Go. Now. End it here.
He buzzed her apartment instead, waited a few moments then buzzed again. She answered, her voice coming over the intercom.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s Quentin.” Silence ensued. His gut tightened. “Can I come up?”
“That depends. Have you come to replace laSalle as my guard dog? Or are you here to see me?”
“To see you.” He paused. “We need to talk.”
She hesitated a moment, then murmured, “I’ll ring you in.”
She did and he climbed the stairs to her apartment. Officer laSalle sat outside her door, a thermos of coffee at his feet, an open novel in his lap.
He looked up as Quentin cleared the landing. “Hello, Detective Malone.”
“LaSalle.” He crossed to the man. “It’s been quiet?”
“As a tomb.”
He indicated the novel. “I hope that book’s not too good.”
The man cleared his throat and closed the book. “No, sir. Not at all.”
“Glad to hear it.” Quentin glanced at his watch. “I’ll stay with Ms. North for a couple hours if you want to grab some grub.”
“I’ll do that.” The rookie stood, expression grateful. “I’ll take a swing through the neighborhood while I’m out. Make sure everything’s in order.”
“Good idea. Enjoy your dinner.”
Anna opened the door. Two spots of bright color dotted her cheeks. She watched as laSalle disappeared down the stairs, then turned to Quentin. “Slick,” she murmured. “Getting rid of my baby-sitter that way. I’ll have to remember that technique.”
She wore straight-leg, soft-looking blue jeans and a bulky ivory sweater. She looked pale. Almost waiflike without makeup, her glorious hair pulled away from her face in a high, girlish ponytail.
She took his breath away.
“Don’t even think about it.” Quentin scowled. “He’s here for your protection.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “And why are you here, Malone? For my protection?”
“You’re angry.”
“Shouldn’t I be? You left here this morning with a promise to keep me informed. Instead, I get the party line from you and a baby-sitter at my door.”
“I’m concerned for your safety. My captain is concerned. We’re not taking any chances.”
“The man from last night, he’s going to come back for me, isn’t he?” She tipped up her chin, working, he saw, to put on a brave face. “That’s why laSalle’s sitting outside my door.”
He drew his eyebrows together, frustrated by her refusal to simply accept his assurances and NOPD protection. “We don’t know for sure that he’ll come back for you. But if he does, we’ll be here.”
“And?”
“And last night’s murder may or may not be related to the previous two. There were some differences in the execution of this crime, including the removal of the woman’s pinkie finger. This could be a copycat. I’d be inclined to consider that, but there are a few problems with that theory as well. The biggest being that we never publicly released the fact that the other two women were redheads.”
Her bravado faded. She searched his expression, hers suddenly, painfully anxious. “Do you have any…clues who—”
“No. I’m sorry, Anna.”
She looked crestfallen and he made a sound of regret. “I’d hoped to have good news for you, but I don’t.”
She rubbed her arms, as if chilled. “Investigations like this aren’t solved overnight.”
Sometimes they’re not solved at all. He looked away, then back at her. “Are you all right?” he asked softly, wanting to touch her but holding back. “I thought about you…today.”
Her features softened and a ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “I’m okay.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He stepped across the threshold; she closed the door behind them and locked it. “What’s in the bag?” she asked.
He glanced at the brown paper sack he carried, realizing that he had forgotten about it. He held it out. “Chicken soup. For you.”
She looked startled, then laughed. “You made me chicken soup?”
Quentin grinned at the thought. “I’m not trying to poison you. This is a container of my mother’s chicken soup. She keeps all of our freezers stocked. Just in case. It’s still frozen, by the way.”
Anna took the bag. “All of your freezers?”
“I’m one of seven. The second boy and second oldest. Five of us are cops. As was my grandfather, my dad, three uncles and one aunt. I won’t even go into my cousins.”
“Oh my.”
He grinned. “That’s what everybody says.”
She set the bag with its container of soup on her small entryway table. Awkward silence fell between them.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Uncomfortable.” She hugged herself. “I spent it looking over my shoulder. Jumping at every noise.”
“You went out?”
“I was crawling the walls here. So this afternoon I…went into The Perfect Rose. Dalton needed me.”
Quentin frowned. He understood that she couldn’t hide in her apartment forever; even so, he disliked the thought of her out on the street alone. Especially so soon after that madman had attacked her. “You were careful?”
“Yes.” As he opened his mouth to question her more, she held up a hand, stopping him. “Not to worry. Ben walked me there and Dalton walked me home. LaSalle never let me out of his sight. I was the safest woman in New Orleans.”
At the mention of the psychologist, Quentin frowned. “Ben Walker was here?”
“Yes. He came to see me.” She rubbed her arms, as if chilled. “He looked awful. That accident, how it happened… He said the two of you had spoken. And he…told me about the note left on his windshield. Told me it said—”
Her throat closed over the words and Quentin reached out to her. He cupped her face in his palms, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. “We’re going to find this guy, Anna. I’m going to find him. I won’t let him hurt you.”
