Amnesia (24 page)

Fifteen minutes later, showered, shaved and ready for bed, Aaron came out of the bathroom and headed back toward his bedroom. What was that odd sound? He stopped in the middle of the hallway and listened. Crying? Somebody was crying. He crept closer to Marcy’s door. Sure enough, the noise was coming from her room.

Should I or shouldn’t I?

He knocked softly.

No response, but the crying stopped.

“Marcy,” he called her name quietly.

The door opened just enough for her to peek at him through the narrow crack.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I thought I heard you crying.”

“I’m okay.”

He could see her eyes were swollen and red. “Want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He laid his hand on the door and shoved gently, inching it halfway open. Marcy jumped backward and glared at him. His gaze skimmed her from head to toe. Her curly blond hair was slightly disheveled as if she’d been tossing and turning. She wore a pair of blue and white striped pajamas and was barefoot. He noticed that her toenails were painted bright coral.

Grinning, he leaned into the open space and braced himself by resting his left arm against the door facing. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re darn cute without makeup, your hair a mess and wearing baggy pajamas?”

She stared at him questioningly. “What are you trying to do, imitate Quinn’s smooth technique?”

“Is that who I sounded like?” His smiled widened. “Maybe just being around the guy has rubbed off on me.”

“Maybe it has.”

Aaron reached out and ran his index finger across and down her cheek, then circled it under her chin. “I’m not the great man himself, but if you’re willing to settle for a substitute, I’m your guy.”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“I’m a man, you’re a woman and we both have needs.” Just looking at Marcy had given him a hard-on. He wanted her. She needed him. Why shouldn’t they ease each other’s pain?

“Look, honey”—he used Quinn’s pet name for every woman he met, hoping it might affect Marcy in a favorable way—“if you’re saving it all up for Quinn Cortez, you’re making a big mistake. You’re his friend and his valued assistant. He’s not going to screw that up by taking you to bed, then dumping you. If he’d had plans to bonk you, he’d have done it years ago.”

Tossing back her head, Marcy closed her eyes and sniffled. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

“Ah, honey…Marcy, don’t.” He shoved the door all the way open, walked into her bedroom and pushed the door closed with his foot. “He’s not the only man in the world, you know.”

Opening her teary eyes, she nodded, then said, “He’s with Annabelle Vanderley. Can you believe that? The police suspect him of murdering the woman’s cousin and she’s probably in bed with him right now.”

After tossing his shave kit onto her bed, Aaron slid his hand behind Marcy’s neck, gripped tightly and yanked her to him. Gasping, her eyes wide and her mouth open, she stared up at him, but didn’t try to jerk away or protest in any way. When he lowered his head, she stood on tiptoe and met him halfway. Forcing her mouth against his, he kissed her. Kissed her hard. When her mouth gaped wide open, he took advantage of the situation and rammed his tongue inside, deepening the kiss.

His erection strained against his cotton PJ bottoms and
pressed into her belly. Marcy lifted her arms and flung them around his neck, prompting him to make the next move. Sliding his hands down inside the back of her pajamas, he cupped her small, firm buttocks.

Moaning, she ran her hands underneath the back of his T-shirt and caressed his waist before moving all the way up to his shoulder blades.

“I want to make love to you,” he whispered in her ear as he maneuvered one hand up and around to cover her left breast. “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

“I—I think I want that, too,” she said breathlessly between kisses. “But you have to know that I don’t love you…that it’s Quinn I really want.”

“Yeah, I figured that out already.”

He eased her pajama bottoms down over her hips and legs. When they pooled around her feet, she kicked them aside and inserted her fingers inside the waistband of his pajamas.

“I haven’t been with anybody,” she said. “I mean…I’m not a virgin, but I’m not experienced.”

“If I do anything you don’t like, just tell me.” He removed his pajama bottoms, then bent down and lifted her up by her waist. She wrapped her legs around his hips as he walked them over to her bed.

“Aaron?”

“Huh?” He lowered her slowly, easing over her, his knees straddling her hips.

“I really do want
you
.” She emphasized the word
you
.

