Bone Cold (13 page)

“Because his mother was a redhead. Or an Irish setter bit him when he was a kid. Or he's part bull and red sets him off. Who knows?” Terry rubbed the side of his jaw. “Besides, you might be barking up the wrong tree with that. Some would have called Evelyn Parker a blonde.”

“Hey, Malone,” Johnson called. “Captain wants to see us. Bring your notes on Parker and Kent.”

“This really sucks.” Terry got to his feet. “I feel like the kid who didn't get picked for the team. Or a freakin' leper.”

Quentin stood, pocketing his spiral. “It'll blow over.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Don't worry.” He gave his partner's shoulder a squeeze. “I have the feeling we're going to need your help on this one.”

Quentin followed Walden and Johnson into their captain's office, closing the door behind them, aware of Terry watching them. He muttered an oath and crossed to his aunt's desk. He laid his palms on its top, bent and looked her dead in the eyes.

“I want Terry on the team. He's a good cop.”

“Was a good cop,” she corrected. “He's falling apart. And he's under suspicion. Can't do it.”

“Under suspicion, what a load of crap. And you know it. No way Landry had anything—”

She cut him off. “I've made my decision. Now, unless you'd like to join your partner outside, I suggest you shut up and sit down. Do you get me, Detective?”

He did but instead of taking a seat, he stood, resting against the door frame.

“What do we have?” the captain asked, folding her hands on the desk in front of her, tone brisk, confrontation forgotten.

“Victim's name was Evelyn Parker,” Johnson offered. “Twenty-four, Caucasian, a looker. Worked uptown. Lived in the Bywater.”

“Liked to party,” Walden added. “Same as Kent. Was out partying the night of her death.”

“Got all this already,” the captain murmured. “We got anything to go on? Leads? Theories?” She arched an eyebrow. “A good guess?”

Quentin jumped in. “In my mind, the red hair's the thing that links them. What we need to figure out is why this guy's going after redheads.”

“Red hair?” Johnson looked at Quentin. “We've got a bottle-dyed burgundy and a blonde.”

“A strawberry blonde,” Quentin corrected. “A kind of red.”

Walden shook his head. “Both women were out clubbing the night of their deaths, both were big party girls. To my mind, that's what links them.”

Quentin looked at the other man. “The clubs are
how
he finds them, not why he chooses them.”

“Who've you talked to?” Captain O'Shay asked.

“More like, who haven't we talked to.” Johnson filled the captain in. “We've got some good leads. So far no crossovers from the night of the first murder. But just because we haven't got ‘em yet doesn't mean they're not there.”

Quentin spoke up. “My feeling is this guy interacts with the women publicly though not excessively. He's careful not to call attention to himself. He buys her a drink, asks her to dance a time or two. But somebody saw him with her, someone will remember.”

“These girls are being killed in alleys.” The captain moved her gaze between the three detectives. “So what's he smothering them with? Not a bed pillow.”

“His hand?” Walden offered.

“Tough when you got a fighter like Evelyn Parker,” Quentin said. “Unless he's got some damn big hands. Plus, you'd have more bruising of the nose and mouth.”

“A plastic bag then. From a dry cleaner's. Or even a kitchen trash bag, right from the box. Easy to carry in a jacket pocket.”

“There hasn't been any trace plastic found at the scene. Seems like there would have been, considering the asphalt surface underneath both victims' heads.” Johnson looked at Walden. “Search of the Dumpsters around the scene turn up anything of that nature?”

“Not from Kent's scene. The evidence crew is still sifting through the stuff from Parker's.” Walden scratched his head. “Usually, when a bag's used it's left on the victim. Getting it off can get complicated and the perp risks leaving more evidence in the process.”

“Maybe we've got a savvy killer here,” the captain offered. “One concerned about latent prints. He kills the girl, then pockets the murder weapon, disposing of it when he's a safe distance from the scene.”

“Simple is better. We need to operate under the assumption that this one's not stupid.”

Johnson snickered. “You mean he didn't flunk out of Dumb Fuck 101? Too bad for us.”

“If he's not stupid, he's wearing gloves, so he's not worried about prints. Besides, as cold as it's been, nobody would have thought twice about a guy wearing gloves. Not even the victims.”

Quentin drew his eyebrows together. “Here's a simple theory. It's cold out. He uses his coat.”

