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

by J. T. Ellison

  If she had given him the smallest sign, he would have had her in bed, to hell with what was appropriate.

  As if sensing his presence, she shifted her gaze and looked directly at him. Her expression registered surprise and he thought, pleasure.

  “Hi, doll.”

  “I was going to call you this morning.”

  “Yeah? Why didn’t you?”

  “Got sidetracked.” She indicated the bag he carried under his left arm. “What’s in the bag?”

  “For you.” He handed it to her, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

  She peeked inside, then returned her gaze to his. “My shoes? You went back for my shoes?”

  “I have sisters, I know how women are about their shoes.” He leaned against the service counter. “So, why were you going to call me? Couldn’t put me out of your mind? Wanted to repay me for saving your foot by making me a home-cooked meal?”

  “Try again.”

  “You read about the attack on the woman in the French Quarter and you were worried it might have been the same guy who followed you?”

  He heard her indrawn breath. “Yes. Was…was she a redhead?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God. Do you—”

  “Think it might have been the same guy who followed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could have been. I can’t be certain either way, though I doubt it. A couple of witnesses from the Cat’s Meow claim to have seen a guy watching her all night. One of them claims to have seen him hanging around after the bar closed.”

  “So he couldn’t be the same one who followed me?”

  “If their reports are accurate, no.”

  “I don’t know why that makes me feel so relieved, but it does.” She laughed nervously. “I had a little trouble sleeping last night.”

  “I’ll bet.” He swept his gaze over her. “How do you feel now, light of day and all that?”

  “Okay.” She drew in a slow, careful breath. “The guy who attacked that woman, do you think he’s the one who killed those other two?”

  “I don’t think so. The MO’s different. This woman was working, not partying. And she wasn’t a redhead.”

  “Maybe he’s…he’s changed his MO,” she offered. “Maybe the first two women being redheads was a coincidence.”

  “Maybe, Anna, but—”

  His words were cut off as Dalton and Bill returned from having coffee. They came through the shop’s entrance laughing. Their laughter died when they saw him.

  Quentin smiled. “Hello.”

  Dalton turned to Bill. “It’s him. The man who saved our Anna. Our hero.”

  Beaming, Bill strode forward. He held out his hand. “Bill Friends. I’m forever in your debt.”

  “We’ll never let her walk home alone again, Detective.” Dalton looked at her, expression solemn. “Never, Anna.”

  Quentin shook Bill’s hand, then Dalton’s. “Quentin Malone. Good to meet you.”

  “Any luck catching the creep who was following Anna?” Bill asked.

  “Sorry to say, no. And to be honest with you, we probably won’t. We simply don’t have enough to go on.”

  Silence fell over them. After a moment, Quentin checked his watch. “I’ve got to get back to work.” He smiled at her. “Bad guys to catch and all that.”

  “And all that,” she murmured. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Although unnecessary, he didn’t tell her no. He glanced back at her friends, who were watching him and Anna, speculative gleams in their eyes. “Nice seeing you two.”

  They replied in kind; a moment later Anna was standing beside him at the door. She hugged herself. “I wanted to thank you again, for the other night.”

  “No thanks necessary. Really.”

  “And for the shoes. You know, for bringing them back to me.”

  “I couldn’t wear them.” He paused a moment. “They didn’t fit.”

  She laughed, glanced over her shoulder at her friends, then back at Quentin. “If anything comes up, you’ll call me?”

  “Sure.” He smiled. “And you do the same, okay?”

  She agreed and he walked away, wishing he had a reason to stay, wishing he didn’t have to follow through on the promise he’d made Terry to pay a visit to Penny, his estranged wife.

  But he had promised, and he had put it off as long as possible. So long that his excuses for not following through had begun to sound as lame as they were.

  So he had called Penny that morning and asked if he could stop by. She had been frazzled from having the two kids home with the flu and she would be happy, she said, to have an adult to talk to.

  Quentin crossed the sidewalk to his Bronco, parked in a red zone, climbed in and fired up the engine. Terry and Penny’s home was located in a part of the city called Lakeview, an area built primarily in the 1940s and ‘50s. Shady, green and almost exclusively residential, the area boasted the best public schools in New Orleans. Catering to middle-class families, Lakeview was one of the few affordable “nice” places to raise kids in the city.

  Quentin enjoyed the fifteen-minute drive, purposely not rehearsing what he would say to Penny. Because of his relationship with Terry, he and the woman were good friends. He had been there through their courtship, had stood up at their wedding and was godfather to their oldest child. Not only would she see through a canned speech, but he believed he owed her better than that.

  Penny was standing at her front door when he pulled up in front of the two-story stucco home. She saw him, waved and stepped outside.

  He pulled his vehicle to a stop and climbed out. Moments later she was hugging him tightly.

  “I was glad you called,” she said. “I’ve been missing you.”

  He drew away from her, experiencing regret. At having neglected her. At the reason for his visit today. He searched her gaze. With her soft brown hair and eyes, creamy skin and curvy figure, she was a very pretty woman, a fact even the fatigue lines around her eyes and mouth couldn’t hide.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Hanging in there.” She motioned inside. “Come on in. I just brewed a pot of coffee.” She held a finger to her lips. “The kids are sleeping, thank God, so keep your voice low.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. It was in a state of disarray—the way his mother’s kitchen had often been.

