Bone Cold (17 page)

Sunday, January 21
The French Quarter

A
nna awakened with a hangover. Not an alcohol-induced hangover—though she had drunk more than her usual quota—but an emotional one. She didn't want to move, didn't want to climb out of bed and face the day. Her head and foot throbbed, her eyes felt scratchy and raw, her mood heavy.

She closed her eyes and reviewed the events of the previous night: Her behavior at the bar; what Quentin had said about those other women; how her terror had grown with each step on her way toward home.

What
had
happened last night? she wondered. Had she really been followed from the bar? Or had her imagination taken control of her brain and run away with her?

She wanted to believe the latter. But couldn't. She wasn't prone to hysteria—to have been scared was one thing, to have grown hysterical with fear was another.

The footsteps had stopped and started with hers. If it had been Malone behind her, they wouldn't have—they would have continued.

She grimaced. Unless, of course, she had imagined that, too. She had been under a lot of pressure, stressed out by current events. Malone had planted the seed of fear inside her, it had taken root and become like Mississippi kudzu—growing out of control, gobbling up everything in its path…especially her good sense.

Anna climbed out of bed anyway, the need for coffee stronger than her need to hide under the covers an hour or two more. She winced as she put her weight on her foot, but limped toward the kitchen anyway. St. Louis Cathedral held its last mass at eleven. That gave her plenty of time for coffee, the
Times-Picayune
and a long leisurely shower.

After starting the coffee, she headed downstairs to retrieve the newspaper.

And found Ben on her front steps, preparing to ring her apartment. He cradled several La Madeline bags in his left arm while balancing a beverage tray in the other.

He thought he could stand her up at night and get back into her good graces in the morning? Fat chance.
“Ben,” she said, tone cool. “What brings you here this morning?”

He turned and looked at her in surprise. “I didn't ring yet, how did you know I was here?”

She brushed by him, bent and retrieved her paper. He understood and flushed.

“I brought cheese and fresh-baked French bread. You haven't eaten, have you?” She didn't reply and he waggled the beverage tray. “Cappuccinos, too. Can I come in?”

“I don't think so. I don't feel very social this morning.”

“You're angry with me. About last night.”

Anna looked him in the eyes. “It seems to me, Ben, that if you'd wanted to spend time with me, you would have made it to Tipitina's last night. I'm feeling like this morning is too late.”

He looked crestfallen. “I wanted to make it. A patient had an emergency…by the time I was free, I figured I'd be pretty crappy company. I didn't want to subject you and your friends to that.” He hesitated a moment. “I'm really sorry, Anna. I did want to be with you.”

He had big, brown puppy-dog eyes and was looking at her as if she'd just put him out in the cold. She let out her breath in a huff and stepped away from the door. “Oh, all right. But I'm really pissed off.”

Obviously seeing right through her, he grinned and stepped into the building's foyer. He moved his gaze over the space, no doubt taking in the ceiling medallion, crown molding, chair rails and high ceilings. “I love these old places. They have so much character.”

“I agree. Come on. I need to get off my foot.”

He lowered his gaze, saw the bandages, then made a sound of concern. “What happened?”

As they walked up the stairs to her second-floor apartment, she told him. When she had finished, he touched her hand. “I should have been there. This wouldn't have happened.”

But then she wouldn't have spent time with Malone.

She had left her apartment door ajar and they entered. “It wasn't your fault, Ben. Kitchen's this way.”

A couple of moments later, she tossed the newspaper onto the kitchen table. “Have a seat. I'll get some plates and napkins.”

The bags crackled as Ben opened them. “I got Brie,
Gouda and herbed cream cheese. I didn't know what you liked best.”

She cocked an eyebrow at his obvious attempt at bribery. “You mean, you didn't know just how much trouble you were in?”

He grinned. “Am I that transpar—Anna, did you see this? In the paper?”

She crossed to the table. He spun the paper so she could read the front page. Her eyes went straight to the headline he meant, lower right.

Woman attacked in the French Quarter.

“Oh my God.” She sank onto one of the chairs. “This happened last night?”

“Yes.” He flipped the paper back around. “She was on her way home from waitressing at the Cat's Meow. He attacked her from behind.”

