Killing Her Softly (9 page)

Not waiting for an invitation, Marcy swept past him and into his apartment. "Quinn's in trouble. He wants us in Nashville by tomorrow."

"What kind of trouble?" Aaron asked.

"That Lulu
Vanderley
he was going to Nashville to see got herself murdered last night."
Jace
closed the door and came inside behind Marcy.

"You're shitting me?"

"Quinn found her body," Marcy said. "So you know what that means."

"He's a suspect," Aaron replied.

"He didn't do it. He didn't kill her,"
Jace
said emphatically. "The boss would never murder anybody."

"Yeah, you're right, he wouldn't," Aaron agreed. "But I'll bet there are a lot of people who're getting a big laugh out of this. The most famous criminal lawyer in the country, who's gotten dozens of accused murderers acquitted might get charged with murder himself."

"They can't arrest Quinn for murder."
Jace's
cheeks flushed with emotion. "We
gotta
do whatever we can to help him."

Sometimes Aaron found it amusing the way
Jace
hero-worshiped Quinn. But then the kid owed Quinn a lot, didn't he, even more than he and Marcy did? They were all three misfits, kids who'd been in trouble, heading for a life of crime. Marcy had been abused by her father and wound up on the streets, ready to turn tricks at sixteen. A cheerleader-type blonde with big brown eyes, she could have made a fortune as a prostitute. Her salvation had been that the first guy she'd approached on her first night on the job turned out to be Quinn Cortez, a real crusader for kids in trouble. He'd gotten her placed in a good foster home, helped her attend junior college and then hired her as his personal assistant.

Aaron's story wasn't much different, except he'd wound up at the Judge Harwood Brown Boys' Ranch, a place built and run by Quinn and several other guys who'd been boys in trouble themselves way back when and had been saved by old Judge Brown. When Aaron turned eighteen, Quinn had encouraged him to go to college, but he'd known college wasn't for him. He wasn't stupid but he was no Einstein either. He made Quinn understand that he didn't have the smarts for college. He'd been working for Quinn as his chauffeur and all-around gofer ever since. The pay was good the benefits great.

Jace
, another Judge Harwood Brown Boys' Ranch alumnus, had been working for Quinn for the past year. He was a pretty kid with hazel eyes and curly sandy brown hair that he kept short to control the curls, but
Jace's
story wasn't a pretty one. He'd admitted that he had been molested by a priest when he was twelve, which had screwed him up pretty bad. And it didn't help that he'd grown up without a dad and had lost his mother, too, only a couple of years ago.

"I've booked us flights for tomorrow morning," Marcy said. "And I've lined up a four-bedroom house and a rental car. I'm hoping the police will clear this up pretty quickly and we can all head home in a few days, but—"

"Aaron, who was at the door?" Wearing only his rumpled shirt, Gala stopped dead still in the doorway between the bedroom and living room. "Oops. Sorry."

"We . . .
er
. . . we were just leaving." Marcy started backing toward the door.

"Don't leave on my account," Gala said. "Stick around. I was just going to order pizza."

Marcy looked directly at Aaron. "
Jace
will pick you up at eight-thirty in the morning. Be ready."

"No problem," Aaron told her.

"Quinn's counting on us, man,"
Jace
said eyeing Gala disapprovingly. "We can't let him down."

"I get it, okay," Aaron said. "I'll be ready to go at eight-thirty in the morning."

As much as Aaron admired and respected Quinn, he wasn't in love with the guy like Marcy was nor did he worship the man the way
Jace
did. But he'd cut off his right arm before he'd let Quinn down.

"Let's look at this rationally," Griffin Powell said. "I can't take on each of you individually as clients for obvious reasons, even if I assigned one of my employees to handle the case for one of you. However, if you two could work together, you could hire me jointly. After all, I assume you both want the same thing—to discover the identity of Lulu
Vanderley's
murderer and see him brought to justice."

Annabelle nodded.

"Yes, that's what I want." Quinn thought Powell had brass balls for even recommending such an odd proposition. Selling Annabelle on this unholy alliance wouldn't be easy.

"I believe one of us should simply hire another agency," Annabelle said.

"Griffin Powell is the best." Quinn looked her square in the eyes. "I hire only the best."

