Jim Norton. Jim Norton. Quinn repeated the name several times and suddenly a light clicked on inside his brain. Jim Norton, a running back for UT twenty years ago. That’s where Quinn had seen Norton. Norton had been star-athlete Griffin Powell’s teammate and best friend. The entire South— and that included Texas—had kept track of the two men who’d been destined to turn pro. Oddly enough, considering both had had NFL star quality written all over them, neither man had played professional football.
“Murder,” the ME said. “Asphyxiation.”
Quinn had suspected as much. When he had found Lulu lying there so peacefully, he’d desperately wanted to believe
she wasn’t dead, that he could somehow save her. His first impulse had been to perform CPR, but when he’d lifted her right arm to check for a pulse and seen her bloody hand, he’d known that he had arrived too late. If only he hadn’t stopped for that damn nap, he might have gotten here in time to prevent her death.
“There’s one other thing,” the ME said.
“What’s that?” Jim Norton asked.
“The index finger on her right hand was amputated Postmortem.”
Annabelle Austin Vanderley was at her best playing hostess. It was a role she’d been born and bred to perform, as had generations of women in her family. Tonight’s gala event—a buffet supper to raise funds for the Christopher Knox Threadgill Foundation—hosted society’s elite from Mississippi, Alabama and several other surrounding states. Tickets had been a thousand dollars each and all proceeds went directly into the foundation that Annabelle had established ten years ago, shortly after her fiancé, Chris Threadgill, had become the victim of a nearly fatal car crash that left him a paraplegic. The foundation was dedicated not only to research, but also to assisting paralysis victims and their families. Not everyone was as fortunate as Chris had been—to have been born into a wealthy family who could afford to provide him with the best possible care.
Almost two years had passed since Chris’s death and even now Annabelle found it difficult to accept that he was gone. She had made him the center of her life for many years, even though they had never married. His choice, not hers.
Annabelle strolled from room to room in her uncle Louis’s antebellum mansion, where the charity supper was being held, checking on everything from the string quartet playing in the front parlor to the caterers working feverishly in the kitchen. She was the consummate hostess, with the
ability to multitask with the aplomb of a juggler balancing half a dozen balls in the air at once. But this event was only one of three she had overseen this month—the other two being a circus for underprivileged kids and a Winner Takes All charity event at one of Biloxi’s many gambling casinos.
At twenty-three, when she’d been planning her wedding to Chris, she had thought by the time she was thirty-four, she would be the mother of several children and the wife of either the governor or a senator. Chris had been destined to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s political footsteps. But instead of living her dream, she was still single, childless and filled her days—and as many nights as possible— with overseeing the various Austin and Vanderley philanthropic organizations.
“You look lovely tonight, Annabelle,” her cousin, Wythe Vanderley, said as he came up behind her and slipped his arm around her waist.
Annabelle froze to the spot. Then forcing a smile, she eased away from Wythe and turned to face him. “And you look handsome, as always.” Wythe was an attractive man, in an aristocratic way that drew women to him like moths to a flame. And most of those women—the ones who’d gotten too close to that flame—had been badly burned. Wythe was a scoundrel and despite their being first cousins, Annabelle disliked him intensely. He’d been a disappointment to Uncle Louis, who supported Wythe in grand style, as he did Wythe’s younger half sister, Lulu. To quote her aunt, Perdita Austin, “Neither of Louis’s children are worth a damn.”
“Lovely but cold Annabelle,” Wythe said softly so that no one passing them in the hallway could overhear. “The right man could thaw you out and melt that frigid heart of yours.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I have—”
Before Annabelle could escape her annoying cousin, he grasped her wrist to halt her. She glared at him, her look demanding he release her immediately.
“I’m volunteering for the job, you know,” he told her. “I’m just the man who could heat you—”
“Unless you want to make a spectacle of yourself, I suggest you release me,” Annabelle said with absolute conviction. “Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to slap that smug look off your silly face.”
He released her instantly, but leaned close and whispered, “One of these days, bitch, you’ll get yours.”
She offered him a deadly smile. “Maybe so, but I won’t get it from you.”
