Bone Cold (26 page)

Thursday, February 1
5:45 p.m.

A
nna spent the next twenty-four hours doing what Malone thought she should: lying low, hiding out, allowing others to solve her problems for her. She paced the floor waiting for the phone to ring, jumped at every unexpected noise and agonized over Jaye and Minnie.

At the end of those hours, she came to a decision. She was done being a victim. With being a frightened little mouse to Kurt's cat. She had been doing that for twenty-three years. She was done with sitting back and waiting for Malone and his team to find and save Jaye. To save
her.

The time had come to stop hiding. To take charge and
do
something. She was going to take Malone's suggestion and get a list of Ben's patients from him.

Only she wasn't going to ask. She wasn't going to try to wheedle or cajole the names out of him. Because he wouldn't give them to her voluntarily. She was certain of that.

Anna crossed to her apartment door and peeked out at laSalle. “Hey, Joe, you need anything?”

He smiled. “Nope. But thanks for asking.”

“Who's replacing you tonight?”

“Morgan. At six.”

“I'm going to wash my hair. So if I don't see you until tomorrow, have a great night off.”

She ducked back into her apartment, locking the dead bolt behind her. She collected her portable phone and carried it to the bathroom, closed and locked the door behind her. She didn't know why she felt the need for subterfuge, for absolute privacy, but she did. She didn't want to chance anyone listening in on what she was about to say.

Guilty conscience. That's why. What she was about to do was pretty crummy. Especially since Ben had been nothing but good to her.

But she had to do this. And no one would be hurt, she reminded herself. Not even Ben. And someone—or several someones—might be helped. Most importantly Jaye and Minnie.

Taking a deep breath, Anna quickly dialed Ben's number. He answered almost immediately. “Ben,” she murmured, feeling a pinch of guilt. “It's Anna.”

“Anna, it's so good to hear from you.”

At the pleasure in his voice, the pinch became a stab. She ignored it. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore. Plenty of aches and pains. But mostly I'm pissed for having been so stupid.” He paused. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Not great.”

“What can I do?”

“I'm glad you asked, because that's why I'm calling. For help.”

“You've got it. Just ask.”

“That fear group you told me about, is there still room in it for me?”

For several moments, he said nothing. Then he cleared his throat. “You've taken me by surprise.”

“I have to do something, Ben. I can't go on this way, hiding in my apartment, jumping at every sound. I think the group might help.”

“You have a genuine reason to be afraid now, Anna. In the group we deal with irrational fears. Things like—”

“My fear that after twenty-three years Kurt was going to come find and punish me for botching his kidnapping plan? Things like giving up the things I love, like my writing, to avoid being exposed to the public?”

“Yeah, things like that. But considering recent events in your life—”

“Please, Ben.” She lowered her voice. “I'm tired of living this way. I need help.”

He let out a long breath. “All right, Anna. We meet tonight. At seven. But I'll have to talk to the group before I let you participate. They have to give their okay.”

“I'll wait in your office,” she offered, feeling ill at her own duplicity. “For however long it takes.”

“They're a good group of people,” he went on. “I'd be surprised if they turn you away.”

“Thank you, Ben.” Anna heard the gratitude in her voice and acknowledged that it was authentic. She appreciated his friendship. She was glad he had come into her life.

She told him so.

“Grateful enough to go out for a drink with me after session?”

“I'd love to.” She smiled. “It's a date, Ben.”

 

Anna arrived at Ben's office fifteen minutes before seven. She was nervous. Her palms were sweating and she couldn't bring herself to meet the curious gazes of the other people in the waiting room. She felt like a fraud. An impostor. She feared that if she looked any of them in the eyes, they would be able to see right through her.

Same with Ben. He emerged from his office a couple of minutes before seven. He smiled and greeted his patients, then crossed to her. He caught her hands and smiled. “How are you?”

She forced herself to look him in the eyes. “Nervous.”
At least that wasn't a lie.

