Bone Cold (25 page)

“Promise?”

He opened his mouth to respond; her stomach growled loudly. She pressed a hand to it, cheeks pink.

Quentin smiled. “Have you eaten?”

“Not since breakfast, no.” Her stomach rumbled again. She laughed. “Rumor has it your mother makes a pretty mean chicken soup.”

“The best.” He rolled off the bed. “Got any saltines?”

He held out his hand; she grasped it and he helped her up. “Yup. And if you promise to be a nice boy, I'll even pour you big glass of milk.”

He grinned. “Depends, my dear, on what you mean by nice.”

 

A short time later, they sat across from each other on her living-room floor, bowls of steaming chicken soup and an open package of crackers in front of them.

Anna took a spoonful of the savory soup, then looked up at him. “This is wonderful.”

“Thanks.” He smiled. “My mother's a great cook. When you have seven kids to feed, it's a plus.”

“What's she like?”

“A dynamo. She's only five feet tall, but—”

“Five feet tall? You must be kidding.”

“My dad's a big man. His dad and grandfather were even bigger.” Quentin took a spoonful of the soup, then wiped his mouth. “We all tower over her, my sisters, too. Even so, Mom's definitely the head of the family. While we were growing up, she wore a big leather belt around her waist, if we got out of line, watch out. A couple of times she couldn't get the belt off fast enough, so she came after us with a broom.”

Anna smiled at the image. “Were you bad?”

“I was awful.”

She plucked a soda cracker from the bag. “Tell me about your sisters and brothers.”

“I have four brothers and two sisters. I'm second in the Malone lineup, which my older brother, John Jr., never lets me forget.”

Anna leaned toward him, fascinated. Warmed by the affection in his tone, the way his eyes lit up while talking about his family. “I can't imagine having so many siblings. Tell me about them.”

So he did. He described Percy as outgoing, Spencer as a hot dog. Shauna was a free spirit, Patrick more conservative than God and John Jr. was a big, overstuffed teddy bear. His sister Mary was going through a tough time in her marriage and John Jr. was expecting his third child.

“All of us are cops except Patrick, who's an accountant, and Shauna, who's studying art in college. They're the black sheep of the Malone clan.”

He went on to talk about his five nieces and nephews,
his Aunt Patti, who was his captain at the Seventh and his various sisters-and brothers-in-law.

“What a nice family,” Anna murmured, sounding as wistful as she felt.

“Most of the time. We fought like crazy when we were kids. Drove our folks nuts.”

Anna glanced down at her bowl, saw that it was empty and snitched another soda cracker. “Did you always want to be a cop?” she asked.

“Being a cop chose me.”

“Because of your family.” She tilted her head, studying him. “What did you want to do instead?”

“Who said I wanted to do anything else?”

“Then you did want to be a police officer?”

“It's your turn to talk.” He had finished his soup and pushed his bowl away. “Tell me what it was like growing up in Hollywood.”

“Before the kidnapping, euphoric. After, it was…lonely.”

“I'm sorry. That was a stupid question.”

She lifted her shoulders. “Don't worry about it.”

Awkward silence fell between them. After a moment, Anna stood. “Would you like some more soup?”

He followed her to her feet. “No thanks.” He glanced at his watch. “LaSalle should be back any minute.”

“Then you should go. People will talk.”

“Let them. If you're okay with it, so am I.”

She said she was and they collected their bowls, milk glasses, crackers and carried the items to the kitchen. After depositing the glasses and crackers on the counter, she took the bowls from him and carried them to the sink.

She turned on the water. “Ben told me you two were
going to come up with a plan to discover which of his patients was behind the notes.”

“Did he?”

At his tone, she looked over her shoulder at him. “You don't like him very much, do you?”

“I don't know him.”

Anna turned off the water and faced him. She cocked an eyebrow. “So why the dislike? And don't deny it, I hear it in your voice.”

“Maybe it's his ethics I don't like. Maybe it's that I want to catch a killer and he's more interested in protecting one.”

“He won't turn over a list of his patients' names.”

“That's right.”

“And you think the name Adam's on it.”

“I hope it is. Though I asked Ben and he said no. But it makes sense that all these events are related. The tapes and notes. Minnie's letters. Jaye's disappearance. The prosthetic finger. Your being followed. The attack on you last night.”

“Jessica Jackson's murder. And those other two women as well.” Tears burned her eyes. “Those people suffered because of me.”

“Not because of you, Anna.” He crossed to her, took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “You're the victim here. Not the perpetrator.” He shook her lightly. “You're not.”

“One of the victims,” she corrected. “Just one.”

