Bone Cold (19 page)

Tuesday, January 23
10:35 p.m.

Q
uentin stopped on the sidewalk outside Anna's building and glanced up at her brightly lit windows. He frowned. What was going on with her? Obviously, she had been singled out by a wacko, no doubt because of her books or her past.

But how dangerous a wacko was he? Would he take his campaign of psychological terror to the next level? And what part did this Dr. Walker play in the scenario? She had jumped to his defense quickly—and heatedly. They hadn't known each other but a matter of days, what part could the man play in her life already?

That shouldn't matter to Quentin, but it did. He experienced a small but vicious stab of jealousy. Of possessiveness. He was attracted to Anna North. In a big way. She intrigued him. And he flat didn't like the idea of her being involved with somebody else.

Perhaps he would pay a surprise late-night visit to Dr. Benjamin Walker.

As he gazed at the window, Anna appeared. She
stood in the rectangle of light, looking down at him. Their gazes met. Seconds ticked past. Neither moved. Quentin felt a pull, a tug, one from the pit of his gut. And in the small space of time, as he stood in the puddle of light from her window, he imagined crossing to her gate and walking through it. He imagined climbing the stairs to her apartment, striding through her front door and taking her into his arms. And to her bed.

She lifted a hand in a small gesture of recognition, then shut the blind, cutting him off from the light. And from the vivid image of the two of them together, making love.

With a small shake of his head, he turned and crossed to his Bronco, parked half on the sidewalk so as to not block the narrow French Quarter street.

Quentin climbed in, started the vehicle and pulled away from the curb, thoughts shifting to the events of the past week. They settled on his visit with Penny.

He had watched her walk away, then had let himself out, feeling like a heel. For doing something he had known beforehand that he shouldn't. For saying something to her that he'd known in his gut was wrong, for upsetting her when she was already in a bad situation.

Penny had said Terry had been out of control for a long time. That he was self-destructing. Why didn't he see it? Did Quentin, as Penny had suggested, have a rose-colored view of his friend?

Quentin frowned. No. Terry had been fine until his marriage had fallen apart. Sure he drank too much sometimes, stayed out late. It went with the job. A guy had to find a way to let go of the stress, the ugliness a cop dealt with on a daily basis. Some of the guys did it through their families, some through church or chicks, some used drink. Others just turned mean. And some,
oddly, didn't seem to need any coping mechanism at all. The job seemed to have no effect on them whatsoever.

Quentin dialed the station. The desk officer on night duty picked up. “Hey, Brad, Malone here. I need you to get me an address, a shrink named Benjamin Walker. Residence not practice, he's probably located uptown.”

“Got it. Constance Street. Office and residence.”

The desk officer gave him the address and Malone thanked him. “Everything quiet there?”

“As a tomb, Malone. Keep warm.”

“You too.” Quentin hung up. He crossed Canal Street, passing Canal Place and Saks Fifth Avenue. Terry would calm down once he settled into his situation. Once he admitted to himself that Penny wasn't going to change her mind. His weird mood swings and erratic behavior would even out. The old Terry would be back.

And once Nancy Kent and Evelyn Parker's killer had been apprehended they would all relax.

The media had had a field day with the killings. One irresponsible journalist had even referred to the killer as the Bourbon Street Butcher. Tourists were getting nervous; the public was demanding action and Chief Pennington wanted answers—yesterday.

Quentin frowned. The thing was, nobody seemed to have seen anything, even though both women had spent the last night of their lives surrounded by people. Bar personnel and patrons had been questioned, the men identified as having danced with the two women had been brought in, their stories investigated. Not one good suspect had emerged from among them.

Quentin drew to a stop at Lee Circle. The monument to General Robert E. Lee at its center glowed ghostly white in the darkness, illuminated by several spotlights
at its base. Malone stared at it a moment, then returned his gaze to the road ahead. He and his team had revisited every unsolved rape of the past two years, any with a similar MO had been checked out: they'd reinterviewed victims, cross-checked blood types and other evidence found at the scenes.

And uncovered nothing.

Quentin flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, frustrated. He'd been at Shannon's the night Nancy Kent was murdered. By virtue of that, he had been one of the last to see her alive. The murderer had been there that night, Quentin believed that. Watching her, more than likely dancing with her. Quentin had probably seen him. It bothered the hell out of him.

The light changed and he started forward. Both the victims had been robbed. The first victim had been a wealthy young woman, flashing around big bills that last night of her life. Her wallet had been empty when she was found.