“It's going to be fine. Everyone in the group is non-threatening and quite welcoming to newcomers.” He motioned to the room to the right of his office. “That's where the group meets. You can wait here or in my office, wherever you think you'll feel most comfortable.”

“Your office. If it's…okay?”

“Of course.” He smiled warmly and turned to the ten men and women milling about or talking in small clusters. “The door's open. Go ahead and get comfortable, I'll be right in.”

Ben escorted her to his office. Anna spotted the row of low, wooden files right away. The were located against the wall behind his desk.

“I'll be about fifteen minutes, maybe a few more,” he said. “Don't worry about anything. It's all going to work out.”

She promised she wouldn't, then watched as he exited the office, closing the door behind him. The second she heard it latch, she started for the files.

“Anna?”

She whirled to face him, cheeks hot. “Ben! That was quick.”

He frowned. “What's wrong?”

She brought a hand to her chest. “You startled me, that's all. I've been so jumpy the last few days.”

He shifted his gaze from her to his desk, then back to her, a small frown marring his forehead.
CIA, she was not.
She laughed lightly, nervously. “Have they made a decision already?”

His frown disappeared. “No, I just wanted to tell you, I'm really glad you're here. I think you're doing the right thing.”

He wouldn't if he knew what she was really up to.

“Thanks, Ben. I appreciate you saying that.”

This time, she waited a full two minutes after the door clicked shut behind him before moving toward the files. She felt awful about what she was about to do. But she had to do it. For Jaye.

She squatted down in front of them, grabbed the handle of the drawer on the far right and tugged.

It was locked!

Anna tried the other three drawers and found them locked as well. What did she do now?

The desk. Of course. She stood and crossed to it. Heart thundering, she opened the middle drawer first, rummaged through it, then moved on to the side drawers.

She found a daily journal, address book, pens, clips and a bunch of receipts. No keys.

Frustrated, she slid the last door shut, aware of time passing. She could try picking the locks, but the closest she had ever come to doing that was seeing James Bond do it in a movie.

Her gaze fell on the desktop. There, smack-dab in the middle sat a ring of keys.

She snatched them up, turned and hurried back to the files. With trembling fingers she tried the first key, then the second and third. The fourth did the trick—the latch turned, the drawer slid open.

Holding her breath, she flipped through the As, then Bs and Cs. She scanned each name, waiting for the one that jumped out at her. When those letters yielded nothing, she moved on, fingers flying over the neatly marked tabs.
Q. R. S.
Still nothing. No Kurt, no Adam or Peter. Nothing that struck a note of recognition in her.

Anna slid that drawer shut, glanced quickly over her shoulder, then turned her attention to the last seven letters of the alphabet. She scanned the names.
T. U.
From behind her came a sound, a footfall, the soft rasp of a knob being turned. It was too soon! She had yet to see the last few names. The door creaked.
V. W.—

“Good news, Anna, the group agreed—”

She slid the drawer shut and jumped to her feet.

“What are you doing?”

She pasted on a smile, even as she fought to breathe normally. “What do you mean?”

A muscle in his face spasmed and angry color spotted his cheeks. “Were you in my files?”

“Don't be silly, Ben. I was simply…I…your diplomas…”

Her voice trailed off as he strode around the desk. She watched him, heart sinking. The key ring lay where she had left it—on the floor by the file drawers. Her heart sank. “I can explain.”

He bent and snatched them up. A shudder rippled over him and he swung to face her. His anger transformed him from a kind and charming bumbler into a much
more intimidating figure. She took a step back from him. “Please, Ben. Just let me explai—”

“Don't bother. I know what you were doing. A little detective work. You wanted to get a look at my patients' names.” He took a step toward her. She saw that he was trembling with fury. “Isn't that right?”

She laced her fingers together. “I'm sorry, Ben. I was desperate.”

