Bone Cold (24 page)

“She was a redhead, Dr. Walker. Another redhead. And he cut off her right pinkie finger.” The detective paused, as if to allow time for his words to sink in. “Still think it would be unethical to hand over a list of your patients?”

Tuesday, January 30
Seventh District Station

Q
uentin angled his Bronco into one of the parking spots on the street in front of the Seventh District station. His tête-à-tête with Ben Walker had proved only mildly enlightening. The man had been genuinely distressed at the news of Anna's attack, deeply troubled both over the note that had been left on his windshield and the fact that one of his patients might be responsible.

Even so, he had refused to turn over his patient roster. Quentin cut his vehicle's engine. The doctor had insisted that if he knew which patient had left the notes, he would turn him in. But he didn't and claimed that in good conscience, he couldn't hand them all over.

It sounded like a load of crap to Quentin. For Quentin the issue was cut-and-dried. Somebody out there was killing women. There was a chance that same person wanted to hurt Anna. He needed to discover that person's identity and stop them. Code of ethics be damned.

Ben Walker was falling in love with Anna.

Quentin scowled and threw open the car door. The
thought irritated the hell out of him. As did the question gnawing at the back of his brain—if it had been Ben at Anna's door last night, would he have been the one to share her bed?

He hated the question. But he couldn't completely erase it from his thoughts. Anna had been frightened. In shock. He had been there.

She had turned to him. For comfort. As a way to wash away the horror she had just experienced. Lord knew, he had seen enough cops do the same thing time again—with booze or babes or any of a dozen other diversions. He had done it himself.

Quentin slammed the door and hit the auto lock. Son-of-a-bitch. He had known making love with her would be a mistake before he had done it. But she had been so incredibly sexy. So vulnerable. Being strong and righteous had been beyond him.

He had wanted her from the first moment he'd seen her.

No doubt Ben Walker felt the same. A doctor. Quentin scowled. And what was he? A cop. A guy whose real dreams had always been beyond his capabilities. “Detective Malone?”

Quentin turned. A couple of detectives he recognized from PID stood behind him. They held up their shields though they had to know he recognized them. It had been they who had questioned him about the events at Shannon's the night Nancy Kent died.

Quentin silently swore. The day had just taken a trip south. He forced a smile. “Hi, fellas. What's up?”

Simmons, the shorter of the two, spoke first. “We need to ask you a few questions about your partner, Terry Landry.”

“Really?” Quentin cocked an eyebrow. “I thought we'd been through all this already.”

“All what, Detective?” Carter, the other detective, asked.

So this was the way it was going to go.
“The events at Shannon's the night of the Kent murder.”

“This morning we're interested in other events, Detective Malone.”

Quentin leaned against his Bronco. He folded his arms across his chest. “Fire away.”

“We hear Landry's having a hard time right now.”

“You could say that, I suppose. He and his wife have separated.” Quentin moved his gaze between the two. “But we talked about this the last time we got together.”

“It's understandable then, that's he hitting the bottle pretty heavy.”

Quentin stiffened slightly. “Is he? I hadn't noticed.”

Simmons and Carter exchanged glances. “You haven't noticed him drinking…excessively?”

Quentin pushed away from the vehicle, annoyed. “Look, let's stop playing cat and mouse. If you're asking me if Terry has gone out and tied one on recently, yeah, he has. But he was off duty. It didn't affect his on-the-job performance or tarnish the sterling image of the NOPD.”

“You've seen no change in his on-the-job performance?” Simmons asked.

“No,” Quentin replied, leveling him with an unblinking stare. “None.”

“It must be tough for him financially right now,” Carter murmured. “What with having to support two households.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “It'd be tough for any cop.”

“He's talked to you about that?”

“Complained that money was tight, yeah.”

“Yet he doesn't seem to be strapped for cash.” This came from Simmons. “Does he, Detective?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“So, you haven't noticed Landry spending questionable amounts of money? Buying rounds of drinks? Tipping big?”

The fifty-dollar bill Terry had slipped Shannon. Son-of-a-bitch, this was bad.
“No, I haven't.” He looked Carter directly in the eyes. “Have you?”

The other detective ignored that. “Is there anything about Landry's behavior or performance you'd like to discuss with us?”

What the hell had his partner gotten himself into?
Quentin worked to keep his unease from showing. “I told you, Terry's fine. Going through a tough time but hanging in there.”

