Bone Cold (31 page)

Tuesday, February 6
11:30 p.m.

T
hat night Jaye's captor brought her food. A feast. A Big Mac and large order of french fries. A tall glass of ice-cold chocolate milk. She awakened to the smell of it, her empty, aching stomach propelling her off the cot and across the room.

Jaye fell on the food, gobbling it down hungrily, eating so fast she nearly choked. As she stuffed the fries into her mouth, it occurred to her that this might be her last meal. Like a prisoner on death row, she was being treated to her favorites.

She ate anyway, hating how grateful she was for his crumbs, hating him for knowing she would be.

She consumed the milk last, slurping as she drank, taking in every drop though she felt as if she was going to burst. Only then did she realize how odd she felt, light-headed and prickly, the way she had the time she had sneaked three of her foster father's beers from the cooler on his fishing boat.

The plastic cup slipped from her fingers. It hit the
floor and rolled to the door. The room spun and she moaned.

A soft, deep laugh came from the other side of the door. “Did you enjoy your meal, Jaye?”

Him. His voice.
A cry of terror passed her lips. She tried to stand but found she couldn't.

He laughed again. “Were you terribly hungry? I think you were. I wanted you to be.” He paused. “So you wouldn't question what you were eating. So you wouldn't look too closely at it.”

Dear God. He had poisoned her.
She got to her knees, then dragged herself to her feet, holding on to the door frame for support. The room wobbled. She began to sweat.

“I've come to take you bye-bye.”

She heard the key in the lock. A moment later the door swung open. And he filled it. He wore a Mardi Gras mask, the flesh-colored featureless ones the krewe riders preferred. He was dressed in black.

She whimpered and pressed closer to the door.

“Do I frighten you? Is this the way you pictured me?” She sensed his smile. “What does evil look like, little Jaye?”

Minnie, where are you?
Jaye clutched the door frame for support, legs rubbery, hands growing slippery with sweat.
You promised you wouldn't let him hurt me.

He stepped back from the door, then returned, dragging a large, sturdy-looking cardboard box. A mover's box, she realized. One more than big enough to hide a body in. A strangled sound of fear slipped past her lips.

“I know you've been missing your friend Anna.” He opened the flaps of the box. “But don't worry, you'll be seeing her soon.”

“No,” she whispered. “No!” Summoning up the last of her strength, she lunged at him.

He caught her easily, chuckling at her efforts. She twisted and kicked, her movements weak, less than feeble. He held her pinned to his chest until whatever drug he had given her had consumed not only her strength but her body's ability to follow the commands of her brain. Then he let her go. The floor rushed up to meet her. Her head snapped against the linoleum.

Jaye gazed up at him, her vision blurring, growing dark around the edges. She moved her mouth in a prayer, though it sounded only in her head. She prayed for God to protect Minnie and Anna.

Wednesday, February 7
10:00 a.m.

Q
uentin couldn't put aside his conversation with Terry. His former partner's parting words about Anna ate at him. Because they were true. Because they scared the hell out of him.

If Terry wasn't the one after Anna, then he was still out there. And she was still in danger.

If.
In this situation, that one little word packed a big swing. On one side, life. On the other, death.

Quentin swiveled in his chair so that his back faced the squad room. He closed his eyes. Terry could be manipulating him. He probably was. Criminals did it all the time.

But what if he wasn't?

He couldn't take the chance.

Quentin pushed away from his desk and crossed to his captain's open door. He tapped on it and she looked up. “Got a minute?” he asked.

She waved him in and he crossed to stand directly in
front of her desk. He got right to the point. “I'm having some doubts that Terry's our guy.”

Her eyebrows shot up but she said nothing.

“I went to see him yesterday. At his request. He claimed he was having an affair with Nancy Kent. That they had sex that night, but that he didn't kill her.”

“Tidy. Does he have any proof?”

“He wants me to find some.”

“Why is this the first I'm hearing about it?”

“I needed some time to put it all together in my head.”

“And?”

“I didn't buy it, not at first. But now…” With a sound of frustration, he crossed to the window that looked out at the squad room, then swung back to the captain. “Now, I don't know what I believe. But if Terry's telling the truth, a killer's still on the street. And Anna North's still in danger.”

She frowned and rubbed her temple. “The chief's not going to like this.”

“He's not going to like another victim showing up even more.” Quentin returned to her desk, laid his palms on it and looked her directly in the eyes. “Let me make a few calls. We'll keep it quiet. See if I can substantiate Terry's story. If I can, we go bigger, more public. If I can't, we drop it.”

She agreed and Quentin began by paying a call on Penny Landry. They stood on the front porch of her Lakeview home, the sun working to fight its way through the crisp, cold air. She looked tired. Stressed-out. His heart went out to her. He would love to offer her hope that this nightmare would end soon, but he couldn't. Not yet.