Anna brought a hand to her mouth. “What else does it say?”

He skimmed the article. “She didn't get a look at him. Something frightened him off, but she's not sure what. What time were you followed?”

She thought a minute. “After one. I remember, I looked at my watch.”

“This occurred shortly after two. That's what time the club closed.”

She swallowed hard, throat tight. “Do you think it could have been the same guy who…followed me?”

“I don't know, but the coincidence…”

He let the thought trail off but it hung in the air between them anyway.
The coincidence seemed too great to ignore.

“What color was her hair?”

At the question, Ben drew his eyebrows together. “It doesn't say. Why?”

She shook her head. “Never mind. I think I'd better call Malone.”

“Malone?” Ben shuddered slightly, as if cold. “Oh, that's right, your knight in shining armor.”

She heard an unfamiliar edge in his voice. As if he was jealous. Instead of being flattered, she was annoyed. “If my memory serves, Ben, I invited you out, but you didn't make it. So if you have a problem with Malone seeing me home—”

“A problem?” He blinked and held out the paper cup. “Of course not. Cappuccino?”

The beverage was only lukewarm, but she drank it anyway, enjoying the flavor of espresso and milk at any temperature.

He, too, drank a cool cappuccino. They both chose Brie to complement their French bread and ate in semi-silence, chatting about nothing more topical than the weather. When they'd finished, Ben eased his plate away and cleared his throat. “Since we last spoke, I've done some thinking about our mystery man. I wanted to share my thoughts with you.”

She sat up straighter. “Go on.”

“As you know, I've questioned the six patients I saw the Friday I received the package containing your book and the note about the E! special. All six denied having left the package. Of course, they could be lying. Considering recent events, I really don't expect the guilty party to confess.”

“So what do we do, beat it out of them?”

Her attempt at humor brought a smile to his lips. “We could, but I've come up with another plan. I'm going to put their honesty to the test.”

“And how do you do that?”

“First off, I'm not going to limit my inquiry to the
patients I saw that Friday. Any of my patients could have left it while I was in session.” He glanced down at his hands, folded on the table in front of him, then back up at her. He smiled, the curving of his lips wicked. “I'm going to use psychology on them.”

“I don't understand.”

He leaned forward, eyes bright. “When I asked my patients if they had left a package for me in the waiting room, I didn't say what was in it. So I leave the book in a conspicuous place in my inner office, where my patients will notice it during our sessions. Psychology says the guilty party will be unable to take his eyes off it. I fully expect him to not only repeatedly glance at it, but to comment on it as well.”

She digested that, then nodded. “Sounds good, but…”

“What, Anna? It'll work, I'm sure of it.”

“Are you positive one of your patients is the guilty party? By your own admission, anyone could have come into your office while you were in session and left the package.”

“But why would they? I've thought a lot about this, Anna. Why me? How am I involved in this? I've come to the conclusion that I was a late addition.”

She frowned. “I don't follow.”

“This patient, whoever he or she is, started seeing me because of you and their plan, whatever it is. Why I'm involved holds the key to this whole thing.”

“Go on.”

“Why did they select me? My specialty? Did they hear me speak at a seminar?”

“Your specialty,” she said. “It has to be.”

“I agree. So how did they find me?” He lifted his coffee cup, saw that it was empty and set it back down.
“The Yellow Pages mention my specialty is childhood trauma and certainly our guy could have heard about me by word of mouth, but personally I think it was through a seminar I participated in three months ago. I've called the organizers and requested a list of attendees. It took some convincing, but they agreed. They shipped it out Friday, FedEx. I should have it tomorrow morning.”

“You're amazing.”

“Thanks.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Sherlock Shrink at your service.”

They talked a few minutes more, then Anna walked him out. They stopped at the building's front door. “Thank you, Ben. I feel more positive right now than I have since this whole thing began.”

“It's going to be okay, Anna. We'll find out who's doing this to you, and we'll stop him.”

Before she could thank him again, he bent and kissed her.

For a split second, Anna froze—taken by surprise, nonplussed. Then she relaxed and kissed him back.