“So, you used me. You used our friendship.”

“Try to understand. I was—”

“Why should I listen to anything you have to say? You're a liar, Anna.”

A liar.
She recoiled from the word, the way he spat it at her. “I just thought, if I could see the names of your patients, I'd know. I'd recognize somebody. Or Kurt's name would be there and—”

“Didn't you think, even for a moment, that I would have told you or Detective Malone if I had a patient named Kurt?”

She held a hand out in supplication. “Ben, I'm sorry. What I did was wrong, but I did it for the right reason. Jaye's in danger. Women are dying. I wanted to help.”

“Please leave.” He swung on his heel and started toward the door.

She hurried after him. “Ben, wait! Try to understand! I felt like I had to do something. I've been a victim so long—”

He spun to face her. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I thought we were friends. I thought we'd begun to care for each other.”

“We are friends. I do care about you.”

He passed a hand across his face. When he dropped it he looked different. His anger had evaporated, leaving him looking wounded. And weary. “Did you ever
think to just ask me? Isn't that what a friend should have done?”

He was right. She pressed her lips together, feeling like a poor friend, indeed. When she finally spoke, there was nothing she could say but the truth. “I was sure you'd say no.”

“Then maybe what you were doing was wrong.” He sighed, glanced at the door, then back at her. “You have to go now. My group is waiting.”

Thursday, February 1
7:20 p.m.

Q
uentin couldn't stop thinking about Ben Walker. Something about the man set his teeth on edge.

What was it?

In search of the answer, Quentin had pondered his reaction to the other man. He had replayed their two conversations in his head, looking for anything that didn't add up. Anything that would suggest the man was something other than what he seemed.

He had come up with squat. But still, something about the psychologist nagged at him. Something he had said or done.

Ben Walker was a key piece of this puzzle. Quentin just didn't know where that piece fit in relation to the whole.

Not yet. But he would.

The traffic light up ahead turned red. Quentin pulled his Bronco to a stop, flipped open his cell phone and punched in Anna's number. After five rings her machine
picked up. Again. This was the third time he'd called her in the last hour.

Frowning, he dialed Morgan. “Morgan, Quentin Malone. Are you with Anna North?”

“Sure am. Sitting outside a doctor's office uptown.”

“Dr. Ben Walker's office? On Constance Street?”

“That's the one. She's been in there thirty minutes. Said she would be a couple of hours, then was going out after. You want me to stick with her?”

Quentin told him he did, then hung up, frustrated. Irritated that he was jealous.

The light changed and he eased through the intersection, a thought jumping into his head. That day at the hospital, Walker had said he'd left his mother's nursing home late the night before. She had been upset, he'd said.

She had claimed a man had been in her room and had threatened her.

Quentin glanced over his left shoulder, then swung into the left lane and executed a U-turn at the crossover. Ben had said his mother was a resident at the Crestwood Nursing Home on Metairie Road. He was only a few minutes from there now.

Maybe he would just pay a little visit to Ben Walker's mother.

 

The nursing home was quiet. The dinner hour had come and gone, though visiting hours hadn't ended. The lobby television droned, tuned to a game show, the volume set at an ear-numbing level. A number of the home's residents sat circling the set, many of them in wheelchairs. One of them, a small silver-haired woman in a cherry-red robe, looked his way and winked as he passed. He winked back.

He crossed to the nurses' station, smiled and showed the woman his shield. “Detective Quentin Malone. I'm here to see one of your residents, a Mrs. Walker.”

The nurse looked startled. “Louise Walker?”

“Dr. Benjamin Walker's mother.”

“That's Louise. May I ask what this visit is in reference to?”

He could have refused or given her the standard “Police business,” but didn't see the point. “Her son told me that she had been threatened. I'm checking it out for him.”

“Oh, that.” The nurse shook her head. “Louise gets confused. She watches these nighttime soaps and made-for-TV movies and confuses them with real life. Gets herself all riled up. But by all means, talk with her. It may reassure her to think the police are looking into the matter.”