He moved his gaze between the two PID officers. “You want to tell me what's going on here?”

A small smile touched Simmons's mouth. “Thank you for your help, Detective Malone.”

Carter's expression was not nearly so subtle. “We'll be in touch.”

“I'll count on it,” he muttered, watching the two officers walk away, then turned and crossed the sidewalk, moving toward the station house.

A couple of uniforms having a smoke on the front steps nodded in his direction and Quentin swore under his breath. How many of his fellow officers had witnessed his little chat with Carter and Simmons? Quite a few, he acknowledged, noticing the curious stares as
he entered the building. Within the hour, word would have spread to everyone on the shift.

The PID boys had chosen that meeting place deliberately. They had wanted to alert everyone that something was gong on. That it either involved Quentin or someone close to him. They had wanted the Seventh on edge and Terry on notice—they were after his ass.

Damn.
What did they have on his partner? What did they and the rest of the higher-ups know that he didn't? And how much trouble had he just gotten himself into by covering for his partner?

Quentin muttered an oath, angry at Simmons and Carter's tactics. Angry at Terry for being such a screwup. Angrier at himself for feeling the need to cover for the other man. To make excuses for him.

“Making excuses for Terry's bad behavior isn't helping him,”
Penny had said.
“It's not helping me or the kids.”

Quentin passed his aunt's office; noting that the door was closed. He considered ignoring protocol, barging in and demanding answers. As quickly as the thought registered, he discounted it. Mother's sister or not, he did that and she would make him sorry he'd been born.

He crossed to the coffeepot instead, poured a cup of the tar-black, burnt-smelling brew, then added a packet of sugar.

“Got a minute?” Terry asked from behind him.

Quentin glanced over his shoulder and forced an easy smile. Terry had seen him and the PID guys. And was stressing over it. Quentin saw it in the other man's eyes. “Sure. Just perfecting this cup of battery acid.”

He tasted the drink, added another sugar, stirred the concoction then turned to face his friend. “What's up?”

“I saw them,” Terry hissed, face red. “Those bastards from PID. What did they want?”

“Good morning to you, too, partner.”

“Cut the crap. It's my ass hanging out there, I want to know what's going on.”

Quentin glanced around them before replying. “First off, don't go getting paranoiac, because that's exactly what they want. Second, why don't you tell
me
what's going on? By virtue of my relationship with you, my ass's out there too, and I don't like it.”

“I'm doing my job, that's what's going on. Dealing with my shitty life and keeping my nose to the grindstone.”

Quentin looked his friend dead in the eyes. “They asked about your drinking, Terry. They asked about your finances.”

“My finances?” His friend looked genuinely surprised. “What the hell? Here's a news flash, I'm flat broke.”

“Give me a break.” Quentin lowered his voice even more. “I saw, Terry. That fifty you slipped Shannon. If you're so broke, where'd that come from?”

“You think I'm on the take? Is that what they think? Is that what you told them?”

“I didn't tell them anything.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I covered for you. Though I don't know why.”

His friend looked relieved. Too relieved. “Because we're buddies,” he said. “We look out for each other. We—”

Quentin made a sound of frustration. “That's over, Terry. Penny's right, my making excuses for you is not doing anybody any good. Especially you.”

“Penny?” Hot color flooded the other man's face. “What are you doing talking to my wife?”

“You asked me to, remember?” Another officer started their way, coffee cup in hand, took a look at the two of them, turned and walked the other way. “Look, Terry, let's take this up another time. This isn't the time or pla—”

“That's bullshit. You talked to my wife and I want to know what she said. Is she running around? Who's she seeing?”

Quentin sighed. He had been dreading this conversation since seeing Penny more than a week ago. This scene had been inevitable; he might as well get it over with. “She's not running around, Terry. In fact, she said you were the one who owned that territory.”

“And you believed her?”

“Yeah. I believed her.”

Terry's expression turned ugly. “How come this is the first I'm hearing about your cozy little chat with my wife? You trying to hide something, partner? Like maybe that you're doing my wife?”

Quentin held on to his temper—barely. “I told you once before that Penny doesn't deserve that. And neither do I.”

“What's the matter? The truth hurt?”