A moment later, he was gone. Anna watched him walk away, thoughts whirling. She brought a hand to her mouth, still warm from the imprint of his. What in the world, she wondered, had become of her quiet, safe and predictable life?

Monday, January 22
9:20 a.m.

A
s promised by the mental-health seminar organizers, the list of the attendees arrived first thing Monday morning. Ben ripped open the Federal Express envelope and drew out the list of one hundred and fifty-two names.

Aware of the time—his first patient of the day was due in ten minutes—Ben quickly scanned the names, looking for one of his patients or for the name Peter Peters.

The list contained a number of duplicate given names and a few duplicate surnames, but not an exact match.

Damn.
He dropped the list onto his desk, admitting disappointment. He had been hoping for an easy, immediate answer. He wasn't going to get it.
They
weren't going to get it.

Anna.
He had thought of little but her since their breakfast. He smiled. Kissing her had taken her by surprise. In truth, he had surprised himself.

He liked her a lot. More than was safe or smart.

She could break his heart.

Ben shook his head. He wouldn't think that way. If they were meant to be together, they would be. Once he'd discovered the identity of Anna's stalker, they would be free to simply get to know one another.

With that in mind, Ben returned his attention to his plan. Everything was set. He had prominently displayed Anna's book on the coffee table in front of the couch, the note about the E! special peeking out from between the pages. The manila envelope both had come in rested on the end table, next to the box of tissues.

The door chimed and Ben glanced at his appointment book. That should be Amy West, a housewife and mother of three who was suffering from depression, the cause rooted in her troubled childhood and unhappy marriage.

Ben stood and crossed to the door to greet her. He didn't expect Amy to be the one. Not only had her depression all but paralyzed her, she didn't fit the psychological profile he had created of Anna's stalker. He believed the man—or woman—who had planned this campaign against her to be both cunning and controlling, highly intelligent, organized and emotionally detached. The person would possess the ability to lie without blinking and because of his or her emotional detachment, have no concern for the feelings of others.

Amy West was nearly the antithesis of that profile.

Even so, he wouldn't take anything for granted. If there was one thing he had learned from his years being a therapist, a patient's true nature only revealed itself over time, and in the end, often ran counter to what he had expected. Nothing about the human psyche surprised him anymore.

Monday, January 22
11:30 a.m.

Q
uentin stepped into The Perfect Rose. The bell above the door jingled but Anna didn't look his way. She sat on a tall stool behind the counter, staring into space, obviously lost in thought.

Quentin was struck again by her uncomplicated beauty. And by the way looking at her gave him this feeling, this
ahh.
The same kind of feeling he got when he bit into a super-tangy apple or took a deep breath of ice-cold early-morning air.

He'd experienced the
ahh
for the first time while watching her dance at Tips, then again later when he'd bandaged her foot. Her white-tiled bathroom had suddenly seemed too small, the situation unbearably intimate. Unbearable only because the thoughts that had jumped into his head had been out of the question.

If she had given him the smallest sign, he would have had her in bed, to hell with what was appropriate.

As if sensing his presence, she shifted her gaze
and looked directly at him. Her expression registered surprise and he thought, pleasure.

“Hi, doll.”

“I was going to call you this morning.”

“Yeah? Why didn't you?”

“Got sidetracked.” She indicated the bag he carried under his left arm. “What's in the bag?”

“For you.” He handed it to her, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

She peeked inside, then returned her gaze to his. “My shoes? You went back for my shoes?”

“I have sisters, I know how women are about their shoes.” He leaned against the service counter. “So, why were you going to call me? Couldn't put me out of your mind? Wanted to repay me for saving your foot by making me a home-cooked meal?”

“Try again.”

“You read about the attack on the woman in the French Quarter and you were worried it might have been the same guy who followed you?”

He heard her indrawn breath. “Yes. Was…was she a redhead?”

“No.”

“Thank God. Do you—”

“Think it might have been the same guy who followed you?”

“Yes.”

“Could have been. I can't be certain either way, though I doubt it. A couple of witnesses from the Cat's Meow claim to have seen a guy watching her all night. One of them claims to have seen him hanging around after the bar closed.”

“So he couldn't be the same one who followed me?”

“If their reports are accurate, no.”

