Killing Her Softly

by Beverly Barton

  LADY KILLER

  "There's something you should know," Quinn said.

  "What?" Annabelle's heart skipped a beat

  "Griffin has found out that another woman I used to know—Carta Millican—was murdered in Dallas four months ago, on the same day I was there. But I swear to you, Annabelle, I didn't kill her."

  A fourth victim! Four of Quinn's lovers had been murdered. There was no way their murders could have been coinciden­tal. "Was she . . . was Carta killed the same way the others were?"

  "She was smothered and her right index finger was re­moved after she was dead."

  "Someone is trying to frame you," Annabelle said. "That's it, isn't it?"

  "Possibly. Griffin and Judd believe we have a psychopath on our hands. A serial killer."

  "You'll have to share this information with the police. Surely then they'll realize you're completely innocent."

  "Maybe. But there's a chance that since I was in the same city at the time of each murder and have no alibi any of the four times, the police could figure that I killed all four women."

  "But you didn't. I know you didn't."

  "I couldn't blame you if you had some doubts. Hell, if I didn't know better, I might think I was guilty." Genuine an­guish saturated his speech. "Please, please don't let me hurt

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  Copyright © 2005 by Beverly Beaver

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  ISBN 0-8217-7687-8

  First Printing: July 2005

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  Printed in the United States of America

  For John Scognamiglio, editor extraordinaire, and

  Richard Curtis, agent par excellence. Thank you both for excellent professional guidance.

  Also, with great appreciation to Michael Speltz, my research "partner in crime."

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Michael Speltz, Reserve Inspector with the Shelby County Sheriff's Department, with thirty-plus years of service and a lifelong resident of Memphis and Germantown, Tennessee. Mike's assistance in doing research for this book proved invaluable.

  A special Thank You to Mike's wife, Pat, owner of Pat Speltz Media Consultant in Germantown, Tennessee, who

  drives writers in the Memphis and Jackson, Tennessee, Oxford, Mississippi, and Blytheville, Arkansas, area. Pat also helped with research on this book.

  And to Mike's brother-in-law, Ben Payne, retired captain of the Memphis Police Department, whose assistance is greatly appreciated.

  Prologue

  Lulu Vanderley was rich, blond and beautiful. Women envied her. Men wanted her. She had it all. Everything. Except. . . There was one thing she wanted that could never truly be hers. Quinn Cortez. And knowing she couldn't have him made her want him all the more.

  They'd been lovers for several months, ever since they'd met through mutual acquaintances in Vail. In the beginning, a hot affair had been enough for both of them. He'd made it clear from their very first date that he was a no-strings-attached kind of guy. And she'd been well aware of his love-'em-and-leave-'em reputation. But that was before she fell in love with the gorgeous hunk, before she decided that she wanted to become Mrs. Quinn Cortez. And as a general rule, Lulu got what Lulu wanted.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror and smiled dev­ilishly. No man had ever been able to resist her. And that was one reason she and Quinn were perfect for each other. They were two peas in a pod—a couple of gorgeous, irresistible philanderers.

  Tonight she would spring the trap, the age-old trap that had caught many a poor fool. Quinn wasn't invulnerable. He was as susceptible as any man to feminine wiles and little white lies. She'd weep and swear she didn't know how it could have happened. She'd told him the first time they had sex that she'd been on the pill for years and since he'd also used a condom every time, convincing him she was pregnant might not be easy. But all he had to do was talk to her doctor. Lulu was definitely six weeks along.

  Running her hands over her tall, slender body, from waist to narrow hips, she studied her image. Her beauty had al­ways gotten her whatever her family's wealth wouldn't buy. But neither could give her what she wanted most.

  Quinn might be a womanizer, but he wasn't a heartless cad. If he believed she was carrying his child, then there was a good chance he'd do the honorable thing and marry her.

  And if he doesn't what will you do?

  She'd get an abortion, of course. No way in hell did she want to get tied down with a squalling baby unless the little brat served some purpose.

  The mantel clock struck the hour, reminding her that Quinn would be arriving soon. Her stomach tightened. Lulu laughed. It wasn't like her to be nervous.

  Everything was ready. A bottle of champagne was chill­ing. A second bottle. She'd already drunk three glasses from the first bottle in an effort to steel her nerves and lull herself into a tranquil haze. Not good for the baby, she supposed but what the hell. The silk bed linens were turned down, soft music was playing and she was wearing her most alluring sheer black teddy.

  Quinn had just won another high profile case, this time involving country singer Terry McBryar. The Nashville jury had come back with a not guilty verdict in the case against McBryar, who had been accused of murdering his manager. Of course, this victory was only one in a long line for Quinn Cortez, who was one of the nation's most highly acclaimed trial lawyers.

  The fact that Quinn had a reputation for being ruthless excited Lulu. She'd always been fascinated by bad boys. When she had telephoned him earlier today to congratu­late him on his big win, she'd heard reluctance in his voice the minute she invited him to drive over to Memphis this evening so they could celebrate together. But in the end she had persuaded him. Telling him that she'd be waiting in her bedroom, wearing only a teddy, and eager to suck his dick had given him all the incentive he needed.

