Amnesia (45 page)

“Which way?” he asked.

“Down that hall. The door’s open,” Griggs replied.

By the time he got to Marcy Sims’s bedroom, Udell was walking out into the hall. He paused and spoke to Jim.
“Another one. Smothered to death. Right index finger cut off.”

“Damn!”

“The guy who was holding her in his arms when I got here—Aaron?—he was making some pointed accusations. He said Quinn Cortez killed her, that he was alone in the house with her, so it had to be him.”

“I guess he didn’t stop to think that he might be a suspect, too.”

“Guess not.”

“Can you give me an estimated time of death?” Jim asked.

“Recent. No more than an hour or two.”

Jim nodded. His gut instincts told him that one of the three men sitting in the living room had killed Marcy Sims. One of them was possibly a serial killer. But which one? Chad was going to say it was Cortez. And he might be right. Unless Cortez had an alibi, this sixth murder might be the last nail in his coffin.

By the time Judd Walker and Griffin Powell arrived, Quinn’s rental house was crawling with law enforcement. Quinn had cautioned Jace and Aaron not to answer any questions until Judd came. Jace complied. Aaron didn’t. He talked and talked and talked. About Marcy and how much he’d loved her. About Jace and what a worthless piece of shit he was because he hadn’t protected Marcy from Quinn.

“You crazy son-of-a-bitch, you killed her, didn’t you?” Aaron had lurched at Quinn and it had taken both officers to pull him away.

Aaron was manic, wild with grief. Quinn was numb. Jace had been nervous at first, fidgeting, making trips to the bathroom every five minutes, but now he’d settled down and seemed relatively calm.

Judd informed Lieutenant Norton that he wanted to speak
privately with his client and Norton told them to go into the kitchen. When they entered the kitchen, they found police officers searching the room.

“I’m Mr. Cortez’s lawyer and I’m taking him out back,” Judd told the officers. “We won’t be going any farther. Feel free to check with Lieutenant Norton.”

Once they were just beyond the back door, standing on the stoop, Judd turned to Quinn and said, “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know what happened. I had another one of those damn blackout spells. I was asleep when Jace came upstairs and woke me.”

Judd frowned. “Where were you when Marcy was killed?”

“Upstairs, in my bedroom. Asleep.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Calling Annabelle and then drinking a glass of iced tea.”

“Where’s the glass? Still in your bedroom?”

“That’s the funny thing,” Quinn said. “When Jace woke me up, I looked for the glass on the nightstand where I was sure I’d left it, and it was gone.”

“I want to have you tested for drugs,” Judd said. “Tonight.”

“You think someone drugged me?”

“It’s highly possible.”

“But who—?”

“Jace or Aaron.”

“No, they wouldn’t. You can’t think either of them killed Marcy. Aaron loved her. Besides, he’s no killer. And Jace. The boy’s shy. And scared of his own shadow.”

“If one of them didn’t kill her and there is no sign of a forced entry, that leaves only you. Did you kill her, Quinn?”

“No, I didn’t kill her.”

“At least you don’t remember killing her.”

“Fuck you, Walker.”

“You’re the one who’s fucked,” Judd told him. “Unless we can prove you were drugged, you could be looking at a murder
charge, especially considering you’re Suspect Numero Uno for the Lulu Vanderley and the Kendall Wells murders.”

“I saw Griffin come in with you. He was with Annabelle tonight. Does she know what happened? Did he tell her?”

“No, he didn’t tell her. He made some excuse about a business emergency that he had to handle, then he left one of his agents to guard her.”

Quinn heaved a deep sigh. When Annabelle heard about Marcy’s death would she think Quinn had killed his lovesick young assistant?

The back door opened and Jim Norton stuck his head out and looked at Quinn, then said, “You two had better come back inside. Now.”

“I haven’t finished talking to my client,” Judd replied.

“You can talk to him downtown,” Jim said.

“What’s happened?” Quinn asked.

“Please, come back inside.”

When Judd and Quinn entered the kitchen, Quinn spotted Sergeant George across the room, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. That was a bad sign, a really bad sign.

“Read him his rights,” George said. “Or do you want me to do it?”

“What’s going on?” Judd asked.

“While searching the house, we found evidence in Mr. Cortez’s bedroom that not only links him to this crime, but to five other crimes,” Lieutenant Norton said.

