Bone Cold (8 page)

She followed him to his feet, furious. “I won't hold my breath.”

Instead of being offended, he looked amused. Which only made her angrier. “You're wrong, you know. The person who wrote these letters is a child. You only have to look at them to know. And even if an adult could have successfully feigned this handwriting, which I don't believe they could, the person who wrote these thinks like a child. And that child's in danger.”

“I'm sorry, I don't see it that way.”

“So, you're not going to do anything about this?” Anna said, disgusted. “Not even follow up on the P.O. box or phone number?”

“No, I'm not. However, Detective Lautrelle might feel differently. He's expected back tomorrow, I'll give him a full report.”

“An unbiased one, I've no doubt.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Of course. I advise you to be careful right now, Ms. North. Report anything out of the ordinary. Anyone out of the ordinary. Be cautious about new people who enter your life.” He paused. “You didn't respond to these letters using your home address, did you?”

Instead, she had responded using an address she could be accessed at six days a week. How could she have been so stupid?
“My home address?” she repeated, sidestepping the truth, not wanting to admit to this insufferable know-it-all how careless she had been. “No, I did not.”

“Good.” He handed her Detective Lautrelle's card. “Anything comes up, give Lautrelle a call. He'll be able to help you out.”

She pocketed the card without looking at it. She crossed to the cubicle's opening, stopping and looking back at him when she reached it. “You know, Detective Malone, after meeting you it doesn't surprise me that there are so many famous unsolved crimes.”

Q
uentin watched Anna North walk away, half-amused, half-awed. Harlow Grail, in his office. Who would have thought it?

He had been fourteen when she'd been kidnapped and remembered sitting with his father and uncles and listening to them talk about the case. He remembered the newscasts, remembered staring at Harlow Grail's image on TV and in the newspaper and thinking her about the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

He had fantasized solving the case and being a big Hollywood hero, and when she had escaped he had cheered for her—even as he'd listened to his father and uncles say that something about the case just didn't add up.

Like it had the rest of the country, the Grail kidnapping had continued to fascinate him. Hers had been the first of many unsolved cases he had studied over the years.

“Hey, partner.” Terry ambled over to stand beside him. He motioned in the direction Anna North had gone. “Who was the dish?”

“Name's Anna North.”

“She kill anybody?”

Quentin glanced at his partner from the corners of his eyes. “Only on paper. She's a suspense novelist.”

“No joke? So, what'd she want with you? She gonna make you the hero in her next book?”

Remembering the way she had looked at him, Quentin doubted that. A victim, maybe. One who died a bloody and gruesome death. “Yeah,” he murmured, “something like that.”

Terry motioned the front desk. “We got our walking papers. LaPinto and Erickson just straggled in.”

Quentin glanced over. “They don't look too good.”

“I say we get while the getting's good.”

Quentin agreed. They signed out, then stepped out into the gray, chilly day. Terry shivered and zipped his leather jacket. “I'm getting pretty fucking sick of this cold. This is New Orleans, for Christ's sake.”

“It could be worse,” Quentin murmured, looking up at the sky. “It could snow.”

“Bite your tongue, Malone. Remember the last time it snowed? A couple snowflakes and this town goes nuts. We'd be working around the clock.”

They reached his Bronco and Quentin unlocked the doors. After they had climbed in and buckled up, Terry turned to him. “So what did the redhead want? She really going to write you into her next book?”

Quentin grimaced. “With the way our meeting went, only if I get whacked right off the bat.”

The other man laughed. “No doubt about it, you're a charmer.” He angled toward Quentin. “So, if she's not going to make you her next hero, what'd she want?”

“She's been getting some disturbing letters from a fan.”

“No joke? Threats?”

“Not to her, no. Supposedly this fan's a kid. An eleven-year-old girl.”

“Supposedly?”

“I've got my doubts.” Quentin filled his partner in. “Ms. North believes the child's in danger. I'll fill in Lautrelle when he's back to work. He can follow up if he thinks there's anything there.”

Terry leaned his head against the rest and closed his eyes. “After getting a look at her, my mind's made up. I'm putting in for transfer to the Eighth. Maybe they'll give me Lautrelle's caseload.”

“Give it up, Terror. No way you'd even get to first base. She's way out of your league, partner.”

Terry smiled but didn't open his eyes. “You so sure about that? I've nailed way classier broads than her before.”

“Nailed? Broad?” Quentin laughed. “Yeah, I'm sure.”

