When he emerged, Anna was dressed in a pair of khakis and a white turtleneck sweater. She’d combed her hair and pulled it back off her neck with a big tortoiseshell clip.
She wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Anna,” he said softly, reaching out. “Please, don’t be angry. I don’t want to go, but—”
“I’m not angry. I’m not disappointed. You have a job to do.”
He felt the distance growing between them. With it the cold. “Then look at me,” he murmured. “I want to know you’re okay with this.”
“I can’t. Because if I do, if I let you touch me, I’ll fall apart.” She pressed her lips together to stop their trembling. “I can’t fall apart. I won’t.”
A knock sounded on the door, followed by Dalton’s voice. “I’ll call you when I know more,” Quentin said as they moved toward it.
Dalton’s and Bill’s mouths dropped when they saw Quentin. They stared at him, for those few moments at a total loss for words. Dalton’s cheeks grew pink and Bill shifted his gaze to Anna, then back to Quentin, eyes narrowed.
The man looked anything but happy to see him.
“Morning, fellas,” Quentin murmured. He turned to Anna, acknowledging that he had never been as reluctant to report to a scene as he was at this moment. “I’ll call later.”
He bent and kissed her. As their lips brushed, his beeper sounded again. He knew it was the precinct, calling to see where he was. But still he held her. “Be careful today. If you need anything—”
“Go,” she said, drawing away from him. Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together. “Find this guy. Stop him. Do it for me.”
CHAPTER 40
Tuesday, January 30
The French Quarter
Quentin made the scene last. He nodded to the other detectives as he wound his way to the victim. He stopped beside her, his heart lodging like a bowling ball in his throat.
Quentin struggled to breathe past it, to remain unaffected, professional. He couldn’t, he acknowledged. Not this time. Because he looked at this woman and saw Anna instead.
The killer had meant it to be.
Quentin drew a deep, slow breath through his nose, using the oxygen to steady him. He didn’t know that yet, not for sure. Maybe the killer had. Maybe not. He couldn’t jump to conclusions. He needed to focus on the scene, its clues; he needed not to let his emotions rule his intellect.
Johnson ambled over. “Took your sweet time getting here, Malone.”
“Kiss mine, Johnson.”
The other detective grinned. “No thanks, I’ve got standards.”
Quentin hooted at that. The other detective had notoriously bad taste in women. “What’ve we got?”
“Name’s Jessica Jackson. She was twenty-one. Smart and pretty. A senior at Tulane.”
Twenty-one. Shit. “Too young,” Malone muttered. “Too damn young to die.”
“No joke. This guy’s really starting to piss me off.” Johnson passed a hand over his face. “Walden’s canvassing the area, knocking on doors. Maybe somebody will have seen or heard something.”
Quentin glanced at the normally laconic detective. He looked tired. Frustrated. “You heard about the other attack last night?”
“Anna North? Yeah, I heard.” He looked at Quentin. “MO doesn’t fit. She was attacked in her home; she hadn’t been out clubbing.”
“She’s a redhead. A week ago she was at Tipitina’s, somebody followed her home. He was scared off.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “It’s worth looking into. Maybe he—”
“There’s more, Johnson. I think our perp’s changed his MO for her.”
The other detective’s eyebrows shot up. “How do you figure?”
“Anna North’s missing her right pinkie finger.”
That got him. He whistled under his breath. “And this vic is missing hers. The hard way.”
Quentin squatted beside the victim. He moved his gaze over the body, then the scene, noting the differences between this one and the previous two.
Her bloodied right hand being the most obvious. Quentin studied it, frowning. The killer hadn’t done a neat job on the pinkie. He had hacked at it. The flesh around the wound was jagged and ripped. It looked as if he had sawed at it with a Swiss Army Knife or some other nonlethal implement.
He hadn’t come prepared for this.
“Judging by the wound, the amount and color of the blood, it looks like he removed it postmortem,” Johnson offered, squatting down beside him.
Quentin agreed. He moved his gaze to her face. She had been pretty. Real pretty. A natural redhead, a carrottop. Blue eyes. Nice features, real regular.
“He didn’t do as neat a job on her as the others,” Quentin murmured. “Look at the bruising on her face and neck.” He indicated the matted hair and blood on the side of her head. “We haven’t seen anything like this on the other vics.”
“Think we’re dealing with the same perp who did Kent and Parker?”
“My guess is yes,” Quentin said. “But at this point that’s what it is, a guess.”
“It looks like she was raped.”
“If this was the same guy, my thinking is he was upset about something. In a rage. Not as careful. Forced to change plans at the last minute.”
“You’re thinking he meant to kill Anna North. When that fell through, he found a replacement fast.”
“And cut off her finger so she would symbolize Anna North.”
Maybe they all symbolized Anna. “Yeah.”
“So how’d he find a redheaded replacement so fast?”
Quentin drew his eyebrows together, pondering the question. “Maybe he didn’t have to find one. Maybe he haunts the clubs. Zeros in on the women who hang out a lot. Makes a list. Learns their habits. When they’re most often out, the places they frequent, where they park, their routes home.”
