Bone Cold (29 page)

Saturday, February 3
2:00 p.m.
Uptown

B
en unlocked the door to his inner office, stepped inside and crossed to the desk. He dropped the bouquet of flowers he carried into the trash can beside his desk, then settled heavily into his chair.

He had wanted to surprise Anna with flowers. Had wanted to celebrate with her Terry's arrest and the end to their ordeal. He had planned to ask her if they could start over—put the past behind them and give their romance another try.

Both the gate and outer door to her building had been open; he had gone up. And had seen them together. Anna and Quentin Malone, standing in the doorway to her apartment. It had been obvious what they had been doing this bright but chilly afternoon.

Ben closed his eyes and pictured the way Anna had looked, standing there, her silky robe clutched to her breasts, hair tousled, eyes luminous.

She had looked like a woman who had been making love.

Like a woman who was in love.

The depth to which that hurt shocked him. Ben groaned, the sound broken. He felt like such a fool. Like a total sap. He had suspected she had feelings for the detective, but he hadn't wanted to admit it was true. He had wanted to believe he had a chance to win her heart.

No, not wanted to believe—he had believed. When it came to self-deception, the human psyche could convince itself of almost anything. He had told himself that Anna was the one he had waited for, the one he would love and make a life with.

Fool.

He breathed deeply through his nose, battling the anger that rose up inside him, working to suppress the uncomfortable emotion. Working to suppress the headache lurking at the edges of his brain.

He was cold, he realized, shuddering. To-the-bone cold.

Ben shuddered again; his vision blurred. Then cleared. He blinked, disoriented. Unsettled by the prickly sensation on his forearms and the back of his neck.

He glanced quickly around him. Nothing had changed from the moment before—he was sitting in his office, at his desk. It was afternoon, around two. His head still hurt. He pushed his chair back and stood, intent on retrieving one of his migraine tablets. As he stood, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

He bent and picked it up. It was a note written to him in big, youthful-looking cursive.

Ben reread the note three times. He brought a hand to his temple, headache creeping closer. The writer had dotted her “j” and “I” with a heart. Judging by that, he presumed the letter to have been written by a girl. By the quality of the handwriting, he figured her age to be between ten and thirteen, though he was certainly no expert.

But who was she? And why was she communicating with him? He frowned and moved his gaze over the room, looking for anything askance. He always kept his inner office locked. So, how had she gotten in?

Ben realized the answer to the last question first and his blood ran cold. His keys, the ones that had been stolen. He'd had his residence locks changed, but not those for his office.

Idiot.

His residence had been violated, so he'd had the locks changed. He'd never thought any further than what had been right in front of his nose.

Loser.

He ignored the negative voice in his head and instead worked to focus on the dilemma at hand. Perhaps the note had come from the daughter of a patient, the one who had stolen his keys.

But Terry Landry had been that patient. He was behind bars, so how could he pose a threat to anyone?

Unless Terry Landry was the wrong man.

A chill crept up Ben's spine. He shook his head,
denying the thought. They had proof. Detective Johnson had told him so. Plenty of it.

Proof that linked Landry to Nancy Kent's murder.

Not to Anna's stalker or Jaye's kidnapper.

It wasn't over, Ben realized, hands beginning to shake. Anna wasn't safe, none of them were. He had to call Anna and warn her. He should call the NOPD, he could speak with Detective Johnson. They needed to know what had happened. They would know what to do.

And it would begin all over again. They would start hanging around, asking questions, making demands. Hounding him.

Wait.
He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. He was jumping the gun. It could be a hoax. A sick joke.

Even as the thought registered, he rejected it. Who would know to play such a joke on him? Only someone familiar with the events of the past weeks. One of the detectives on the case. Anna herself or her friends Bill and Dalton.

He returned his gaze to the note. The girl had written: Read our journal and you'll know what to do. A
journal?
She must have left it for him, he realized. But where? The most logical place would have been with the note. But it had been on his lap.

Under the desk.

Of course.

But it wasn't on the floor or under the chair. Next he tried the drawers—and came up empty.

He frowned. It was almost as if she had wanted to hide it. Though from whom, he hadn't a clue. He needed to put himself in her place. If he was a preteen girl, where would he hide his journal?