"Are you suggesting that I look elsewhere?"

"Yes, I am. Unless you're willing to work with me."

She stared at him quizzically and he caught a glint of something peculiar in those cool blue eyes. Did the lady want to be persuaded? Was that it? Did the thought of their working together intrigue her as much as it did him?

You 're a fool, Cortez. The very last thing you need in your life right now is a personal relationship with Lulu's cousin, a woman who thinks it's possible you might have killed Lulu.

"I believe we have a stalemate," Kendall said. "Apparently neither Quinn nor Ms.
Vanderley
is willing to accept second best."

"I'm flattered" Griffin said. "But I think you should know that unless I can take you both on as clients who have consented to work together, I won't take this case."

"What!" Annabelle whipped around and glared at Griffin. "You can't mean that."

"If you knew me better, you'd know that I always mean what I say."

"And say what you mean." Quinn made an instant decision, one that surprised him as much as it did everyone else in the room. He motioned to Kendall. "Let's go. I withdraw my bid to hire you, Mr. Powell. Feel free to take on Ms.
Vanderley
as your client."

"What the hell—" Kendall gasped when Quinn grabbed her arm and led her toward the door.

"Wait!" Annabelle rose from the sofa. "Please, Mr. Cortez, don't go."

Quinn stopped but kept his back to Annabelle and Griffin.

"What are you pulling?" Kendall spoke to Quinn so softly that only he could hear her.

"Why should I stay?" Quinn asked Annabelle.

"Mr. Powell is right—we do want the same thing. If you can accept the fact that I don't trust you completely, then I believe we might be able to work together."

"Hmm . . ." Kendall grinned at Quinn before he turned around to face Annabelle.

"You don't know me well enough to trust me. Not yet," Quinn said. "I'm willing to wait and earn your trust. I didn't kill Lulu and I want to find her murderer as much as you do."

Annabelle looked at Griffin. "Let's set up some ground rules."

"All right," Griffin said then glanced at Quinn. He nodded.

"First and foremost, Mr. Cortez and I share all the information," Annabelle said. "You will be working for both of us, so what you tell one of us, you tell both of us. No secrets. No hidden agenda." She glanced at Quinn. "And we share all the expenses, fifty-fifty. Are you in agreement, Mr. Cortez?"

"Yes, I'm in agreement. And since we'll be working closely together, don't you think you should call me Quinn?"

"If that's what you want." "It's what I want."

"Fine. And you may call me Ms.
Vanderley
. . . because that's what I want."

Chapter 7

Jim had taken Sunday off, despite his boss's
recom-mendation
that he not take any downtime right in the middle of a high profile case.

"Look, Ted I've made plans with my son that are important to both of us. It's not as if I get a chance to be with Kevin very often. Besides, Chad's on top of everything. If he's going to get all the glory for breaking this case wide open, then let him do the work."

Inspector Ted Purser, who was the head of homicide, had grumbled a little, but in the end he'd allowed Jim to take the day off. Ted knew as well as Jim did—as well as everyone in the department—that Chad George was on his way up. By hook or crook. And it was also a well-known fact that Jimmy Norton was on a one-way street to nowhere. He'd be lucky if he could hang on to his job long enough to draw his pension.

On his own, Chad was bound to screw up. Not because he was stupid. Quite the contrary. The guy was highly intelligent. Nah, he'd screw up because he was an inexperienced homicide detective who was too damn cocky to realize he had a lot to learn. It was Jim's opinion that Chad was a know-it-all who needed taking down a peg or two. Not that he'd intentionally do anything to bring that about himself. Nah, he figured all he had to do was wait around and sooner or later Chad would shoot himself in the foot. Figuratively, of course.

Jim chuckled softly.

"What's so funny, Dad?" Kevin asked.

Jim glanced over at his eleven-year-old son sitting in the passenger seat of his battered old truck and grinned. Kevin was the one good thing that had come out of his marriage to Mary Lee. He might regret all the wasted years he'd spent hung up on a woman who hadn't loved him enough to stick with him through the bad times and had repeatedly betrayed their marriage vows, but he'd never regret fathering Kevin. On the really rough days, when nothing in his world seemed right, all Jim had to do was think of Kevin and he remembered he had a very good reason for living.