Quentin crossed Poydras Street, heading uptown. “How'd it go with PID yesterday?” The Public Integrity Division was the NOPD's version of Internal Affairs. Terry had been called in for questioning about the Kent murder the day after her murder, then again yesterday.

“They asked me a shitload of questions about Nancy's murder, then let me go. Thanks in no small part to your statement. I appreciate it, man.”

“I only told it the way I saw it.” He glanced at his partner and grinned. “What's the deal? You and the deceased on a first-name basis now?”

“After the past week? We're practically family.”

They drove in silence until they reached the Seventh. Quentin parked the Bronco; they climbed out of the vehicle and headed into the building. After signing in, they parted company. On his way through the squad room, Johnson called him over.

“What's up?”

He tossed a manila folder across the desk. “Take a look.”

“The Kent homicide?” He flipped open the folder. “What've we got?”

“Official cause of death was suffocation. Raped first.”

Quentin scanned the medical examiner's report. Other than tearing and bruising to the labia, she was relatively unmarked. A few abrasions to the back of her head, legs and arms and that was it.

“Weird,” he murmured.

“What?”

“She didn't put up much of a fight.”

“Think she knew the guy?”

“Yeah, maybe. They get much from under her nails?”

“Nada. Got the blood test back. Our guy's O-positive. Like nearly half the population of New Orleans.”

“Not me,” Quentin murmured, flipping forward in the report. “I'm A-positive.” He stopped, frowning. “You and Walden didn't interview any women from the bar that night?”

“The waitresses. We focused on the guys. Why?”

“Think about it, Johnson. You've got this gorgeous woman monopolizing every available guy in the bar with her exhibitionist antics. Basically, she's cutting in on every other woman's chance of making a connection. Right?”

“Right.” The other detective scratched his head. “So?”

“So, you have some pretty pissed-off chicks. And what happens when somebody pisses you off?”

“You punch ‘em in the face?”

“Not in this case.” He answered his own question. “In this case, you can't take your eyes off them. The other ladies at that bar were watching every move Nancy Kent made. Keeping count of the men she danced with and for how long. They're who we have to talk to.”

Johnson nodded. “You've got a point, Malone.”

Quentin stood. “I'll pay a visit to Shannon this afternoon, get a list of names. Start making calls.”

“By George,” Johnson said in an attempt at a British accent but coming off as a mentally challenged Cajun, “I think he's got a plan.”

Wednesday, January 17
3:00 p.m.

B
en stopped outside the florist shop's door. The sign above it proclaimed this The Perfect Rose.

Anna North's workplace.

She hadn't been difficult to track down. She had dedicated her last book to the Big Brothers, Big Sisters of America and her “Little Sister” Jaye. The local B.B.B.S.A. director was an acquaintance of his; he had contacted her and she had suggested he reach Anna through The Perfect Rose.

Ben cleared his throat. He probably should have called first. It would have been the proper thing to do. But refusing him over the phone would have been too easy. And he didn't want to make refusing him easy. He wanted her to agree to let him interview her for his book.

Wanted it rather desperately.

He had thought a lot about Anna North since seeing the
Unsolved Hollywood Mysteries
segment on E! He had read her novels. Had read between the lines and
learned a great deal from her stories. He had put that information together with what he knew about her past and present in an attempt to anticipate how she would react to his having found her. She would be angry with him. If he understood her as well as he thought he did, his showing up would frighten her. She fiercely protected her privacy out of fear. She would most probably react like a cornered animal.

He would win her over.

Ben took a deep breath and pushed through the door. She appeared at the workroom doorway; he recognized her by the glorious mane of red hair, so like her mother's.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling and crossing to the service counter.

She returned his smile. “How can I help you?”

The moment of truth.
“I'm Benjamin Walker.” He held out his hand. “Dr. Benjamin Walker.”

She looked surprised, but took his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“So, what can I do for you today? We have some really nice hydrangeas in. From California. And our roses are always—”

“Perfect?” He smiled. “Actually, I'm here to see you.”

“Me?”

“First let me say that I'm a fan of your work.”

“My work?” she repeated. “Oh, you mean the arrangements. I'm sorry, but I can't take credit for them, though I wish I could. Dalton Ramsey is both the owner of The Perfect Rose and the artistic force behind its creations.”

“You misunderstand, Anna. I'm a fan of your novels.”

The blood drained from her face. “My nov— How did you—”

“Justine Blank is an acquaintance of mine. She told me how I could reach you.”