A half sob, half laugh bubbled to her lips. “Promise?”
He bent and brushed his mouth against hers. It trembled beneath his. “Yes,” he murmured. “I promise.”
With a small sound of relief, she brought her hands to his shoulders, her cheek to his chest. Silence engulfed them. Quentin looped his arms around her, but loosely, so she wouldn’t know how frightened he was for her. Or how much she mattered to him.
After a moment, she tipped her face up to his. “That woman, the one who…died last night—”
“Jessica Jackson.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Anna—”
“Please.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I want to know her. She died for me.”
“You don’t know that. We don’t—”
“I know it.” Her voice thickened, and she cleared her throat. “She was a redhead. He lopped off her right pinkie finger. She died the same night I was attacked, the same night someone left a note on Ben’s windshield saying that I was going to die.”
“The note said she was going to die, Anna. It didn’t name you specifically, you or anyone else. He could have meant Jessica Jackson.”
“You don’t believe that. And neither do I. It’s so obvious, Quentin.”
He cupped her face in his palms once more. “About the time I’m certain something is obvious, I’m wrong, Anna.”
“Tell me about her.”
He muttered an oath, even as he acquiesced. “Her name was Jessica Jackson. She was a student at Tulane and a bartender at the bar at the Omni Royal Orleans Hotel. She worked until eleven last night, then met some friends. They went out dancing. She was unmarried and had no children. She’s survived by her parents and two sisters.”
“How old?” Anna asked, voice trembling.
He hesitated. “Twenty-one.”
>
Anna moaned. “I feel so bad for her. For her family. So guilty about what happened. So relieved it wasn’t…me.” She began to cry. “It’s my fault she’s dead. How am I going to live with that? How, Quentin?”
“Stop it, Anna.” He caught her tears with his fingers. “You didn’t kill her.”
“But she died instead of me.” She looked at him, eyes bright and wet. Full of despair. “Don’t tell me it isn’t so, because I know it is. In my heart, I know it’s true.”
He couldn’t tell her otherwise, though he longed to.
He believed it to be true as well. And it shook him to his core.
He was growing to care for her. And someone wanted her dead. Someone who had killed before and would kill again.
Quentin bent and took her mouth with his. He kissed her, softly at first, then with growing urgency. Growing passion.
With a small, helpless-sounding cry, she looped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him.
They made love there. In the entryway. He backed her up to the wall and lifted her onto him. She wrapped her legs around his hips and hung on tightly while he thrust into her.
It wasn’t until after passion’s frenzy that he realized she tasted of her tears. That her mouth trembled beneath his. Regret took his breath, and cradling her in his arms, he carried her to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, then positioned himself beside her.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he murmured. “Not like that.”
“I’m not complaining.”
He trailed his fingers tenderly over her face, stopping on the whisker burns on her jaw and the side of her neck. He swore. “I hurt you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She laid her fingers against his mouth. A smile tugged at hers. “You’re a nice man, Quentin Malone.”
He laughed at that, the sound tight and humorless. “You think so? Some might call me an opportunistic son-of-a-bitch. Some might suggest I take advantage of women when they’re most vulnerable.”
“Really?” She arched her eyebrows. “And why don’t I see it that way?”
“Because you’ve had a shock. Look, I show up at your door—”
“With chicken soup.”
“And end up naked in your bed. Pretty slick.”
“If I remember correctly, it was I who started this. Perhaps I’m the one who’s opportunistic?”
He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “If that’s the case, you can take advantage of me anytime.”
“Promise?”
He opened his mouth to respond; her stomach growled loudly. She pressed a hand to it, cheeks pink.
Quentin smiled. “Have you eaten?”
“Not since breakfast, no.” Her stomach rumbled again. She laughed. “Rumor has it your mother makes a pretty mean chicken soup.”
“The best.” He rolled off the bed. “Got any saltines?”
He held out his hand; she grasped it and he helped her up. “Yup. And if you promise to be a nice boy, I’ll even pour you big glass of milk.”
He grinned. “Depends, my dear, on what you mean by nice.”
* * *
A short time later, they sat across from each other on her living-room floor, bowls of steaming chicken soup and an open package of crackers in front of them.
Anna took a spoonful of the savory soup, then looked up at him. “This is wonderful.”
“Thanks.” He smiled. “My mother’s a great cook. When you have seven kids to feed, it’s a plus.”
“What’s she like?”
“A dynamo. She’s only five feet tall, but—”
“Five feet tall? You must be kidding.”
“My dad’s a big man. His dad and grandfather were even bigger.” Quentin took a spoonful of the soup, then wiped his mouth. “We all tower over her, my sisters, too. Even so, Mom’s definitely the head of the family. While we were growing up, she wore a big leather belt around her waist, if we got out of line, watch out. A couple of times she couldn’t get the belt off fast enough, so she came after us with a broom.”
Anna smiled at the image. “Were you bad?”
“I was awful.”
She plucked a soda cracker from the bag. “Tell me about your sisters and brothers.”