“I don't know why that makes me feel so relieved, but it does.” She laughed nervously. “I had a little trouble sleeping last night.”

“I'll bet.” He swept his gaze over her. “How do you feel now, light of day and all that?”

“Okay.” She drew in a slow, careful breath. “The guy who attacked that woman, do you think he's the one who killed those other two?”

“I don't think so. The MO's different. This woman was working, not partying. And she wasn't a redhead.”

“Maybe he's…he's changed his MO,” she offered. “Maybe the first two women being redheads was a coincidence.”

“Maybe, Anna, but—”

His words were cut off as Dalton and Bill returned from having coffee. They came through the shop's entrance laughing. Their laughter died when they saw him.

Quentin smiled. “Hello.”

Dalton turned to Bill. “It's him. The man who saved our Anna. Our hero.”

Beaming, Bill strode forward. He held out his hand. “Bill Friends. I'm forever in your debt.”

“We'll never let her walk home alone again, Detective.” Dalton looked at her, expression solemn. “Never, Anna.”

Quentin shook Bill's hand, then Dalton's. “Quentin Malone. Good to meet you.”

“Any luck catching the creep who was following Anna?” Bill asked.

“Sorry to say, no. And to be honest with you, we probably won't. We simply don't have enough to go on.”

Silence fell over them. After a moment, Quentin checked his watch. “I've got to get back to work.” He smiled at her. “Bad guys to catch and all that.”

“And all that,” she murmured. “I'll walk you to the door.”

Although unnecessary, he didn't tell her no. He glanced back at her friends, who were watching him and Anna, speculative gleams in their eyes. “Nice seeing you two.”

They replied in kind; a moment later Anna was standing beside him at the door. She hugged herself. “I wanted to thank you again, for the other night.”

“No thanks necessary. Really.”

“And for the shoes. You know, for bringing them back to me.”

“I couldn't wear them.” He paused a moment. “They didn't fit.”

She laughed, glanced over her shoulder at her friends, then back at Quentin. “If anything comes up, you'll call me?”

“Sure.” He smiled. “And you do the same, okay?”

She agreed and he walked away, wishing he had a reason to stay, wishing he didn't have to follow through on the promise he'd made Terry to pay a visit to Penny, his estranged wife.

But he had promised, and he had put it off as long as possible. So long that his excuses for not following through had begun to sound as lame as they were.

So he had called Penny that morning and asked if he could stop by. She had been frazzled from having the two kids home with the flu and she would be happy, she said, to have an adult to talk to.

Quentin crossed the sidewalk to his Bronco, parked in a red zone, climbed in and fired up the engine. Terry
and Penny's home was located in a part of the city called Lakeview, an area built primarily in the 1940s and ‘50s. Shady, green and almost exclusively residential, the area boasted the best public schools in New Orleans. Catering to middle-class families, Lakeview was one of the few affordable “nice” places to raise kids in the city.

Quentin enjoyed the fifteen-minute drive, purposely not rehearsing what he would say to Penny. Because of his relationship with Terry, he and the woman were good friends. He had been there through their courtship, had stood up at their wedding and was godfather to their oldest child. Not only would she see through a canned speech, but he believed he owed her better than that.

Penny was standing at her front door when he pulled up in front of the two-story stucco home. She saw him, waved and stepped outside.

He pulled his vehicle to a stop and climbed out. Moments later she was hugging him tightly.

“I was glad you called,” she said. “I've been missing you.”

He drew away from her, experiencing regret. At having neglected her. At the reason for his visit today. He searched her gaze. With her soft brown hair and eyes, creamy skin and curvy figure, she was a very pretty woman, a fact even the fatigue lines around her eyes and mouth couldn't hide.

“How are you doing?”

“Hanging in there.” She motioned inside. “Come on in. I just brewed a pot of coffee.” She held a finger to her lips. “The kids are sleeping, thank God, so keep your voice low.”

He followed her into the kitchen. It was in a state of disarray—the way his mother's kitchen had often been.

“Have a seat. You still take your coffee sweet?”

“The sweeter the better.”

She laughed. “I was taking about your coffee, Malone. Not your women.”

He smiled. “I said sweet, Penny. Not hot.”

