Bone Cold (30 page)

Tuesday, February 6
8:50 a.m.

A
nna arrived at Ben's office early the next morning. She had wanted to catch him before he became too involved in his day. And before too much more time had passed.

She had hurt Ben. She knew that without having spoken to him. A man didn't stop by unexpectedly with flowers unless he had strong feelings for a woman.

She felt bad about what he had seen. About how it must have hurt him.

Anna sighed and climbed out of her car. Although they hadn't been dating, they'd gone out a couple of times. And they'd had a good time; when he'd kissed her, she'd kissed him back.

Then Malone had come along. And blown thoughts of everyone else out of her head.

She owed Ben an explanation. An apology. She would like them to remain friends. That possibility, she knew, depended on how badly she had hurt him.

And there was only one way to find out.

She climbed his porch steps and crossed the outer entrance to his office. She found it open and stepped inside. The bell above the door jangled, alerting him to her arrival.

The waiting room was empty; the door to his inner office ajar. Taking a deep breath, she crossed to it, tapped lightly in warning, then pushed it open.

Ben was sitting at his desk, its top stacked high with books. The heavy drapes were drawn; sunshine peeked around the edges. The halogen desk lamp provided the only other light in the room, resulting in an unnatural mix of bright highlights and deep shadows.

“Ben?”

He looked up and she made a sound of distress. He looked ill. His face was drawn, his complexion pasty.

She took several steps into the room. “Are you all right?”

He didn't speak and she closed the distance between them. As she neared him, she saw then that his eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, as if with fever. He looked as if he hadn't slept in a couple of days. “Ben…my God, what's happened?”

He blinked several times, then wetted his lips. “I stopped by your apartment the other day. I wanted…I saw you with Quentin Malone.”

“I know.” She looked away, then forced her gaze back to his. “One of my neighbors saw you and I…I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“Are you in love with him?”

Good question. One she didn't know the answer to. “I have…feelings for him. Strong feelings.”

He tipped his face toward the ceiling, a shudder rippling over him. “I should hope so,” he said softly, returning his gaze to hers. “Since you're
fucking
him.”

She made a sound of shock and took an involuntary step backward. “I don't think it's necessary to use that kind of lang—”

“Don't tell me what's necessary!” He brought his fist crashing down on the desktop with such force the lamp flickered. “Weren't you fucking him that day? Maybe if I had just been a bit more insistent, you would have fucked me t—”

“Stop it!” Anna brought a hand to her mouth, shocked that Ben could say these things to her. “I'm sorry if I hurt you. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to become involved with Quentin, either. It just…happened. I don't know what else I can say to you. Goodbye, Ben.”

She turned on her heel and crossed quickly to the door, anxious to be away from him. Even so, when she reached it she glanced back. And found him slumped forward, head in his hands.

Something wasn't right here. He was ill, sick with a fever. He never would have spoken to her that way otherwise. She had spent enough time with him to know that.

“Ben?”

He lifted his head; he looked devastated. “I could have…fallen in love with you, Anna. I halfway did. And I thought you…I thought you felt the same.”

“I'm sorry, Ben.” She held out a hand. “I didn't mean for this thing to happen between me and Malone. It just did.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He brought a hand to his forehead; she saw that it trembled. She made a sound of concern and moved cautiously toward him. She stopped a couple of feet from the desk. “You don't look good, Ben. I think you're sick. I think you have a fever.”

He gazed blankly at her and she held out a hand once more. “You have a fever, Ben.” She kept her voice low, gentle. “Why don't you go lie down? I could get you a fever reducer and something cold to drink. I could call your physician for you.”

For a second he looked as though he would capitulate, then he shook his head. “I can't…a patient…I need to…help.”

“But you're ill, Ben. You need—”

The phone rang. He hesitated a moment, then answered it. She could tell immediately that the call was from a patient. He glanced at her, then swiveled in his chair so that his back faced her.

She lowered her gaze, realizing suddenly that it was more than Ben's physical appearance that had changed. His desk was covered with books, medical journals and papers. She scanned the titles, they included ones on schizophrenia, disassociation and post-traumatic stress syndrome. Some of them looked dog-eared, some new.

Anna shifted her gaze to take in the office in general. It, too, looked a jumble. It looked as if he had been working around the clock here, not even leaving to eat or sleep.

He'd said a patient needed his help. Which patient? What could be of such urgency that he would work while ill?

Anna inched closer. A notebook lay open in front of him. She craned her neck in an attempt to read what it said. She could only make out a few words; it appeared to be a plea for help.

She drew her eyebrows together. The writing was uneven, at times an almost unreadable scrawl, at others a
precise pinched cursive. The margins contained doodles, some of them sweet, others frightening.

The drawings had come from a troubled soul.

The patient Ben sought to help.

“You just can't help yourself, can you?”

Anna looked up, embarrassed. Ben had ended his call and had caught her snooping. Again.

