Bone Cold (27 page)

Thursday, February 1
8:50 p.m.

Q
uentin was unable to get much else out of Louise Walker. The more he questioned her, the more agitated and confused she became. The nurse suggested he come back in the morning. Louise would be more alert then, the woman maintained. Clearer.

Quentin agreed. Before leaving, he checked the registration book. He went all the way back to the previous fall without finding the name Adam.

Could the names be a coincidence, Louise Walker's claim of being threatened a delusion born of her illness? The nurse had admitted that visitors sometimes slipped by without signing in. Quentin imagined it wouldn't be that difficult for someone to do.

Could be a coincidence, Quentin admitted. If he believed in them. He didn't.

The minute Quentin slid into his Bronco, he dialed his captain at home. “Aunt Patti, it's Quentin.”

“Nephew,” she said warmly. “Tell me this is a personal call and not police business.”

“Sorry, Aunt Patti. But when you hear what I have to say, I think you'll be glad it is. We have what might be our first break in the French Quarter killings.”

“Go ahead,” she said crisply, all business.

Quentin filled her in, reminding her of the letters Anna had received from Minnie, of Jaye's disappearance, who Ben Walker was and how he fit into the case and of the recent attack on Anna. “On a hunch, I paid a visit to Dr. Walker's mother, Louise Walker. Ben Walker had said something about her having been threatened, so I decided to check it out. Guess the name of the man who threatened her? Adam.”

His aunt was silent a moment, as if mentally wrangling with all the pieces of the puzzle. “Those letters to Anna North, wasn't that the name of the box owner—”

“Bingo.”

“Can she describe this man for a police artist?”

He heard her excitement. It sounded a lot like his. “I hope so. She's elderly and an Alzheimer's patient, but she seems positive about this Adam. I want to get the artist in there first thing in the morning.”

“Do it. And get someone assigned to Louise Walker. I don't want to chance this guy showing up and us not being there.”

Quentin wished her and his Uncle Sammy good-night, then dialed the Seventh. “Brad,” he greeted the officer on the desk. “Malone here. I just spoke with Captain O'Shay, we need a uniform assigned to a resident at the Crestwood Nursing Home. Name's Louise Walker.”

“Can do,” the man replied. “What's up?”

“She may be able to identify the French Quarter killer.”

The desk officer whistled. “I'll get somebody over there, ASAP.”

“Good. And line up a police artist for first thing in the a.m.”

“To the same place?”

“You got it.” Quentin glanced at his watch, thinking of Anna. And Ben, together. “Any calls tonight?”

“A woman called looking for you.” The man paused. “She wouldn't leave her name, but I think it was Penny Landry.”

“Penny? For me?”

“Yeah, for you. About half an hour ago.” The desk officer paused again, then lowered his voice. “She sounded upset, Malone. She sounded really upset.”

Thursday, February 1
9:15 p.m.

Q
uentin glanced at his watch, heart pounding. Fortunately, from his location on Metairie Road and Bonnabell Boulevard, Lakeview was a mere eight-minute drive. With siren and lights he could cut that time in half.

Quentin tore down the tree-lined streets, cherry lights flashing, the flashes of blue bouncing weirdly through the naked branches. He had tried calling Penny a half-dozen times on the way; each time he had gotten a busy signal.

Something was wrong. And it had to do with Terry. Penny wouldn't have called him otherwise.

He skidded to a stop in front of Landry's home, slammed out of his vehicle and ran up the walk. Although just after 9:00 p.m., the house was completely dark.

He rang the bell. Its chime echoed through the house. He waited but no sound of footsteps followed the bell.

She was home. Hiding from Terry.

He didn't know why he was so certain of that, but he was.

Quentin bypassed the bell and pounded on the door. “Penny! It's Malone!” He pounded again. “I'm here to help. Open up!”

From the other side of the door came a cry of relief, then the dead bolt sliding back. A moment later, the door opened and Penny fell sobbing into his arms.

He held her close while she cried. After a time her tears abated. But her trembling did not. Quentin stroked her hair, his heart in his throat. Finally, softly, he murmured, “It was Terry, wasn't it?”

She pressed her face to his chest and nodded.

“Are the kids all right?”

She nodded again. “They're…after, I sent them…next door. I didn't want them here…in case he…came back.”

Dear Jesus.
“What happened, Penny? Tell me so I can help.”

She shuddered, working, he saw, to pull herself together. “He showed up here. He was drunk. Talking crazy. I could see that he…he was scaring the kids. So I…I asked him to leave. He went berserk.”

Her lips began to tremble and she pressed them together for a moment, then began again. “He started screaming at me, saying these…awful things.

“I ran to our bedroom. He followed. He slammed the door behind us and locked it.” She brought her hands to her face. “Thank God he did. I couldn't have stood it if Matti or Alex had seen…” Her tears welled once more; this time she fought them off. “We fought. He knocked me down, onto the bed—”

She choked on the words and Quentin held his breath, knowing what was coming but praying he was wrong.
“What happened, Penny? Did he force himself on you?”