“What about trace evidence? There'd be fibers for sure. More fiber evidence than we've gotten, that's for damn certain.”

Quentin pushed away from the door. “What about a leather coat?”

The occupants of the room fell silent. They exchanged glances. “He has it with him all the time,” Quentin said. “The weather's cold so nobody thinks twice. It's pliable but not porous. It's also nonfibrous and easy to clean. And the best part is, he walks away wearing the murder weapon.”

“It works for me,” Johnson offered. “But so does the plastic bag theory. It's too convenient not to follow up on.”

Walden nodded. “Ditto. It makes more sense than a guy who carries around a bed pillow.”

Captain O'Shay leaned back in her chair. “I want this thing solved. Two such similar deaths in such a short space of time has sent the media into a feeding frenzy. They're already speculating about when and where number three's going to happen. Chief Pennington's crawling all over my frame and let me tell you, it's damn uncomfortable.”

Johnson cleared his throat. Walden coughed and Quentin narrowed his eyes. “We've got plenty to go on, Captain. We'll close this quick. I guarantee it.”

“See that you do,” she said. “And keep me in the know.”

Johnson and Walden got to their feet and joined Quentin at the door.

The captain stopped Quentin. “Malone?”

He looked back at his aunt. “Not a word to Landry. He's totally out of the loop. Do you understand?”

He frowned. Something in her expression made him uneasy.
What did they have on his partner that they weren't saying?
“You want to tell me what's going on?”

“Can't. Not yet.” She arched her eyebrows. “Can you cooperate? Or you want off the case? I'll understand if—”

“I'll cooperate,” he snapped. “But I'll tell you right now, I think it's a crock of shit. Terry's clean.”

Friday, January 19
The French Quarter, 3:00 p.m.

A
nna sat in front of her computer, the glowing screen blank. Over the past two hours she had written and discarded a dozen paragraphs, unhappy with every word she had written.

Usually she cherished the afternoons she didn't work at The Perfect Rose, time she set aside for her writing. Usually, she made the most of every moment.

Today, she couldn't concentrate. She was plagued by thoughts of her earlier meeting with Detective Malone, her worries about Jaye, her continuing stalemate with her agent and publisher.

Today? she thought in disgust. Truth was, she hadn't written one good page since her editor had delivered her strings-attached offer. What was the point? If she refused their offer, she wouldn't have a publisher—or most probably, an agent—so why rush to write another book?

Tears of frustration pricked the back of her eyes, and she muttered an oath. She would
not
cry over this. If she
was going to cry, she would cry for Jaye. Or Minnie. They needed her. They mattered. Not something as trivial as her publishing career.

Trivial?
Her books, her publishing career mattered. They were important to her.

But not as important as Jaye. As finding out what had happened to her. The good news was, Detective Malone had promised to look into Jaye's disappearance. Anna didn't believe he was convinced something was amiss with her friend's foster parents, nor that Jaye had fallen in harm's way, but at least he would check it out.

Anna propped her chin on her fist, recalling their conversation. Their bantering. What had
that
been all about? Sure, he was a gorgeous-looking man, with one of those quicksilver, rakish smiles, the kind that could melt a woman's heart and good sense. If a woman liked that swaggering, macho type.

She didn't. Period. So where had all that nauseating sexual sparring come from? She'd been there about Jaye, for heaven's sake. What was wrong with her?

Anna told herself to get a grip and dragged her gaze back to the computer screen. She wrote one sentence, then two. The sentences mounted, creating paragraphs.

Of pure, uninspired drivel.

With a sound of frustration, she deleted them. Dear Lord, would she ever write again?

The phone rang and she grabbed for it like a lifeline. “Hello?”

“Anna, Ben Walker.”

At the sound of his voice, Anna experienced a rush of pleasure—and a twinge of guilt. She hadn't thought about him or their discussion since Jaye had disap
peared. Although understandable, she felt bad about it anyway. “Ben,” she murmured. “Hello.”

“How are you?”

“I'm fine. Feeling a little guilty. I was supposed to call you, wasn't I?”

“Don't worry about it.”

She made a sound of regret. “A lot's happened in the past couple of days and truthfully, I haven't had a chance to really think about our conversation.” She filled him in about Jaye, her fears and even her trip to NOPD headquarters.

“Good God, Anna, is there anything I can do?”

“Not unless you can tell me where Jaye is. At least the detective promised to look into it for me. Not that he bought my story.”