Anna looked confused. And upset. He hurried to reassure her. “I'm a psychologist and quite harmless, as Justine knows. My specialty is the effect of childhood trauma on adult personality and behavior. Your case has always interested me and when I learned you were both Harlow Grail and the author Anna North, I took a chance on coming by here. I hope you'll agree to speak with me.”

She seemed to absorb that information. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, but not much. “This past Saturday you saw the special on unsolved Hollywood mysteries and put two and two together?”

“Yes. And I saw your dedication to the B.B.B.S.A. in
Killing Me Softly.
I figured Justine would be able to tell me how I could get in touch with you. I was right.”

She looked away, then back at him. He saw now that she was angry. “My
case,
as you call it, has interested a lot of people. But I'm not interested. In fact, I've done everything I could to forget it. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do.”

“Please, Ms. North, hear me out.”

“I don't think so.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I'm a private person, Dr. Walker. By hunting me down like a prize in a child's treasure hunt, you've invaded my privacy. I don't appreciate that.”

“It frightens you, I understand.”

She frowned. “I didn't say it frightened me.”

“You didn't have to. Of course it does. You lived through a nightmare. You were snatched by a stranger and held against your will. Control of your life was
taken away. Control of your body. You were physically assaulted and forced to helplessly watch a friend be killed.

“The ordeal left you with a very real sense of the sickness and evil in the world. You hide from the public because of that knowledge. Because you promised yourself you would never put yourself in that position again. You promised yourself that you would never offer some stranger the opportunity to take your life away from you again.

“So you changed your name. Left your past behind. Anonymity makes you feel safe. And my showing up here today makes you feel anything but safe.”

“How do you know this about me?” she managed to say after several moments, voice shaking. “We've never met.”

“But I know about your past. I've read your novels.” He pressed a business card into her cold hand. “I'm writing a book on the effects of childhood trauma on personality. I'd like to interview you for it. The inclusion of your story, how your ordeal has shaped you and your life, would greatly enhance the book.”

She opened her mouth; to refuse, he knew. He saw it in her eyes. In the tightness around her mouth. He didn't give her a chance to refuse. “Just think about it. Please. That's all I ask.”

Without another word, he turned and quickly left the shop.

Thursday, January 18
8:45 a.m.

F
or Anna, the next twenty-four hours crawled by. She had found herself on edge, constantly looking over her shoulder, scanning the faces in the crowd, searching for the one that didn't fit. She'd noticed each groan and creak of her old building, had heard each footfall in the hallway outside her door.

Sleep had eluded her. She'd tossed and turned, remembering the past and worrying that somehow it had caught up with her. When she had managed to drift off, she'd awakened terrified, a scream and Timmy's name on her lips. Timmy's name, not Kurt's.

A fact she found odd and somehow more frightening.

Anna was uncertain who she blamed more for her state of mind: Ben Walker for having found her so easily or Detective Malone for planting the seed of doubt about Minnie's letters.

She'd decided on a combination of the two but focused the majority of her irritation on Detective Malone.
Because until him, she had taken Minnie's letters at face value.

Anna muttered an oath and stepped out of her morning shower. Damn Malone for making her jumpier than she already was. For scaring the life out of her yet being unwilling to do a thing to help. She shook her head. Minnie wasn't some obsessed fan playing a sick game with her, she was a child. She thought like one; she wrote like one. And she needed Anna's help.

And help Anna would give her, NOPD or no NOPD.

Anna checked the time, then dried off and dressed. She didn't have to be in to The Perfect Rose until noon. That gave her three full hours to do a little investigative work of her own.

She found her shoes, stepped into them and tied the laces. The night before, she had called the number Minnie had given in her first letter. A man had answered. That had been a disappointment. She had hoped to reach Minnie directly. Undaunted, she had taken a deep breath and asked for the girl.

The man had been silent for a full fifteen seconds, then had hung up on her without saying a word. It was then that Anna had known for certain that Minnie needed her.

In the hopes of the child answering, Anna had called back a half-dozen times, including twice this morning, but had gotten no answer. Today, she planned to drive across the lake to Mandeville—a bedroom community on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain—to check out where Minnie lived. Once there, she would decide what to do next.

An hour later she saw that there was little she would
be able to do with this address. It belonged not to a residence, but a mail and copy store.

Anna double-checked the number, then went inside. She smiled at the man behind the counter and introduced herself. “I'm a writer and I've been corresponding with a fan. She claimed this as her return address.” Anna handed him an envelope. “I've responded so I know she's received my letters, but now I wonder how that can be.”

The man, who turned out to be the store owner, handed the envelope back, smiling. “Actually, one of the advantages of renting a mailbox from us instead of the post office is that you get a street address instead of a P.O. box number.”

