Bone Cold (28 page)

Friday, February 2
2:00 p.m.

Q
uentin parked in front of the Seventh District station. He cut the Bronco's engine but made no move to climb out. Instead, he sat, staring straight ahead, working to come to grips with the conversation he had just had with Ben Walker. With the contents of that brief conversation.

Under an assumed name, Terry had been a patient of Ben Walker's. He had dropped out of therapy about the time Anna had begun to be terrorized and Nancy Kent had died.

Quentin curved his fingers around the steering wheel, the weight of the evidence against his partner pressing in on him. Terry's public fight with Nancy Kent. The colored contacts. His friend's self-proclaimed rage. His attack on Penny. The unaccounted-for time at Shannon's.

The list went on.

Quentin muttered an oath. It was all circumstantial, every last bit of it. He could go to Terry. He owed him
that much. Their years of friendship demanded it. His friend would explain. He would have a logical explanation for everything.

Terry was not a murderer.

Quentin swore again. He couldn't do that. The badge demanded he go to his captain with what he had learned. His duty to Nancy Kent and the other two victims. His duty to Anna.

If Terry was innocent, he would be able to prove it. If he was innocent, they wouldn't find any physical evidence to support the circumstantial.

Quentin swung out of his vehicle and started for the station. He strode inside, ignoring the greetings of several of his fellow officers, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He reached his captain's office: she was inside, at her desk. She looked up when he knocked.

“We need to talk,” he said.

She frowned and waved him inside. “Shut the door behind you, if you'd like.”

He did, then crossed and sat heavily in the chair opposite her desk. “It's about the French Quarter homicides.”

She folded her hands in front of her. “Go on.”

He met her gaze, then looked away, muttering an oath.

“I find it helps if you just spit it out. The worse you have to say, the faster you should get it over with.”

So he did. When he had finished, she didn't look surprised. Quentin narrowed his eyes. “What do you have on Terry? PID's been too interested in him not to have something more condemning than a drunken argument. I deserve to know.”

“Let's talk about what you have first. This Dr. Walker
is certain Landry is the same man who called himself Rick Richardson?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you still believe that Anna North is the link between the victims and the killer? Because of the red hair?”

“And the last victim's severed pinkie. Yes.”

His aunt arched an eyebrow. “Why the previous two victims? Why not go right for his primary target?”

Quentin felt ill. At the possibility that his friend may be responsible for three deaths. That he may have aided Terry in his crimes by supplying him with a false alibi. “He's been practicing. Working up to the main event. Taking his rage out on stand-ins. It wouldn't be the first time a killer's done that.”

His aunt nodded, and he continued. “The night he attacked Anna, he might not have even meant to kill her. She said he was startled, but she didn't know by what. Maybe by nothing. Maybe that attack was fore-play. Maybe he's still getting off terrorizing her.”

Quentin let out a deep breath. “In retracing the events of that night at Shannon's, I realized that I only thought I knew Terry's whereabouts the entire night. There was an hour or better after his fight with Nancy Kent that I lost sight of him. The bar was crowded, and I knew he had been drinking heavily. I just assumed he was there.”

“Go on.”

“The night of the Jackson murder, he was with diMarco and Tarantino from the Fifth. In the French Quarter.”

“Another alibi,” his aunt murmured.

“One with holes in it.” Quentin rubbed his palms on his thighs. “DiMarco mentioned that although Terry
became stinking drunk, he never actually saw him take a drink.”

“Anything else?”

“The colored contacts. Terry wore them to a New Year's Eve party last year, yet played dumb when I was tracking down information about them.”

“You've been compiling quite a little list of evidence incriminating your partner. Any reason you haven't shared it with me before now?”

“Circumstantial evidence, Captain. And some of it pretty thin at that. Perhaps if you'd seen fit to include me in whatever it is that PID has on Terry, we could have put the pieces together sooner.”

She didn't argue. “They didn't think you should know.”

“They questioned my loyalty.”

“It was logical that they would. Considering your relationship with Landry.”

He stiffened. “Did you? Question my loyalty?”

A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “I changed your diapers, Malone. I saw you take your first steps and your first communion. I know what you're made of. No, I never questioned your loyalty.”

Some of the tension eased from his neck and shoulders. “So what is it? What does PID have on him?”