She laughed again and set the coffee in front of him, then sat down herself. It had always been this way between them, comfortable, easy. He had liked her from the first moment Terry had introduced them.

“Speaking of, how's your love life?”

Anna's image popped into his head, and his lips tipped up. “What love life? I hang out with cops and criminals all day.”

“Yeah, sure.” Her smile faded. “How's Terry?”

He lifted a shoulder. “You know Terry.”

“Yeah,” she said, bitterness creeping into her tone, “I know Terry.”

This wasn't going to go well, he acknowledged. Penny was hurting and unhappy. She was angry at her husband. But he had promised his friend he would speak to her, and he would.

“Penny,” he began, “I didn't stop by today only to see how you were doing.”

She looked away, then back. “Terry sent you.”

Quentin leaned toward her. “He's miserable without you, Penny. He's miserable without the kids. He wants to come home.”

A short, brittle-sounding laugh bubbled to her lips. “He's just miserable, Malone. It has nothing to do with me or the kids.”

Quentin reached across the table and caught her hand. “He loves you, Pen. I know he does. Since you kicked him out, he's been…crazy. Unhappy. Drinking too much, not sleeping. I've never seen him this way.”

Her eyes flooded with tears. “Lucky you.”

“Pen—”

“No.” She pushed her chair away from the table, stood and crossed to the sink and the window that faced the winter-bare backyard. She stared out at the stark day, not speaking.

Finally, she turned and faced him, her expression naked with pain. “I used to tell myself all those things. That Terry loved me and the kids. That we were better off with him. I told myself that I should be grateful that he was a hard worker and a good provider. That I should stick by him because I'd made a promise before God and that I should forgive him because he'd had a shitty childhood.”

She sucked in a broken-sounding breath. “I can't tell myself those things anymore. We're not better off with him here, Quentin. He's not good for me or the kids. And I don't believe God wants that for me or the children.” She brought a hand to her mouth, then dropped it. She looked him dead in the eyes. “He's self-destructing, Malone. And I can't stop him. And I don't want him to do it in front of Matti and Alex.”

Quentin frowned. “Self-destructing, Pen? Don't you think that's a bit of an overstatement? Sure, he's going through a tough time, but—”

“But nothing,” she snapped, cheeks flaming. “Stop making excuses for him, Malone. They're not helping him, they're not helping me. Yeah, he's going through a tough time, but aren't we all? Yeah, he had a troubled childhood. So, do something about it. He's an adult, not a child. An adult with responsibilities, a family to take care. He needs to start acting like one.”

Her anger seemed to evaporate, leaving her look
ing young and vulnerable. “I can't fight his demons anymore. I wish I could, but I can't.”

Quentin stood and went to her. He drew her against his chest and held her for a long time. Finally, he eased her away and searched her gaze. “What do you know about his mother, Pen? I know almost nothing except that it was bad between them, really bad.”

Penny's eyes flooded with tears. “I hate her, even though I only saw her a couple of times. Because she did this to him, because she made him…hate himself.”

“But…what did she do, Penny? How did she—”

“Hurt him so deeply? I don't know the details, Terry wouldn't talk about her. He wouldn't allow her to have anything to do with the kids. He didn't even allow them to keep the cards she sent.”

Penny let out a long breath. “I know she ridiculed him constantly. Tore him down. Told him he wasn't any good, that she wished she'd never had him. That she should have gotten rid of him, things like that.”

Told that enough, a kid began to believe it.
Quentin swallowed hard. It explained a lot. “I'm sorry, Penny.”

“Me, too. Damn sorry. I—”

“Mom!”

The cry had come from Matti, her youngest. Penny glanced in the direction of the doorway, then back at Quentin. “I've got to go.”

He caught her arm. “I've got to ask you one more thing, because I promised Terry I would. Are you seeing anybody? Going out at all? Alex told Terry—”

She made a sound of disbelief. “Are you asking if I'm dating? Please, when would I have time to go out? Between homework and ball practice and vomiting kids?”

She freed her arm from his grasp, obviously hurt that he'd asked. “Get real, Malone. Terry was the one who'd always had time for that. Not me. And please, tell Terry I said so.”