Dark and Twisted Reads: All the Pretty GirlsA Perfect EvilBone Cold (A Taylor Jackson Novel)

by J. T. Ellison

  “Whoa. Are you suggesting that the foster parents might be responsible for Jaye’s disappearance?”

  She tipped up her chin. “Something’s not right about their reaction to Jaye’s disappearance. Please, won’t you talk to them? I’m so afraid for Jaye.”

  Quentin didn’t reply, instead used the moment to silently recount what she had told him. On the one hand, this kid had a history of running away, on the other he bought the theory that she wouldn’t have knowingly left her box of keepsakes behind.

  He stood. “I’ll look into it.”

  She made a sound of surprise. “You will?”

  “I’ll check out Jaye’s file, talk to her caseworker. I’ll speak with her foster parents, check their record. Will that make you feel better?”

  “Immensely.” She let out a shaky-sounding breath. “Thank you.”

  He walked her out of the squad room, told her he would be in touch and watched her walk away, acknowledging that she intrigued him. Because of her past and what she had lived through. Because she was a writer.

  He narrowed his eyes in thought. Twice in three days she had been in with half-baked theories and over-the-top suspicions. Were her books getting to her? Was her past? Or were her concerns and feelings of danger justified?

  Terry sauntered over. He smacked his lips. “There’s just something about a redhead that starts my motor running.”

  Quentin turned to his partner in disbelief. “For God’s sake, Terry, do you ever pause a moment to think before you open your mouth?”

  “What?” He held his hands palms up, the picture of innocence. “All I said was, redheads get me going.”

  “That’s right. You and at least one other guy out there.”

  His friend paled. “Oh man, I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Quentin glanced over his shoulder. “But you know as well as I do that there are some folks around here who have no sense of humor.”

  “The captain being one.” Terry made a sound of frustration. “She took a big chunk out of my ass already this morning.”

  They turned and headed for Quentin’s desk. “What about?”

  “She just needed something to chew on, I was it.”

  Good old Aunt Patti. She was the biggest ball buster on the force. And she was not about to let one of her detectives go to wrack and ruin, not easily anyway.

  “How’d it go with PID?”

  “Went okay. Would have gone better if I’d been home in bed with Penny. Those A-holes refused to call Jack Daniel’s an alibi.”

  Quentin sat behind his desk. “Captain was pissed about you being at the scene last night.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Terry slouched in a chair. “I’m to steer clear of anything that might be even remotely related to the Kent and Parker homicides. It really burns my ass, too.”

  He had expected as much. “The evidence will clear you.”

  “Yeah. Though from what I hear, they didn’t get much from the Parker scene. You called it right-on. She wasn’t raped. Those jeans served as a kind of chastity belt.”

  “But he killed her anyway.” Quentin frowned. “Why redheads?”

  “Because his mother was a redhead. Or an Irish setter bit him when he was a kid. Or he’s part bull and red sets him off. Who knows?” Terry rubbed the side of his jaw. “Besides, you might be barking up the wrong tree with that. Some would have called Evelyn Parker a blonde.”

  “Hey, Malone,” Johnson called. “Captain wants to see us. Bring your notes on Parker and Kent.”

  “This really sucks.” Terry got to his feet. “I feel like the kid who didn’t get picked for the team. Or a freakin’ leper.”

  Quentin stood, pocketing his spiral. “It’ll blow over.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Don’t worry.” He gave his partner’s shoulder a squeeze. “I have the feeling we’re going to need your help on this one.”

  Quentin followed Walden and Johnson into their captain’s office, closing the door behind them, aware of Terry watching them. He muttered an oath and crossed to his aunt’s desk. He laid his palms on its top, bent and looked her dead in the eyes.

  “I want Terry on the team. He’s a good cop.”

  “Was a good cop,” she corrected. “He’s falling apart. And he’s under suspicion. Can’t do it.”

  “Under suspicion, what a load of crap. And you know it. No way Landry had anything—”

  She cut him off. “I’ve made my decision. Now, unless you’d like to join your partner outside, I suggest you shut up and sit down. Do you get me, Detective?”