“So you don't think there's any truth to her claim?”

“Nope.” She slid a registry across the counter. “I need you to sign in, please. Every visitor is required to do so.”

“Anyone ever slip by?”

“I'm sure some do. But we're very careful.”

“I'm sure you are.” Quentin signed his name, who he was visiting and the purpose of his visit. While he had the registry, he scanned the names above his and on the previous couple of pages, looking for any he might recognize. The only one he did was Ben Walker's. “Ben comes to see his mother often,” he commented, sliding the book back.

“He's a devoted son,” the nurse murmured, coming around the counter. “I wish more of the residents' children were as attentive. I'll show you to her room. Lucky for you, she's still up. She's a night owl, that one.”

“I understand she has Alzheimer's?”

“That's right. This way.”

“How lucid is she?” Quentin asked as they made their way down a long corridor, past mostly open doors. Most of the residents were awake, watching TV or reading. One sat in his wheelchair, toes tapping and fingers snapping to the music pouring out of his headphones.

The nurse stopped in front of one of the open doors, number twenty-six. She knocked on the door, then walked inside. Sure enough, Louise Walker, a wizened gray-haired woman, was watching television, transfixed by what appeared to be a schmaltzy courtroom drama.

“Louise,” she said softly, “there's someone here to see you.”

The woman dragged her pale gaze from the TV to stare at Quentin. “I don't know him,” she said, frowning. “Why is he here?”

“He's a friend of Ben's. He's a detective with the police department. You two go ahead and talk, I'll be at my station if you need anything.”

“You're a friend of my Ben's?”

“That's right. I'm Detective Quentin Malone with the NOPD.”

He held up his shield and Louise Walker motioned him closer. As he moved farther into the room, he smelled cigarettes. In the way of those who had spent a lifetime smoking, the smell clung to her and everything in her room, though he knew from the sign posted at the home's entrance that this was a non-smoking facility. Her being a smoker surprised him because her son struck him as being so fastidious. The kind of person who abhorred smokers.

“I know he did it,” she said as he neared her. “He's guilty as sin.”

“Excuse me?”

“That awful Jack Crowley. Have you come to ask me about him?”

Quentin glanced at the television. A woman was pleading with “Jack,” begging him “not to do it.” He looked back at the old woman. “No, not about him,” he said gently. “About the man who came to your room and threatened you.”

Her expression changed. Suddenly she looked frightened. “Ben told you about him?”

“Yes. He said you were quite upset.”

“No one believes me. Not even Ben.” She lowered her voice. “They think I'm crazy.”

“Can you tell me about this man?”

“I'm not crazy,” she said, ignoring his question. Then she smiled. “I like it here, they're good to me.”

“How many times has this man visited you?”

Her gaze seemed to refocus on him. “I don't know. Lots of times.” Her chin quivered. “I don't like him. He's a bad man. Worse than Jack Crowley.”

“Worse?” He pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down, willing to play this out although it seemed pretty clear that Louise Walker's elevator no longer went all the way to the top floor. She seemed a sweet old lady, however, and maybe talking with her would ease her mind. “How could he be worse than Jack?”

“He's evil.” Using the remote, she snapped off the television. The sudden quiet was disconcerting. “He…he frightens me.”

“I'd like to help you,” Quentin murmured. “But you must tell me everything you can about him.”

“He means to hurt my Ben.” She met Quentin's eyes, hers glassy. “He hates him.”

Quentin frowned. “He threatened Ben? Not you?”

“He wants him dead.”

“Why?”

She blinked, looking suddenly scattered. Confused. Quentin restated the question. “Why does he want Ben dead?”

“Because Ben's so much better than he is. Ben's a good boy. A good son. Adam is—”

Quentin's blood ran cold. “Did you say his name was—”

“Adam. The devil himself.”