“He’s making a list and checking it twice,” Johnson quipped, tone grim. “When North fell through, in a frenzy, he sought out one of the other women on his list.”
Anna. He would be back for her.
As if reading his mind, Johnson murmured, “You think he’ll move on?”
Quentin stood. He felt ill. “He wants Anna North. He’s not happy that she got away.”
“Let’s put a uniform on her. If he goes for her, we’ll have him.”
Quentin nodded. “No chances,” he muttered, then looked at Johnson. “I don’t want to take any chances, not with this one.”
CHAPTER 41
Tuesday, January 30
Mid-city
Ben came to consciousness slowly. His head hurt. He ached all over. Uncomfortable, he shifted onto his side and pain shot through his chest. He gasped and opened his eyes.
Where was he?
He moved his gaze over the room, taking in the antiseptic white walls, the television mounted from the ceiling, the metal frame bed and chest of drawers.
He was in the hospital.
Ben brought a hand to his head, disoriented. What…how had he ended up—
“Morning, Dr. Walker.” A nurse entered the room, wheeling a medicine cart. She smiled broadly at him. “Welcome back to the world of the living.”
She crossed to the side of the bed and popped a disposable shield on the thermometer. He opened his mouth and she stuck it under his tongue. “I’m Nurse Abrams. How are we feeling this morning?”
He couldn’t answer because of the thermometer, but she didn’t seem to notice. Ben saw from her name tag that she was actually Beverly Abrams, an employee of Baptist-Mercy Hospital. She took his pulse, then blood pressure. She added the reading to his chart. The thermometer sounded; she plucked it from his mouth, checked the reading then noted it on his chart. “Normal,” she said crisply. “Everything’s normal. The doctor will be in soo—”
“Why am I here?”
She stopped what she was doing and looked back at him. “Excuse me?”
“If everything’s normal, what am I doing here?”
>
“You don’t remember what happened?”
“Obviously not. If I did—” Suddenly his head filled with what he did remember. The last thing he remembered.
You’re falling in love with her.
She’s going to die tonight.
Anna, dear God. Heart thundering, he threw back the bedclothes and sat up. His world spun and he fought to right it.
“What are you doing!” The nurse was beside him in a flash. She caught him gently by the shoulders. “You can’t—”
“I have to get out of here. A friend…an accident.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, easing him back against the pillows. “You’ve been in an accident. You have several broken ribs and a concussion. You’re not going anywhere until Dr. Wells says so.”
Ben closed his eyes, too weak to argue. He brought a hand to his chest, to the tape and bandages. An accident. He’d been in an accident.
“What happened?” he asked. “I don’t remember.”
“You ran off the road. You had to be extricated from your car. Dragged through a holly hedge. From what I hear you were lucky. It could’ve been a lot worse.”
Worse. Anna. “I need today’s newspaper,” he murmured, voice thick. “A Times-Picayune.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“No.” He caught her hand, squeezing her fingers. “Now. It’s…wait, maybe you can tell me… Did anything bad happen last night?”
The nurse looked confused. “You were in an accident. I told you, you have a concussion.”
“Not to me.” He shook his head, though the movement hurt. “To my friend Anna North. Is she all right?”
The nurse frowned. “As far as I know, you were alone in the car. I could check—”
“Not my car. She was alone last night…I was going to see her.”
“I think I’d better call the doctor.”
“No, please.” He tightened his fingers on hers, wishing he could more adequately express himself, but his brain felt scrambled, his tongue thick and slow. “The news this morning. I have to know, just tell me what happened last night. In the city. What happened while I was unconscious?”
He could tell by her expression that he was spooking her. She shook her head. “I don’t know what you… They found another woman dead in the French Quarter. Is that the kind of news—”
He moaned and released her hand. “What was her name?” he asked, fighting a wave of dizziness. “Was it Anna?”
“I don’t know.” The nurse backed toward the door. “It’s been all over the news, every station. But I don’t recall her name.”
Every station. Of course.
Ben grabbed the television remote from the bedside table, flipped on the set, then surfed the channels until he found what he sought: the twenty-four-hour local news.
“…In today’s top story, another woman was found dead in the French Quarter. Jessica Jackson of River Ridge appears to be the third victim in a string of murders that have rocked the New Orleans area this month.”
A picture of a pretty young woman in a high school graduation cap and gown flashed on the screen, and Ben nearly wept with relief. Not Anna. Thank God. Not his Anna.
“Good morning.”
Ben dragged his gaze from the television screen. A small, neat-looking man in a white coat walked into the room. He wore a stethoscope around his neck.
“I’m Dr. Wells.” The man stopped beside the bed and stuck out his hand. “I patched you up last night.”
Ben shook his hand, wincing at the movement. “Thank you. I wish I could say I felt better.”
“I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker.” He opened Ben’s chart. “You did a pretty good job on yourself, Dr. Walker. Besides four broken ribs and a concussion, you’ve got a bruised sternum and some vicious scratches. You needed a number of stitches.”
Ben frowned. “I didn’t go through the windshield, did I?”
“A holly hedge. The rescue guys had to cut you out of the car, you were smack-dab in the middle of thorn-central.”
