Bone Cold (3 page)

Anna reread the last lines three times, a chill moving over her.
He
frightened her.
He
didn't allow her to eat pizza or Chee-tos often.

“Who do you think ‘He' is?” Dalton asked. “Her dad?”

“I don't know,” Anna murmured, frowning. “He
could be her grandfather or an uncle. It's obvious she lives with him.”

“It's kind of creepy, if you ask me.” Bill made a face. “And what does she mean by ‘when he lets her out, she watches
Dawson's Creek
?' It makes her sound like a prisoner, or something.”

The three looked at each other. One moment became several; Anna cleared her throat, forcing a laugh. “Come on, guys, I'm the fiction writer here. You two are supposed to be my reality check.”

“That's right.” Dalton smiled wanly. “What kid ever thinks they get
enough
junk food? In fact, at thirteen, I thought my parents were a couple of ogres. I felt
so
abused.”

“Dalton's right,” Bill agreed. “Besides, if this guy was as bad as we're making him out to be, he wouldn't allow Minnie to correspond with you.”

“Right.” Anna made a sound of relief, folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. “It's 2:00 a.m. and we're overreacting. I think we all need to get some sleep.”

“I agree.” Bill stood. “But still, Anna, I wish you hadn't answered her on Perfect Rose stationery. Given the types of books you write, who knows what kind of wackos might try to track you down?”

“It's okay,” she murmured, rubbing at the goose bumps that crawled up her arms. “What harm could it be for an eleven-year-old girl to know where I work?”

Thursday, January 11
The French Quarter

“W
hat are you saying, Anna?” Jaye Arcenaux asked, slurping the last of her Mochasippi up through her straw. “That you think this kid's some sort of stalker or something? That would be so cool.”

Jaye, Anna's “little sister,” had turned fifteen a couple of weeks ago and now everything was either so “cool,” or “totally out there.”

Anna arched an eyebrow, amused. “Cool? I hardly think so.”

“You know what I mean.” She leaned closer. “So, is that what you think?”

“Of course not. All I'm saying is, there was something strange about her letter and I'm not sure I should answer it.”

“What do you mean, strange?” Jaye reached across the table to snitch a piece of Anna's chocolate-chip cookie. “Dalton said all three of you got the creeps.”

“He's exaggerating. It was late and we were all tired.
But it did seem like there was something weird about her home life. I'm a little concerned.”

“Now you're talking my area of expertise. I've seen pretty much every kind of weird home life there is.”

That was true, a fact that broke Anna's heart. She didn't let her feelings show, however. Jaye didn't want her pity, or anyone else's for that matter. Jaye accepted her past for what it was; she expected no less from those around her.

“Actually, I was hoping to get your opinion.” Anna reached into her purse and drew out the letter, handing it to Jaye. “I could be reading more into it than is there. After all, concocting trouble is my stock-in-trade.”

While Jaye read the letter, Anna studied the girl. Jaye was strikingly attractive for one so young, with finely sculpted features and large, dark eyes. Until a week ago, when she had shocked Anna by showing up sporting her just-dyed, flame-red hair, she had been a brunette, her tresses a warm mocha color.

Jaye's physical beauty was only marred by the brutal scar that ran diagonally across her mouth. A final gift from her abusive father—in a drunken rage he had thrown a beer bottle at her. It had caught her in the mouth, splitting her lips wide open. The bastard hadn't even gotten her medical attention. By the time the school nurse had taken a look at her mouth the following Monday morning, it had been too late for stitches.

But not too late to call Social Services. Jaye had been on her way to a better life, her father to jail.

A lump formed in Anna's throat and she shifted her gaze. She had become involved with Big Brothers, Big Sisters of America after researching the organization for an element in her second novel. She had interviewed several of the older girls in the program and had been
profoundly moved by their stories, ones of need, salvation and affection.

Those girls had reminded her of herself at the same age. She, too, had been troubled and lonely, she, too, had been in desperate need of an anchor in a time of emotional turbulence.

Anna had decided to become a Big Sister herself, figuring she didn't have anything to lose by giving the program a try.

She and Jaye had been “sisters” for two years.