"Just thinking about my partner," Jim told his son.

"Chad George?"

"Yeah, you've met Chad. I introduced you to him a couple of months ago."

"I know Sergeant George."

Jim picked up on something in his son's voice before he glanced at him and noticed Kevin had his head hung low and was staring at the floorboard.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Is it something about Chad? Did he say or do anything that—"

"I'm not supposed to tell you." "Who told you not to tell me?" "Mom did."

Don't lose your cool. The last thing Kevin needs is to feel he's caught between you and Mary Lee, even if he is. Whatever she told him not to tell you, don't press him about it.

Jim kept the truck on Highway 78, heading straight toward Holly Springs where his sister
¹
and her family lived. He'd planned this trip so they would arrive at Susan's just about the time church let out and right before Sunday dinner. He needed to concentrate on the positive—on sharing a family day with his son. Grilling Kevin about Mary Lee's secrets would ruin not only their day together, but also injure their already fragile relationship. Even though he couldn't prove it, he knew his ex-wife worked at undermining his relationship with Kevin. And she did it just because she could wanting to hurt Jim and not caring that their son was the one who'd be harmed the most.

"Dad?"

"Huh?"

"You don't care who Mom dates, do you?"

"No, I don't care," Jim said. And he didn't. Not now, although for years after their divorce he'd been jealous of every man she'd dated. But that was when he'd still been in love with her.

"Then I don't understand why Mom doesn't want you to know that she's dating Sergeant George."

Jim grasped the steering wheel with white-knuckled tension. Mary Lee and Chad? Goddamn son of a bitch. He couldn't help wondering which one of them had instigated their affair. Six of one and half dozen of the other.
Them's
the odds. Mary Lee would love for him to find out she'd been screwing his young partner. She actually thought he still cared. And Chad—God how he must love fucking Jim's ex-wife. At least four other officers had told Jim to watch his back where Chad was concerned.

"Your mom's dating Chad huh?"

"Yeah, for about a couple of weeks now. But it's no big deal, right? I mean, you don't care, do you?"

"Your mother and I are divorced" Jim said. "We both have the right to date anybody we want to. It's fine with me if Mary Lee is dating Chad."

Dating? Maybe they were dating—dinner, movies, dancing, that sort of thing. But Jim figured their dates were spent in bed doing the horizontal. That was the only kind of relationship Mary Lee was any good at. And he hated like hell that he could remember so vividly just how good she'd been.

*
  
*
  
*

Annabelle had expected to spend a quiet day at the apartment, catching up on work-related e-mails and making plans for Lulu's funeral. Although the plans couldn't proceed until the autopsy had been completed and Lulu's body released, Annabelle didn't want to leave things until the last minute. The family expected her to handle all the details and see to it that Louisa Margaret
Vanderley's
funeral would impress everyone in attendance. The
Vanderleys
always arrived and departed this life in grand style. It was a family tradition.

Annabelle had slept later this morning than she intended. She was, by nature, a creature of habit and hated to alter her sleep schedule. But she'd tossed and turned half the night, not able to rest until sometime after four. If only she could have turned off her thoughts and disconnected her mind. Thoughts of Lulu tormented her. She wondered if she had tried harder to maintain a close relationship with Lulu, would her cousin still be alive? If she had looked after Lulu a little more closely, would it have made any difference?
Don't be silly. You couldn't have done anything to prevent what happened.

For most of her life, Annabelle had been a caretaker. Perhaps she'd been born an old soul with the need to nurture everyone around her. She'd always had a deep-rooted need to please others, to keep everyone happy. Being a spoiled only child could have turned her into a self-centered demanding bitch, but instead being the center of her parents' universe had placed a heavy burden on her young shoulders. She'd actually believed that it was her duty to make her parents happy, and by the time she reached adulthood that feeling had transmitted itself to everyone around her.

"You care so deeply about everyone and everything," Aunt
Perdita
had once told her. "Your devotion to Christopher is quite admirable, my dear child but you must occasionally think of yourself. You're a healthy young woman, with a woman's needs. And what you need is a man."

