Bone Cold (12 page)

Friday, January 19
Seventh District Station

Q
uentin spotted Anna North the moment he entered the precinct. She stood across the crowded room from him, a slim box clutched to her chest. Her face was in profile, her stance and what he could see of her expression conveyed unease, which was not unusual as few civilians visited the cops under happy circumstances.

He tilted his head, studying her. What was it about Anna North that drew his gaze as if she were a burst of color in a black-and-white day? Sure, she was a looker. But there were probably a half-dozen equally gorgeous women in the room, and his gaze hadn't been drawn to them.

Nor was it her clothes, nothing more outstanding than a brilliant blue sweater, black jeans and deep brown leather jacket. Nor even her red hair, as bright and shiny as a new penny.

So what was it?

A sudden smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It had been obvious at their last meeting that Anna North
had not been impressed with his detecting skills. She certainly wouldn't be happy to be paired with him again.

He liked nothing quite as well as a challenge. Especially such an attractive one. It was a character flaw, he acknowledged that. But what the hell.

He sauntered over to the desk officer. “Morning, Violet,” he murmured, leaning against the counter. “I must say, you're looking mighty inviting this morning.”

Violet DuPre, a fifty-something woman with enough sass to face down even the cockiest the NOPD had to offer, swept her gaze over him. “Can the crap and sell it to somebody else, Malone. What do you want?”

“That's what I like about you, Violet. You're so susceptible to my charms.” He rested an elbow on the counter and leaned his face to hers. “What's with the redhead? She waiting for someone special?”

“We all are, toots. Unfortunately, the good Lord don't always send the choicest cut.” She grinned. “That one asked to speak with a detective.”

“She didn't request me by name?”

“Sorry, Romeo. Better luck next time.”

“You've got the wrong idea, doll. That one's been in before, touting some crazy story about alien abductions. I pulled her while filling in over at the Eighth. I'd hate to have one of my fellow officers be forced to deal with that.”

Her full mouth lifted in a smirk. “That's real generous of you, Detective Malone.”

“That's me, always thinking of others.”

She shook her head, expression disgusted. “You know, Malone, I'd think since another girl died last night you'd
have more to do this morning than worry about alien abductions.”

He straightened, sending her a wicked grin. “You're selling me short, babe. Got that covered, too.” And he did. He had interviewed a half-dozen bartenders, gotten the descriptions, names and when possible, the addresses of the men Evelyn Parker had spent time with the night of her death. He'd spoken with her family and had paid a visit to a couple of her friends and co-workers. Using the information he'd gleaned, he had begun piecing together a time line of her last evening alive. And it wasn't even lunchtime yet.

He leaned closer to the other officer. “So Violet, most gorgeous one, anything you can do to help me out?”

She shook her head and reached for the phone, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “Actually, since you two have a history, I'm thinking I ought to assign her to you. For expediency's sake.”

“You're a peach, no doubt about it.”

She snorted with disgust. “No self-respectin' black woman's gonna be no peach. Save that for those wimpy white girls. And you might want to lose that tie. It's not so cool, stud.”

He laughed and blew her a kiss. “I'll take that under advisement. See you around.”

Quentin crossed the room, aware of Violet watching him, no doubt smirking with amusement.

“Ms. North,” Quentin drawled. “What brings you down to my neck of the woods?

She turned, a subtle expression of dismay crossing her features. Obviously, she had hoped their paths would never cross again. “I needed to speak with a detective—”

“That would be me.”

She glanced toward Violet—and found her smiling at them—then back at him. “I see you got lucky again. And here I thought they might assign me a different detective. Me being in a different precinct and all.”

“Computers.” He lifted a shoulder. “Once you're in the system with one of us, you can't get away.”

“Like a fish with a hook in its mouth.”

He laughed. “Follow me.”

He led her through the busy squad room to his desk and motioned her to take a seat. When she had, he perched on the desk's edge, directly in front of her. “How's the writing coming?”

“Very well, thank you.” She crossed her legs. “Nice tie. Colorful.”

He looked at it and grinned. “Thanks.”

“It's not every grown man who can carry off a tie printed with crawfish and bottles of hot sauce.”

“You didn't miss the Mardi Gras masks, did you?” He leaned toward her. As he did he caught the scent of flowers, a little sweet, a little spicy. Like her, he thought, a ripple of awareness moving over him.

“How could I, Detective? They're purple and gold.” She arched an eyebrow. “The tie, is it a homicide thing? A way to inject a little levity into what's a grim job?”

“Naw, dawlin',” he murmured, slipping into a Cajun patois. “It's a N'awlins thing. Laissez les bon temps rouler.”

For a moment she was silent, then she made a sound of irritation. “Are you at all interested in what brought me in today? Or did you want to spend the day chatting about your tie?”

“You brought it up, sugar.” He plucked his spiral and pen from his breast pocket. “How can I help you, Ms. North?”

“A friend of mine is missing. Actually, she's my little sister.”

“Little sister?”

“I'm a Big Brothers, Big Sisters of America volunteer. Jaye's been my little sister for two years.”

He asked the girl's full name, her age, where she lived, who she lived with, jotting the information down. That done, he looked up. “When did she go missing?”

“Thursday morning she left for school at the regular time. She had her purse and backpack. She told her foster mother goodbye and no one's seen or heard from her since.”

Anna smoothed her hands over the lid of the box in her lap. “That night I called her friends, checked all her regular haunts. No one had seen her all day.”

“What about her foster parents? Why aren't they sitting where you are now? And what about Social Services? She's a ward of the state and as such—”

“They think she's run away. If you check police records, I'm sure you'll find they reported it. You see—” she smoothed her hands over the box again “—she's been in the foster system for years and has had a pretty tough time. She's bolted from foster homes in the past.”