  "I can get there by eight," he'd told her. "Is your extra key in the usual place?"

  "Right where it always is," she'd said. "Just let yourself in. I'll be waiting."

  Thinking about the night ahead, Lulu shivered with ex­citement. She'd had dozens of lovers, but none compared to Quinn. The guy was a real stud, in every sense of the word. She'd give him a blow job, then they'd drink champagne and cuddle by the fireplace here in her bedroom. After he was re­laxed and mellow, she'd spring her big surprise.

  Guess what, Quinn, yo 're going to be a daddy.

  Laughing, pleased with her almost foolproof plan to trap her man, Lulu twirled around the room.

  She heard a noise. The front door opening? Her heartbeat accelerated. Quinn was here. He'd arrived early. He must have broken every speed limit between Nashville and Memphis. That had to mean he was eager to see her.

  Hurriedly, s
he turned off all the lights and lit the candles she had arranged on top of the sleek, modern cherry dresser. Only the candlelight and the glow from the flickering blaze in the fireplace illuminated the room. The right ambience was so important.

  "Quinn? Darling, I'm back here waiting for you."

  His footsteps tapped quietly over the hardwood floors in the foyer and down the hall.

  "You got here early, didn't you?" She licked her lips.

  Why wasn't he answering her?

  She scratched her long fingernails over her nipples, hard­ening them instantly. "Come on back here, big boy. I've got what you need."

  She stood by the fireplace, primed and ready, eager for what lay ahead. When she saw him standing in the doorway, her heart caught in her throat. She did love this man, loved him to distraction. He stood there in the shadows, a tall, dark silhouette. Broad shouldered lean hipped. Six one. And every inch a man.

  She held open her arms. "Come to mama. Let me take good care of you."

  He took several steps toward her. His blue-black hair glis­tened in the firelight. God he was handsome. Ruggedly hand­some in that exotic way only men of mixed heritages were. Quinn was a delicious mixture of Mexican and Irish.

  As he neared her, she thought how incredibly young and sexy he looked tonight. Even men looked better by candle­light. At forty, he possessed a body any twenty-year-old would envy. And she knew from personal experience that he had the stamina of a man half his age.

  "Hello, Lulu," he said and she thought there was an odd tone to his voice. He didn't sound quite like himself.

  She took a tentative step toward him, closing the gap be­tween them. When she looked up into his piercing black eyes, she gasped. "Quinn?"

  "Were you expecting someone else?" he asked. "Another lover?"

  "No, I wasn't expecting anyone else." She felt a sudden sense of unease. What was wrong with him? He was acting so strangely. And he looked odd.

  Maybe it wasn't him; maybe it was her. After all, she had drunk three glasses of champagne. Perhaps she was picking up on strange vibes where there were none.

  He reached out and grasped her shoulders. She quivered.

  "What's wrong? You're shivering," he said.

  She stared directly at him, studying his tense features, as his big hands bit painfully into her shoulders. Oh, God, how could this be? She didn't understand what was going on.

  "You're acting as if you're afraid of me."

  "I—I am." She tried to pull away, but he held her in his strong grip. "Let go of me." When she struggled against him, he pushed her backward, his dark eyes boring into her with unadulterated hatred. "I don't understand—"

  She felt addled, her thoughts fuzzy, her mind playing tricks on her.

  As he shoved her backward she somehow managed to es­cape his tenacious grasp. She had to get away from him. She turned and ran, intending to lock herself in the bathroom and use the telephone in there to call for help. But before she reached the bathroom door, he caught her by the wrist, whirled her around and flipped her over and onto the bed.

  The satin sheets felt cold and clammy against her bare arms and legs. The dark shadow of the man hovering over her appeared menacing and dangerous. Why hadn't she real­ized sooner that something wasn't quite right?

  Because you drank too much champagne.

  He came down over her, bracing his knees on either side of her hips, trapping her beneath him. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, her voice paralyzed by fear.

  Don't panic. Maybe he just wants to play rough. Maybe he isn't going to hurt you.

  "You're a fool, Lulu," he said in that strange tone of voice. "And I feel sorry for foolish women."

  "What—what are you talking about? Please—"

  "Do you know what I do to foolish women?"

  He reached over and picked up one of the king-size pil­lows from the head of the bed. She tried to shove him off her, but without success. He was too big, too strong. He lifted his knee and pressed it against her belly, effectively holding her in place and enabling him to use both hands to maneuver the pillow.

  "I kill foolish women," he told her. "I kill them softly. . . tenderly. . . and put them out of their misery."

  "No!" She managed to scream once before he covered her face with the huge pillow. Oh, God he really was going to kill her. Smother her.

  Help me, please, dear God, help me.

  She wriggled and squirmed, thrashing her head about, seeking air, but he kept the pillow securely in place. With what little strength she had left, she grasped his wrists, but the effort proved useless. Within seconds her hands loos­ened. Her arms dropped languidly to either side of her still body. Her chest ached. Swirling gray circles appeared in the blackness behind her pillow-covered eyes.

