Killing Her Softly (23 page)

"I am. I have to." She followed Griffin to the door.

"So you'll be going home then, back to Mississippi?" he asked as he opened the door for her.

"Yes, as soon as they release Lulu's body, I'll take her home to Uncle Louis. He needs to see that she has a proper funeral and a burial in the family cemetery."

"And will you come back to Memphis after the funeral?"

"If it's necessary, yes, I'll come back. But in the meantime, I expect you to keep in touch with me. I'll want full reports on whatever you find out about Lulu's murder. And I want you to do whatever is necessary, regardless of the cost, to prove Quinn is innocent."

Chapter 16

He had spent a lifetime trying to forget, praying that God would erase the horrible memories. But he had learned that there was no escape, no way to stop the nightmares that plagued him—awake or asleep—no way to control the need to end not only his misery, but hers, too. Although he had suffered unbearably, so had she. And in her own cruel, tormented way, she had loved him. Hadn't she?

The sound of her voice reverberated inside his head. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the condemning words. But it was useless. He was doomed to relive the memories of his tortured childhood again and again.

"Don't hide from me, you little devil you!"

Lying flat of his stomach under his bed his body shaking uncontrollably, he held his breath. If he could stay very still and very quiet, maybe she would go away.
God, please, make her leave me alone.
Breaking her favorite ashtray had been an accident. After he'd dumped the ashes and cigarette butts in the garbage can, he had wiped the tray clean with a wet cloth. He didn't know how it had happened. One minute he was holding it and the next it had slipped through his fingers.

She had heard the shattering glass the minute the tray hit the kitchen floor and had jumped up from the table where she'd been sitting drinking a beer.

"What the hell have you done now, you stupid little fuck-up?"

He'd looked up at her, seen the fury in her hazel eyes and without thinking of the consequences, ran past her and through the house, straight to his room.

The sound of the breaking glass clattered inside his head. He kept hearing it over and over again, like background music that he couldn't shut off.

"I thought you knew better than to hide from me," she called to him. "You know that when I find you, I'll have to punish you twice. Once for breaking my favorite ashtray and again for running and hiding."

He held his breath for as long as he could, then finally sucked in air as quietly as possible. Lying there against the cold wooden floor, he listened while she tore his room apart in her rage. Lifting his head just a fraction, he peered out from under the bed and watched while she ripped the curtains from the windows, yanked all the drawers out of the dresser and then jerked open the closet door.

"If you're not in the closet, then where are you?"

He couldn't see her evil smile, but he knew she was smiling. Whenever she punished him, she smiled. He couldn't understand how hurting him could make her so happy.

When she walked toward the bed, he clenched his teeth tightly together and held his breath again.
No, please, no. Don't hurt me. Not again.

His heart beat so fast he thought it was going to jump out of his chest as she knelt down beside the bed and looked underneath it. He scooted as far back against the wall as he could. She was so big; and he was so very small. She had all the power; he had none. He tried so hard to be good, to please her, to prove to her that he did love her, but it was never enough.

"If I have to come under there and drag you out, you'll be sorry."

He froze with fear.

She got down on her belly and inched her way beneath the bed, just far enough so that she could reach out and grab his ankles. The minute she touched him, he peed his pants.

Oh, no. She'd punish him for that, too, for wetting his pants.

She dragged him out from under the bed, then rose to her feet and stood over him like a menacing giant, glaring at him. "Why do you do these things?" she asked him as if genuinely puzzled. "Why can't you be a good boy?"

He opened his mouth to tell her that he tried, tried so very hard to be good. But the words lodged in his throat.

With him lying at her feet, she slid her hand into her shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Then she sat down on the edge of his bed and lit one of the cigarettes. After placing the pack and the lighter back in her pocket, she took a long draw on the freshly lit cigarette.

"Look at you, all wet and nasty. You pissed in your pants again, didn't you? You think just because you're so damn good-looking the rules don't apply to you? You think because I love you, I'll let you treat me any way you want to? Well, you're wrong. Damn wrong!" She lifted her foot and kicked him in the ribs.

The pain radiated through his whole body, but he kept quiet, enduring in silence. She liked to hear him cry, but he wouldn't cry for her. Not this time. He wouldn't!

Leaning down, she stuck the cigarette in her mouth before she grabbed his wrists and yanked him off the floor. She spread her legs, forced him between her thighs and then closed them, holding him in place.

He watched helplessly, completely terrified as she removed the cigarette from her mouth and brought it down to his arm. When the burning tip pressed into his skin, he keened quietly, but he didn't cry. She lifted the cigarette and moved it up his arm a couple of inches, then pressed it into his skin again. Tears welled up in his eyes. He clenched his teeth as tight as he could. She repeated the torture again and again until she had inflicted eight burn spots—four on each arm.

"Damn, you. Cry. Any normal kid would cry when he's being punished."

She yanked his unbelted jeans down, taking his cotton briefs with them.

"Don't, please, don't. I'll cry for you, Mama. I'll cry."

"Too late, you little shit."

When he tried to escape her tenacious hold, she grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted him off his feet and flung him onto the bed.

He cried then, cried as loud and as hard as he could.

But it didn't matter. She was going to do what she was going to do no matter what. When he tried to cover himself with his hands, she prized his hands away and while he struggled fruitlessly, she stuck the red-hot end of her cigarette to the tip of his little penis.