He inquired about her and the kids; she about Terry
and the investigation. Then he got to the point. “Penny, a couple of weeks ago you told me that running around had always been Terry's territory. What did you mean?”

She looked taken aback by the question. “You know. His drinking and carousing. He was the original party boy.” Her mouth thinned. “I married him anyway. I was young and smitten. Stupid.”

He understood her anger. Her regret and bitterness. He felt himself another victim of Terry's charm.

If Terry had committed these horrible acts.

If.
That word again. Back to torment him.

“I'm sorry.” She pushed the wisps of hair that had escaped her ponytail away from her face. “I must sound so bitter.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don't apologize. I feel betrayed, too. I'm angry.”

“Thanks, Malone.” She covered his hand with her own. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I always liked you.”

He smiled, squeezed her fingers and dropped his hand. “I always liked you, too, Penny.”

She tilted her face up to the flat blue sky, then looked back at him, expression suddenly wistful. “I'm thinking of moving back to Lafayette. My folks and sisters are there. It'll be better for the kids.”

Quentin nodded. “It sounds like a good plan. If I can help in any way, let me know.”

“I will.” She smiled. “I'll probably need another strong back on moving day.”

“You got it.” He glanced toward the street and his Bronco, then back at her. “Penny, I have to ask you something. And I need an honest answer. It's important.” He paused, waiting for her full attention. “Was Terry having an affair?”

She hesitated, pink climbing into her cheeks. When
she answered, she didn't quite meet his eyes. “I don't have any proof, but I…I think so. In my heart, I know he was.” Her voice thickened. “With all I'd put up with from him…I wasn't going to put up with infidelity, too.”

“Did you confront him?”

She shook her head. “I feel sort of stupid about it, but after everything, I guess I didn't want to know for sure. And I didn't think I could bear it if he lied to me.” She sighed. “Instead, I asked him to leave.”

Quentin digested that information. “This is crucial, Penny. Do you think you could get any proof? Receipts for hotel rooms, records of calls? Anything like that?”

Her expression clouded. “I'm not…sure. I could try but…why do you need this, Malone?”

“I just do, Penny. Could you trust me for now?”

She said she could, and minutes later Quentin was on the road again. His next stop was Ben Walker's office uptown. It seemed to Quentin that if anyone besides Penny knew for certain that Terry had been having an affair, it would be his therapist. Quentin hoped the doctor would talk.

He arrived at the therapist's just before noon. Although midday, the office door was locked tight. He walked across the porch to the residence. After both ringing the bell and knocking, he tried the door.

It was unlocked. Glancing over his shoulder, he pushed it the rest of the way open and slipped inside. The place had been ransacked: furniture toppled, paintings ripped off walls and drawers emptied.

Muttering an oath, Quentin unsheathed his weapon. As quietly as he could, he made his way from room to room. Broken glass crackled beneath his feet. From the
back of the home came the sounds of a radio, tuned in to a top-forty station.

He fully expected to find the doctor home.

And quite dead.

Quentin reached the doctor's bedroom, located at the very back of the house. There, as he had in every other room of the house, he found devastation. But no sign of Ben Walker, no sign that he had been physically harmed.

The clock radio lay on the floor, housing cracked but still plugged into the wall and playing. Quentin stared at it, working to sort out his thoughts. To organize them into a plan of action. It seemed obvious now that Terry wasn't their guy. He wasn't the patient who had involved Ben in Anna's life. It had been another.

One who seemed to be fitting together the last pieces of his scheme. Eliminating the components that were no longer necessary. Like Ben Walker.

Quentin thought of Anna and his heart began to race. Time was running out. For her. For Jaye. He needed Walker's files. He needed those names. To hell with legal channels, he was going to get them.

Quentin headed next door. He opened the door the old-fashioned way, by breaking one of the sidelight windows, reaching inside and unlocking the dead bolt.

He slipped inside. The waiting room hadn't been disturbed. Save for the ticking of a clock, the office was deathly quiet. Stifling hot. A sour smell hung in the air.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Unsheathing his weapon, Quentin made his way further into the room. Dead ahead lay a closed door. He opened it. The room inside resembled a kind of living room, with com
fortable-looking chairs set up in a circle. It was in the same condition as the waiting room.

Quentin moved on. A bathroom. A kitchenette. He found the last door locked.

Walker's inner office. Pay dirt.

He kicked it open.

The smell hit him in a nauseating wave. Like human waste and rotting food. He brought a hand to his nose. A large mirror lay faceup on the floor, its shattered surface covered by spidery veinlike lines. Someone had emptied their bowels in its center.

Mother of God. This just got better and better.

After a quick scan of the room, Quentin holstered his gun and stepped around the mirror, going for the file cabinet.

He found the drawers unlocked. He slid them open one at a time and flipped through the files, searching the names, looking for Adam Furst. He stopped on the name Rick Richardson.
Terry's file.
He removed it, stood and tucked it under his jacket and into the back waistband of his jeans.