In the course of those two years, they had become close. It hadn't happened easily. At first Jaye, cynical for her age, angry and distrustful from a lifetime of being hurt and lied to, hadn't wanted anything to do with Anna. And she had made her feelings clear.

But Anna had persevered. For two years she had followed through on every promise; she had listened instead of lectured, counseled only when asked and had stuck to her own beliefs, standing up to the girl's every test.

Finally, Jaye had begun to trust. Affection had followed.

That affection was a two-way street. Something Anna hadn't expected going into the program. She had wanted to do something to help someone else, in return she had forged a relationship that filled a place in her life and heart that she hadn't even realized was empty.

Jaye looked up. “You're not imagining things. This guy's bad news.”

Anna's stomach sank. “You're sure?”

“You wanted my opinion.”

“When you say bad news, what do you mean…that he's—”

“Anything from a major A-hole to a pervert who should be behind bars for life.”

A bitter edge crept into Jaye's voice, one that made Anna ache. “That's a pretty broad spectrum.”

“I'm not a psychic.” Jaye shrugged and handed the letter over. “I think you should write her back.”

Anna pursed her lips, less certain than her young friend that she should continue the correspondence. “I'm an adult. She's a child. That makes communicating with her tricky. I don't want an accusation of impropriety to come back from her parents. And I can't very well just ask her about her father.”

“You'll think of something to say.” Jaye wiped her mouth with her napkin. “This kid needs a friend.”

Anna frowned, torn. A part of her, the part that had always played it safe, urged her to toss the letter and forget all about Minnie and her problems. The other part agreed with Jaye. Minnie needed her. And she couldn't turn her back on a child in need.

“Are you going to eat the rest of your cookie?” Jaye asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“It's all yours.” Anna slid the plate across the table. “You've been really hungry lately, isn't Fran a good cook?” she asked, referring to Jaye's foster mother.

“Good cook?” Jaye made a face. “She's like the worst cook on the planet. I swear, she must have studied at the Cordon-ralph.”

Anna laughed, then sobered. “But she is nice, right?”

Jaye lifted a shoulder. “She's okay, I guess. When she's not riding her broomstick and sacrificing small children and stray dogs under the full moon.”

“Very funny, wise apple.”

Anna supposed she liked Jaye's new foster mother well enough, but something about her didn't add up. She
always seemed to be trying too hard. As if her heart wasn't really into fostering so she had to pretend. Anna had been unsettled from the moment they'd met.

Still, she had been hoping Jaye would like Fran Clausen and her husband, Bob.

They left the CC's coffeehouse minutes later, making their way out onto the French Quarter sidewalk. “So, how is everything going?” Anna asked.

“School or home?”

“Either. Both.”

“School's okay. So's home.”

“Next time, don't bog me down with so many details. I'm overwhelmed.”

The girl grinned. “Sarcasm, Anna? Cool.”

Anna laughed and they continued to make their way along the busy sidewalk, pausing occasionally to ogle a store's display. Anna enjoyed the scents, sounds and sights that were the French Quarter: a blending of the mostly old and sometimes new, of the garish and elegant, the delectable and offensive. Populated by both tourists and locals, street performers and street people, the place had captivated Anna on sight.

“Look at that,” Jaye murmured, stopping to peer in at a display of faux-fur jackets in a shop's window. She pointed to a zebra-print coat in a bomber style. “Is that cool or what?”

“It is,” Anna agreed. “You want to try it on?”

She shook her head. “Only if they're giving it away. Besides, it wouldn't go with my hair.”

Anna glanced at Jaye. “I'm finally getting used to you being a redhead. The best part is that we look like sisters now.”

Jaye flushed, pleased. They continued on their way.
After a couple of moments, Jaye glanced at Anna. “Did I tell you about that creep who was following me?”

Anna stopped and looked at her friend, alarmed. “Someone was following you?”

“Yeah. But I gave him the slip.”

“When did this happen? Where?”

“The other day. I was on my way home from school.”

“What did he look like? Was it just that once or has he followed you before?”

“I didn't get that good a look at him. From what I did see, he was just another old pervert.” Jaye shrugged again. “It's no big deal.”