Quentin looked at the other man in disgust. “I'll tell you the truth, Terry. No way is Penny going to take you back, not until you get your act together. She thinks you're self-destructing and she doesn't want to be there, or for the kids to be there, when it happens. I didn't think you wanted to hear that, so I kept it to myself. Satisfied? I defended you, but right now I'm wondering why.”

Terry fisted his fingers. “I should have known better. You don't send a fox into a chicken coop and not expect
somebody to get eaten. Everybody knows about you and women. You nailing her, partner? Her and who else? That redheaded writer? Maybe you're doing them both at the same time?”

White-hot anger took Quentin's breath. He fought to keep it in check, fought not to lunge at the other man. “Keep Anna out of this.”

A look of surprise crossed his friend's face, then one of understanding. “Anna, is it? We're on a first-name basis now? How sweet.” He laughed, the sound nasty. “I see I was right, Malone scores again.”

Quentin was shocked by the malevolence in the other man's voice and words. Terry had been crude at times, sarcastic or bitter at others. But this was a man he didn't recognize. An ugly man. A mean one.

The man, no doubt, that Penny Landry had seen far too often.

Quentin leaned toward his partner, catching a whiff of alcohol as he did. “You're damn lucky I'm your friend and know what a hard time you're having, otherwise I'd beat the hell out of you right now. And you know what? You'd deserve it.”

Terry swayed slightly, though he met Quentin's gaze evenly, his eyes bloodshot, raw-looking. “Better stay close to your new girlfriend, buddy. Because from what I hear, a murderer has his eyes on her as well.”

Quentin sucked in a sharp breath, then counted to ten before responding. “I've had it with you, Terry,” he said softly. “You got that?” He took a step closer, crowding the other man. “I'm not going to put up with your shit anymore and I'm not going to cover for it. I suggest you get your act together before you get yourself in some serious trouble.”

Tuesday, January 30
5:10 p.m.

Q
uentin stood in front of Anna's building for a full five minutes before the cold propelled him to her front steps. No, he corrected. Not the cold. The warmth. Her warmth.

It had been a hell of a day. Grim. Frustrating. In addition to Jessica Jackson's murder, his visit with the boys from PID and his falling-out with Terry, everyone at the Seventh District had been called on the carpet by Chief Pennington.

They weren't moving fast enough on the Kent, Parker and Jackson investigations, the NOPD chief had maintained. They weren't doing enough. Three murders in three weeks. This maniac was on a spree and O'Shay and her team were no closer to apprehending him than the morning after the Kent murder.

Quentin had jumped to all of their defense. He had told the man that if he thought he could do better, to go for it. They had left no stone unturned, had pursued every lead, real and imaginary. They had checked
and rechecked for links between the victims. So far, all their work had led to nothing but one dead end after another.

The chief had been furious. But he'd backed off—after he had issued the detectives a warning: they were on the clock, they had better find and nail this killer. And they had better do it fast.

Through it all, Quentin had thought of Anna. About her predicament. About what had occurred between them the night before. He hadn't forgotten, not for a moment, that it could have been her laid out in the morgue instead of another young woman.

Ben Walker infuriated him. By refusing to share his patients' names, he could be harboring a killer. A man intent on killing the woman Ben professed to be falling in love with. What would it take to shake Walker loose of his sanctimonious ethics? Anna's death? Or a threat against his own life?

Quentin glanced toward Anna's windows. Her blinds were closed; light spilled through and around the edges. He had called her once during the day, to inform her that a uniform named laSalle had been assigned to watch over her. That had frightened her. Her fear had become anger when he had refused to discuss why, when he had refused to say more about the investigation than that they were following every lead.

They'd been on the phone a couple of minutes, tops. They hadn't broached what had happened between them the night before. They had hung up, a chasm growing between them.

He should end it here, Quentin acknowledged. He should walk away now. What did they have in common besides the frightening things happening to her? Nothing else.

Liar. They had the sex.

The spectacular, breath-stealing, brain-numbing sex.

Quentin closed his eyes, remembering. Dear Lord, it had been out of this world. He had been like a horny adolescent with her. Some sort of testosterone-charged teenager.

He opened his eyes just as she walked past her window, a slim shadow moving across her blind. Last night, where had all that sexual energy come from? Why did Anna North fit him like a glove, a glove that had been fashioned just for him? Why her and no other woman?

He wanted her now. Then again. All night long.

God, he felt like such a shit. Like he was taking advantage of her when she was most vulnerable.