Valerie Miller waited until their housekeeper, Eula, placed her breakfast plate in front of her, poured her coffee and returned to the kitchen, before she spoke to her husband. Randall sat at the far end of the dining room table, this morning's
Commercial Appeal
in his hand his gaze riveted to the
frontpage
.

"Something interesting in the news this morning?" she asked.

Randall folded the paper and laid it beside his plate. "Another woman has been murdered. Kendall Wells. She was Quinn Cortez's lawyer."

"Interesting. He's one of the other suspects in Lulu's murder, isn't he?"

"Damn it, Val, I'm not a suspect. The police simply questioned me because my name was in Lulu's date book several times."

"You would be a suspect, my darling, if the police knew you didn't have an alibi for the time Lulu was murdered." She loved the fact that she held her husband's fate in her hands. If she told the police the truth—that he hadn't been with her during the time he said he was—he would be in terrible trouble. She didn't know if Randall had killed Lulu
Vanderley
and really didn't care. The woman had been trash. Rich trash, but trash all the same.

Randall picked up the newspaper and held it out to her. "You should take a look at this. The reporter all but accuses Quinn Cortez of killing both Lulu and Kendall Wells. My name isn't even mentioned in the article. That should please you."

"Don't get too smug, darling. Until they make an arrest in the case and actually convict someone of Lulu's murder, you don't dare breathe a sigh of relief."

His facial muscles tensed.
There, that's better,
she thought. She wanted him to worry, wanted him to suffer. Privately, of course.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" He glowered at her, pure hatred in his eyes.

"Am I enjoying watching you sweat? Yes, I am. As long as your involvement in this affair doesn't become public knowledge, I'll stand by you and pose as the supportive, loving wife. However, if you were to be charged with Lulu's murder, I would play the wronged martyred wife who couldn't believe her husband was such a monster."

"I didn't kill Lulu. How many times do I have to tell you?" He slapped the paper against his open palm. "This article implies that the two murders are connected and that connection is Quinn Cortez. For God's sake, Val, I didn't know Kendall Wells. There's no way I can be involved."

"For your sake, I hope the police believe you."

"Read the article." Randall threw the folded newspaper across the table.

When it landed a few inches short of her plate, Valerie glanced at it, then lifted her
Haviland
china cup and sipped on her morning coffee. Eyeing her husband over the rim of the cup, she said "Do you have an alibi for the time when Kendall Wells was murdered? If not, perhaps you'd like for me to lie for you again."

He stared at her, a puzzled look on his face. "Why would I need an alibi?"

"Because it's possible the police will find out that you actually did know Ms. Wells, that her law firm represented your friend, Tom Wilson, six months ago, when he was charged with manslaughter in a hit-and-run case."

Randall's face paled. "I—I'd forgotten all about that. But just because she was one of Tom's lawyers, doesn't mean—"

"It means you did know her. You testified as a character witness for Tom, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did, but—"

"Perhaps you and Ms. Wells became acquainted. Very well acquainted. For all I know you could have had an affair with the woman. A man who's been unfaithful once could easily have been unfaithful twice."

Randall gasped.

Valerie smiled. "Of course, I'd never suggest such a thing to the police. Unless . . ."

"Whatever you want," he said. "Just name your price."

"My price?" She laughed softly. "Whenever I say jump, you'll ask me how high."

Quinn felt like crap. He'd gotten home around midnight, undressed and fallen into bed; but he'd slept fitfully and finally gotten up at six. His life hadn't been so messed up since he'd been a kid, fending for himself and trying his best to stay out of his mother's way. Back then, he hadn't been able to do anything right and that bad karma had followed him around until he'd met Judge Harwood Brown. From that day forward, his luck had changed and he had fought his way to the top. No easy task when you started at rock bottom.

He'd never been an emotional man, having learned at an early age that if you cared too much about somebody they'd just wind up hurting you. But in his own way, he had cared about Lulu. He'd miss her. Miss all that wild exuberance. Why the hell would anybody want to kill her?

And Kendall. He couldn't honestly say he'd loved her, but he had respected her brilliance as a lawyer and her loyalty as a friend. He still couldn't believe she was dead. But she was gone, murdered just as Lulu had been, and if Griffin Powell's theory turned out to be right, then both women had died because they'd been involved with him. Because they had been Quinn Cortez's lovers.

After showering and shaving, Quinn dressed in casual khaki slacks and a button-down light blue shirt. He'd learned early on how important appearances were. Only at the ranch did he ever dress just to suit himself. At all other times, he was aware, even subconsciously, that he needed to project the Quinn Cortez image he had worked so long and hard to obtain. Judd Walker was driving in from Chattanooga this morning, and when meeting with friends, clients, business associates and rivals, Quinn always put his best foot forward. Dress for success was his motto, even in an informal situation.

Judd had told Quinn last night that he'd see him around eight this morning. As Quinn lifted the glass pot from the coffeemaker, he eyed the wall clock. Seven forty-five.

Just as Quinn pulled out a chair from the table,
Jace
came through the back door, today's newspaper in his hand. He had sent
Jace
out ten minutes ago to find the morning edition of the
Commercial Appeal.
There was bound to be a big spread about Kendall's murder and he'd bet his last dime that the reporters would connect her death not only to Lulu's recent murder, but to him. After all, as everyone kept reminding him, he was the common denominator, the only link between the two women.

"Marcy and Aaron not up yet?"
Jace
asked as he laid the newspaper down on the table.