“It's a very big deal. Did you tell your foster mom? Did she call—”

“Geez, Anna, get a grip. If I'd known you were going to flip out, I wouldn't have told you. “

Anna took a deep breath. If she overreacted, Jaye would clam up. And that was the last thing she wanted. Jaye was a street-savvy kid, not an innocent who would be easily tricked by a stranger. She had even lived on the street for a time, a fact that never failed to make Anna shudder.

“Sorry for getting so intense,” she murmured. “Old people are such worrywarts.”

“You're not old,” Jaye countered.

“Old enough to insist that if you see this guy again you'll tell me and we'll go to the police. Agreed?”

Jaye hesitated, then nodded. “Agreed.”

Thursday, January 11
The Irish Channel

D
etective Quentin Malone entered Shannon's Tavern, calling a greeting to a couple of his fellow officers. For many New Orleanians, Thursday night represented the official kickoff of the weekend festivities. Bars, restaurants and clubs all over the Crescent City benefited from the laissez les bon temps rouler attitude of the city's residents, and Shannon's Tavern was no different.

Located in the area of the city called the Irish Channel—named for the Irish immigrants who had settled there—Shannon's catered to a working-class, local crowd. And to cops. The Seventh District of the New Orleans Police Department had adopted Shannon's as their own.

Shannon McDougall, the tavern's proprietor and namesake, a former bricklayer with hands the size and shape of meat hooks, had no problem with that. Cops kept the rougher crowd away. They kept the drugs, brawls and hookers out of his place and out on the street. As a way of thanking the boys in blue, he refused to
allow any of the more seasoned officers to pay for anything. The rookies, however, were a different story. Just as in the force, the new kids on the block had to earn their stripes. Even so, tips were welcome from anyone and many a first of the month, green could be seen passing from a grateful detective or lieutenant's hand to McDougall's apron pocket.

Quentin definitely fell into the seasoned category. At thirty-seven he was a sixteen-year veteran of the force and a detective first grade. He was also a part of a NOPD family dynasty: his grandfather, father, three uncles and one aunt had been cops; of his six siblings only two had opted out of police work, Patrick who had become a number cruncher, and Shauna, the baby of the brood, who was studying art in college.

Quentin strolled toward the bar for a beer. He was waylaid by the barmaid, a perky twenty-three-year-old with super-short, spiky blond hair. She had made it plain she would love to go out with him, but Quentin had no desire to date a girl the same age as his kid sister. Something about that just felt a little weird.

“Hey, Malone.” She smiled up at him. “Haven't seen you in a while.”

“I've been around.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “You doing okay, Suki?”

“Can't complain. Tips have been good.” She glanced toward a group making their way to one of the tables. “Gotta go. Talk later?”

“Sure.”

She started off then looked back over her shoulder at him. “John Jr. was in. He asked me to tell you to call your mother.”

Quentin laughed. John Jr. was the oldest of the Malone brood and had appointed himself caretaker of
the family. If any of the siblings had a problem, they went to John Jr. If any one of them had an issue with another member of the family, they went to John Jr. And conversely, if John Jr. perceived there to be problem in the family, he took matters into his own hands. Obviously, Quentin had missed one too many of his mother's Sunday dinners.

“Message received, Suki. Thanks.”

Quentin crossed to the bar. Shannon had already drawn the draft; he slid it across the counter. “On the house.”

“Thanks, Shannon. You seen Terry tonight?” he asked, referring to his partner Terry Landry.

“He's here.” The older man jerked his thumb toward the back room of the bar. “Last I saw, he was breaking a new rack. Seemed a little off tonight, you know what I mean?”

Quentin nodded. He did indeed know what Shannon meant. His partner was going through a tough time. His wife of twelve years had recently kicked him out, claiming him impossible to live with.

Quentin didn't doubt that was true. Because of the job, no cop was easy to live with. Terry, with his hard-partying ways and hair-trigger temper would be more difficult than most.

But even with his faults, Terry was a good father and a devoted husband. He loved his family and as far as Quentin was concerned, that counted for a lot.

Terry had taken the breakup hard. He was angry and hurt; he missed his two kids. He was drinking too much and sleeping too little, his behavior had become erratic. Partnering with him had become a tightrope walk.

But the way Quentin figured it, Terry had been there
for him lots of times, now it was his turn. Partners stuck together.