Suddenly, the image of Terry handing Shannon a fifty-dollar bill filled Quentin's head. It affected him like a blow and he pulled his vehicle to the side of the road.

Dear Jesus. What was he thinking?

That Terry had killed her? That the fifty-dollar bill had been Nancy Kent's? Quentin shook his head in disbelief. Terry didn't have murder in him, no way. Besides, they had been together at Shannon's the entire evening. And by the time they had parted company, Terry had been so stinking drunk, he'd hardly been able to walk, let alone commit a murder. Jesus, what was wrong with him? How could he have considered, even for a moment, the possibility that Terry could do that?

Quentin pulled back onto the road. He reached Ben
Walker's address within minutes, rolling to a stop in front of the house, a traditional New Orleans double. No light shone from Dr. Walker's windows; the driveway was empty. Quentin glanced at his watch, noting that it was after eleven. His lips lifted. It'd be a shame to wake the doctor up. A damn shame.

Quentin killed the engine, climbed out and headed up the walk. He rang the bell, waited, then rang again. No dog barked, no light snapped on. He knocked loudly, still got no response and went around back. He found the back of the house as dark as the front. He climbed the steps to the rear door, knocked, waited, then repeated the process.

Interesting, he thought, turning and heading back to his vehicle. After eleven on a weeknight and the doctor was out. Apparently the man was a night animal.

Maybe Anna had called him? Perhaps the doctor had gone to comfort her?

Not liking the thought, he discounted it. He'd pay another call on the psychologist in the morning, he decided.

Quentin climbed into his Bronco, started it up and pointed it toward St. Charles Avenue. His mind wandered as he drove the quiet streets, under the canopy of centuries-old oak trees and turn-of-the-century mansions, Loyola and Tulane Universities, all as familiar to him as the back of his hand.

He lived in a small house in an area of the city called the Riverbend, literally where the Mississippi River took a bend and two of the city's great boulevards, St. Charles and Carrollton Avenues met and dead-ended at River Road.

His was a mixed community that catered to young families, working couples and the university crowd, a
neighborhood consisting of restored bungalows, doubles and cottages, all in various stages of repair.

Quentin rolled down his street and into his driveway, pulling to a stop under the carport. He shut off the engine, climbed out then stopped dead, a memory flying into his head, taking his breath.

That night at Shannon's, he and Terry had not been together the entire time. He had lost sight of his partner for an hour or more shortly after Terry's run-in with Nancy Kent.

Wednesday, January 24
6:50 a.m.

T
he next morning, Quentin climbed Dr. Benjamin Walker's front steps. He moved slowly, taking in the structure's freshly painted exterior and neat though bare gardens, all details he had not noticed the night before. The right side of the double served as the doctor's residence, the left his office. Quentin knew this by the shiny brass plate mounted on the door.

He crossed the narrow porch to the man's residence and rang the bell. Once, then again. Early morning, not even seven, there was an excellent chance he would awaken the psychologist, especially since the man had been out late the night before.

Quentin smiled to himself. He wanted to catch the man unawares, wanted his full attention and cooperation. If he waited until Ben Walker began seeing patients, he would have to settle for being worked in.

From the other side of the door came the sound of footsteps, then the dead bolt being turned. The door swung open; it appeared to Quentin as if the man on
the other side had just gotten out of the shower. He had a towel looped around his neck and his hair was wet. From inside came the strains of classical music.

“Benjamin Walker?” Quentin held up his shield. “Detective Malone, NOPD.”

The man looked genuinely taken aback. “You're looking for Dr. Benjamin Walker?”

“That's right.” He pocketed his shield. “It looks like I disturbed your morning routine. I apologize.”

“No problem.” He wiped his hands on the towel. “How can I help you?”

“There was an incident last night involving Anna North, and I understa—”

“Anna? Is she all right?”

“May I come in?”

“Of course.”

The doctor stepped away from the door and Quentin followed the man inside, through the foyer and into a front parlor. He knew immediately by the spartan interior that Ben Walker was single, had no children and little family. The pieces of furniture were few, though they appeared to be good quality. Little in the way of art or family photos graced the walls; however, several mirrors hung in the parlor, giving the room a fractured, fun-house appearance.

Ben motioned him to take a seat, then took one himself. “Tell me about Anna. Is she all right?”

“Except for being shaken up, she's fine.” Quentin looked the other man directly in the eyes, hoping to unnerve him. “Someone played a nasty little trick on her. Entered her apartment and left a pinkie finger in the refrigerator for her. She found it when she got home.”