“He tried,” she whispered. “He pushed my dress up and tore my panties off. The kids must have heard me crying and pleading with him. They started pounding on the door. Calling for me. Begging their daddy to…to st—stop.”

Her words shuddered to a halt and Quentin tightened his arms around her, sickened by his partner's behavior. “What happened, Penny? Did he rape you?”

“No.” She pressed her face to his chest. “The kids…that reached him. He started to…cry. And then he left.”

For long moments, Quentin simply held her. Finally, she drew away from him. Her mascara had run, giving her owl eyes and creating dark blotches on his white shirt. She saw them and made a sound of dismay. “Look what I've done to your shirt. I'm so sorry. I—”

“It's nothing.”

Tears welled in her eyes once more. “I wish I'd…I just wish… This sucks so bad.” She met Quentin's gaze. “I loved him, I really did. But I don't know who he is anymore. He's not the man I married.”

She drew in a shaking breath. “I'm afraid of him, Malone. I'm afraid for him. He could hurt someone. He was out of his head.”

Quentin searched her expression, dismayed. “What do you think I should do, Penny? How can I help?”

“Find him. Talk to him. Maybe he'll listen to you.” She started to cry again, this time silently, sadly. “He needs help. Please help him, Malone.”

 

Quentin didn't have far to look. He found Terry at Shannon's, slumped at the bar, an untouched drink
in front of him. Quentin crossed to the bar and sat beside him, signaling to Shannon that he didn't want anything.

Terry angled a glance his way, but didn't speak. Not at first. When he did, he sounded beaten. “Penny called you.”

It wasn't a question; Quentin answered anyway. “Yes. She was hysterical.”

Terry hung his head.

At least he didn't try to make an excuse for his behavior, Quentin thought. At least he wasn't so far gone that he didn't see that there was no excuse for what he'd done.

“What's going on with you, Terry?” he asked. “What's happening to you?”

“I don't know.” His friend looked at him, eyes red-rimmed, the expression in them tortured. “My life's turned to a nightmare. I can't sleep, I have no appetite. I'm angry all the time. At Penny. The job. Myself. Everything.”

He looked away, then back. When he spoke, his voice was a hushed whisper. “Sometimes, this rage builds up inside me and I…I feel like it's eating me alive. Like soon there'll be nothing left of me but hatred and despair.” He brought his hands to his face. “It's more alive than I am.”

For a heartbeat of time Quentin couldn't speak. When he found his voice, he looked at the other man. “You've got to let go of the past, man. You've got to see that it was all bullshit, that the number your mother did on you was all bullshit. Get help, Terry. Get help before it's too late.”

Friday, February 2
Noon

T
he doctor carefully probed Ben's side, his touch gentle but practiced. “This hurt?” he asked, applying the subtlest of pressure to his bandaged ribs.

Ben winced. “It's sore. But not unbearable.”

“Good.”

The doctor met his eyes. “And problems since the accident? Dizziness? Vertigo?”

“No, nothing like that. Just aches and pains. Trouble resting.”

“That's to be expected. You were involved in a pretty nasty accident. Your injuries could have been much worse.”

“I'm grateful somebody saw the accident and called 911. I drove by where it happened. I could have been trapped behind that hedge for a long time.”

The doctor agreed. “And at that time of night, too. You were damn lucky.”

Ben stood and pulled on his shirt. “It wasn't that late. What, a little after eleven?”

The physician looked at him. “You're kidding, right?”

Ben's fingers stilled on the buttons, a cold sensation slipping down his spine. “No. I left my mother's nursing home around eleven.”

“Ben, you were wheeled in here at 3:00 a.m.”

He stared at the other man, disbelieving. “You're mistaken.”

“I'm not.” The doctor frowned. “It's here, on your chart—3:13 a.m.”

What had happened in the hours between eleven when he left Crestwood and three when he was admitted to the emergency room?

“Ben? Are you all right?”

He blinked and focused on the physician. “Fine.” He forced an easy laugh. “I was just realizing that it was I who was mistaken. I fell asleep reading to my mother around eleven. I'm still confused about what happened that night.”

“Considering, it's no wonder.” The doctor smiled at him. “Call if you have any problems. You'll need to have those ribs checked again in two weeks. Your regular doctor can do it.”

Ben thanked the man, then left the hospital. He found and climbed into his car, but made no move to start it. Instead, he brought the heels of his hands to his eyes, reviewing the events of the night of the accident, mentally retracing his steps. He had arrived at the nursing home around seven. He and his mother had eaten dinner together, he had wheeled her outside for a cigarette. Three cigarettes later they had returned to her room. They had watched a little TV, then she had gotten ready for bed. After he had tucked her in, he had picked up her copy
of the latest Danielle Steel novel and begun reading to her.

He had fallen asleep while reading. When he had awakened, she had been frightened. A man had come into the room while he slept, she'd said. He had threatened her.

Ben dropped his hands and stared blindly out the side window, still recalling the events of that night. He had spoken with the nurses, checked the guest registry and helped them calm his mother. He had been upset about her increasing confusion. His head had begun to hurt. He'd gone to his car. There he had found the note. It had been just before finding the note that he had glanced at his watch. He frowned. At least he thought it had been.