Quentin motioned in the direction of the back room. “Think I might go lend a little aid and expertise. Wouldn't want Terry to lose his rent.”

Shannon chuckled, shook his head and moved down the bar to serve another customer.

Quentin made his way through the still sparsely filled room. An hour from now it'd be standing room only, music blaring from the jukebox, a fine haze of cigarette smoke hanging above the crowd, a dozen or more couples gyrating on the makeshift dance floor. But for now, bar to back room was a clear shot.

Until Louanne Price stepped directly in his path, stopping his forward progress. The woman had the face of an angel and the body of one of Hugh Hefner's bunnies, and many a man had fallen adoringly at her feet. Problem was, any man in the vicinity of Louanne's feet would likely be kicked square in the gut. Or even lower.

That was the kind of woman Louanne was. And life was too short for a kick in the balls. Even if preceded by a trip to paradise.

She moved nearer Quentin, not stopping until her body brushed his. She stood on tiptoe, laid her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him. “Malone, sweetie, what am I going to have to do to get you to share some of that fine Irish sugar with me?”

He flashed her a quick smile. “Aw, Louanne,” he drawled. “You know Dickey'd kick my butt if I so much as wagged my tail in your direction.” Dickey was her father and an NOPD sergeant. “I'll just have to lust after you from afar.”

“That would be a crime, I think. And you're a cop,
sworn to uphold the law.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “He wouldn't have to know. It could be our little secret.”

Quentin set her away from him, feigning regret. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy aggressive women, he had certainly been friendly with a number of them. It was Louanne's sly edge, her easy dishonesty that turned him off.

“Sorry, babe. You know there aren't any secrets in the NOPD. At least ones that everybody doesn't know. Catch you later.”

Quentin walked away without a backward glance. He found Terry just where Shannon had promised, a pool cue in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked up at Quentin, eyes glazed from drink.

Terry had been here awhile already.

“'Bout time you got your ass down here. Night's half over already.”

“Only if you've already drunk so much you're going to be out cold an hour from now.” Quentin sauntered into the room. He pulled a chair from one of the tables, swung it around and straddled it. “Covered for you with the captain.”

Terry lined up his shot, drew back on the cue then followed through. The ball sailed into the pocket. “Where was I? The john?”

“You went to see Penny. To talk.”

“That bitch? No thank you.”

Quentin cringed. He'd known Penny Landry for ten years and she was many things, bitch not among them. Terry hurt, he was angry and bitter, but still Quentin couldn't let it pass. Some things just weren't right.

He took a swallow of his beer, working to keep his
demeanor casual. “Seems to me she's doing what she feels she has to. For herself and the kids.”

Terry missed his shot and swore. His opponent, a man Quentin had seen run a table many a time, smiled and stepped up to shoot.

Terry downed the last of his beer, then glared at Quentin. “Whose side you on, partner?”

“I didn't know I had to take sides.”

“Damn right you do.”

“Penny's a friend.” Quentin met the other man's gaze evenly. “I don't know if I can do that.”

Terry flushed. “This is just f'cking wonderful. Outstanding. My best friend's telling me he—”

“Eight in the corner.”

They turned and watched as the other player nailed the shot.

“Rerack?” he asked.

“Screw it. The table's yours.” Terry looked at Quentin. “I need a drink.”

The last thing his partner needed was another drink. But stating the obvious would serve no purpose but anger the other man. They left the pool room and headed out front.

In the twenty or so minutes he'd been in back, the crowd in the bar had doubled. Quentin saw a number of their fellow officers, his brothers Percy and Spencer among them. They caught sight of him and started over.

“What do you say we get out of here and go grab some grub? I'll ask Percy and Spencer along.”

“Hell no.” Terry's words slurred. “The night's young. Ripe with possibil… Hey now, who do we have here?”

Quentin shifted his gaze in the direction Terry
indicated. A woman in a spandex minidress was shaking it on the floor. She wore her bottle-enhanced red hair long, in a mass of tousled waves. As she danced, she moved her fingers through it, her gold bangle bracelets jangling as she did. It wasn't clear if she was dancing with one man, several or just putting on a show for them all.

And a show it was; a number of bar patrons had already gathered around to watch. Quentin and Terry joined them.

