I
"Dios mío, what am I doing?"
Jasmine had been asking herself the same question ever since the Greyhound pulled away from the corner of Weatherford and Houston.
Fort Worth in July was an oven.
Heat pressed against her skin. Sweat gathered at her temples, dampening the dark curl that refused to stay pinned back. She brushed it away and tightened her grip on her navy clutch.
Across the street stood the CID building.
She stared at it for a moment.
Jasmine had never been inside a police building before. Men like the ones who visited Madame's establishments preferred discretion. Business was conducted behind closed doors, in hotel rooms and private offices. Nobody wanted law enforcement involved.
Yet here she was.
A car slowed as it passed. The driver glanced at her before continuing on. Jasmine looked away and crossed the street before she could change her mind.
Inside, the lobby hit her like a shock of refrigerated air. Her sweat turned to a thin, icy film. The air smelled of lemon oil and stale tobacco.
Her heels clicked across the marble floor.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sound echoed through the silence. She tried to walk lighter. It only seemed louder. Every uniform in the room turned to look.
At the reception desk sat a blonde woman wearing cat-eye glasses. She looked Jasmine over without smiling.
"I need to file a report," Jasmine said.
The receptionist paused. "What kind of report?"
Jasmine swallowed. "Assault."
The woman pointed toward a bench. "Take a seat. Someone will be with you."
Jasmine sat.
Waiting only made her more nervous.
She folded her hands. Unfolded them. Watched a fly bounce against a nearby window. Every time the front doors opened, her stomach tightened.
If someone recognized her—
If word reached Madame—
She pushed the thought away.
The clock on the wall seemed determined not to move.
Thirty minutes later, a deputy appeared. "This way."
Jasmine rose immediately.
He led her down a corridor and stopped outside a frosted-glass door.
MAJOR.
The gold lettering had faded with age.
The deputy gave a sharp, two-fingered rap against the wood. "Major. Someone for you."
"Come in."
The voice sounded distracted.
The deputy opened the door.
Jasmine stepped inside.
A large man stood at the window with his back to her.
For a moment she simply stared.
He was enormous. Broad shoulders stretched beneath a tan uniform. Sunlight framed his silhouette, making him appear even larger.
He didn't turn around.
"Sit down, Miss Fernández."
Jasmine obeyed. The chair felt hard beneath her.
Only then did he turn.
His face was deeply bronzed. Sandy blond hair. Blue eyes. A jaw that looked carved from stone. The sort of man who expected answers.
He crossed the room and sat behind the desk.
For several seconds he said nothing.
The silence unsettled her more than questions would have.
Finally he picked up a pen. "You came here to report something."
"Yes."
"What happened?"
Jasmine drew a breath. "An assault."
The pen moved across the paper.
"Start from the beginning, Miss Fernández."
"His name is Carl. I don't know his last name," she said quickly. "I don't have proof. But he hurt me."
A curl slipped loose and fell across her cheek. She pushed it back. It immediately fell forward again.
The major watched the movement without comment.
"When did this happen?"
"Two nights ago."
"Where?"
"A hotel."
"Which hotel?"
She hesitated. "I don't know."
The scratching of his pen stopped.
"You don't know."
"It was dark. I wasn't looking at the sign."
"You weren't paying attention."
Her frustration flared. "No. I was paying attention to the man who was about to—"
Her words trailed off.
The major remained expressionless.
"Where did you go afterward?"
"A friend's house."
"A friend."
"Yes."
He studied her. The look made her increasingly uncomfortable.
Then he asked quietly, "Why are you really here?"
Jasmine stared at him. "I told you. I want to report an assault."
"No."
The single word stopped her cold.
"That's part of it. Not all of it."
Something in his gaze made her stand. "I should go."
She reached the door.
"Miss Fernández."
Her hand froze on the knob.
"If you want my help, I need a name."
Jasmine closed her eyes.
If Madame found out—
"I can't."
The major leaned back. "Then I can't help you."
Silence filled the room.
Finally she whispered, "The Blue Parrot."
The major waited.
"Commerce Street."
He nodded once. "Thank you."
Jasmine opened the door and left before she could lose her nerve.
* * *
Rudolph remained seated after she left.
The office fell quiet.
For a moment, he stared at the door.
Joy by Jean Patou.
The faint scent still lingered in the air.
His gaze dropped to the file on his desk.
She wasn't what she'd pretended to be.
The fear had been real.
So had the nerves.
Everything else?
He wasn't so sure.
She'd come into his office determined to say one thing.
Then she'd changed her mind.
Rudolph picked up his pen and glanced at his notes.
The Blue Parrot.
Commerce Street.
The name wasn't new.
He'd heard it before.
Complaints.
Rumours.
Stories passed from one man to another.
Never anyone willing to put a name beside them.
Until now.
He underlined the name once.
Set the pen aside.
His coffee sat forgotten near the corner of the desk.
He took a sip.
Cold.
He drank it anyway.
Then he reached for the telephone.