  He did but instead of taking a seat, he stood, resting against the door frame.

  “What do we have?” the captain asked, folding her hands on the desk in front of her, tone brisk, confrontation forgotten.

  “Victim’s name was Evelyn Parker,” Johnson offered. “Twenty-four, Caucasian, a looker. Worked uptown. Lived in the Bywater.”

  “Liked to party,” Walden added. “Same as Kent. Was out partying the night of her death.”

  “Got all this already,” the captain murmured. “We got anything to go on? Leads? Theories?” She arched an eyebrow. “A good guess?”

  Quentin jumped in. “In my mind, the red hair’s the thing that links them. What we need to figure out is why this guy’s going after redheads.”

  “Red hair?” Johnson looked at Quentin. “We’ve got a bottle-dyed burgundy and a blonde.”

  “A strawberry blonde,” Quentin corrected. “A kind of red.”

  Walden shook his head. “Both women were out clubbing the night of their deaths, both were big party girls. To my mind, that’s what links them.”

  Quentin looked at the other man. “The clubs are how he finds them, not why he chooses them.”

  “Who’ve you talked to?” Captain O’Shay asked.

  “More like, who haven’t we talked to.” Johnson filled the captain in. “We’ve got some good leads. So far no crossovers from the night of the first murder. But just because we haven’t got ‘em yet doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

  Quentin spoke up. “My feeling is this guy interacts with the women publicly though not excessively. He’s careful not to call attention to himself. He buys her a drink, asks her to dance a time or two. But somebody saw him with her, someone will remember.”

  “These girls are being killed in alleys.” The captain moved her gaze between the three detectives. “So what’s he smothering them with? Not a bed pillow.”

  “His hand?” Walden offered.

  “Tough when you got a fighter like Evelyn Parker,” Quentin said. “Unless he’s got some damn big hands. Plus, you’d have more bruising of the nose and mouth.”

  “A plastic bag then. From a dry cleaner’s. Or even a kitchen trash bag, right from the box. Easy to carry in a jacket pocket.”

  “There hasn’t been any trace plastic found at the scene. Seems like there would have been, considering the asphalt surface underneath both victims’ heads.” Johnson looked at Walden. “Search of the Dumpsters around the scene turn up anything of that nature?”

  “Not from Kent’s scene. The evidence crew is still sifting through the stuff from Parker’s.” Walden scratched his head. “Usually, when a bag’s used it’s left on the victim. Getting it off can get complicated and the perp risks leaving more evidence in the process.”

  “Maybe we’ve got a savvy killer here,” the captain offered. “One concerned about latent prints. He kills the girl, then pockets the murder weapon, disposing of it when he’s a safe distance from the scene.”

  “Simple is better. We need to operate under the assumption that this one’s not stupid.”

  Johnson snickered. “You mean he didn’t flunk out of Dumb Fuck 101? Too bad for us.”

  “If he’s not stupid, he’s wearing gloves, so he’s not worried about prints. Besides, as cold as it’s been, nobody would have thought twice about a guy wearing gloves. Not even the victims.”

  Quentin drew his eyeb
rows together. “Here’s a simple theory. It’s cold out. He uses his coat.”

  “What about trace evidence? There’d be fibers for sure. More fiber evidence than we’ve gotten, that’s for damn certain.”

  Quentin pushed away from the door. “What about a leather coat?”

  The occupants of the room fell silent. They exchanged glances. “He has it with him all the time,” Quentin said. “The weather’s cold so nobody thinks twice. It’s pliable but not porous. It’s also nonfibrous and easy to clean. And the best part is, he walks away wearing the murder weapon.”

  “It works for me,” Johnson offered. “But so does the plastic bag theory. It’s too convenient not to follow up on.”

  Walden nodded. “Ditto. It makes more sense than a guy who carries around a bed pillow.”