“I have four brothers and two sisters. I’m second in the Malone lineup, which my older brother, John Jr., never lets me forget.”
Anna leaned toward him, fascinated. Warmed by the affection in his tone, the way his eyes lit up while talking about his family. “I can’t imagine having so many siblings. Tell me about them.”
So he did. He described Percy as outgoing, Spencer as a hot dog. Shauna was a free spirit, Patrick more conservative than God and John Jr. was a big, overstuffed teddy bear. His sister Mary was going through a tough time in her marriage and John Jr. was expecting his third child.
“All of us are cops except Patrick, who’s an accountant, and Shauna, who’s studying art in college. They’re the black sheep of the Malone clan.”
He went on to talk about his five nieces and nephews, his Aunt Patti, who was his captain at the Seventh and his various sisters-and brothers-in-law.
“What a nice family,” Anna murmured, sounding as wistful as she felt.
“Most of the time. We fought like crazy when we were kids. Drove our folks nuts.”
Anna glanced down at her bowl, saw that it was empty and snitched another soda cracker. “Did you always want to be a cop?” she asked.
“Being a cop chose me.”
“Because of your family.” She tilted her head, studying him. “What did you want to do instead?”
“Who said I wanted to do anything else?”
“Then you did want to be a police officer?”
“It’s your turn to talk.” He had finished his soup and pushed his bowl away. “Tell me what it was like growing up in Hollywood.”
“Before the kidnapping, euphoric. After, it was…lonely.”
“I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.”
She lifted her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it.”
Awkward silence fell between them. After a moment, Anna stood. “Would you like some more soup?”
He followed her to her feet. “No thanks.” He glanced at his watch. “LaSalle should be back any minute.”
“Then you should go. People will talk.”
“Let them. If you’re okay with it, so am I.”
She said she was and they collected their bowls, milk glasses, crackers and carried the items to the kitchen. After depositing the glasses and crackers on the counter, she took the bowls from him and carried them to the sink.
She turned on the water. “Ben told me you two were going to come up with a plan to discover which of his patients was behind the notes.”
“Did he?”
At his tone, she looked over her shoulder at him. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”
“I don’t know him.”
Anna turned off the water and faced him. She cocked an eyebrow. “So why the dislike? And don’t deny it, I hear it in your voice.”
“Maybe it’s his ethics I don’t like. Maybe it’s that I want to catch a killer and he’s more interested in protecting one.”
“He won’t turn over a list of his patients’ names.”
“That’s right.”
“And you think the name Adam’s on it.”
“I hope it is. Though I asked Ben and he said no. But it makes sense that all these events are related. The tapes and notes. Minnie’s letters. Jaye’s disappearance. The prosthetic finger. Your being followed. The attack on you last night.”
“Jessica Jackson’s murder. And those other two women as well.” Tears burned her eyes. “Those people suffered because of me.”
“Not because of you, Anna.” He crossed to her, took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “You’re the victim here. Not the perpetrator.” He shook her lightly. “You’re n
ot.”
“One of the victims,” she corrected. “Just one.”
Anna swallowed hard. “I’ve got to do something, Malone. I can’t just sit in this apartment, kept safe by the NOPD, while women are dying. While Jaye is enduring God only knows what. Somehow this is my fault, Malone. I don’t know what I did to cause this, but I have to do something to stop it.”
“You want to help? Get Ben to release that list of names. If there’s not an Adam on it, I’ll bet there’ll be another name you recognize.”
“Like Kurt.”
“Or someone else in your life.”
She met his gaze evenly, in challenge. “If you’re thinking Bill’s or Dalton’s name might be on that list, you’re mistaken. Ben met them for the first time when he looked me up at The Perfect Rose.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes.” She swung to face him. “Yes, dammit!”
For a moment they stared at one another, the air between them electric. Quentin swore. “This is my job, Anna. I look at facts. I consider opportunity and motive. Dalton and Bill have opportunity—”
“And no motive. They’re my friends and I trust them completely.”
“And you probably have reason to. But consider this fact, Anna. In the great majority of violent crimes, the victim knows her attacker. I don’t take that fact lightly. Neither should you.”
Anna hated that he could make her doubt her friends, even if only for a fraction of a second. “Do what you have to, Malone,” she said. “That’s fine. But I’m going to get that list from Ben. And you’re going to see that you were wrong. Dead wrong.”
He crossed the kitchen in two strides. He pulled her against his chest and kissed her, deeply, with an edge of desperation.
She responded in kind, curling her fingers into his sweater, clutching him to her.
He broke the kiss. “Get the list, but then stay out of it, Anna,” he said, voice gruff. “Let me and my guys do our jobs. This bastard would love for you to get involved. To get out there and make yourself vulnerable to him. Don’t give him what he wants.”
“You’re wrong, Malone,” she said, suddenly understanding her foe. What he wanted. What made him tick. “He wants me isolated and terrified. The way I was twenty-three years ago.”
Dark and Twisted Reads: All the Pretty GirlsA Perfect EvilBone Cold (A Taylor Jackson Novel) Page 96