Quentin dragged his gaze from her window. She didn't need this complication in her life right now. She needed him to be dispassionate, analytical. Focused on finding and stopping the man who had been terrorizing her, the man who meant her harm.

Not blinded by arousal. Not fatigued by nights spent making love.

Go. Now. End it here.

He buzzed her apartment instead, waited a few moments then buzzed again. She answered, her voice coming over the intercom.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“It's Quentin.” Silence ensued. His gut tightened. “Can I come up?”

“That depends. Have you come to replace laSalle as my guard dog? Or are you here to see me?”

“To see you.” He paused. “We need to talk.”

She hesitated a moment, then murmured, “I'll ring you in.”

She did and he climbed the stairs to her apartment. Officer laSalle sat outside her door, a thermos of coffee at his feet, an open novel in his lap.

He looked up as Quentin cleared the landing. “Hello, Detective Malone.”

“LaSalle.” He crossed to the man. “It's been quiet?”

“As a tomb.”

He indicated the novel. “I hope that book's not too good.”

The man cleared his throat and closed the book. “No, sir. Not at all.”

“Glad to hear it.” Quentin glanced at his watch. “I'll stay with Ms. North for a couple hours if you want to grab some grub.”

“I'll do that.” The rookie stood, expression grateful. “I'll take a swing through the neighborhood while I'm out. Make sure everything's in order.”

“Good idea. Enjoy your dinner.”

Anna opened the door. Two spots of bright color dotted her cheeks. She watched as laSalle disappeared down the stairs, then turned to Quentin. “Slick,” she murmured. “Getting rid of my baby-sitter that way. I'll have to remember that technique.”

She wore straight-leg, soft-looking blue jeans and a bulky ivory sweater. She looked pale. Almost waiflike without makeup, her glorious hair pulled away from her face in a high, girlish ponytail.

She took his breath away.

“Don't even think about it.” Quentin scowled. “He's here for your protection.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “And why are you here, Malone? For my protection?”

“You're angry.”

“Shouldn't I be? You left here this morning with a promise to keep me informed. Instead, I get the party line from you and a baby-sitter at my door.”

“I'm concerned for your safety. My captain is concerned. We're not taking any chances.”

“The man from last night, he's going to come back for me, isn't he?” She tipped up her chin, working, he saw, to put on a brave face. “That's why laSalle's sitting outside my door.”

He drew his eyebrows together, frustrated by her refusal to simply accept his assurances and NOPD protection. “We don't know for sure that he'll come back for you. But if he does, we'll be here.”

“And?”

“And last night's murder may or may not be related to the previous two. There were some differences in the execution of this crime, including the removal of the woman's pinkie finger. This could be a copycat. I'd be inclined to consider that, but there are a few problems with that theory as well. The biggest being that we never publicly released the fact that the other two women were redheads.”

Her bravado faded. She searched his expression, hers suddenly, painfully anxious. “Do you have any…clues who—”

“No. I'm sorry, Anna.”

She looked crestfallen and he made a sound of regret. “I'd hoped to have good news for you, but I don't.”

She rubbed her arms, as if chilled. “Investigations like this aren't solved overnight.”

Sometimes they're not solved at all.
He looked away, then back at her. “Are you all right?” he asked softly,
wanting to touch her but holding back. “I thought about you…today.”

Her features softened and a ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “I'm okay.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

He stepped across the threshold; she closed the door behind them and locked it. “What's in the bag?” she asked.

He glanced at the brown paper sack he carried, realizing that he had forgotten about it. He held it out. “Chicken soup. For you.”

She looked startled, then laughed. “You made me chicken soup?”

Quentin grinned at the thought. “I'm not trying to poison you. This is a container of my mother's chicken soup. She keeps all of our freezers stocked. Just in case. It's still frozen, by the way.”

Anna took the bag. “
All
of your freezers?”

“I'm one of seven. The second boy and second oldest. Five of us are cops. As was my grandfather, my dad, three uncles and one aunt. I won't even go into my cousins.”

“Oh my.”

He grinned. “That's what everybody says.”

She set the bag with its container of soup on her small entryway table. Awkward silence fell between them.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Uncomfortable.” She hugged herself. “I spent it looking over my shoulder. Jumping at every noise.”

“You went out?”

“I was crawling the walls here. So this afternoon I…went into The Perfect Rose. Dalton needed me.”