“What sort of evidence?” Judd glanced from Norton to Quinn.

“A small case was found in Mr. Cortez’s closet, inside an empty shoe box,” Jim said. “And inside that case were five small vials containing fingers preserved in what is probably formaldehyde.”

“What?” Quinn cried. “But that’s not possible. The case isn’t mine. I—”

“Inside the shoe box was something else.” Chad George smiled. “We found a bloody finger wrapped in a small hand towel. What do you want to bet it’s Marcy Sims’s finger?”

Fending off the descending horde of reporters who’d been camped out for hours, some all night, waiting to attack Quinn the moment he was free on bail, Griffin Powell and Bruce Askew escorted Quinn and Judd to Griffin’s rented Lincoln. While Griffin and Bruce kept the jackals at bay, Judd and Quinn hopped in the backseat, then Griffin joined them as Bruce slid into the front with the driver, whom Quinn recognized as Sanders, Griffin’s assistant. Wasting no time in making a quick getaway once everyone was safely on board, Sanders practically peeled rubber. Overzealous reporters were forced to jump for their lives or be squashed under the sedan’s large wheels.

“Who’s with Annabelle?” Quinn asked, her safety his main concern above anything else, even his own horrific problems. “Tell me you didn’t leave her alone.” With sweet little Marcy dead, Quinn now understood that no woman in his life was safe from a crazed killer. If anything happened to Annabelle…

“Tobias took Bruce’s place around six this morning,” Griffin said.

Quinn breathed a sigh of relief. “How many agents have you brought to Memphis?”

“Three. Bruce and Tobias were already here. Bridges came in last night.”

“Have you spoken to Annabelle personally today?”

“No, I thought it best to wait and let you explain the situation to her,” Griffin said. “I told Tobias to make sure she doesn’t receive a morning newspaper and I requested that all her calls be routed through me.”

“You’ll have to talk to her. Tell her what’s happened and why I’ve made certain decisions,” Quinn said. “I won’t be seeing her today. Actually I won’t be seeing her at all. Not until this mess is over, until we’ve proved I didn’t kill Marcy or anyone else. I want you to take Annabelle back to Austinville and keep a bodyguard with her twenty-four/seven until we catch this maniac.”

“You’ve got it all planned out, haven’t you.” Griffin snorted. “I thought you knew Annabelle, but apparently you don’t. Do you honestly think she’ll go back to Austinville when she finds out the trouble you’re in? That woman is going to stick to your side like glue.”

“It’ll be your job to convince her—”

“There will be no convincing her,” Griffin said. “There won’t be anything I can say or do that will make her desert you.”

“Then I’ll call her and tell her whatever I have to in order to make her go home, where she’ll be safe. At least safer than she would be anywhere near me.”

“You’ll call her, huh? Can’t face her eye-to-eye, can you?”

The distinct ring of a cell phone interrupted the debate about Annabelle. Judd Walker removed his phone from his coat pocket and answered quietly. Quinn heard several uhhuhs, a yes and a thank you. Then Judd returned his phone to his pocket and glanced from Quinn to Griffin.

“That was the doctor who took a blood sample from Quinn last night at the jail,” Judd said. “He had the lab do a rush job for us and the results just came in.”

Everyone in the car, except Sanders who only glanced quickly in the interior rearview mirror, focused on Judd.

“Traces of some type of benzodiazepine showed up,” Judd said. “The generic name is Lorazepam and it’s sold as Alzapam, Ativan, Loraz and so on. It’s an antianxiety and sedative/hypnotic. An overdose could knock a person out for an hour or two and then when they came to, they’d be disoriented. The pills could be easily dissolved in coffee, tea or cola.”

“Son of a bitch,” Griffin said. “You told us you drank a glass of iced tea right before you lost consciousness yesterday evening, right?”

Startled by the details of the doctor’s findings, Quinn simply nodded. Why was it so hard to believe he’d been deliberately drugged? That someone had betrayed him?

“Someone drugged you,” Judd said. “Who made the iced tea you drank?”

“Marcy,” Quinn replied.

He wasn’t sick, wasn’t having a mental breakdown.

“I think we can rule her out.” Griffin narrowed his gaze as if deep in thought. “The other times you blacked out, did you drink anything right before getting sleepy?”