“From the Kent homicide. A blood-type match. We're still waiting for DNA on the semen.”

“Shit.”

“It wasn't enough to move on. About thirty-eight percent of the people in the New Orleans metro area have O-positive blood. But paired with the argument Landry had with the deceased the night of her death, it was enough to keep him under an umbrella of suspicion.”

“What's next?” he asked, though he already knew.

“Call PID. Get a search warrant for Landry's apartment, car and locker. Get him in here for questioning.”

It was the last Quentin dreaded most. “I want to do it, Captain. I want to direct the interrogation.”

“Malone, I don't think—”

“It's got to be my case now.”

“But it's personal. I can't have you pulling back—”

“I won't, dammit.” He balled his hands into fists. Angry. Disillusioned. Terry had been his friend. He had trusted him. “You bet it's personal. I stuck my neck out for him and if he did this thing, I want to nail him for it.”

She thought a moment, then nodded. “Johnson needs to be with you. There can't be even a hint of impropriety here.”

“You got it.” He stood and crossed to the door. “You want me to call PID?”

“I'll do it,” she replied, already reaching for the phone. “And Malone?”

He stopped and looked back at her. “Good job. I know this wasn't easy for you to do.”

He gazed at her a moment, sick at heart, then nodded curtly. “I'm a cop. What else could I do?”

Friday, February 2
4:00 p.m.

T
wo hours later, Quentin sat on a metal folding chair, facing Terry. His friend occupied an identical chair. Their knees almost touched. Malone had purposely placed the chairs close together: he wanted to heighten the other man's discomfort and give him nowhere to look but at him.

Considering his friend's strung-out appearance, Quentin figured it wasn't going to be too tough to rattle his cage. He was half there already.

“What's this all about, Malone?” Terry shifted his gaze to Johnson, who stood to the left, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his massive chest, then back to Malone. “Just how official is this official business?”

“It's serious, Terry.”

“More PID bullshit, you mean?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Please, why else would I be here?” He looked directly at the video camera, not masking his disdain. “Do we have an audience today?”

“What do you think?”

Terry saluted the camera, then turned his attention back to Quentin. “Maybe I should lawyer up?”

“That's your right.”

Terry relaxed back in his chair, working to present the picture of cocksure arrogance. Only the small twitch of his right eye gave him away. “Interrogate away, partner. I've got nothing to hide.”

“Ever heard the name Benjamin Walker before?” Malone asked, going for the throat right away, not wanting to play it coy. “Dr. Benjamin Walker?”

“Sure.” Terry shrugged. “He's the shrink friend of that novelist, Anna what's-her-name. What's he got to do with me?”

Quentin ignored his question. “You're aware that we believe he's somehow connected to the string of recent murders in and around the French Quarter?”

“Not really. As you know, I've been shut out of the case.” Again, he looked at the video camera.

“So, you're saying that other than through this case, you don't know Dr. Walker?”

Quentin held his breath.
Don't be stupid, Terry. Don't try to lie your way out of this.
“That's correct.”

As the lie passed his partner's lips, the realization that Terry was hip deep in this rocked Quentin. One lie meant there were others, things he would jeopardize everything to keep hidden. Quentin masked his disillusionment in his friend. He tried another tack.

“Let's talk about contact lenses for a minute, Terry. Colored contact lenses. Weird colors.”

“Like orange and red,” Johnson supplied. “The kind somebody might wear to a costume party.”

Terry lifted a shoulder. “So what? I wore colored
contacts to a party. You heard the woman at that store, lots of people do.”

“That's not what's bothering me.” Quentin leaned forward; he lowered his voice. “That day, when we went out to the Eyeware Showcase, how come you didn't remind me about those contacts? How come you didn't make the connection?”

He grinned. “Hey, do I have to do everything for you? Besides, I figured you remembered about the contacts.”

Quentin leaned back, sweeping his gaze over his friend. “Geez, if you had all the answers I needed, why would I have made that trip to the New Orleans Center?”

Terry stiffened. “I'm off that case. I figured you didn't want me involved.”

“That's bullshit, partner.”

“Take it or leave it,
partner.
”

His snide emphasis on the last struck home, and Quentin narrowed his eyes. “Ever heard the name Rick Richardson before?”