  Captain O’Shay leaned back in her chair. “I want this thing solved. Two such similar deaths in such a short space of time has sent the media into a feeding frenzy. They’re already speculating about when and where number three’s going to happen. Chief Pennington’s crawling all over my frame and let me tell you, it’s damn uncomfortable.”

  Johnson cleared his throat. Walden coughed and Quentin narrowed his eyes. “We’ve got plenty to go on, Captain. We’ll close this quick. I guarantee it.”

  “See that you do,” she said. “And keep me in the know.”

  Johnson and Walden got to their feet and joined Quentin at the door.

  The captain stopped Quentin. “Malone?”

  He looked back at his aunt. “Not a word to Landry. He’s totally out of the loop. Do you understand?”

  He frowned. Something in her expression made him uneasy. What did they have on his partner that they weren’t saying? “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Can’t. Not yet.” She arched her eyebrows. “Can you cooperate? Or you want off the case? I’ll understand if—”

  “I’ll cooperate,” he snapped. “But I’ll tell you right now, I think it’s a crock of shit. Terry’s clean.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Friday, January 19

  The French Quarter, 3:00 p.m.

  Anna sat in front of her computer, the glowing screen blank. Over the past two hours she had written and discarded a dozen paragraphs, unhappy with every word she had written.

  Usually she cherished the afternoons she didn’t work at The Perfect Rose, time she set aside for her writing. Usually, she made the most of every moment.

  Today, she couldn’t concentrate. She was plagued by thoughts of her earlier meeting with Detective Malone, her worries about Jaye, her continuing stalemate with her agent and publisher.

  Today? she thought in disgust. Truth was, she hadn’t written one good page since her editor had delivered her strings-attached offer. What was the point? If she refused their offer, she wouldn’t have a publisher—or most probably, an agent—so why rush to write another book?

  Tears of frustration pricked the back of her eyes, and she muttered an oath. She would not cry over this. If she was going to cry, she would cry for Jaye. Or Minnie. They needed her. They mattered. Not something as trivial as her publishing career.

  Trivial? Her books, her publishing career mattered. They were important to her.

  But not as important as Jaye. As finding out what had happened to her. The good news was, Detective Malone had promised to look into Jaye’s disappearance. Anna didn’t believe he was convinced something was amiss with her friend’s foster parents, nor that Jaye had fallen in harm’s way, but at least he would check it out.

  Anna propped her chin on her fist, recalling their conversation. Their bantering. What had that been all about? Sure, he was a gorgeous-looking man, with one of those quicksilver, rakish smiles, the kind that could melt a woman’s heart and good sense. If a woman liked that swaggering, macho type.

  She didn’t. Period. So where had all that nauseating sexual sparring come from? She’d been there about Jaye, for heaven’s sake. What was wrong with her?

  Anna told herself to get a grip and dragged her gaze back to the computer screen. She wrote one sentence, then two. The sentences mounted, creating paragraphs.

  Of pure, uninspired drivel.

  With a sound of frustration, she deleted them. Dear Lord, would she ever write again?

  The phone rang and she grabbed for it like a lifeline. “Hello?”

  “Anna, Ben Walker.”

  At the sound of his voice, Anna experienced a rush of pleasure—and a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t thought about him or their discussion since Jaye had disappeared. Although understandable, she felt bad about it anyway. “Ben,” she murmured. “Hello.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Feeling a little guilty. I was supposed to call you, wasn’t I?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She made a sound of regret. “A lot’s happened in the past couple of days and truthfully, I haven’t had a chance to really think about our conversation.” She filled him in about Jaye, her fears and even her trip to NOPD headquarters.

  “Good God, Anna, is there anything I can do?”

  “Not unless you can tell me where Jaye is. At least the detective promised to look into it for me. Not that he bought my story.”

  He was silent a moment, then cleared his throat. “Call me if you need anything, even if only someone to vent your frustrations on. Don’t hesitate, no matter the time of day or night.”

  “Or night? Geez, considering how much I’ve actually slept the last few nights, making that offer’s risky.”