Time to call this nightmare in. And to call Anna. He had to warn her.

His beeper sounded before he could.

“We've got a possible homicide,” the desk officer informed him when he answered. “Crestwood Nursing Home. One of your witnesses. Louise Walker.”

Quentin's blood went cold. “I'm on my way.”

Wednesday, February 7
12:30 p.m.

A
cross town, Anna arrived home, arms loaded with fruit and vegetables from the Farmer's Market and bunches of three-day-old flowers from The Perfect Rose. She called a greeting to Alphonse and Mr. Bingle, loitering on their porch across the street, then made her way through the courtyard gate. She saw that the outer door had been propped open with a brick—again—and she frowned.

She suspected the kids on four were the ones who had been doing it, although she hadn't actually caught them. They were kids, they didn't understand the danger. But they needed to be made aware of the danger. Perhaps she would speak to their parents. Or let Dalton take care of it.

She thought of Dalton and her frown deepened. He had been on edge when she'd stopped by for the flowers. Flushed and jumpy. He had repeatedly glanced at his watch and had asked her the same question three
times. Then he'd insisted she take some of the Sterling roses.

And he never parted with those.

Something was up with her friend. Probably a fight with Bill, she decided as she slipped into the building. It had happened before. The hallway and stairwell were cold. No doubt because the door had been left open. She shivered and trotted up the stairs. She had just enough time to get the flowers in water, her purchases put away and eat a sandwich before having to relieve Dalton at The Perfect Rose.

She unlocked her apartment door and went straight to work. She arranged the flowers in a vase, then began unpacking her produce. The pears and tomatoes went in a ripening bowl on the counter, the apples, cucumbers and bell peppers into the fridge.

Cradling the items against her chest with her right arm, she opened the refrigerator. Her heart stopped. A scream rose in her throat and one by one, the fruit and vegetables dropped to the floor.

On a dessert plate topped with a heart-shaped paper doily sat a bloodied, severed finger. A pinkie.

Anna fought back her scream. She brought a shaking hand to her chest, fighting for calm. Mustering fury. She wasn't going to fall for this sick gag, not again.

Pressing her lips together, she leaned forward. An odor emanated from the finger, sickly sweet and sour at the same time. Natural and chemical. She brought a hand to her nose. The nail bed had a bluish tint. The severed edge was discolored, the rust-colored material around it crusty.

Real. The finger was real.

It wasn't over.

Anna sprang back from the refrigerator, stomach hurtling to her throat.

Her phone rang.

She swung toward it, heart thundering. She saw that her message light was blinking. The phone rang again. She stared at it, a chill of premonition racing up her spine.

Don't answer it. Call Malone.

It rang a third time. And a fourth.

She leaped for it, ripping it off its cradle. “Yes?”

“Hello, Harlow.”

Her legs went weak. She grabbed the counter for support.

Kurt.

He laughed. “No nice hello for an old friend?”

She closed her eyes. “What do you want?”

“A little appreciation maybe. I went to a great deal of trouble acquiring that gift.”

She brought a trembling hand to her mouth.
Dear God. That woman. That poor…woman.

“I did it for you. I did all of them for you.”

She fought hysteria. Fought falling completely apart. That's what he wanted; she wouldn't give it to him. “Why? You wanted me, why not just come and—”

“Get you?” he supplied. “I could have, certainly. But every wonderful meal is enhanced by an appetizer. The first course is simply a teaser, a sensory awakener for the main meal.”

“You're insane.”

He made a clucking sound with his tongue, admonishing her. “That's not a very nice thing to say, dear Harlow. I thought you'd think me so clever. After all, I've managed to have you all jumping through hoops. You, the police, Ben. Even my little Minnie.”

Ben. Minnie. Dear Lord.
“What have you done with Jaye?”

“I wondered when you would get around to asking. She's with me, of course. But I believe you knew that.”

“Is she…is she—”

“Alive?” She heard the smile in his voice. “Yes, quite. And I assume you'd like her to stay that way?”

Anna stiffened. “You assume correctly.”

For a moment he was silent. When he spoke she realized by the anger in his tone that she had surprised him. He hadn't expected her to be brave. He didn't like it. “Did you learn from your parents' mistakes, Harlow?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Don't be coy, you know exactly what I'm asking. Did your parents' mistakes teach you anything?”

“What do you want?”

“If you contact the authorities, Jaye will die. If you fail to follow my instructions to the letter, Jaye will die. Do you understand?”

Anna went light-headed with fear. She curled her fingers around the receiver, fighting it. Fighting him. “Yes,” she murmured evenly. “But I don't have…anything. What ransom could you want? I have no money, no jewelry—”

“I want you, my dear. The price for Jaye Arcenaux's life is Harlow Anastasia Grail's.”