Quentin frowned. He understood that she couldn't hide in her apartment forever; even so, he disliked the thought of her out on the street alone. Especially so soon after that madman had attacked her. “You were careful?”

“Yes.” As he opened his mouth to question her more, she held up a hand, stopping him. “Not to worry. Ben walked me there and Dalton walked me home. LaSalle never let me out of his sight. I was the safest woman in New Orleans.”

At the mention of the psychologist, Quentin frowned. “Ben Walker was here?”

“Yes. He came to see me.” She rubbed her arms, as if chilled. “He looked awful. That accident, how it happened… He said the two of you had spoken. And he…told me about the note left on his windshield. Told me it said—”

Her throat closed over the words and Quentin reached out to her. He cupped her face in his palms, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. “We're going to find this guy, Anna.
I'm
going to find him. I won't let him hurt you.”

A half sob, half laugh bubbled to her lips. “Promise?”

He bent and brushed his mouth against hers. It trembled beneath his. “Yes,” he murmured. “I promise.”

With a small sound of relief, she brought her hands to his shoulders, her cheek to his chest. Silence engulfed them. Quentin looped his arms around her, but loosely, so she wouldn't know how frightened he was for her. Or how much she mattered to him.

After a moment, she tipped her face up to his. “That woman, the one who…died last night—”

“Jessica Jackson.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Anna—”

“Please.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I want to know her. She died for me.”

“You don't know that. We don't—”

“I know it.” Her voice thickened, and she cleared her throat. “She was a redhead. He lopped off her right pinkie finger. She died the same night I was attacked, the same night someone left a note on Ben's windshield saying that I was going to die.”

“The note said
she
was going to die, Anna. It didn't name you specifically, you or anyone else. He could have meant Jessica Jackson.”

“You don't believe that. And neither do I. It's so obvious, Quentin.”

He cupped her face in his palms once more. “About the time I'm certain something is obvious, I'm wrong, Anna.”

“Tell me about her.”

He muttered an oath, even as he acquiesced. “Her name was Jessica Jackson. She was a student at Tulane and a bartender at the bar at the Omni Royal Orleans Hotel. She worked until eleven last night, then met some friends. They went out dancing. She was unmarried and had no children. She's survived by her parents and two sisters.”

“How old?” Anna asked, voice trembling.

He hesitated. “Twenty-one.”

Anna moaned. “I feel so bad for her. For her family. So guilty about what happened. So relieved it wasn't…me.” She began to cry. “It's my fault she's dead. How am I going to live with that? How, Quentin?”

“Stop it, Anna.” He caught her tears with his fingers. “You didn't kill her.”

“But she died instead of me.” She looked at him, eyes bright and wet. Full of despair. “Don't tell me it isn't so, because I know it is. In my heart, I know it's true.”

He couldn't tell her otherwise, though he longed to.

He believed it to be true as well. And it shook him to his core.

He was growing to care for her. And someone wanted her dead. Someone who had killed before and would kill again.

Quentin bent and took her mouth with his. He kissed her, softly at first, then with growing urgency. Growing passion.

With a small, helpless-sounding cry, she looped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him.

They made love there. In the entryway. He backed her up to the wall and lifted her onto him. She wrapped her legs around his hips and hung on tightly while he thrust into her.

It wasn't until after passion's frenzy that he realized she tasted of her tears. That her mouth trembled beneath his. Regret took his breath, and cradling her in his arms, he carried her to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, then positioned himself beside her.

“I didn't mean for that to happen,” he murmured. “Not like that.”

“I'm not complaining.”

He trailed his fingers tenderly over her face, stopping on the whisker burns on her jaw and the side of her neck. He swore. “I hurt you.”

“You didn't.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” She laid her fingers against his mouth. A smile tugged at hers. “You're a nice man, Quentin Malone.”

He laughed at that, the sound tight and humorless. “You think so? Some might call me an opportunistic son-of-a-bitch. Some might suggest I take advantage of women when they're most vulnerable.”

“Really?” She arched her eyebrows. “And why don't I see it that way?”

“Because you've had a shock. Look, I show up at your door—”

“With chicken soup.”

“And end up naked in your bed. Pretty slick.”

“If I remember correctly, it was I who started this. Perhaps I'm the one who's opportunistic?”

He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “If that's the case, you can take advantage of me anytime.”