“It’s okay, honey. If you want to pretend I’m Quinn, I won’t mind. Not this first time.”

And before she could respond, he inserted a couple of fingers into her, testing her readiness. She wasn’t gushing, but she was wet. Wet enough. Hurriedly, he licked one nipple and then the other, smiling when both instantly went pebble hard.

He quickly reached out and yanked his shaving kit toward him, then unzipped the pouch and removed a condom. He
couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so eager. In seconds, he was ready. God, was he ready!

Grasping her hips, he lifted her up and forcefully thrust into her. She was tight and hot, her body gripping him. A humming sound vibrated in the back of her throat. He waited, making sure she was all right with what had happened and when she began moving, pushing herself upward, urging him into movement, he retreated, then lunged again. And again. She caught on fast, her upward and his downward thrusts in perfect unison.

For a fairly inexperienced woman, she was wild, as if she couldn’t get enough of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that it wasn’t him she was fucking; it was Quinn. And when she came, moaning, groaning and crying softly, it was Quinn’s name she whispered in his ear. But he didn’t care. Not now. Not when release was so close.

And then he came, his juice shooting out and filling the condom. No matter what name she called out this time, next time the only man on her mind and in her heart—the only name on her lips—would be Aaron Tully.

Shocked at the news of Joy Ellis’s murder, Quinn felt as if he’d been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. He and Joy had spent only a few days together—wild, fun hours similar to ones he’d spent with dozens of other women. Nothing more. Nothing less. When he met her at the club where she worked, she had told him that she had recently ended a two-year relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than a few laughs and some hot sex. Now nearly a year since he’d been with her, he remembered little about her, except she’d been a bosomy redhead with a loud laugh.

“You’re telling me that three women with whom I’ve had affairs are dead, all three murdered in the same way.” Quinn’s stomach knotted and sour bile burned his throat. “And Joy’s and Lulu’s right index fingers were cut off.”

Something odd was going on, something he didn’t understand.
He hadn’t killed Lulu or Kendall and he’d had no idea that Joy was dead.

“Exactly when was Joy murdered?” he asked.

“The day you left town,” Griffin said. “According to what my detectives found out, her estimated time of death was actually a couple of hours before you flew out of New Orleans that morning, so unless you have an alibi for those few hours…”

“I don’t remember right offhand,” Quinn said. “Hell, man, that was nearly a year ago. And I was on vacation. I drank more than usual, partied more than usual and to be honest, I kept a perpetual hangover for days, something I seldom allow to happen.”

“If you were drunk, is it possible that you could have done something and not remembered it?” Griffin looked right at Quinn as if daring him to lie.

“Anything’s possible, but I’m telling you that I didn’t kill Joy. Yes, I did spend some time with her the night before I flew back to Houston, but I left her apartment around dawn. I took a cab back to my hotel and grabbed a few hours of sleep before going to the airport. I remember that much.”

“Were you alone in your hotel room?”

“Yes.”

“And Joy Ellis was still alive when you left her?”

“Of course she was.” Quinn glanced at Annabelle who sat perfectly still and quiet, her face pale, her expression strained. Did she believe he was a murderer? Had learning about Joy Ellis’s death given her second thoughts about his innocence in Lulu’s and Kendall’s murders?

Please, honey, please don’t lose faith in me
.

Griffin turned to Annabelle. “Do you still want to be partners with Quinn? I’ve put half a dozen investigators on this case and that’s going to cost a lot of money. Are you willing to split the tab with him or do you want to pull out now?”

“I’ll pay for everything,” Quinn said. “You keep digging, keep looking for the person or persons who killed Lulu and Kendall. And Joy.”

“Cortez, you’re either an innocent man or you’ve got a split personality. Or you’re doing your best to play me like a fiddle.” Griffin studied Quinn, apparently trying to figure out which scenario fit.

“I don’t want out,” Annabelle said, her voice raspy soft as if she were on the verge of crying. “Do whatever it takes, spend as much as necessary, but find out who killed Lulu.”