Perhaps he had been mistaken about the time? Or perhaps he had looked at his watch when he had awakened from his nap, not when he left the nursing home?

But why was the last thing he remembered skidding out of the parking lot while trying to call Anna? What had happened between then and when another motorist had seen him run off the road, crash through an embankment of hedges and into a tree?

Ben began to shake, suddenly afraid. Of his episodes of lost time. Of the way he slept like the dead. Of his headaches. What was going on with him? Was he losing his mind? Had the doctors missed something? Something life-threatening?

Ben rested his forehead against the wheel, heart thundering. He was letting his imagination run away with him. It was just as his doctor had said—he suffered with headaches of such severity that he blacked out. They were caused by stress. Tension.

He'd certainly had enough of that lately. Stress caused
in no small part by the fact that a madman was playing a deadly and dangerous game with him and Anna.

Anna.
He thought back to Thursday night, to the moment he had discovered her rifling through his files. He had been so angry. So hurt. She had lied to him, had betrayed his trust in her, their friendship.

Now, in retrospect, he felt bad about feeling that way. About the things he had said to her. She was being terrorized. She had been attacked, someone she held dear was missing. She wanted answers. His patient list might hold them.

Hand it over.

He made a sound of denial. What was he thinking? He couldn't just turn over his patient list. Doing so was unethical. Police questioning could cause several of his patients severe emotional distress. Patients who trusted him with their fears and phobias, their innermost thoughts and feelings.

But women had died. More might yet die. Anna included. It seemed obvious that someone in his care was either responsible or otherwise involved. He had reached a dead end in his personal search for the guilty party. He had seen and tested all but a couple of his patients, and all had passed the test with flying colors. He was either missing something important or his plan of using psychology to trap Anna's stalker wasn't as clever as he had thought. Perhaps he could extract a promise from Malone, a promise not to approach anyone without good cause.

And maybe then, when this was all over, he and Anna could begin again.

Excitement rippled through him. A sense of purpose. His action might get this thing solved. Anna would be grateful and Malone would be of no further use to her.
And a major portion of the stress in his life would be eliminated.

Ben started his car and shifted into gear. He would do it now, before he gave himself a chance to change his mind. Stop at the office, put together the list, then head over to the Seventh. He smiled to himself, imagining the look of surprise on Malone's face when he handed him the names.

 

Thirty-five minutes later, Ben entered the Seventh and crossed to the reception desk. He identified himself and asked for Malone.

“He's out,” the desk officer said. “But his partner's here. Will he do?”

Ben hesitated a moment, then decided to go for it. He would miss Malone's expression when he handed over the list, but he sensed waiting would be a mistake. “He'll do.”

“Name's Terry Landry.” The man directed him to the squad room and to the right. “Landry's desk is fourth on the left. He's a tall guy with dark hair. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt.”

Ben thanked him and went in the direction the man had indicated. No one paid any attention to him as he made his way through the busy squad room. He caught sight of Landry, recognizing him by the bright blue, yellow and pink shirt. His back was turned; he appeared to be embroiled in an animated discussion with a fellow officer.

Ben started toward him. The detective turned.

Ben stopped cold.
Not Terry Landry. Rick Richardson. A mid-level pencil pusher for the Department of Recreation and Tourism.

Rick was a patient of his. No, Ben corrected, not
any longer. He had discontinued his sessions a couple of weeks back.

Ben did the math and his mouth went desert dry. He had last seen Rick around the time his keys had gone missing and the package containing Anna's book had appeared in his office.

Around the time the first redhead had been murdered.

His pulse racing, Ben reviewed the facts in his head: Richardson's dissatisfaction with his job—anger at the system, the pay, what he perceived as disrespect from those he worked to serve. His fury at his wife—for leaving him, for not understanding. His repressed rage toward his mother who had recently passed—for a lifetime of emotional abuse.

It all fit.

Ben turned on his heel and strode from the squad room, heart in his throat. He didn't think Rick—Terry, he corrected himself—had seen him. He prayed not. Because if what he feared was true, Terry Landry was not only deeply disturbed, he was a killer. He would not be pleased that Ben had uncovered his true identity.

Ben made it to his car, though his legs shook so badly he wondered how. Only after he was safely inside, the doors locked, did he dare glance back at the station house.

Terry Landry stood on the steps of the Seventh, hands on hips, head swiveling from left to right as if searching for someone.

“Son-of-a-bitch.” Ben jammed the key into the ignition, twisted it and the engine roared to life. He hit the gas, tires spitting gravel as he pulled away from the curb, anxious to put as much distance between him and his former patient as quickly as possible.

Only after he had gone a half-dozen blocks with no sign of the detective following him did he breathe a sigh of relief. He glanced in his rearview mirror one last time, then flipped open his cell phone and dialed the Seventh. The desk officer answered, the same one he had spoken to only minutes ago.

“This Dr. Benjamin Walker,” he said. “I need to reach Detective Quentin Malone. Tell him it's about the attack on Anna North. Tell him I have a name.”