He was silent a moment, then cleared his throat. “Call me if you need anything, even if only someone to vent your frustrations on. Don't hesitate, no matter the time of day or night.”

“Or night? Geez, considering how much I've actually slept the last few nights, making that offer's risky.”

“On call night and day, that's me, Dr. Johnny-on-the-Spot.” He sobered. “But I mean it, Anna. Anything at all, call me.”

She thanked him again and silence fell between them. After a moment, he broke it. “Got a question. You haven't ruled me or my offer out have you?”

She liked his straightforward approach and smiled. “No. Definitely not.”

“Good. Because I was hoping you'd go to dinner with me.”

“Dinner?” she repeated, surprised.

“Yes. Tonight.” He paused. “No pressure about any
thing. Just you, me, a bottle of wine and a really good meal. What do you think?”

She didn't hesitate. After the few days she'd just had, the idea of a low-key meal with an interesting man sounded better than good. It sounded perfect.

 

Three hours later, Anna arrived at Arnaud's, a fine old New Orleans restaurant in the Creole tradition. They had arranged to meet at the restaurant and Ben was already there, waiting for her on the sidewalk. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt and garnet-colored tie. He looked cold.

He crossed to the curb and opened the cab door for her, helping her out. “You could have waited inside,” she murmured apologetically. “It's freezing out here.”

“I didn't want to give you even a moment to change your mind.” Smiling, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”

He led her inside; the maître d' had their table ready, one along the wall of leaded-glass windows that faced the street. “I love Arnaud's,” she murmured. “Besides the food being wonderful, it's one of the prettiest dining rooms in town.”

“It's lovely but—never mind.”

“No, tell me.” She smoothed her napkin across her lap. “But what?”

“I was going to say, I wouldn't know because I can't take my eyes off you. You're beautiful, Anna.” He turned red. “I can't believe I said that. How hokey.”

“I think it was sweet.” She reached across the table and lightly touched his hand. “Thank you, Ben.”

Their waiter arrived, introduced himself, took their drink orders, then disappeared. They chatted about the menu while they waited for their drinks, swapping food
stories—a favorite pastime of any New Orleanian worth his salt.

“How's the book going?” she asked after the waiter brought their drinks and took their food orders.

“Oh no you don't.” Ben wagged a finger at her. “Last time I did all the talking. This time it's your turn.” He smiled. “How's
your
writing going?”

Anna thought of the dozen or so paragraphs she had written—and deleted—earlier that day. “It's not,” she murmured, taking a sip of her wine. “Currently, I'm without a contract. And soon, without a publisher as well.”

“How can that be? Your books are terrific. Every bit as good as Sue Grafton's or Mary Higgins Clark's.”

She thanked him, pleased at the compliment, then explained. “They think my past is just the hook they need to catapult me onto the bestseller lists. They've made a more than generous offer, and I want to take it, but…”

“What?” he prompted when her voice trailed off. “Are they difficult to work with?”

“Not at all. I like my editor very much and as a group, they've done a terrific job packaging my stories.”

“So what's the problem?”

She lowered her gaze to her hands, clutched tightly in her lap. “They only want me if they can capitalize on my past. If I take their offer, I'll have to tour. I'll do TV, radio, newspaper. My editor thought they might even be able to get me on one of the big morning shows,
Today
or
Good Morning America.
”

“And the thought terrifies you.”

“God, yes.” She met his eyes. “I want to accept, but I can't imagine fulfilling my part of the agreement. Going on TV and radio and talking about not only my books
but my past? Exposing myself to any nut who might…” She shuddered. “Help me, Ben. Tell me what to do.”

“About their offer?” He laughed without humor. “You already know what you have to do, you just don't like the answer.”

“Damn,” she muttered. “I was afraid you were going to say that. No miracle cure, Doc?”

“Sorry,” he said softly, tone sympathetic. “You're not ready. And you know it. You're not emotionally able to do what your publisher wants.”

“Why is this happening to me?” She fisted her fingers, frustrated. “Everything was going so well. My writing, my life…everything.”

“Was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing's really changed about your life, Anna. You've simply been presented with a choice.”

“One that totally sucks, if you ask me.”

“Not from their point of view. No doubt they think they're being extremely fair. From what you've said, your publisher is offering you not only a lot more money than before, but the kind of opportunity most writers only dream of.”