Terry paled. Sweat beaded his upper lip. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Johnson repeated. “What's that mean, Terror?”

“It means maybe. That's a common name. I think I busted somebody by that name once.”

Terry was lying. Convincingly, true. But not convincingly enough. “How about the name Adam Furst?” Quentin asked.

Terry drew his eyebrows together, as with thought. “Never.”

“Where were you the night of Thursday, January eleventh and the early hours of January twelfth, the night Nancy Kent was murdered?”

“You know where I was. I was at Shannon's. With you.”

“Where were you in the early hours of Friday, January nineteenth, the night Evelyn Parker was murdered?”

“Home, nursing a hangover.” He made a face at the video camera. “As you boys already know.”

“How about four nights ago, the night Jessica Jackson was murdered? The same night Anna North was attacked in her home?”

“Out with diMarco and Tarantino, from the Fifth.”

“You visited a bar called Fast Freddie's on Bourbon?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Yeah, it's a yes.” He slouched back in his chair. “What's the big deal?”

“Jessica Jackson spent some time there that same night. The last night of her life.”

“The place is hot right now. A party girl like her, I don't doubt she stopped in at Freddie's.”

Quentin arched an eyebrow. “Jessica Jackson was a party girl?”

“You know what I meant. She liked to go out, to party.”

“Or so you've heard.” Quentin glanced at Johnson, then back at Terry, knowing it would unnerve the other man. “You like redheads, Terry?”

“Sure. They're okay.”

Quentin arched his eyebrows. “Didn't you say just the other day that ‘There was something about a redhead that got your motor running?' That's a quote, partner.”

Terry shifted in his chair. “I might have said that.”

“No, you did say it. About Anna North.”

“I don't recall.”

“Ever date a redhead?”

“I've dated a lot of women. I'm sure there were a few in there, I don't recall.”

“So, you're saying you have?”

“Probably, yeah.”

Quentin took a shot. “Your mother ever dye her hair, Terry? Was she ever a redhead?”

Terry launched to his feet. “You-son-of-a-bitch! I thought you were my friend.”

An hour ago, those words from Terry would have made him feel disloyal. Not anymore. Not when Terry had sat across from him and lied—to him, Johnson, the officials watching on a monitor in another room. “You ever been in therapy, Terry? Or should I call you… Rick?”

“I want a lawyer. I'm not saying another word until then.” He turned to the video camera. “You got that, you sons-of-bitches? Not another word.”

Saturday, February 3
The French Quarter

T
wenty-four hours later, Terry was arrested for the murder of Nancy Kent. He was also chief suspect in the deaths of Evelyn Parker and Jessica Jackson. Besides the overwhelming weight of circumstantial evidence and the blood-type match, investigators had found hair consistent with Nancy Kent's in his car and on his leather jacket. In addition, fibers consistent with the dress she had been wearing the night she died had also been found on his leather jacket. Both had been sent to the crime lab for analysis. The police felt confident that the test results would confirm what they believed to be true.

That Terry Landry was a murderer.

Quentin agreed to break the news to Penny, but refused to take part in the actual arrest. He hadn't wanted to see his former friend and partner cuffed and booked. Intellectually, he couldn't deny Terry's involvement. The facts spoke for themselves. But emotionally, he was having a hard time dealing with the facts. He
couldn't believe Terry had done this. He wished to God he could.

Maybe then it wouldn't hurt so bad.

Quentin left the precinct and drove, no destination in mind. He maneuvered in and out of traffic, thoughts on Terry, remembering the man he had known and come to trust, wondering what had become of that man. Wondering when he had become a monster.

Dear God, who was to blame? Women were dead. His friend lost forever.

Quentin pulled his Bronco to the side of the road. He cut the engine and rested his forehead against the steering wheel, regret and self-recriminations tearing him apart. He could have saved those women. He could have saved Terry. If only he had seen what was happening.

Why hadn't he? He should have been able to. He was a detective, for God's sake. Why hadn't he?

Quentin lifted his gaze. And realized where he was. To whom he had run.

Anna.

He muttered an oath and looked away. What would a woman like her want with a man like him? His humorless laugh broke the quiet of the car. Stupid question. She wanted from him what he was best at. She might even call it love. For a while.