He paled. “Poor Anna. She must have been terrified. Who's…I mean, do you know—”

“It was a fake.”

“Thank God.” The man drew his eyebrows together, as if thinking something over, then looked at Quentin. “There's something I have to show you. I'll be right back.”

He returned several moments later with a manila envelope. He handed it to Quentin. “Take a look.”

Quentin opened the envelope. It contained a note and a photograph of the doctor and Anna sitting together at the Café du Monde. He read the note, then returned his gaze to Ben's. “When did you receive this?”

“Two evenings ago. I came home to find someone had been in my home. They'd left that on my bed.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes, unsettled by this newest turn of events. “What do you think it means, Doctor?”

“I don't know. Obviously, whoever took this photo followed me. Or Anna. They're playing some sort of twisted game with me. With us.”

“Actually, that's why I'm here.”

Ben stiffened slightly. “Is that so?”

“Anna tells me you believe one of your patients is responsible for the books and tapes that were sent to her and her friends.”

“It seems likely,” he murmured, tone careful. “After all, I received the package though I had no previous connection to Anna.”

“Except through your work.”

“Pardon?”

“Your area of expertise.”

“Yes. Although there are a number of psychologists in this area who fit that criteria.”

“Then why you, Doctor?”

“I wish I knew that, Detective. If I did, I might be able to determine who was responsible.”

“Might?”

“I'm a psychologist, not a swami.”

“I need a list of your patients.”

“You know as well as I that I can't give that to you.”

“One of them means Anna North harm.”

“We don't know that, not for sure.”

“Don't we? Last night he broke into her apartment and left her a rather gruesome gift. One meant to terrify her.”

“I can't do it.” He stood, signaling their meeting had come to an end. “I'm sorry.”

Quentin followed him to his feet. “Are you really?”

“There's a code of professional conduct I have to live by, Detective. Same as you. If you know someone is guilty but can't prove it, what do you? Do you beat a confession out of him? Plant evidence to frame him? Or do you adhere to your oath to uphold the law?”

Quentin narrowed his eyes, unmoved by the man's impassioned speech. “So what are you saying, Dr. Walker? That you know one of your patients is guilty?”

“Practicing the art of double-talk, Detective?”

Quentin smiled grimly. “A cop's stock-in-trade.” He indicated the photo. “May I keep this?”

“Fine. I do have a request, however. Anna doesn't know about this yet and I'd like to tell her myself. I was afraid… I didn't want to frighten her.” As if realizing how ridiculous he sounded in light of what had occurred the previous evening, he flushed. “I'll contact her immediately.”

“Do that. Otherwise, no promises.” Quentin handed
Ben one of his cards. “You'll call if you change your mind?”

“Of course.” He took the card and they started for the door.

“What's with the mirrors?” Quentin asked, noticing several more. “They the windows to the soul or something?”

“That's the eyes.” Ben glanced at him. “Actually, I don't know why I like them, but I do. I started collecting them several years ago and have nearly twenty now.”

“Interesting hobby. What are you going to do when you run out of room to hang them?”

“I don't know. Move, I guess.” They reached the door and Ben opened it. “I'm sorry I wasn't more help. Truly.”

“Me, too. Truly.” Quentin stepped onto the porch, then stopped and turned back to the doctor. “By the way, I tried to reach you late last night. After I left Anna's. You must have been out.”

Ben blinked. “I was home all night.”

“I rang the bell and knocked. Front and back.”

“I'm a heavy sleeper, Detective Malone.”

“Funny, your car wasn't in the driveway.”

The shrink bristled. “Are you accusing me of something, Detective?”

“Not at all. Just an observation.”

“When possible, I park on the street. That way in the morning the driveway is available for my patients and I don't have to move the car.” He indicated the row of cars parked on the street outside. “Mine's the silver Taurus.”

“That's good planning, Dr. Walker.”

“Thank you.” He glanced at his watch. “I hate to cut
this short, but if you don't have any further questions, I have a patient in thirty minutes.”

“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.” Quentin thanked him again, turned and walked away. When he reached his vehicle, he glanced back at the doctor. Why had he taken such a dislike to the man? he wondered. He had been pleasant enough, as helpful as he felt he could be.

Not helpful enough. Too pleasant. The kind of man a woman like Anna could fall for. A professional man.

“Was there something else, Detective?” he called.

“Yeah.” Quentin drew his eyebrows together. “I'd make certain the batteries in your smoke detector are fresh, you being such a heavy sleeper. You never know when something unexpected is going to happen.”