After a moment, Quentin glanced at his partner. “I don't know, Terry, she looks—”

“She looks good. Damn good.”

What Quentin had been about to say was, this woman didn't look the type to be messed with. She didn't look like the type who would go around with cops, except on the sly. Not exactly a rich bitch, but a climber. One of those women who valued prestige, position and Armani suits.

She would choose to hang out with the guys who could give her those. A cop could not. Tonight, obviously, she'd gone slumming.

His brothers made it across the bar. Percy spoke first. “What's happening, big bro? Hey, Terry.”

Quentin glanced at his brothers. The family resemblance between the two brothers was marked: both possessed the trademark Malone blue eyes and dark, curly hair. Percy, however, had yet to grow into his lanky six foot three frame and Spencer, the street-brawler, had the profile of a prize fighter who had taken one too many pops to the nose. “Currently I'm trying to stop my partner from making an ass of himself.”

The younger Malones followed Quentin's gaze. Percy grinned. “She's hot, no doubt about it. You feel like
being burned, Terror?” he asked, using the nickname Terry had earned his first year on the force. “Spencer here went down in flames ten minutes ago.”

“No comment,” Spencer muttered, sending his brother an irritated glance.

Terry smoothed back his hair. “Watch a professional at work, fellas.”

The three Malone brothers hooted. “I don't know,” Quentin called after him, “you've been out of circulation awhile.”

Terry glanced back at the other men, his grin cocky. “Once a lady-killer, always a lady-killer.”

Even three sheets to the wind, Terry was indeed, a lady-killer. Tall and lanky, with the dark hair, eyes and patois-on-demand of his Cajun ancestors, Terry cut a damn dashing figure. Quentin gave him a better than fifty-fifty chance.

His friend sauntered over to the woman and began swaying with her to the music, moving in close. She turned her back to him, not missing a beat of the music.

Terry glanced over. Quentin grinned and mimicked a plane going down with his right hand. Percy and Spencer chuckled.

Terry didn't give up. He tried again. Again she made it clear she wasn't interested, this time more pointedly.

The third time, she didn't waste time on subtlety. She stopped dancing, looked him squarely in the eyes and told him to get lost. As she spun away, she shook her spandex-encased hips, as if taunting Terry with what he couldn't have.

Far from deterred, Terry swaggered back to his friends. “She wants me. No doubt about it.”

The three men howled. Spencer leaned toward Terry. “First round—woman one, The Terror zip.”

Quentin shook his head. “Give it up, partner. The lady's not interested.”

Terry laughed. “She's playing hard to get. You just watch, she'll come around.”

“Yeah, she'll come around, all right. To slapping your face.” Percy looked at Quentin. “Why don't you give her a try, bro. Turn that legendary smile of yours on her.”

“No thanks.” Quentin took a swallow of his beer. “I like my ego intact, thank you.”

“Yeah, right.” Spencer looked at Terry. “You ever hear the story about cute little Miss Davis? She was Quentin's English teacher his senior year of high school.”

“Oh, please,” Quentin muttered. “Not this story again.”

Terry sank onto a bar stool, signaling Shannon for another drink. “I don't believe I have. Fill me in.”

“Well,” Spencer continued, “seems big bro here didn't spend enough time in class cracking the books and had earned himself a big fat F.”

“Things looked grim,” Percy embellished. “Not graduating with his class. Summer school. Dad kicking his ass. The whole bit.”

Terry yawned. “Is this story actually going somewhere?”

The two younger brothers grinned. “Rumor has it,” Spencer said, “that after a couple of private meetings with pretty Miss Davis, that F jumped to a C. Just like magic.”

“Some magic. He used that devil smile on her, the one that—”

“Devil smile? Give me a break.” Quentin rolled his eyes.

Ignoring Quentin, Spencer picked up where Percy had left off. “Even though he won't talk, he used more than the smile, my men. Trust me.”

“That true, partner?” Terry lifted his eyebrows. “You sweet-talk yourself into a diploma?”

Quentin scowled at the three, annoyed at his brothers for bringing up that story and with himself for being such a screwup. It was damn embarrassing to be a grown man best known for his high school conquests with the opposite sex. “Grow up, boys. Get a life.”