guys, listen up,” Ethan said. His team surrounded him backstage on Monday morning. Matt Carlyle had pulled Beau Desmond and the La Belle crew in as well, and they fanned out behind Ethan’s men. Since he’d been working with the Dallas police, Ethan had the most recent, most accurate information on the Mandy Gee slaying, information that might help keep the models safe.
Desmond and his buddy, Bick Gallagher, weren’t happy Carlyle had put Ethan in charge.
“You’ve all been briefed on the Mandy Gee murder,” Ethan began. “You also know her killer is still out there. He could be lounging on a beach in Florida. Or he could be right here in Atlanta, looking for a way to murder another woman. He couldn’t get to the models in Dallas, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try it here. Which means we’ve got to have this place completely secure by this afternoon, when the women arrive to start rehearsing.”
“Bick says they’re letting the press in on Tuesday,” one of the La Belle crew said, a fireplug of a guy with enough lumps on his face to look like he’d been cage fighting for the last ten years. “Is that right?”
Ethan nodded. “That’s right. They’ll be here Tuesday before the dress rehearsal instead of before the show on Wednesday. Mr. Carlyle hopes to get a little more momentum, get some additional promo.”
“I don’t see why he’s worried,” Sandy Sandowski said. “From what I hear, the show’s already sold out.”
“More press sells more lingerie,” Ethan said. “It’s as simple as that. Plus having it done a day earlier takes some of the pressure off the models the night of the performance.”
“Anything new on this Mahler?” Joe Posey asked. They’d all been told the name of the primary suspect and been given a brief description, including his pale blue eyes and the scar on his forearm.
“I talked to Detective Ford in Dallas this morning.” Ethan pulled out a folded piece of paper he’d made on the printer in Val’s suite. “This is a copy of the composite sketch Ford e-mailed me earlier. If you see anyone who looks remotely like this guy, call for backup. Don’t take chances. Don’t try to take him down, but keep the guy in sight until the police get there.”
“You really think he’ll show?” asked one of Desmond’s men, a guy with ropy muscles, long brown hair gooped back and tucked behind his ears.
“There’s a chance he might,” Ethan said.
“Guy’s got every cop in the South looking for his sorry ass,” Joe said. “I figure he’ll hole up somewhere till things die down.”
“Could be,” Ethan said. “But a creep like this, he’s crossed some invisible line in his head. He’s tasted blood and he wants more. Keep your eyes open. You don’t want that blood to be yours.”
The men mumbled their agreement.
Ethan looked over, caught Beau Desmond’s thin-lipped expression. “Anything you want to add, Beau?” He wasn’t fond of Desmond, but it was always better to keep the peace whenever possible.
“Yeah, I got something to add. Mr. Carlyle expects you men to keep the women safe. Do whatever it takes to make sure that happens. That’s what you get paid for. You see something, you handle it. That’s why we’re here. We don’t need the fuckin’ cops doing our job for us.” He flicked Ethan a challenging glance.
Ethan kept his mouth shut. If Beau wanted to get one of his men killed, all they had to do was follow his advice.
“If there’s nothing else,” Ethan said, “you’re dismissed. My guys, I want one more word.” The other men filed away, along with Gallagher and Desmond.
“You remember what I said earlier?” Ethan said.
“Yes, sir,” they agreed in unison.
“We call for backup,” Joe said, clarifying Ethan’s orders. “And keep the guy in sight till the cops get here.”
“That’s right. Keep your eyes open. Look for anything out of the ordinary. We’ve got a lot more to worry about than just this one guy. They still haven’t found the guy who murdered Delilah Larsen in Seattle. Stay sharp and stay safe. For now, that’s all.”
The men dispersed. They had a lot to do to secure the building before rehearsal started at noon.
It was late, dusk setting over the landscape by the time rehearsal was over. Val sat in the bus next to Meg, Izzy, Carmen, and the first batch of models heading back to the Four Seasons Hotel, where the tour was staying in Atlanta. Ethan and Dirk accompanied them, Dirk riding in front, Ethan in the rear. Bick and Beau, the dynamic duo, as Meg had dubbed them, were on the second bus, which followed a few blocks behind.
Val was just calming down, her nerves settling after her performance onstage. It was always that way, even during rehearsal. It took a moment to realize the muffled ringing in the bottom of her purse was someone calling on her cell.