“You sound like my agent,” she muttered.

“Sorry about that.” He leaned toward her. “The fact is, at this point your fear is stronger than your longing to continue being published. And that fear is understandable, considering your past. But it isn't necessarily rational. And it's not healthy.”

She picked up her wine and sipped, shocked to realize her hands were shaking. “So you think I should just buck up, face my fears and do it? Agree to their offer?”

“I didn't say that. I think your fears can be overcome by working with a good therapist. Not, as your agent
and editor seem to think, through sheer determination. That's a recipe for disaster.”

Silence fell between them as their first course was delivered, seafood gumbo for him and shrimp Arnaud for her.

“I know you're leery of therapists, Anna,” he murmured, dipping his spoon into the thick, savory soup. “But what about working with a group of other people who are in a similar boat? I facilitate a fear group on Thursday evenings, you could come check us out, see if it's something you feel you'd benefit from. If you didn't feel comfortable working with me, there are a number of such groups in the area. I could check around, do a little research for you, recommend a few.”

A group? Of other people like her? Would she be able to open up in front of them any better than she could to other strangers? Could it help her?

He searched her gaze. “How do you feel about that?”

“Apprehensive.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Nervous about the idea. Curious.”

“Good.” He smiled. “That's a start.”

“Do you need an answer now?”

“Absolutely not. Take all the time you need. This has to be a decision you come to willingly, Anna. Not under pressure.”

Willingly?
A nice concept, but one her mystery terrorist—as she had come to think of him—had stolen from her.

“If you decide to give us a try, let me know right away. Group is an intimate forum. One that relies on a high level of trust between the participants. If you want to sit in, I'll have to introduce the idea to the group, tell them
a little about you and, basically, get their permission to allow you in.”

She liked the sound of that and told him so. She also promised to let him know the minute she decided she wanted to participate.

From there, they concentrated on their meal, which was every bit as fabulous as Anna had expected. While they ate, Ben told stories about the different places he had lived, but from time to time Anna caught her attention wandering to Jaye and Detective Malone's promise.

When he poked around the Clausens' past, what would he find? Jaye, she prayed. Safe and sound.

“Anna? Are you all right?”

She blinked, jostled out of her thoughts by Ben's question. She smiled apologetically at him. “Sorry. I guess the last few days are catching up with me.”

“No problem. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Just keep putting up with me, okay?”

He agreed, and for the remainder of their meal Anna kept her attention focused on her dinner companion.

The bill paid, they stood to leave the restaurant. Before Anna could ask the maître d' to call a cab for her, Ben offered to drive her. “That's silly, I'm only a few blocks from here and it's out of your way.”

“But I asked you to dinner. Any gentleman worth that title sees his date safely home.”

She hesitated only a moment, then agreed. “All right.”

Only a handful of minutes later, Ben double-parked in front of her building, climbed out of the vehicle and came around to open her door. He helped her out and walked her to the courtyard gate. There, they faced one
another. “I had a really nice time, Ben. Thanks.” Her lips lifted. “Actually, tonight was just what I needed.”

He reached out and lightly touched her cheek, then dropped his hand. “I'm feeling a little guilty right now,” he murmured, voice deepening. “You see, I had an ulterior motive for asking you to dinner tonight.”

Ben had expressed his interest in her in subtle ways all evening. Had he decided to abandon subtlety for a more direct approach?

If he had, how would she feel?

Her cheeks warmed and her pulse began to race. She searched his expression. His face lay half in shadow, half in the light cast by a neighbor's porch light, transforming his looks from that of mild-mannered doctor to mysterious stranger.

Stranger. A man she hardly knew. One whose intentions she couldn't be certain of.

A shiver of excitement and apprehension moved over her. She held her breath, waiting.

“I need to come clean with you about something,” Ben continued. “And I hope you won't be too angry with me.”

Anna drew her eyebrows together, confused. What he'd just said didn't jibe with her train of thought, not at all. Just what kind of “ulterior motives” concerning their date had he had?

Ben caught her hands. “At our last meeting, I wasn't quite honest with you.”

Obviously not the kind she'd thought he'd had.
She stared at him a moment, then giggled.

He looked surprised by her reaction, then hurt. “What did I say?”

“I thought… Your ulterior motive—” She giggled again.

It took a half second for her words to sink in, then a slow smile crept across his face. “I like to think I have a little more finesse than that, Anna.”