“How many times?”

She didn't blink. “Six.”

He made several notes in his spiral, then met Anna North's eyes once more. “But you don't think that's the case now?”

She leaned forward. “I know it's not. Look at what I found under her mattress.” She opened the box and passed it over. “Jaye's a kid who's had a lot more bad in her life than good. She's lost everyone and everything she's ever loved, beginning with her mother. The contents of this box represent everything that's tangible
about the good in her past. It's all she has. She wouldn't leave it behind.”

He sifted through the contents. “Is that all?”

“No. A week ago she mentioned that some guy followed her home from school.”

“Did she report it?”

Anna sighed. “No.”

“Was it an isolated occurrence or did it happen mare than once?”

“I don't know…. She only told me about the one incident.”

“That's not much to get excited about.”

“But she left that morning with a book bag filled with textbooks! If she had planned to run away, wouldn't she have filled her bag with clothes, toiletries and her keepsakes? She left other things of importance to her behind as well. Her CDs and player for one. It doesn't make sense.”

“Her friends don't know anything? Could she have stashed clothes and toiletries with one of them?”

“I don't think so. I've hounded her friends. They're not lying about not having heard from her, because they're scared. I see the fear in their eyes. Besides, that doesn't account for this box of mementos.”

Quentin shuffled through the items once more, admitting that he couldn't find fault with her logic. This girl had obviously held on to some of these items for a long time. According to what Anna had told him, the girl kept the box under her mattress, indicating that she coveted its contents.

“I know Jaye, Detective Malone.” Her voice thickened and she cleared it. “I know she didn't run away. I know it.”

He closed the box and handed it back. “So you
suspect…what? That she was kidnapped? Some sort of foul play?”

Her eyes flooded with tears. “Yes,” she managed to say. “I wish to God I didn't. I wish she had run away. At least then…she—”

The last came out choked and Quentin waited while she struggled to get a grip on her emotions. “I've done all I can,” she continued softly. “I've contacted her friends and cruised her hangouts. I don't know what else I can do, so here I am.”

Quentin stood, went around the desk and sat. He tossed his spiral onto the desk beside him. “I'm going to pass something by you, Ms. North, just for the sake of argument. Two days ago you were in to see me. You had received some letters from a fan and were concerned that this fan, a child, was in danger.”

“Her name's Minnie, but yes, that's right.”

“In fact, you not only believed Minnie was in danger, but some other, yet unknown girl as well.”

“That's right, but I don't see where that has anything—”

“How old is Minnie? According to her letters?”

“Eleven.”

“And how old is Jaye?”

“Fifteen.”

“And how old were you when you were kid napped?”

Anna shot to her feet, cheeks flaming. “I see where you're going with this and you're wrong!”

He ignored her outburst. “Could it be that you're preoccupied with the idea of young girls in danger?”

“No. Look—” She brought a hand to her head, then dropped it. “Jaye's gone. If she purposely ran away, she left without some things of great importance to her. Her foster parents…they didn't act right, Detective
Malone. Their behavior varied between nonchalance and anger at my interference. I sensed they were…hiding something.”

“Whoa. Are you suggesting that the foster parents might be responsible for Jaye's disappearance?”

She tipped up her chin. “Something's not right about their reaction to Jaye's disappearance. Please, won't you talk to them? I'm so afraid for Jaye.”

Quentin didn't reply, instead used the moment to silently recount what she had told him. On the one hand, this kid had a history of running away, on the other he bought the theory that she wouldn't have knowingly left her box of keepsakes behind.

He stood. “I'll look into it.”

She made a sound of surprise. “You will?”

“I'll check out Jaye's file, talk to her caseworker. I'll speak with her foster parents, check their record. Will that make you feel better?”

“Immensely.” She let out a shaky-sounding breath. “Thank you.”

He walked her out of the squad room, told her he would be in touch and watched her walk away, acknowledging that she intrigued him. Because of her past and what she had lived through. Because she was a writer.

He narrowed his eyes in thought. Twice in three days she had been in with half-baked theories and over-the-top suspicions. Were her books getting to her? Was her past? Or were her concerns and feelings of danger justified?

Terry sauntered over. He smacked his lips. “There's just something about a redhead that starts my motor running.”

Quentin turned to his partner in disbelief. “For God's
sake, Terry, do you ever pause a moment to think before you open your mouth?”

“What?” He held his hands palms up, the picture of innocence. “All I said was, redheads get me going.”

“That's right. You and at least one other guy out there.”

His friend paled. “Oh man, I didn't mean—”

“Of course you didn't.” Quentin glanced over his shoulder. “But you know as well as I do that there are some folks around here who have no sense of humor.”

“The captain being one.” Terry made a sound of frustration. “She took a big chunk out of my ass already this morning.”

They turned and headed for Quentin's desk. “What about?”

“She just needed something to chew on, I was it.”

Good old Aunt Patti. She was the biggest ball buster on the force. And she was not about to let one of her detectives go to wrack and ruin, not easily anyway.

“How'd it go with PID?”

“Went okay. Would have gone better if I'd been home in bed with Penny. Those A-holes refused to call Jack Daniel's an alibi.”

Quentin sat behind his desk. “Captain was pissed about you being at the scene last night.”

“Oh, yeah.” Terry slouched in a chair. “I'm to steer clear of anything that might be even remotely related to the Kent and Parker homicides. It really burns my ass, too.”

He had expected as much. “The evidence will clear you.”

“Yeah. Though from what I hear, they didn't get much from the Parker scene. You called it right-on. She wasn't raped. Those jeans served as a kind of chastity belt.”

“But he killed her anyway.” Quentin frowned. “Why redheads?”