Quentin told himself to walk away, to cut his losses and go. He swung out of his vehicle instead and crossed to the apartment. The entrance gate was open and someone had also propped the building's outer door open with a brick. He pulled the door wider, strode through and up the stairs to her door.

She swung it open before he knocked. He saw by her expression that she had heard the news about Terry. He
suspected she had either learned it from laSalle when he had been called off guard detail or from the news.

Considering their relationship, he should have been the one to tell her.

“Anna,” he managed to say, voice thick.

She held a hand out, gaze soft with understanding. He took it and she drew him inside, closing and locking the door behind them. She didn't speak. She led him from there to her bed, bringing him down to the mattress with her.

She cupped his face in her palms. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry.”

Then she made love to him. She removed his clothes a piece at a time. She explored with hands and mouth, at times gently searching, at others demanding. She seemed to curl herself around him, accepting his pain as her own, shielding him against it. Telling him without words that she understood his hurt. His feelings of betrayal and disillusionment. His guilt.

He felt himself respond to her in a way that was foreign to him. Opening up. Giving himself to her, letting her lead. It was both freeing and frightening.

She brought him out of himself.

And into her. Until his body demanded he take charge, lead where she could not. Give what was beyond her power to simply take.

They went there together.

Afterward, they lay on their sides, facing each other on the bed, neither speaking. Moments ticked past, Quentin used them to study her. He noticed for the first time the flecks of violet in her green eyes, the sexy slope of her bottom lip, the wisps of hair that grew at her forehead and temple, baby fine and the color of fire.

It felt right to be her with her, he realized. Though
they had only known each other a matter of weeks, he trusted her in a way he had never trusted a woman outside his family.

He had know Terry for ten years. He had trusted him completely.

That man had ceased to exist. If he had ever existed at all.

The breath shuddered past his lips and he rolled onto his back. The betrayal, the sense of loss, hurt more than anything he had ever experienced.

Anna laid a hand on his chest, over his heart. He turned and looked at her.

“Talk to me,” she said softly. “Don't shut me out.”

A knot formed in his throat and he closed his eyes and fought for control. It was as if she could read his mind. The realization didn't reassure and he tucked that truth away to examine later.

“I went to see Penny,” he said after a moment, voice thick. “Terry's wife. She…it was pretty awful.”

He let out a long breath, remembering. She had wept. For herself. For her children. In disbelief and despair.

“She wondered what she would tell the kids,” he said finally. “How she could make this okay for them. There was nothing I could do to make it better for her. Or for them. Even if he's acquitted, they'll have to weather the publicity and the trial. People's cruel questions and gossip. They're just kids, they shouldn't have to go through that.”

“This isn't your fault. You didn't do this to them.”

“But I didn't do anything to help Terry. I knew he was drinking too much, that he was angry all the time. But I never imagined…a murderer? I still don't believe it.”

“Maybe he's not. Maybe it's all a mistake and—”

“They had enough to make the arrest, Anna.” His voice was harsher than he intended and he softened it. “An indictment looks certain.”

“Do they have…a lot of evidence?” He heard doubt in her voice. And hope. The last gave her voice a youthful sound. One that tugged at his heart.

“Yeah, Anna. They've got a bucketful.”

A small breath rushed past her lips. Relief, he realized. That it was nearly over. “What's next?”

“We wait for results from the crime lab. And we search for evidence that links him to the other two victims.”

“And to me.”

“Yes.” He turned his face to the ceiling once more. Silence stretched between them.

She broke it first. “Why me, Quentin?” Her voice trembled slightly. “Why does he hate me so much?”

“I don't know. He's not saying, so we're going to have to dig for it.”

“But what if—” She paused as if uncertain exactly what she wanted to say. If she wanted to say it. “What if he isn't the one who sent the videotape and notes to my friends? What if he isn't the one behind Minnie's letters and Jaye's disappearance?”

He turned to her once more. “We believe he is, Anna. Think about it. Terry's the link between you and Ben Walker. Ben was always the wild card in this scenario. He didn't know you, so why did he receive the book and note urging him to tune in to E! that day? Somebody, a third person, was involving him. All along Ben thought it was one of his patients. He was right.”

She made a sound of anguish. “But why?”

“Only Terry knows why. Soon we will, too. It takes time, Anna.”

She searched his gaze, the expression in hers both hopeful and devastated. “Where's Jaye, Malone? I have this feeling…time's the one thing we don't have. We have to find her.”