  Lulu had one final coherent thought.

  I can't breathe. I can't breathe!

  Chapter 1

  Jim Norton figured it was going to rain. His arthritic knees were giving him fits and had all afternoon. But what could an ex-jock, who'd had bones broken, muscles strained and ligaments torn, expect when he hit forty? His ex-wife had once dubbed him her six-million-dollar man because he had so many artificial body parts.

  Jim groaned. The last thing he wanted on his mind tonight was Mary Lee. Their marriage had ended six years ago. It was past time he got over her.

  "What are you grunting about?" Chad George asked. "Pissed because Inspector Purser assigned us this case right before you were scheduled to go on vacation?"

  "Nah, nothing like that. I didn't have any special plans. Mary Lee nixed my idea of taking Kevin camping for a week. I can always reschedule my time off. Besides, Purser knows when to send in the best the homicide division has to offer."

  "Gee, thanks, Jim. I had no idea you thought so highly of me. "Go fuck yourself, Boy George." Chad's face turned beet red a close match to his wavy auburn hair that he kept cut military short.

  "I'm getting damn sick and tired of the jokes about my being pretty enough to be a girl," Chad said. "What do I have to do to get you and the other guys to ease up on the ribbing—run my face through a windshield or let some knife-happy perp slice-and-dice my rosy cheeks?"

  Jim chuckled. "The only reason we dish it out is because you can't take it. Act like you don't give a shit and it'll stop soon enough."

  Chad harrumphed as he turned their black Ford Taurus onto Galloway Drive. "I'd like to believe that."

  "Believe it."

  Jim had been partnered with the darling of the department on a string of cases these past three months since Chad's for­mer partner, Bill Delmar, retired. Jim couldn't fault the kid on his professionalism. But on a personal basis, newly pro­moted Sergeant Chad George could be a pain in the ass. He was often a bit too cocky and always a bit too sensitive. Hell, at twenty-eight, the guy should have wised-up. A police offi­cer, especially one in the homicide department, wouldn't last long if he didn't learn to distance himself from the job just enough so that the intensity of murder and mayhem didn't bleed over into every aspect of his life. It was no secret to anyone who knew him that Chad lived and breathed his job. Odds were he'd make lieutenant in a few years and just keep moving right on up. Of course, it didn't hurt that he had his own personal angel—none other than Congressman Harte, who was Chad's uncle-by-marriage.

  Jim had been a lot like Chad at his age—minus the angel—but he figured there was no point in telling the boy to do as he said and not as he'd done. Ten years ago, Jim hadn't listened to older and wiser men on the force who'd tried to warn him. If he had listened maybe his former partner would still be alive. Maybe he and Mary Lee would still be married. And maybe he'd get to see his son whenever he was off duty and not just on alternate weekends and a couple of holidays a year.

  "It's not every day there's a homicide in Chickasaw Gardens," Chad said.

  Jim glanced out the window, visually skimming over mansion after mansion in this old well-established Memphis neighborhood where homes often sold for somewhere be
­tween one and two million dollars. And in Tennessee, million-dollar houses were far from the norm for the average citizen.

  "Who'd they send out from the Central Precinct?" Jim asked.

  "A couple of one-man cars. Don't know the officers' names."

  Jim nodded.

  Within minutes, they reached the address they'd been given when they were dispatched from downtown. Two white po­lice cars, trimmed in red and blue, a black Chevy Trailblazer, an ambulance and a small group of curious neighbors blocked their path. Chad parked behind one of the two police vehi­cles. The minute they emerged from the sedan, they made their way up the sidewalk to the two-story brick traditional shaded by large oak trees. Curious stares and a hum of mur­murs followed them. Jim scanned the area, left and right, forward and backward. He noted a sleek, silver Porsche con­vertible parked in the driveway.

  A young uniformed officer stood outside the front door, nervous sweat dampening his face on this cool spring night. Chad approached identified himself and Jim, and then turned to the crowd.

  "Folks, I'm going to have to ask that y'all leave the yard. Your presence here could very well compromise our crime scene."

  A loud grumble rose from several in the group, but to-a-person they moved hurriedly out into the street.

  Jim noted the embarrassed look on the young police­man's face. His name tag read Jarnigan. "The ME already here?" Jim thought he recognized Udell White's SUV parked behind the police cars.

  "Yes, sir. He arrived just a few minutes ago," Officer Jarnigan replied then swallowed hard.

  Chad zeroed in on Jarnigan, who Jim figured was fresh out of John D. Holt. If he was a rookie that would explain his nervousness. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday that he had graduated from the Academy. He'd been young and stupid enough to think he could conquer the world. He should have known better. After all, his dream of turning pro had been dashed when an injury his senior year at UT had ended his football career. After his body had been refurbished through a series of operations, he had been able to function normally, at least enough to meet the force's physical requirements. After losing out on a pro career and making a ton of personal and professional mistakes, Jim didn't have big plans any­more. He just took each day one at a time.