Griffin nodded. “I think we have one killer, not two or three. From what we can find out, the MO is the same. All three women were smothered with a pillow and we know two had their right index fingers removed, postmortem. There was no evidence of sexual assault and no signs of other injuries. It’s as if the killer didn’t want to hurt these women. He just wanted to kill them gently. Their physical appearances varied, as did their backgrounds and ages. Lulu was only twenty-seven, never married, a slender blonde and a filthy rich heiress who hadn’t done an honest day’s work in her life. Kendall was in her mid-forties, a trim brunette, divorced and a partner in a Memphis law firm. Joy Ellis was thirty-six, a buxom redheaded nightclub singer, divorced, and had a thirteen-year-old daughter living with her father. The only apparent connection among the three women is you, Cortez. You seem to be the common denominator.”

“I didn’t know Joy had a child.” Quinn rubbed the back of his neck as he paced about in the lounge area. In retrospect, he realized that he usually didn’t waste time getting acquainted with most of the women he screwed. Kendall had been different only because they’d known each other for years.

“I work for you, Cortez,” Griffin said. “And as a general rule, I don’t volunteer information about my clients to anyone else, including the police. But in this case, I also work for Annabelle.” He focused on her. “Do you want me to contact the police and tell them what I know about Joy Ellis?”

Quinn felt as if an invisible noose had just been draped around his neck and Annabelle alone could decide whether to keep the rope loose or to hang him with it.

“Don’t put her in that position,” Quinn said. “Call Lieutenant Norton and tell him everything.”

“No!” Annabelle shot up off the sofa and looked back and forth between Quinn and Griffin. “Not yet. You know that once the police learn another woman Quinn knew was murdered, they’re going to think he’s guilty of all three crimes.”

“And you don’t think he is?” Griffin asked.

Quinn held his breath, waiting for her response. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman’s answer to any question had meant so much to him. But this was no ordinary question and Annabelle Vanderley was definitely no ordinary woman. He couldn’t explain even to himself what it was about her that affected him so strongly. Yes, he wanted to screw her. But there was more to it than that. Exactly what, he wasn’t sure. But he did know one thing—he desperately wanted her to believe in him.

“No, I don’t think he killed Lulu or either of the other women.” With tears in her eyes, she looked at Quinn and their gazes melded together.

“I agree with you,” Griffin said. “Going strictly by my gut instinct, I don’t think he killed any of them. And my instinct and experience also tells me that these three women might not be the only three.”

“What?” The question came simultaneously from Annabelle and Quinn.

“That’s one reason I’ve put extra personnel on this case,” Griffin told them. “I have a feeling we might be dealing with a serial killer.”

“Then maybe you should tell the police.” Annabelle moved toward Quinn.

“Not yet. It’s just a theory,” Griffin said. “I need evidence. And we want something that will point the finger away from Quinn, not toward him. No pun intended.”

Relief washed over Quinn in gentle, soothing waves. Not only did Annabelle believe him, but so did Griffin. Together they could fight the accusations with the truth, whatever that truth might be. All that mattered was that someone else had
killed those women—three of his lovers—and they had to find this person and prove what he’d done.

Quinn took Annabelle’s hand in his. Standing at his side, the two of them facing Griffin together, she squeezed Quinn’s hand.

“If your theory is right and there have been more women murdered by this one person, what are the odds that it’ll turn out to be a coincidence that three of them were my former lovers?” Quinn asked.

“If my theory is correct, then every murder victim—be it three or thirty—will have been one of your former lovers.”

“You think someone is killing women who have been sexually involved with Quinn?” Annabelle frowned. “But why would—”

“At this point, it’s only a theory,” Griffin said. “The killer could be female, someone wanting to eliminate what she perceives as the competition. Or if the killer is male, and serial killers usually are, he could be motivated by some warped sense of jealousy or revenge.”

“We won’t go to the police with any information until you can either prove or disprove your theory, right?” Annabelle’s question sounded more like a command.

“Right.” Griffin looked directly at Quinn. “It would help if you could give me a list of the women you’ve been involved with in the past couple of years. We’ll start with the most recent and work our way back. If my theory is correct, there will be a starting point somewhere. A year ago…two years ago…five years ago.”