“We're searching.” Even as the words passed his lips, he knew it wasn't enough. Not for Anna's peace of mind, not for Jaye's safety. “We'll find her, I promise we will.”

“But how?” Her voice rose slightly. “If he won't talk, what will you have to go on? What if she depends on him for food and water? What if days pass—”

“We search his apartment, his car, his past. We'll find her.” Needing to touch her, he shifted onto his side and trailed his thumb along her cheek. “I'm glad you're safe, Anna. I'm glad it's over for you.”

“Is it?” she whispered, eyes bright with tears. “How can it be over for me when Jaye's still God only knows where, alone and frightened? How can I feel safe?”

He had no response for her. The truth was, he wondered if she would ever feel safe again. In all likelihood, her quiet life had been altered forever.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked, trailing his thumb along her jaw.

“Try to find another publisher. A new agent.” A humorless laugh tripped off her lips. “Try to write again.”

“I'm sorry he did this to you.”

“It's not your fault.”

“He was my friend.”

“It's not your fault,” she said again. She reached for his hand and laced their fingers. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I'm always all right.”

“Liar.”

At her soft challenge, he brought their joined hands to his mouth. “Don't you know me, cher? Quentin Malone, jock, ladies' man and good ol' boy. Life's just one big party.”

“There's more to you than that.”

He saw reproach in her eyes. It made him feel small. And vulnerable. He didn't like the feeling.

He kissed her hand again, then released it and climbed out of bed. He began to dress.

“Too close for comfort?”

“It's not that.”

“No?”

“I need to get back. Crime and punishment calls.”

“I believe in you, Quentin.”

He didn't look at her. He yanked his polo shirt over his head, then went for his gun and shoulder holster. “I hope you're not a betting woman. You'll die broke.”

He heard the bedclothes rustle, then the sound of her bare feet padding across the wooden floor. A moment later she was behind him, her arms circling his waist. She'd donned a robe and the fabric was silky and cool against his backside and legs. “I believe in you,” she said again. “Talk to me. Tell me what you're thinking.”

Sudden anger flared to life inside him. Not at her. At himself. He turned in her arms, facing her, wanting nothing more at that moment than to escape. “The only thing I've ever been known for, Anna, is my ability in the sack. It's nice to know I haven't lost my touch.”

She didn't flinch. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the person I think you are has nothing to do with your sexual prowess.”

“I have to go.”

He moved to turn away, she reached up and cupped his face in her palms, forcing him to look at her. “You have so many good qualities. You're smart and honest. Moral and kind. Caring. Funny. Loyal.”

“You make me sound like somebody's golden retriever. I don't want to be anybody's pet, Anna. Not even yours.”

Her expression clouded and she took a step back from him. “Why are you angry? What did I say that was so wrong?”

He bent and retrieved his pants. “I shouldn't have come here today.”

“But you did.” She watched him, head tilted to the side, expression changing from perplexed to understanding. “What haven't you done that you wanted to?”

He finished fastening his trousers, then went to work on his belt. “I've got to go.”

“Running away? From what, Malone? Me? Or the truth?”

“That's almost funny from the woman who's spent her whole life running away.”

That one hit its mark. She took another step back, expression wounded. “What's going on here? Is this your way of saying, ‘Thanks for the memories, babe, see you around sometime'?”

“We had a good time. I made you feel safe and you made me feel like a hero. Nobody got hurt and we both got off in the process. But you're safe now, so why don't we just leave it at that?”

She looked as if he had struck her. “You're right, it is time for you to go. I'll get your coat.”

She strode to the living room and snatched his jacket off the arm of the couch. She tossed it at him. “Thanks for the good time.”

“I never said this was forever, Anna.”

“No, you didn't. So you certainly can't be held accountable, can you?” She crossed to the door and swung it open. “Go. I want you to leave.”

Regret tasted bitter against his tongue. “Anna, I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't want this to—”

“You wanted to push me away because I was getting too close. Well, you succeeded, Detective Malone. Congratulate yourself on a job well done.”

He stepped out into the hall and she followed him, pulling her robe tighter around her. “And just for your information, I wasn't talking about forever. I just wanted a little honesty. But I guess that's something a big tough guy like you can't handle.”