Attached to the underside of his desk.

The thought popped into his head and bending, he craned his neck to look at the underside of his desk. Sure enough, a plastic bag had been taped there.

Bingo.

Clever kid.

Ben detached the bag, then returned to his seat. He would bet the note had been on his chair and he hadn't noticed it when he came in because of his preoccupation with Anna. When he'd gone to stand, he had disturbed it, causing it to fall to the floor.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the bag and drew out the book, nothing more than a small notebook. The cover was tattered, the metal spiral crimped on the edges. At least three-quarters of the pages had been written on.

Ben's hands trembled slightly as he held the book.
In it, he would find the answers. The identity of Anna's tormentor. The part he played in this drama. The why.

Finally, the why.

Leaning back in his chair, Ben began to read.

Sunday, February 4
2:00 a.m.

“M
innie!” Jaye cried, scrambling off her cot and to the door. “Is that you? Are you there?”

“I'm here,” the other girl answered. “Are you okay?”

Jaye pressed closer to the door. “I'm really hungry. He hasn't brought me anything to eat in a long time.”

“I know. I brought you something.” Jaye heard the rustle and crackle of a paper wrapper being torn open. “A chocolate bar. I stole it from him while he was gone.”

She slid it under the door and Jaye practically pounced on it. She wolfed down the first half, then savored the second.

When she had finished, she licked her fingers. Her stomach still burned with hunger, though not as hotly as before. “What's he up to?” she asked. “Is he trying to starve me to death?”

“I don't know what he's doing. I haven't heard him. And he's been careful not to let me out.”

“But you're out now.”

“I tricked him and escaped.” She lowered her voice to a shaky whisper. “I'm getting stronger, Jaye. I am. And I'm getting braver, learning his weaknesses. I'm not going to let him hurt you.”

Jaye's eyes filled with tears. She was afraid, to her core frightened. Something had changed with their captor. Something more than his not bringing her food.

She sensed that all the pieces of his plan had come together. That she didn't have much time left. That none of them did. “Promise me, Minnie. Promise me you won't let him kill me.”

“I promise. I won't let him hurt you or Anna.” The other girl paused a moment. When she spoke, her voice quivered with emotion. “I love you, Jaye. You're my best friend.”

Monday, February 5
The French Quarter

T
wo evenings after Quentin walked out of her life, Anna found him waiting for her at the entrance gate. He was conversing with Alphonse Badeaux and feeding Mr. Bingle what looked to be pistachio nuts.

Her heart rate quickened. With anticipation. With hope. She'd feared she would never see him again. A part of her had been relieved. Quentin Malone frightened her. Because of the way he made her feel: awake and alive, protected. Because of the way she'd come to look forward to seeing him, to depend on seeing him, the way one simply depends on the sun rising and warming the earth.

But another part of her, the biggest part, had been devastated. For all the same reasons.

Alphonse stood when she approached. “Hello, Miss Anna. I was just keeping your friend here company.”

“That he was,” Quentin said, getting to his feet. “And quite good company he is.”

“Thank you, Detective.” The old man beamed at him,
then at her. “Glad to see a policeman in the neighborhood. They're good to have around.”

Which was his sweet way of saying, “Don't blow it.”

Too late. Maybe.

Or maybe not. Hopefully not.

She smiled. “I'll keep that in mind, Alphonse.”

“You kids have a nice night.” As if he had been following the conversation, Mr. Bingle got to his feet and ambled toward the curb, stopping and looking back at his master when he reached it.

Alphonse cleared his throat. “You ever get that bouquet of flowers, Miss Anna?”

She drew her eyebrow together. “What flowers?”

“The ones that nice doctor brought you. The other day.” The old man's leathery cheeks took on a rosy hue. “Same afternoon Detective Malone here was visiting.” Anna frowned.
Ben was here that afternoon? Why hadn't he knocked? Why—

Then a horrifying thought occurred to her. Thinking back she pictured standing in her doorway with Quentin, her in her robe. It would have looked like exactly what it had been.