Anna swallowed hard. “I've got to do something, Malone. I can't just sit in this apartment, kept safe by the NOPD, while women are dying. While Jaye is enduring God only knows what. Somehow this is my fault, Malone. I don't know what I did to cause this, but I have to do something to stop it.”

“You want to help? Get Ben to release that list of names. If there's not an Adam on it, I'll bet there'll be another name you recognize.”

“Like Kurt.”

“Or someone else in your life.”

She met his gaze evenly, in challenge. “If you're thinking Bill's or Dalton's name might be on that list, you're mistaken. Ben met them for the first time when he looked me up at The Perfect Rose.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Yes.” She swung to face him. “Yes, dammit!”

For a moment they stared at one another, the air between them electric. Quentin swore. “This is my job, Anna. I look at facts. I consider opportunity and motive. Dalton and Bill have opportunity—”

“And no motive. They're my friends and I trust them completely.”

“And you probably have reason to. But consider this fact, Anna. In the great majority of violent crimes, the victim knows her attacker. I don't take that fact lightly. Neither should you.”

Anna hated that he could make her doubt her friends, even if only for a fraction of a second. “Do what you have to, Malone,” she said. “That's fine. But I'm going to get that list from Ben. And you're going to see that you were wrong. Dead wrong.”

He crossed the kitchen in two strides. He pulled her against his chest and kissed her, deeply, with an edge of desperation.

She responded in kind, curling her fingers into his sweater, clutching him to her.

He broke the kiss. “Get the list, but then stay out of it, Anna,” he said, voice gruff. “Let me and my guys do our jobs. This bastard would love for you to get involved.
To get out there and make yourself vulnerable to him. Don't give him what he wants.”

“You're wrong, Malone,” she said, suddenly understanding her foe. What he wanted. What made him tick. “He wants me isolated and terrified. The way I was twenty-three years ago.”

Wednesday, January 31
1:52 a.m.

“M
innie?” Jaye whispered. She sat up in bed and turned toward the door and the soft snuffling sound that had come from the other side. She hadn't heard from her friend since their captor had discovered them talking. Since he had forced Jaye to seal Anna's letter with a kiss.

Jaye had been worried sick about the other girl. Fearful that he had punished her for befriending Jaye. That he had hurt her. She had been afraid for Anna as well. Had she received the letter? What had she thought? Had she recognized the lip print as Jaye's?

It had been torture waiting and wondering, praying her friends were safe but so desperately afraid they were not. She had slept little in the past five days; she had paced and agonized, prayed and planned.

She had to get out of here. She had to save Minnie and warn Anna. There had to be a way.

The sound came again and Jaye scrambled off her cot. “Minnie? Is that you?”

“It's me.”

Jaye made a sound of relief and tiptoed to the door and knelt down in front of it, pressing her mouth close to the pet hatch. “I've been so worried about you. What did he do? Was it awful?”

“He was very angry.” Tabitha mewed and Minnie shushed her. “I…I almost didn't come tonight. If he finds out I'm here… I'm so afraid, Jaye.”

Rage welled up in Jaye. She squeezed her hands into fists. “I hate him,” she said, tone low but fierce. “I hate him so much. For what he's done to us. And because of Anna. When I get out of here, I swear I'm going to make him pay. I promise I will.”

“Don't say that, Jaye. He may be listening.” Minnie sounded frightened. “You'll make him even angrier. He'll hurt you.”

A part of her wanted to scream that she didn't care. She wanted to shout at the top of her lungs for him to come and get her, that she wasn't afraid of him.

But she had to think of Minnie. And Anna. She couldn't do anything that might endanger them. She wouldn't.

“Minnie?” Jaye pressed even closer to the door. “Do you know…is Anna…has he—” The question stuck in her throat. She couldn't utter it. As if saying the words aloud might make them come true.

They hung in the air anyway, taunting her.

Has he hurt Anna? Was she…alive?

“I think she's okay.” Minnie paused and Jaye sensed that she was pausing to listen, to glance over her shoulder and make sure they were alone. When she spoke again, her voice was slightly muffled, as if she had pressed her mouth to the door. “The other night…he came in…he was upset. Something had gone wrong…
it had to do with Anna. He was muttering to himself. He said some things…some bad things.”

Her voice trailed off and Jaye laid her hands on the door. “What, Minnie? What did he say? What bad things?”

For a moment the girl didn't respond, when she did, her voice shook. “He's going to move us, Jaye. I don't know where or when, but it has something to do with Anna. With hurting Anna.”

Wednesday, January 31
Seventh District Station

“H
ey, partner. Got a minute?”