  “Have a seat. You still take your coffee sweet?”

  “The sweeter the better.”

  She laughed. “I was taking about your coffee, Malone. Not your women.”

  He smiled. “I said sweet, Penny. Not hot.”

  She laughed again and set the coffee in front of him, then sat down herself. It had always been this way between them, comfortable, easy. He had liked her from the first moment Terry had introduced them.

  “Speaking of, how’s your love life?”

  Anna’s image popped into his head, and his lips tipped up. “What love life? I hang out with cops and criminals all day.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Her smile faded. “How’s Terry?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “You know Terry.”

  “Yeah,” she said, bitterness creeping into her tone, “I know Terry.”

  This wasn’t going to go well, he acknowledged. Penny was hurting and unhappy. She was angry at her husband. But he had promised his friend he would speak to her, and he would.

  “Penny,” he began, “I didn’t stop by today only to see how you were doing.”

  She looked away, then back. “Terry sent you.”

  Quentin leaned toward her. “He’s miserable without you, Penny. He’s miserable without the kids. He wants to come home.”

  A short, brittle-sounding laugh bubbled to her lips. “He’s just miserable, Malone. It has nothing to do with me or the kids.”

  Quentin reached across the table and caught her hand. “He loves you, Pen. I know he does. Since you kicked him out, he’s been…crazy. Unhappy. Drinking too much, not sleeping. I’ve never seen him thi
s way.”

  Her eyes flooded with tears. “Lucky you.”

  “Pen—”

  “No.” She pushed her chair away from the table, stood and crossed to the sink and the window that faced the winter-bare backyard. She stared out at the stark day, not speaking.

  Finally, she turned and faced him, her expression naked with pain. “I used to tell myself all those things. That Terry loved me and the kids. That we were better off with him. I told myself that I should be grateful that he was a hard worker and a good provider. That I should stick by him because I’d made a promise before God and that I should forgive him because he’d had a shitty childhood.”

  She sucked in a broken-sounding breath. “I can’t tell myself those things anymore. We’re not better off with him here, Quentin. He’s not good for me or the kids. And I don’t believe God wants that for me or the children.” She brought a hand to her mouth, then dropped it. She looked him dead in the eyes. “He’s self-destructing, Malone. And I can’t stop him. And I don’t want him to do it in front of Matti and Alex.”

  Quentin frowned. “Self-destructing, Pen? Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overstatement? Sure, he’s going through a tough time, but—”

  “But nothing,” she snapped, cheeks flaming. “Stop making excuses for him, Malone. They’re not helping him, they’re not helping me. Yeah, he’s going through a tough time, but aren’t we all? Yeah, he had a troubled childhood. So, do something about it. He’s an adult, not a child. An adult with responsibilities, a family to take care. He needs to start acting like one.”

  Her anger seemed to evaporate, leaving her looking young and vulnerable. “I can’t fight his demons anymore. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  Quentin stood and went to her. He drew her against his chest and held her for a long time. Finally, he eased her away and searched her gaze. “What do you know about his mother, Pen? I know almost nothing except that it was bad between them, really bad.”

  Penny’s eyes flooded with tears. “I hate her, even though I only saw her a couple of times. Because she did this to him, because she made him…hate himself.”

  “But…what did she do, Penny? How did she—”

  “Hurt him so deeply? I don’t know the details, Terry wouldn’t talk about her. He wouldn’t allow her to have anything to do with the kids. He didn’t even allow them to keep the cards she sent.”

  Penny let out a long breath. “I know she ridiculed him constantly. Tore him down. Told him he wasn’t any good, that she wished she’d never had him. That she should have gotten rid of him, things like that.”

  Told that enough, a kid began to believe it. Quentin swallowed hard. It explained a lot. “I’m sorry, Penny.”

  “Me, too. Damn sorry. I—”

  “Mom!”

  The cry had come from Matti, her youngest. Penny glanced in the direction of the doorway, then back at Quentin. “I’ve got to go.”

  He caught her arm. “I’ve got to ask you one more thing, because I promised Terry I would. Are you seeing anybody? Going out at all? Alex told Terry—”

  She made a sound of disbelief. “Are you asking if I’m dating? Please, when would I have time to go out? Between homework and ball practice and vomiting kids?”

  She freed her arm from his grasp, obviously hurt that he’d asked. “Get real, Malone. Terry was the one who’d always had time for that. Not me. And please, tell Terry I said so.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Monday, January 22

  9:00 p.m.

  Ben arrived home late that evening. The day had been hectic. Not only had he had back-to-back appointments, he had given up his lunch to fit in a patient in crisis then, though exhausted, had picked up Popeye’s spicy fried chicken—his mother’s favorite—and gone to the nursing home to have dinner with her as promised.

  Ben sighed, fumbling for his keys. His plan to trap Anna’s stalker had come up empty. Not one patient had given the book more than a cursory glance.