Her aunt had been half right about her needing a man. She had needed the man she loved to be whole again, for Chris to be as he'd once been—her friend and lover. But that had been an impossible dream. Her darling Chris had been a paraplegic for nine years before his death, completely paralyzed from the waist down and unable to function sexually. And two very brief and completely secret affairs had shown her that sex for the sake of sex was not what she wanted or needed.

There had been times when she'd wished she could be more like Lulu, who could so easily go from man to man with no regrets. She doubted that Lulu's conscience had ever bothered her.
What must that be like?
Annabelle wondered.

After setting her cup of chocolate caramel coffee beside her laptop on the desk, Annabelle pulled out the chair. When the telephone rang, she jumped. Her nerves were shot. Not only had memories of Lulu as well as concerns about her cousin's death and all that entailed kept her awake, but so had thoughts about Quinn Cortez. Ever since agreeing to become partners with the man in hiring Griffin Powell, she'd had a million and one second thoughts.

On the third ring, Annabelle lifted the receiver from the base on the desk. "Hello."

"Ms.
Vanderley
?" a man's voice asked.

"Yes, this is she."

"This is Sergeant George, ma'am. I was wondering if I could come by and talk to you?" "I—
er
—when?"

"Right now, if that's convenient. I can be there in no time."

"Do you have information about—"

"No, not really. Sorry. There's nothing new," he said. "But if you could spare the time, I'd like to go over a few things with you."

"Yes, of course. I take it that you're nearby."

 
"Yes, ma'am."

"Then come right over. I want to do whatever I can to help the police."

"Thank you."

The minute she hung up the receiver, Annabelle dashed into the bedroom and stripped out of her comfy fleece sweatshirt and pants. Her wardrobe was limited since she'd brought only a couple changes of clothes, but thank goodness she'd brought along a pair of jeans. After dressing hurriedly in jeans, white shirt and slip-on loafers, she had just applied pink blush and lipstick when her guest arrived. Taking a deep breath, she rushed through the apartment.

Flinging open the door, she gasped when she saw the man standing there. Not Sergeant George. Definitely not the handsome young police officer.

"Mr. Cortez, what are you doing here?"

Wearing faded blue jeans, a beige turtleneck sweater and a brown leather jacket, he didn't look like a wealthy lawyer. But even in casual attire, he possessed an aura of power and strength. And danger.

"I thought we needed to talk," he said. "After we settled things with Griffin Powell last night, you rushed off in quite a hurry before we had a chance to discuss the situation."

Go away. Leave me alone. I don't want to see you or talk to you or think about you.

"There isn't anything to discuss," she said. "Not until Mr. Powell has some information for us."

"May I come in?" he asked.

"I don't see the need. Besides, I'm expecting company any minute now."

"This shouldn't take long. What if I come in and stay until your company shows up? Then I'll leave."

He wasn't going to take no for an answer. It was that plain and simple. Short of slamming the door in his face—which is probably what she should do—her only alternative was to give him what he wanted.
           

"Very well, Mr. Cortez, you may come in for a few minutes."

As he entered the apartment, he paused and their gazes locked. "I thought we agreed last night that you'd call me Quinn."

Heat suffused her, warming her from head to toe. "Please, come in, Quinn."

"Thank you, Ms.
Vanderley
."

When he smiled at her, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Dear God had she gone so long without a man that she had become little more than a bitch in heat? What was wrong with her? She never—not ever!—reacted this way to a man.

Annabelle cleared her throat. "Would you care for something to drink? I just made a fresh pot of chocolate caramel coffee."

"Yes, thanks. That sounds good."

"Please, have a seat." Annabelle all but ran from the room, glad for any excuse to get away from Quinn.

While safe in the kitchen, she grasped the edge of the tile countertop and closed her eyes.
Get control of yourself. And do it now.

She took her time preparing his coffee, calling out once to inquire about sugar and cream. He took his coffee black.

When she reentered the living room, she found him sitting on the sofa, looking like he belonged there. He exuded an air of confidence as if he controlled the world and everyone in it.

Instead of handing him the cup of coffee, she placed it on a coaster atop the cocktail table. No need to risk their hands accidentally touching. She sat across from him in one of two straight back wooden chairs that doubled as dining chairs and matched the small dining table in front of the windows.

"I don't bite," he told her, glancing pointedly at the sofa cushions where he had apparently thought she would sit. "At least not without an invitation."