Quentin lifted his gaze. Terry stood at the entrance to the men's locker room, expression repentant. It had been twenty-four hours since their argument, and Terry had obviously come to his senses and cooled down.

Unmoved, Quentin slammed his locker and sat on the bench, back to the other man. “I'm a little busy right now.”

Terry came into the room, stopping to stand in front of him. “I don't blame you for being angry.”

Quentin ignored him. He bent, tied his running shoes, then stood. “I'm taking a run now, Terry. Excuse me.”

“I acted like an ass.”

“For starters. Like I said, I'm going for a run.”

Quentin stepped over the bench and headed for the door.

“I'm sorry.” Quentin stopped but didn't look back. “The things I said, they were wrong.”

Quentin turned then, facing the other man. “They
stunk,” he said flatly. “I didn't deserve them. Neither did Penny.”

“I know, I—” He looked away. “I don't know what's happening to me, Malone. I feel like…it's all falling apart. Me. My life, the job. And I don't know how to stop it.”

Quentin's anger at the other man evaporated. “You need help, Terry. You can't do this on your own.”

“You mean a therapist.”

“Yeah. The department has a—”

“No way.” Terry sank onto the bench. “Word will get around. I don't want everybody knowing my business.”

“You think they don't know now?” Quentin crossed to his friend. “You think they don't see? Come on, Terry, you're smarter than that.”

Terry dropped his head into his hands. “I don't want to screw up anymore, Malone. I don't want to hurt anyone else.”

“See the shrink. Do it, Terry. You need help.”

His partner lifted his head; he looked at him. “Will you back me up, partner? If I do this, will you help me get Penny and my kids back?”

Quentin had serious doubts that anything Terry did would induce his wife to take him back, but he kept his opinion to himself. “Yeah, I'll back you up.”

“Thank you.” He slipped off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

Quentin frowned, noticing for the first time that his partner was wearing glasses. “What's with the specs?”

“I got myself an eye infection from wearing my contacts too long without changing them. My optometrist
says no contacts for at least a month. Just another thing I'm screwing up at.”

“I saw his eyes, Malone. They were orange.”

Colored contacts. Of course.

Quentin swore, run forgotten. He crossed to his locker and yanked it open. “You got anything going right now?”

Terry shook his head. “Why? What's up?”

“A research mission, but that's all I can say. You want to tag along anyway?”

“I'm with you, partner.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Quentin and Terry entered the Eyeware Showcase at the New Orleans Center. They crossed the carpeted showroom, heading toward the service counter. Quentin showed the young man behind the desk his shield and asked to speak with the manager.

“What's this all about?” Terry asked while the man scurried into the back room to find his boss.

“A hunch,” Quentin supplied. “You'll see.”

Within moments, an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman emerged from the back. She crossed to the desk and smiled. She introduced herself as Pamela Bell. “How can I help you, Detectives—”

“Malone and Landry,” Quentin supplied. He held up his shield, as did Terry. “I was hoping you could be of some help with an investigation we're working on.”

“I'll be happy to try.”

“I'm interested in learning about colored contact lenses. Do they only come in the traditional colors like blue and green, or are they available in colors like red and orange?”

“Absolutely.” She bent, rummaged under the counter for a moment, then emerged with a table-tent
advertisement for colored contacts. It depicted models with eyes in various colors, from bright violet and Easter-egg blue to devil red.

“That's amazing,” Quentin murmured. “Creepy-looking.”

“We sell a lot of the bizarre colors around Halloween and Mardi Gras. The yellow, red and orange. Also to people who like to be different. You know what I mean.”

Quentin frowned. “No, I don't.”

She glanced past Quentin, then returned her gaze to his. “To those kids, you know, they call themselves Gothics. Also to…night people. The people into the alternative-music scene, the downtown clubs.”

Quentin nodded. Terry said nothing. “Can anyone wear them?”

“Sure. But the effect is most startling on people with light eyes.”

“Do you know, Ms. Bell, are these contacts widely available in this area?”

“Certainly. They're a popular novelty item, especially since the price has become so reasonable.”

Malone thanked the woman and he and Terry left the store, then the mall. “You're awfully quiet,” Quentin said as they crossed the parking lot.

“What can I say? It's difficult to comment on what I know nothing about.” Terry glanced at him, then away. “And since you're not commenting, our little errand just now had something to do with the Kent, Parker and Jackson homicides.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“No comment.”

“I heard some talk, that your writer friend got a look
at the guy. At his eyes. I heard they were some weird color.”

Malone unlocked his Bronco, then glanced at his friend. “Interesting the things you can hear while hanging around the squad room. Got any opinions on that bit of information?”