“He left with the flowers, real sudden like. Didn't wave either, like he usually does. Looked upset.” The older man cleared his throat. “None of my business, of course. Just wondered about those flowers, they were awful pretty.”

Anna swallowed hard, embarrassed. “Thanks, Alphonse. I'll give him a call.”

The old man nodded and started across the street, bulldog by his side. Anna and Quentin watched until
they'd made it safely across, then Quentin looked at her. “Sit with me a while?”

A lump formed in her throat. “Sure. It's a pretty evening, isn't it? Warming up. Finally.”

She realized she was rambling and told herself to shut up and sit down. She did and he followed her lead. The concrete still held some of the day's warmth.

He held the bag of nuts out to her. “Pistachio?”

“Thanks.” She scooped out a few of the nuts. “I love these.”

“I figured you did.”

She tilted her face up to his. “And why's that?”

“I peeked in your freezer, you had two kinds of ice cream. Pistachio and pistachio-fudge ribbon.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a charming and boyish grin. “What can I say? I'm a detective.”

“And I'm a writer. I was under the impression we'd already written the ending to this story.”

“I didn't care much for that ending.” He fell silent. The sun began to set. The sky became the fiery palette of a master artist. “I was wondering how you felt about rewrites?”

“Depends.” She glanced at him. “They have to make sense to me.”

He searched her gaze a moment, then dragged his away. “I wanted to be a lawyer. A prosecutor. I even imagined myself being the D.A.”

“What happened?”

“I knew my limitations. Still do.”

“That so?”

He met her eyes. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“Responding to everything I say with a question. You
sound like a goddamn shrink. And I don't want to be head-shrunk. Not today, anyway.”

“Sorry. I guess I just don't know what limitations you're talking about.”

His features tightened. “My friends used to say, ‘Malone may not be the sharpest tool on the belt, but he's the biggest.' Or, ‘That Malone, he's not the brightest bulb in the pack, but he sure can light up the night.'”

She sucked in a sharp breath, angry for him. “With friends like those, you didn't need enemies.”

“I'm all brawn and no brain, Anna.” He angled toward her. “I hardly got through high school. Squeaked by at the last moment. Rumor was, I slept with my English teacher to get a passing grade my senior year.”

“And did you? Sleep with her?”

“Hell, no. She took pity on me and tutored me for two weeks so I would pass the exam.”

“So you became a cop. You figured it would be easy. That you could do it without even breaking a sweat.”

“Pretty much.” He laced his fingers together. “I grew up around police work. Listening to my dad and uncles talk. It was expected that I'd follow in their footsteps.”

“And you never told anybody what you really wanted to do with your life?”

“Until now, no.”

She shifted her gaze to the darkening sky. “I'm not sure what to say.”

He frowned. “Knowing your limitations is not chickening out.”

“I didn't say you'd chickened out.” She looked at him. “Is that the way you feel?”

“I like police work. I'm good at it.”

“But it bores you.” She searched his gaze, seeing the
frustration in his eyes. The repressed anger. “You're angry. At me?”

“No. At—” He let out a short, sharp-sounding breath. “I settled, Anna. There, that's the truth. And I hate myself for it. Police work doesn't bore me, but it doesn't excite me. But here I am.”

“It's not too late.”

“It is.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I'm thirty-seven years old.”

“Practically a babe.”

“You're more stubborn than Badeaux's bulldog.”

Her lips lifted. “I'm prettier, too.”

“You got that right.” He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. “So, Anna, how do you feel about cops? How would you feel about being with one?”

“Depends on the cop.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She tightened her fingers over his. “There's this one cop I know, Irish, charming, a little too sure of himself in some areas, not sure enough in others. Him, I'd want to be with him if he were a ditchdigger. As long as that's what he wanted to be.”

“Anna—”

“Settling is insidious, Malone. It'll eat at you. I don't want to wake up one morning next to a man who's fifty and hates himself.”

They fell silent. Moments ticked past; the sun began its final descent. Anna leaned toward him. She cupped his face in her palms. “To my mind there's a big difference between a hormone-frenzied seventeen-year-old and a grown-up man driven to attain something he wants.” She kissed him. “Think about it, Malone. That's all I ask.”