Annabelle rushed away as fast as she could walk without bringing undue attention to herself. If she didn’t adore Uncle Louis and feel tremendously sorry for him, she’d never come to this house again, never subject herself to her cousin’s harassment. As she made her way down the hall toward the dining room, intending to make sure everything was in order, she smiled and spoke to half a dozen acquaintances. Anna-belle knew everybody who was anybody and cultivated superficial friendships as easily as she performed her hostess duties.
When she entered the dining room, her uncle Louis’s butler, Hiram, spoke her name quietly as he came to her side. “Miss Annabelle…”
“Yes, Hiram, what is it?”
“Sheriff Brody’s at the front door, ma’am, and he’s asked to speak to you.”
“Sheriff Brody? Did he say what it’s about?” Had Wythe gotten in trouble again? Except for Uncle Louis’s wealth and political connections, Wythe would already be in prison for statutory rape. Everyone in the county knew Wythe Vanderley had a penchant for teenage girls. And a sick hunger for rough sex.
“No, ma’am, but it can’t be good. He said it’s about Miss Lulu and he wanted to speak only to you.”
How could something Lulu had done be of any concern to Sheriff Brody? Lulu had moved off to Memphis five years
ago and was living in her mother’s old house there in Chickasaw Gardens, the house Uncle Louis had bought his ex-wife as part of their divorce settlement when Lulu was twelve.
“Show Sheriff Brody into Uncle Louis’s study, please, Hiram, and take him around the back way. Tell him I’ll join him as soon as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Whatever had brought the sheriff to their door, Annabelle didn’t want their guests to be aware of the lawman’s presence. After making her rounds through the dining room to check that the champagne was ready for the midnight toasts due to begin shortly, Annabelle discreetly slipped away and hurried to her uncle’s study. The minute she entered the room, Sheriff Brody, a stocky, middle-aged man, removed his hat and walked toward her.
“Ms. Vanderley, I’m afraid I’ve come with some awfully bad news,” he said.
Annabelle’s heart caught in her throat. “Bad news about Lulu?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Has she been in an accident? Is she badly hurt?”
“I hate to be the one to tell you, but…your cousin Lulu is dead.”
Annabelle’s stomach knotted painfully. “Lulu’s dead? How? When?”
“Tonight,” Sheriff Brody said. “She was found dead in her bedroom. The Memphis police are treating her death as a homicide.”
“Are you saying someone murdered Lulu?”
“It appears so. I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Vanderley. You can contact the Memphis PD, if you’d like, either tonight or in the morning. The lead detective on the case is Lieutenant Norton.”
Annabelle shook hands with the sheriff and thanked him
for coming personally to give her the terrible news about her cousin. As she turned and asked Hiram, who’d been waiting in the hallway, to escort the sheriff out, all Annabelle could think about was how on earth she was going to break the news to her uncle. Lulu was—had been—the apple of Uncle Louis’s eye. He doted on his younger child, who’d been born when he was fifty. With his health already so precarious, learning that the little girl he’d spoiled rotten and loved to distraction was now dead might easily kill him.
Sitting alone in a quiet tenth-floor office of the Criminal Justice Center on Poplar Avenue, drinking a cup of coffee and waiting for his lawyer, Quinn Cortez kept telling himself that things weren’t as bad as they seemed. After all, the police hadn’t arrested him. He hadn’t been charged with Lulu’s murder. Not yet.
Not yet? Not ever. You didn’t kill her. There is absolutely no evidence that you did. If the detectives suspect you—and they probably do—there is no way in hell they can prove you murdered Lulu
.
Yeah, but there’s no way you can prove you didn’t
.
Quinn’s head pounded as if a couple of giant hammers were being repeatedly thumped against each temple. He leaned his head back against the wall and using his forefingers, massaged the pressure points.
When he had awakened from the nap he’d taken when he’d pulled off the road on his trip from Nashville to Memphis, his head had been throbbing; and downing a couple of aspirins hadn’t helped. Finding Lulu dead and then dealing with the police had only increased the tension, which had reached migraine proportions. He’d been healthy as a horse
all his life, but during the past eight or nine months he’d had several really bad headaches. First came the extreme grogginess that led to an odd blackout spell. The headaches came after he awakened, lasted for a while and then went away. He probably should have seen a doctor, but he’d kept putting it off, thinking each headache would be the last. After all, there hadn’t been all that many spells—only three, counting the one tonight.