They climbed into the SUV, buckled in and Malone started the engine. Terry looked at him. “Seems to me you might be on the right track. If the victim wasn't confused.”

“She wasn't.” Malone backed out of the parking space. “Why do you think our perp changed his eye color like that? What's his motivation.”

“To be scarier. To intimidate.” Terry shrugged. “Who knows.”

“Or maybe he does it for himself, to make him feel more powerful. Not of this world.”

“I can't imagine, buddy.”

They drove back to the Seventh in silence, parting when they reached the station: Terry on another call, Malone to make some calls.

In the middle of his third, a memory hit Malone with the force of a freight train. For a New Year's Eve millennium party the year before, Terry had come dressed as Father Time. Only instead of the long white beard and flowing white robe, he'd spiked his spray-painted hair and dressed in biker gear. The effect had been like something out of that old futuristic movie,
Mad Max.

Except for his eyes. They had been bright red.

Colored contacts.

Dammit, Terry, why didn't you say something?

Malone ended his conversation and hung up the phone. It meant nothing, he told himself. The manager
of the Eyeware Showcase had said the colored contacts had become a popular novelty item.

So why hadn't Terry said something? He couldn't have just forgotten.

“Hey, partner.”

Startled, Malone swung in his chair to fully face the door. “Terry! You're back.”

“Cut-and-dried burglary. In and out in fifteen minutes. No clues, no suspects, no chance of catching the little weasels.”

Malone forced himself to smile and lean casually back in his chair. “Bet the citizens didn't like hearing that.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Jackass yuppies, what do they expect? You choose to live a couple of blocks from the projects, fancy renovations or not, you're gonna get hit. Period.” He stretched and yawned. “What gives with you? When I walked in, you looked like you'd seen a ghost. You get another lead or something?”

“Nah. Just tired. It's been one mother of a day.”

“Tell me about it.”

Malone glanced at his watch, scrambling for a way to ask the other man where he'd been two nights ago without tipping him as to why he was asking.

He cleared his throat, hating himself for his suspicions. And for what he was about to do. “What're you doing tonight? Going to Shannon's?”

Terry frowned. “I'd love to but I'm beat. I think I'm going to crash.”

“No way.” Malone smiled. “Not the Terror.”

“I'm turning over a new leaf, man.” He held up two fingers. “Scout's honor.”

“I'll believe it when I see it.” He grinned. “So, why are you so beat? Big night the last couple of nights?”

Terry stared at him a moment, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Meaning what?”

“Just wondering if I missed a good party.” Malone arched his eyebrows. “Why so defensive?”

“Last night I was with the kids.” He made a face. “We went to Chuckie Cheese. The night before I hooked up with diMarco and Tarantino from the Fifth. We tipped a few.” He dragged a hand through his hair, expression sheepish. “Man, can those two drink. I couldn't keep up.”

“The Terror couldn't keep up?” Malone laughed, relieved. “There is hope for you.”

As he walked away, he motioned for Malone to kiss his ass.

“Get some sleep,” Quentin called after the other man. “You look like crap.”

Terry flipped him off, then disappeared around the corner. Quentin forced himself to wait to the count of one hundred, then grabbed his jacket and punched out. If he left now, made most of the lights and ran the ones he didn't, he should be able to catch diMarco and Tarantino before they checked out for the day.

Quentin caught the two detectives as they were on their way out of the station house door.

“Hey, Malone, what brings you out to God's country?”

“Figured I'd better check on my baby bro. Make sure he's staying out of trouble. Give him a little advice.”

The two detectives hooted with amusement. “Good luck. That kid's a bigger hot dog than you are.”

“I'll tell him you said so.” He started off then stopped and glanced back. “Terry said the three of you tipped a few the other night.”

“Put him under the table.” Tarantino laughed. “Good
Cajun boy like him, I couldn't believe it. What a lightweight.”

“We had to carry him out,” diMarco added.

“What bar was that?” Quentin asked with what he hoped was casual interest. He hoped the other two wouldn't hear the hint of desperation behind the question.

“Fast Freddy's on Bourbon.”

Bourbon. In the French Quarter.
“That's that new place. I haven't been there yet.”

“The joint was packed. Great music, lots of chicks.”

“Come out with us next time,” Tarantino suggested. “We'll drink you under the table.”

Quentin forced a laugh. “Fat chance of that.”

“Nice talking to you, Malone.” The two started off, then diMarco stopped suddenly and looked back at Quentin. “Ask your partner how a guy with his reputation managed to get so stinking drunk when we never even saw him take a drink?”