“You're saying, this person rents a box from you?”

He smiled again. “That's correct. You see, a street address suggests permanence. Permanence equals solvency. Commitment. Believe it or not, a street address helps when applying for a job or credit. There are other advantages to using our box service. For one, you can receive shipments from carriers who won't deliver to a P.O. box, Federal Express for one. Also, we offer other features, like a forwarding service. For an additional charge, of course.”

Obviously, this guy believed in his business. She worked to hide her disappointment. “It sounds like a great service.”

“It is.” From the way he was looking at her, he was ready to sign her up. “Let me get you some information.”

Before she could refuse, he had retrieved a flyer from under the counter. “Just in case you should ever need one.”

She thanked him, slipped the flyer into her pocket
and returned the conversation to the reason for her visit. “I really need to get in touch with the girl who wrote this letter. Is there any way I can get her actual address from you?”

“Sorry.” A customer entered the store and the man's gaze drifted toward the door, then back to her. “I can't give that out.”

“Not even if it's an emergency?”

“We guarantee our clients full privacy. Short of a court order, that is.”

“Look—” she lowered her voice, pleading “—it's
really
important that I find out who's renting that box.”

“Can't do it. Sorry.”

She lowered her voice more. “I know this sounds crazy, but a little girl's in danger. Couldn't you bend the rules just this once? Please?”

His expression went from helpful to annoyed. Obviously, he didn't buy the kid-in-danger scenario. She tried again anyway. “Please? I promise, this is a matter of life and death. An eleven-year-old girl—”

“No,” he said sharply. “I will not make an exception. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a customer.”

Anna left the store, frustrated, fired by renewed annoyance with Detective Quentin Malone's lackadaisical attitude. If Malone had been the one demanding the box owner's address, he would have gotten it. No pleading necessary. She was certain of that.

What did she do now?

The name, she realized. Minnie went by the surname Swell, an unusual name for this part of the country.

Jo and Diane. At the Green Briar Shoppe.

Of course. Jo Burris and Diane Cimo knew almost ev
erybody on the North Shore. If anyone by that name had passed through their boutique, they would remember.

Anna climbed into her car and drove across Highway 22 and onto the service road. Anna had met the two women when she had wandered into the boutique on her first visit to the North Shore. Warm, fun-loving and outgoing, Jo and Diane had made her feel as welcome as an old friend. An hour and a half later, Anna had exited the store with two outfits she couldn't afford and two new friends worth more than any amount of money.

Jo's shop was located in an aging strip mall on the service road just a couple of minutes from what had become the hub of Mandeville. Anna parked in front of the store, climbed out of her car and went inside. The bell above the door tinkled, and Jo, a gorgeous woman of an indeterminate age, looked up from the box she was unpacking.

She smiled warmly. “Anna, I was just thinking about you.” She spoke in a honeyed drawl that Anna didn't doubt had sent many a man's pulse racing. “We've gotten the prettiest things in.” She held up the rose-colored chenille sweater she was unpacking. “With your hair, honey, no man could resist.”

Anna laughed, took the sweater and held it against her while she stood in front of a mirror. She gazed at her reflection, then made a sound of regret and handed it back. “It would, Jo. If only I could afford it.”

“You could put it on layaway, pay just a little every week.” Jo's bangle bracelets clicked together as she re-folded the sweater. “It would look so good on you.”

Anna didn't weaken, though she longed to try the sweater on. Instead, she turned the conversation to the reason for her visit.

“Swell,” Jo repeated, drawing her eyebrows together in thought. After a moment she shook her head. “Sorry, Anna honey, I just don't recognize that name.”

It had been a long shot, Anna knew, but still she was disappointed. “How about the name Minnie?” she asked. “Hear anybody talk about a girl named Minnie?”

Again Jo shook her head. “But Diane might have. Or one of our customers. We can ask around, if it's important?”

“It is, Jo. Really important.” They chatted a few minutes more, during which Anna avoided Jo's not-so-subtle curiosity about the reason finding Minnie Swell was so important. After quickly flipping through the racks, oohing and aahing over several things and promising to come back and shop when she had more time, she left—no closer to helping Minnie than she had been first thing that morning.

 

When Anna arrived at work fifty minutes later, she found several messages waiting for her, two from her agent and one from Dr. Ben Walker. She returned her agent's call right away. “Hey, Will, what's up?”

“They've upped their offer.”

Her stomach dropped to her toes. “What did you say?”