Although he’d defended countless clients accused of murder, he’d never been on this end of a murder case. Never been a suspect. And he’d never discovered a dead body.
Poor Lulu. God in heaven, who could have killed her? And why? She might have been practically worthless as a human being, having never worked a day in her life or gone out of her way to help another living soul, but she certainly had never intentionally harmed anyone. She’d been a free spirit, living life for the sheer pleasure of it. She was a good-time girl, fun to be around, and a damn good lay.
Quinn winced.
That’s no way to think of the dead
, he reminded himself, then huffed out a pained chuckle. Who was he kidding? Lulu would love being described as a damn good lay. She prided herself on her sexual prowess. The woman had been a tiger in the bedroom.
I don’t know who killed you, honey, or why, but if the police can’t find your murderer, I will
.
The door opened and Sergeant George poked his head in and said, “Your lawyer’s here.”
George had been a real pain in the ass, but Lieutenant Norton had conducted himself like the old pro he was. And it wasn’t a matter of good cop/bad cop. It was a basic difference in men.
Quinn eased his fingers down over his cheekbones, then let his hands drop to the tops of his thighs as he glanced up at the cocky, young policeman. His gut instincts told him that no matter what the circumstances were under which he might have met Chad George, he wouldn’t have liked the guy.
“We haven’t charged you with anything. And we weren’t interrogating you, just asking you a few questions,” the sergeant said. “You really didn’t need to call in a lawyer.”
“Oh yeah, I think I did.” Quinn rose to his full six-one height and looked the policeman in the eyes. George wasn’t a large man. Five ten, one sixty-five. And too damn pretty to be a man. Bet he got plenty of ribbing from the other officers about being so movie-star handsome. Like a young, redheaded Brat Pitt.
George’s lips lifted in a hint of a smile, then he stepped backward and out of the way as Kendall Wells charged past him. She ignored the sergeant as if he were invisible. And when she closed the door behind her, Quinn grinned, imagining the guy’s indignant reaction to not only being ignored, but also having the door practically slammed in his face. Bet Chad George wasn’t accustomed to women treating him that way. But then, Kendall was no ordinary woman.
“I hope you’ve kept your mouth shut,” Kendall said as she approached Quinn, her three-inch black heels tapping against the floor.
Quinn inspected his lawyer from head to toe. Ms. Wells was a looker. Tall, slender, leggy and though not classically pretty, attractive nonetheless. She dressed in the best her money could buy. Tailored suits. Simple gold jewelry. Her bright red, sculptured nails made a statement that said although she was feminine, she could also be dangerous, possibly lethal.
He’d known Kendall for a number of years. They’d worked together on one of her first cases after she joined Hamilton, Jeffreys and Lloyd, which was now Hamilton, Jeffreys, Lloyd and Wells. At forty-four, she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. By keeping her body toned and the gray in her hair covered with a dark rinse, she managed to fool those who didn’t know her true age. But Quinn knew. He knew a lot about Kendall. They’d been lovers briefly and she liked to talk— mostly about herself—in the afterglow of lovemaking. Even though he hadn’t seen her in nearly five years, she’d been the
first person he’d thought of when he decided he needed a top-notch Memphis lawyer right away.
“You’re looking good,” Quinn said.
Kendall smiled. “You look like hell.”
He rubbed his head. “I’ve got a killer headache.”
“Discovering a lover’s dead body would give anybody a headache.”
Quinn narrowed his gaze and looked directly at Kendall. “I didn’t kill Lulu.”
“That’s good to know.”
Inclining his head toward the closed door, Quinn asked, “Do they think I did it?”
“Probably. The boyfriend or the husband is always a suspect. You know that.”
“I told them the basic facts of my having a late date with Lulu, driving in from Nashville, showing up at her house and finding her dead in her bedroom. But when Sergeant George starting implying I might have had a reason to want to kill Lulu, I called a halt to the questioning.”
“And telephoned me. Smart boy.”
“Mrs. Cortez didn’t raise no fools.”