  He refused to be discouraged. No, he hadn’t caught his prey, but he had eliminated seven patients from his list of suspects. That was good news. It was a step forward. Tomorrow he would eliminate several more.

  Ben unlocked the front door, stepped inside, then stopped, the hair on the back of his neck prickling.

  Something felt wrong. He moved his gaze over the foyer, the parlor to his right and toward the dining room beyond. He frowned. The pocket door that separated the two rooms was closed. Light streamed from beneath it.

  He never closed that door.

  Heart thundering, he started toward the parlor, moving slowly, his rubber-soled shoes silent on the wooden floor. He crossed to the fireplace, took the log iron from the rack, then closed the distance to the door.

  He eased it open. The door slid silently back. Log iron at the ready, he stepped through the opening.

  The room was empty. Nothing appeared out of place.

  A sound came from the back of the house. A low murmur, like voices. The hair on the back of his neck prickled again. Stop playing Rambo, Benjamin. Call the cops.

  He started forward instead, adrenaline fed blood pumping crazily through his veins.

  The sounds emanated from his bedroom. He reached the door, took a deep breath, grasped the knob and stepped inside.

  The bedroom appeared empty. The television was on. Tuned to the Discovery Channel. Ben lowered the log iron, a self-conscious laugh rushing to his lips. He didn’t remember leaving the set on, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t. He often played it while dressing, using it more for background noise than as entertainment. He crossed to the set, flipped it off and turned around.

  His smile died. On the bed lay a large manila envelope, his name scrawled neatly in the upper left corner.

  Ben stared at the envelope, a knot of apprehension in his throat. He didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to touch it.

  He couldn’t not.

  He crossed to the bed, retrieved the envelope and opened it. Inside was an eight-by-ten, black-and-white photograph of him and Anna at the Café du Monde. The attached note was short and to the point:

  * * *

  I knew you’d like her.

  I’ll be watching.

  * * *

  Ben’s hands began to shake and he slipped the photo and note back into the envelope. He should call the police. Call Anna.

  His head began to hurt and he brought a hand to his temple. No. If he involved the authorities, the first thing they’d want would be a list of his patients, which he couldn’t give them. They would insist on speaking with Anna, who already didn’t like or trust the police. She would be upset. Frightened.

  Their breakfast together had been so good. Their kiss had been…exciting. He hadn’t felt about another woman the way he felt about Anna, not ever. He didn’t want to lose her.

  She seemed to feel the same about him.

  So why this? Why now?

  He sank onto the bed, exhausted, headache intense, a burning sensation behind his eyes. He told himself to go fetch a couple of the tablets his doctor had prescribed, but lay back against the mattress and stared blindly up at the ceiling instead.

  Who was doing this? Why was he doing it?

  He groaned and laid his arm across his eyes. And tonight, how had this person gotten in? When he arrived home, his front door had been locked. What about the back door? he wondered. What about the windows? He needed to check them, although he would be surprised if he found any of them open. Living in metropolitan Atlanta had turned him into a fanatic about personal security.

  His keys. The ones that had gone missing for twenty-four hours.

  Ben sat up. Of course. The day they had disappeared he’d had them in the morning, had locked up his house then walked next door to the office. Once inside, he had tossed them on his desk. The same as he did every morning.

  When he had gone to collect them, they had been gone.

  Only to resurface twenty-four hours later. He had tripped over them. Literally.


  He hadn’t dropped them, the way he had assumed. Or brushed them off his desk and onto the floor. A patient—the same one who had broken in today, the same one who had left Anna’s book and note about the E! program—had stolen them, made copies, then returned the keys two days later.

  Ben’s vision blurred, then cleared, a sign that his headache was making a move from excruciating to unbearable. He dragged himself off the bed, unwilling to give in to the pain, unwilling to let go of this mystery. Gritting his teeth, he went to each window then the back door. He checked to make sure each was secured—and to make certain his theory was correct and that he hadn’t simply left one of them open.

  He hadn’t. Headache tablets in hand, he went to the phone. He called an all-night locksmith, then sat down to wait. When the locksmith had come and gone, he would collect his appointment book from his office. The book would tell him which of his patients had been in the day his keys had gone missing. It would tell him if any of those same patients had been in twenty-four hours later. His sick friend might have just outfoxed himself.

  He was going to find out who was doing this and stop them in their tracks.

  Or die trying.

  CHAPTER 30

  Tuesday, January 23

  1:00 a.m.

  A quiet tapping awakened Jaye. She knew from the depth of the darkness and the silence that it was the deepest part of the night. The tapping came again, followed by a cat’s meow.

  “Shh, Tabby. I think she’s sleeping.”

  Jaye scrambled off the bed and hurried toward the door. “No,” she whispered when she reached it. “I’m awake. Don’t go.”

  For a moment, no sound came from the other side of the door. Then the other girl said, “I came to see if you’re okay.”

  “I am, but please don’t leave.” She pressed closer to the door. “Stay and talk to me.”

  “I don’t know.” The girl’s voice quivered. “He would be very angry if he knew I was here.”

  “He won’t find out,” Jaye said quickly. “I’ll be quiet. I promise.”

  The girl hesitated, then acquiesced. “Okay. But we have to be really quiet.”