Quinn tried to remember each incident, starting with Kendall and working his way back. “I’d drank iced tea at the house before I left to drive over to Kendall’s the night she died. I got so sleepy, I had to stop and…Goddamn! The night I drove from Nashville to Memphis, the night Lulu was killed, I brought along a thermos of coffee and drank it during the drive.”

“Who prepared the coffee for you?” Judd inquired.

“I’m not sure. I think Marcy fixed the coffee, but I believe Aaron brought the thermos to me after I’d gotten in my car and was ready to leave.”

“One of your employees has been drugging you so that you’d lose consciousness and wind up with no alibi for the time of each murder,” Griffin said.

“That means either Aaron Tully or Jace Morgan could very well be our killer.”

Judd stated the obvious.

Quinn shook his head. “No, that’s not possible. I refuse to believe either of them is capable of cold-blooded murder.” It couldn’t be Jace or Aaron. It just couldn’t be!

“Well, you’d better believe it,” Griffin told him. “Because if we can’t prove someone else murdered those six women, you could wind up convicted of multiple murders. And Anna-belle won’t be safe until we catch this guy.”

Knocking the waiter in the head and leaving him bleeding and unconscious, possibly dying, had been easy enough. He’d simply followed the man into the service elevator when he rolled in the breakfast cart. He had taken the waiter completely by surprise. Stupid bozo hadn’t known what hit him. In fact, it had been the butt of his gun that had rendered the man helpless. Well, not technically his gun, but it was in his possession now, even though it was registered to Quinn Cortez. He’d dragged the guy off the elevator and dumped him into the stairwell, figuring it would be hours before anyone found him.

When the elevator opened on the correct floor, he shoved his duffle bag underneath the cart, and the white linen tablecloth hid the bag quite effectively. As he rolled the cart off the elevator and down the hall, he whistled a catchy little tune.

Sitting there outside her suite, just as he had expected, was a bodyguard. A big, burly black guy who looked as if he might have been a prizefighter or possibly a football player. Roughly six three and a good two forty.

“Morning,” he said. “I have Ms. Vanderley’s breakfast order.”

“As far as I know, Ms. Vanderley didn’t order breakfast.” The black man studied him closely as if trying to decide whether he was on the up-and-up or not.

“She must have. They sent me up here with it. Eggs, bacon, toast. Hot tea.”

He could tell the bodyguard was considering his options. “I’ll call down and check to see if she placed an order.”

“Yeah, sure. Or you could just ask her.”

The big guy nodded. “Stay here.”

“Yeah, sure.” He backed the cart up a couple of feet, showing the guard that he was just a delivery man who was no threat to anyone.

The bodyguard knocked on the closed door to Annabelle Vanderley’s suite. “Ms. Vanderley? It’s Tobias.”

She opened the door almost immediately, wide enough for him to get a really good look at her. She wasn’t as gorgeous as Lulu, but this Ms. Vanderley was a real pretty lady. And from what he’d heard about her that’s exactly what she was—a lady. But then, Carla Millican had been a lady. A nice lady. Kendall Wells had been a smart lawyer. Lulu had been a whore and so had Joy Ellis.

And what about Kelley?
he asked himself.

Kelley hadn’t been sweet or nice or a lady. But she also hadn’t been a whore.

What Kelley had been was a mother. His mother.

“Ms. Vanderley, did you order breakfast?” the guard asked. “There’s a waiter here with a tray—”

He eased the gun from where he’d tucked it beneath the white waiter’s jacket, just under the waistband of the black slacks that were a tad too short for him. Moving lightning fast, he came up behind the big black man.

“Watch out, Mr. Tobias!” Annabelle screamed.

Too late. Just as Tobias turned, he shot the man right between the eyes. He dropped like a huge tree downed in the forest. Blood splattered everywhere. Annabelle screamed again and tried to close the door, but Tobias’s body blocked the doorway. Realizing the danger and her inability to shut him out, she turned and fled. He jumped over the guard’s body and raced after Annabelle, catching her just as she
went into the bedroom and was trying to close the door on him. He yanked her toward him.

“If you scream again, I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?”

Standing stiff as a poker, she nodded.

“We’re leaving here, right now. We’re going back down in the service elevator and if you give me any trouble, I’ll kill you.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she asked. “All this time, it was you.”

“Shut up and get moving.”

When they reached the outer door, she halted when she saw Tobias’s body.

“Just step over him.”