“You heard me, Madeline called this morning and upped Cheshire House's offer on the new proposal.”

“But why would they up their offer?” she asked. “I haven't even officially refused—”

“I'd called, expressed your concerns, pointed out what a monumental personal sacrifice they were asking you to make.” He made a sound of satisfaction. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

Anna swallowed hard, heart thundering in her chest.
“Will,” she murmured, “the issue isn't the money. It was never the money.”

“Anna, they're offering fifty thousand.”

For the second time in five minutes, Anna's stomach took a tumble. “Say that again.”

He repeated the figure and she laid her hand on Dalton's arm for support. She knew that figure was a far cry from the multimillion-dollar advances the brand-name authors pulled in per book, but it was a quantum leap from the twelve-thousand-dollar advance she had received for her last.

“How much?” Dalton whispered, nearly dancing with excitement.

Propping the phone to her ear with her shoulder, she opened and closed her hands five times. He brought his to his chest in mock heart failure.

“Same contract stipulations,” her agent continued. “A full tour and no-holds-barred publicity campaign.”

Her soaring spirits took a nosedive. “They won't budge on that?”

“Not even a millimeter.” At her silence, he rushed to add, “Think about it, Anna. Think about what this could mean to your career. We're talking bestseller lists. Name recognition. An advertising budget. Then, if this book sells as they expect it will, the publishing stratosphere. Now, think what you stand to lose if you turn this offer down. With your present numbers it's not going to be easy to sell you to another house. You'll be regarded as a bad bet and a money loser.”

His words hurt. That he could spit them at her so matter-of-factly, with no regard for her feelings, hurt more. “I thought you believed in my work,” she said, voice thick.

“I do. But in this market it takes more than a great
story to sell books. It takes a hook. And you've got that, Anna. Use it. Don't throw this opportunity away.”

“I hear what you're saying, but I…I can't do this.” She shook her head. “I know I can't.”

“Why are you sabotaging yourself this way?” His tone took on an unpleasant edge. “Don't you see? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you can't throw it away.”

“I don't want to, but—”

“I'll go back to the table. I can get you more money than this. I'll get you a guaranteed publicity budget. Cover and title approval. Right now they see you as a potential gold mine, and if you agree to go along with their plans—”

“Will! Stop and listen to what I'm saying. I want to, but I can't. I can't do it!”

For a long, uncomfortable moment, her agent said nothing. When he finally spoke, his tone was bitter but resigned. “Is that your final decision?”

“Yes,” she managed to say, all but choking on the words. “It is.”

“You're the boss.” He paused. “If I were you, Anna, I'd consider getting some professional help with this problem. And it is a problem, even if you don't see it that way.”

He hung up and Anna was left with the dead receiver pressed to her ear. Struggling to keep ahold of the despair careening through her, she returned the phone to its base unit. She wasn't a fool. Along with a new publisher, she would be looking for a new agent as well.

Starting over. She would be starting over, after how hard she had worked. How she had struggled.

“Did he hang up on you?” Dalton demanded, already
knowing the answer, outraged. “I never liked him, Anna. And neither did Bill. He's an arrogant little prick.”

She tried to smile but failed miserably.

“I never told you this,” Dalton continued, “but on several occasions he was quite rude to me on the phone.” Her friend lowered his voice. “Not only is he an officious A-hole, but a homophobe as well. I'm certain of it.”

But he was a good agent, she thought. One well respected in the publishing community. And one who knew how to sell books.

The shop door opened and a woman entered. Dalton glanced at her, then back at Anna. “Are you going to be all right?”

When she nodded, he gave her shoulders a quick squeeze, then hurried to help the customer.

The phone rang and she snatched it up, hoping it was Will, calling back to apologize. “The Perfect Rose.”

“Anna, it's Ben Walker. But wait! Before you hang up, please just listen to me.”

Anna curved her fingers around the portable phone, a part of her wanting to slam the phone in his ear just as Will had slammed it in hers. But having just been on the receiving end of that humiliating experience she couldn't do it. “Go ahead,” she said. “But make it quick, I'm working.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “For intruding on your life the way I did. It was inappropriate and insensitive. I knew how you would react but in my zeal to interview you, I forged ahead anyway. Please accept my apology.”

She felt moderately appeased, but only moderately. “I prefer not to be reminded of the past. I've moved on.”

“But you haven't, Anna. Don't you see that? If you're
so afraid of the past you have to hide from it, it's not your past. It's your present.”

Jaye had said almost the same thing to her. As had her father, the other day on the phone. And just a few minutes ago, her agent.