“Lucky me.” Ben glanced at the TV. only to see they had moved on to another story. He needed to see Anna. Needed to see with his own eyes that she was safe. Unharmed. He would tell her about the message left on his windshield, then go to the police.
He looked back at the physician. “I have to get out of here, Doc. Can you give me my walking papers?”
The physician smiled slightly. “In good time. You were involved in a pretty nasty accident.”
“So Nurse Abrams told me.”
The doctor looked at him sharply. “You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“Nothing about the accident?”
“Nothing.” Ben glanced at the clock, then back at the physician. “I was going to see a friend. She needed me, she…I never made it. Obviously.”
“You were out cold when the paramedics arrived. In and out while I was working on you.” He narrowed his eyes. “A concussion is nothing to take lightly.”
Ben murmured that he understood and sat quietly while the man listened to his heart and questioned him about his head, his vision, his equilibrium.
Ben answered each question, lying only when necessary. “I feel fine, Dr. Wells.” He forced a smile. “One hundred percent, A-okay. Can I get out of here now?”
“Within the hour, I suppose. You have someone at home who can keep an eye on you? Make sure you take it easy, wake you up if you fall asleep?”
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Doc.”
They turned toward the doorway. Detective Malone stood just inside the door. He looked like hell. The hair on the back of Ben’s neck prickled.
“Hello, Ben.”
“Detective Malone, what brings you here?”
“You do.”
“Good news travels fast in this town.”
The detective sauntered into the room, stopping beside the bed. He turned to the physician. “Detective Quentin Malone, NOPD. Mind if I talk to your patient?”
“I think he’s up to it.” The doctor closed the chart and stood. “He might be confused, he suffered a pretty good blow to the head.” He looked at Ben. “Take it easy today. No work. No driving. I was serious about a baby-sitter, by the way. Get one. Call me if you have any problems at all, headache, dizziness, excessive fatigue.”
“I’ll do that.” Ben held out a hand. “Thanks, Dr. Wells.”
He nodded at Malone. “Detective.”
When the man had exited the room, Malone faced Ben once more. “You called me last night. At the station. I’m curious why.”
“I did?”
“You left your name but no message. You don’t remember?”
He brought a hand to his head. “I don’t remember much about last ni—”
He bit the words back as a memory shot into his head. He was driving; it was dark. He was going too fast. He was panicked. Punching a number into his cell phone, not watching the road.
“I was trying to get Anna on the phone,” he said softly, tentatively. “I couldn’t get her. I was concerned about her—”
“Concerned?”
Ben blinked. “Panicked. Afraid for her. So I called you.”
Malone dragged over a chair and sat down, his gaze intent. Unblinking. Again the hair at Ben’s nape prickled.
“And why were you so worried about her?” Malone asked.
“Is Anna all right?”
“Physically, she’s unharmed.”
Ben’s heart began to thrum. “What’s that supposed to mean, Detective?”
“Let’s talk about you first, Ben.” He took a small spiral and pen from his jacket pocket. “What do you need to tell me?”
Ben brought a hand to his temple. It throbbed. He rubbed it softly, rhythmically, as he began to speak. “I visited my mother last night. She’s a resident at the Crestwood Nursing Home. On Metairie Road. She has Alzheimer’s.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ben inclined his head, then went on. “I left later than u
sual. She was upset. She thought someone had been by and threatened her. It took a while to calm her down.”
Quentin’s eyebrows shot up. “Thought she had been threatened?”
Ben looked at his hands, resting on the crisp white sheet, noticing the scratches on them. “My mother…gets confused. She watches TV, then gets real people and events confused with fictional ones.”
“Go on.”
“When I got to my car, there was a note tucked under my windshield wiper. I believe it was from the same person who sent me the book and left the photo of me and Anna.”
“What did it say, Ben?”
Ben averted his gaze, uncomfortable, feeling exposed. His cheeks warmed. “That I was falling in love with her. And that…that she was going to die ‘tonight.’ Those were its exact words.”
Malone straightened; his gaze sharpened. “It said that she was going to die last night?”
“Yes. I panicked. I called her from my car phone right away. Couldn’t get her and tore out of there. Obviously, my attention wasn’t on the road.”
“You didn’t think to call the French Quarter station?”
“I wasn’t thinking. I reacted.”
Malone glanced down at his spiral. “And was the note correct?” He lifted his gaze. “Are you falling in love with her?”
Ben stiffened. “That’s personal, Detective.”
“I think it’s relevant.” The detective looked him square in the eyes. “Are you?”
Ben met his gaze boldly. “Yes, I am.”
Something, some strong emotion passed across the detective’s face and in that moment Ben realized he wasn’t the only one who had strong feelings for Anna. Simultaneously, Ben felt indignant, possessive and threatened. “I’m the persistent type, Detective. I don’t give up easily.”
“No good adversary ever does.” A smile touched the other man’s mouth, then disappeared. “Do you still have the note?”
“It was in my car. I’m certain it’s still there.” A humorless laugh passed his lips. “Wherever that is.”
“Any idea who left you that note?”
“The same person who left me the book is my guess. A patient, I believe. But which one, I don’t know.”
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