Heat flooded her cheeks. “I'm sorry. I…you're right. I couldn't help my…I'm a writer. And I'm concerned about you.”

He closed the journal. “I'd like you to leave, Anna.”

“I'm sorry,” she said again, straightening. She took a step from the desk. “Won't you at least agree to let me call a doct—”

“Get out.”

“Ben, please. I don't want us to part this way. You're not well, Perhaps if you got some rest—”

He shivered; his features sharpened. “Perhaps what? If I get some rest I won't be furious with you? You shared your goodies with that bimbo cop, Anna. Do you know how much that disgusts me? Can you imagine how sickened I was to see you there, half-dressed and slobbering all over him? Like some cheap slut.”

Her breath caught. She took a step backward. “If that's the way you want it, Ben. I'd hoped we could be friends. I see now that's not possible.”

He shuddered and rubbed his arms. “Don't go, Anna. I'm sorry. I'm under so much pressure. This patient…it's bad, Anna. If I could tell you about it, I know you'd understand. Please don't—”

“You're not well and I suggest you see a doctor.” She reached the door and looked back at him. “I can't help you. Goodbye, Ben.”

Tuesday, February 6
9:15 a.m.

A
cross town at central lockup, Quentin waited for Terry. His former partner had requested to see him. And he had come, not because of their history. But for Anna. In the hopes that he could coerce information out of his former friend that Johnson and the others had been unable to.

Time was running out for Jaye Arcenaux.

Quentin glanced at his watch, then continued pacing the small room. It was empty save for a metal table and two folding chairs. The table was bolted to the floor; the walls and door were made of reinforced steel. The room's only light was provided by a single fluorescent tube, secured under a steel-mesh housing. A viewing window had been cut out of the three-inch-thick door, a barred opening not big enough for even Houdini to shimmy through.

He flexed his fingers, anxious to begin. Dreading beginning. He had purposely removed himself from
the case. He had been worried his anger at Terry would cloud his objectivity.

And as the days had passed, that anger had not dimmed. If anything, it burned brighter than before. Hotter.

At the sound of a key in the lock, Quentin swung to face the door. The guard appeared. Then Terry. His once-dashing friend shuffled in, unshaven and unkempt, wrists and ankles manacled. He didn't meet Quentin's eyes, simply crossed to one of the chairs and sat down.

“Just holler if you need me,” the guard said, already closing the door.

Quentin nodded, then sat. Terry lifted his gaze. Quentin met it. For several moments, neither man spoke. They simply considered each other, accused and accuser. Betrayer and betrayed.

Quentin broke the silence first. “Orange isn't your color,” he murmured, referring to Terry's jail-issue jumpsuit. “You look like shit.”

One corner of Terry's mouth lifted in a mimicry of his former cocksure grin. “Yeah? Well, they were all out of the Brooks Brothers navy pinstripe.”

Always the joker.
Quentin stiffened. “What do you want, Terry?”

He looked away, sobering. “How's Penny?”

“Do you really care?”

Hot color flew to the other man's face. “Yes, dammit! How is she?”

Quentin leaned forward. “How do you think? Devastated. Humiliated. Worried about the kids and how this will affect them.”

“I…miss them.”

His former partner's voice thickened and Quentin
hardened himself to the way that made him feel. “But are you sorry, Terry? Are you sorry you did this to them?”

“Yes. But not for the reasons you think.” Terry brought his hands to the table, the manacles clanging against its top. “Why did you have to go to O'Shay? Why didn't you come to me first?”

“I had a job to do. I did it.”

Terry made a sound of bitterness. “Duty before friendship, right?”

“Our friendship ended with your lies.”

“I could have explained.”

Quentin shook his head. “Sorry, partner, this is one situation you couldn't have talked your way out of. The evidence speaks for itself.”

“It doesn't. That's just it, I…I need your help, Malone.”

Anger took his breath. How like Terry to simply assume others should help him. To assume that Quentin would rush to his rescue, even with the weight of the evidence against him. Even after all his lies.

“No,” Quentin replied, tone caustic. “Jaye Arcenaux needs my help. Minnie needs my help. You want to tell me where they are?” He leaned toward the other man. “You help me, maybe I can help you.”

“You really believe I did this.” Terry swore. “I thought that maybe, because I hadn't seen you—”

“That I bought into your bullshit? Give me a break.” He made a sound of disgust. “Help me, Terry. I'll see what I can do for you.”

“I can't.” He fisted his fingers. “I don't know where they are. I didn't do this.”

Quentin pushed away from the table, so violently his
chair crashed to the floor. “Call me when you're ready to tell the truth.”

“I didn't do it!” Terry scrambled to his feet. “That's the truth! I swear it is!”

Quentin crossed to the door, glancing back at his former friend when he reached it. “Then I'm sure the evidence will bear that statement out. The DNA will come back and you'll be home free.”