  “On call night and day, that’s me, Dr. Johnny-on-the-Spot.” He sobered. “But I mean it, Anna. Anything at all, call me.”

  She thanked him again and silence fell between them. After a moment, he broke it. “Got a question. You haven’t ruled me or my offer out have you?”

  She liked his straightforward approach and smiled. “No. Definitely not.”

  “Good. Because I was hoping you’d go to dinner with me.”

  “Dinner?” she repeated, surprised.

  “Yes. Tonight.” He paused. “No pressure about anything. Just you, me, a bottle of wine and a really good meal. What do you think?”

  She didn’t hesitate. After the few days she’d just had, the idea of a low-key meal with an interesting man sounded better than good. It sounded perfect.

  * * *

  Three hours later, Anna arrived at Arnaud’s, a fine old New Orleans restaurant in the Creole tradition. They had arranged to meet at the restaurant and Ben was already there, waiting for her on the sidewalk. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt and garnet-colored tie. He looked cold.

  He crossed to the curb and opened the cab door for her, helping her out. “You could have waited inside,” she murmured apologetically. “It’s freezing out here.”

  “I didn’t want to give you even a moment to change your mind.” Smiling, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”

  He led her inside; the maître d’ had their table ready, one along the wall of leaded-glass windows that faced the street. “I love Arnaud’s,” she murmured. “Besides the food being wonderful, it’s one of the prettiest dining rooms in town.”

  “It’s lovely but—never mind.”

  “No, tell me.” She smoothed her napkin across her lap. “But what?”

  “I was going to say, I wouldn’t know because I can’t take my eyes off you. You’re beautiful, Anna.” He turned red. “I can’t believe I said that. How hokey.”

  “I think it was sweet.” She reached across the table and lightly touched his hand. “Thank you, Ben.”

  Their waiter arrived, introduced himself, took their drink orders, then disappeared. They chatted about the menu while they waited for their drinks, swapping food stories—a favorite pastime of any New Orleanian worth his salt.

  “How’s the book going?” she asked after the waiter brought their drinks and took their food orders.

  “Oh no you don’t.” Ben wagged a finger at her. “Las
t time I did all the talking. This time it’s your turn.” He smiled. “How’s your writing going?”

  Anna thought of the dozen or so paragraphs she had written—and deleted—earlier that day. “It’s not,” she murmured, taking a sip of her wine. “Currently, I’m without a contract. And soon, without a publisher as well.”

  “How can that be? Your books are terrific. Every bit as good as Sue Grafton’s or Mary Higgins Clark’s.”

  She thanked him, pleased at the compliment, then explained. “They think my past is just the hook they need to catapult me onto the bestseller lists. They’ve made a more than generous offer, and I want to take it, but…”

  “What?” he prompted when her voice trailed off. “Are they difficult to work with?”

  “Not at all. I like my editor very much and as a group, they’ve done a terrific job packaging my stories.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  She lowered her gaze to her hands, clutched tightly in her lap. “They only want me if they can capitalize on my past. If I take their offer, I’ll have to tour. I’ll do TV, radio, newspaper. My editor thought they might even be able to get me on one of the big morning shows, Today or Good Morning America.”

  “And the thought terrifies you.”

  “God, yes.” She met his eyes. “I want to accept, but I can’t imagine fulfilling my part of the agreement. Going on TV and radio and talking about not only my books but my past? Exposing myself to any nut who might…” She shuddered. “Help me, Ben. Tell me what to do.”

  “About their offer?” He laughed without humor. “You already know what you have to do, you just don’t like the answer.”

  “Damn,” she muttered. “I was afraid you were going to say that. No miracle cure, Doc?”

  “Sorry,” he said softly, tone sympathetic. “You’re not ready. And you know it. You’re not emotionally able to do what your publisher wants.”

  “Why is this happening to me?” She fisted her fingers, frustrated. “Everything was going so well. My writing, my life…everything.”

  “Was it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing’s really changed about your life, Anna. You’ve simply been presented with a choice.”