Quentin saw that Terry's throat worked, as if he fought strong emotion. When he faced Quentin once more, his eyes were bright with tears. “It won't,” he said thickly. “That's the problem.” He sank back to his seat and dropped his head into his hands. “The DNA…it won't.”

Quentin froze. The hair on his forearms and the back of his neck stood up. “Maybe you'd better clarify that.”

Terry lifted his head. He met Quentin's gaze, the expression in his tortured. “I was having an affair with Nancy Kent. I had been for…months. It was Nancy who had been keeping me in fifties, courtesy of her fat divorce settlement. I thought I had it made.

“It wasn't a romance.” A strangled laugh slipped past his lips. “Far from it. We were fucking each other. And it was great. At first.”

He looked away. “That night at Shannon's, she was playing with me. Making me pay for standing her up the night before. Treating me like a leper.”

His face took on a faraway expression. “I was furious with her. For teasing me. For embarrassing me in front of everyone. For coming on to every guy but me.” He blinked, his expression clearing. “I'd had too much to drink. She played into that. And it got…ugly.”

Quentin arched an eyebrow, unmoved. “The fight.”

“Yes.” Terry wetted his lips. “But it didn't end there. Afterward, I watched her. I couldn't help myself. I was like a hungry dog hunting a juicy bone. She knew it, too. And liked it. That's the way she was.”

He shifted in his seat. “She slipped out the back entrance. I followed her. And we…we screwed. Right there. Up against the wall. She liked it like that. Dangerous. Kind of rough.”

Quentin thought of Penny. He thought of Matti and Alex, Terry's kids. He felt ill. “And that's it? Your whole sordid tale of woe?”

“When she turned up dead, I panicked. She and I had fought publicly. I hadn't used protection, so I knew they'd find my DNA and God only knew what other trace evidence on her. That's why I kept quiet. I knew how it'd look if I came clean. I couldn't say anything. Don't you see, Malone? I was screwed.”

Quentin schooled his features to neutrality. “Who knew you and Nancy Kent were having an affair?”

“No one. We were very careful.”

Quentin made a sound of disbelief. “You just lost me, partner. Big time. Discretion was never one of your strong suits. No way you could have kept this a secret. Not from me. Not from the other guys.”

“But I did! We became involved before she was divorced.” Desperation crept into his tone. “If anyone had found out, her settlement would have been jeopardized.”

“So, no one knew? Not even Penny?”

“No! Especially not Penny. Dear God, I'd hurt her enough already.” His eyes grew bright. “I wasn't proud of what I was doing to her. In fact, I hated myself for it.”

Quentin found that comment interesting, but stored
it away for later. “Where did you first meet Nancy Kent?”

“In the Quarter. At a club.”

“Which one?”

“Fritz the Cat. I think.”

“You think?” He arched an eyebrow. “Seems to me that would be something you'd remember.”

“I'd been to a lot of clubs that night. I'd been drinking.”

“That excuse is starting to sound patented, Terror. Want to rethink it?”

“It's true! I swear to God!”

Quentin ignored that. If he had a buck for every time some perp “swore to God,” he would be bloody rich. “Was anyone with you?”

“No.”

Quentin folded his hands in front of him, hoping it would hide the way they shook. Hoping it would keep him from using them to pummel the other man. Terry made him sick. “And what about Dr. Walker? Why were you seeing him in secret?”

“I didn't want anyone to know. Not even you or Penny.” He leaned forward, expression earnest as a choirboy's. “I knew it'd get around. I didn't want to take anybody's shit.”

“But why use an alias with the doctor?”

“I thought it was safer.”

“And then you up and quit?” Quentin snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”

“Penny left me. I figured, what was the point of continuing?”

“You have an answer for everything, don't you?”

“It's all true!”

“It's all bullshit,” Quentin countered, pushing away
from the door. “How long did it take you to come up with this story, Terry?”

“It's true, I swear! They won't find any evidence that links me with the other two victims. Or to Anna. No DNA, no—”

“Evelyn Parker wasn't raped.”

“But Jessica Jackson was.” He got to his feet, movements clumsy because of his bound ankles. “Why would I terrorize Anna North? I don't even know her!”

“You tell me.”

“I'm an adulterer, not a murderer! You've got to believe me!”

Disgusted, Quentin swept his gaze over the other man. “Your story's awfully convenient, Terror. And like every quickly constructed, half-baked story by every-guilty-as-sin asshole trying to get off, it lacks substantiation.”

“You can get it for me.” He reached out with his shackled hands. “You're the best, Malone. You can ask around, find someone who saw Nancy and I together before that night at Shannon's.”

“And why would I want to waste my time like that? I think you're lying, Terry.”

“Because you care about Anna North. Because you're smart enough to realize that if there's a chance it wasn't me, then whoever's after her is still out there.”