Killing Her Softly

by Beverly Barton

  Before leaving early this morning, she'd fielded numer­ous calls from local, state and even national newspapers and televisions stations. Her cousin's murder was front-page news throughout the state of Mississippi and most of the South. Even now, a good twelve hours after hearing the news from Sheriff Brody, Annabelle was having difficulty believing it was true. Accepting the death of a family member was al­ways difficult—she'd gone through the agony with her aunt Meta Anne's and both her parents' deaths and again when she lost Chris. When someone young died someone only twenty-seven as Lulu had been, the loss seemed all the greater because you felt that the person hadn't gotten a chance to live a full life. She'd felt that way when Chris died two years ago. He had been the center of her world for so long that shortly after the funeral, she'd fallen apart com­pletely. But in typical Annabelle style, she hadn't allowed herself to wallow in self-pity for very long. She'd pulled her­self up by the proverbial bootstraps, dusted off her bruised and bloody emotions and thrown herself back into work. Thank God for work. It had been her salvation more than once over the years.

  As she approached the Poplar Avenue entrance to the Criminal Justice Center, she recited the directions she'd been given over the telephone by the helpful police officer she'd spoken to an hour ago while she'd been en route. With her mind on other matters—finding the homicide division of the police department within this huge complex, as well as think­ing about what she'd be told concerning Lulu's murder— Annabelle failed to notice the small crowd gathering around her. Suddenly, someone shouted her name. She jerked her head up and searched for the speaker.

  "Ms. Vanderley? Annabelle Vanderley?" A short, wiry man with a camera in hand moved toward her.

  "Who are you?" she asked. "What do you want?"

  "You are Lulu Vanderley's cousin, Annabelle, aren't you?" a small, slender blonde holding a microphone in her hand asked as she zeroed in on Annabelle.

  "We'd like to ask you a few questions," another reporter joined in the fray.

  "I have no comment," Annabelle told them. "The spokes­person for Vanderley, Inc. will make a statement at noon today at our headquarters in Jackson, Mississippi."

  "Is it true that Lulu was killed by her latest lover?"

  "Was she raped and then killed?"

  "How was she killed? Was she shot? Strangled? Stabbed?"

  The questions bombarded her as the reporters drew closer and closer, shoving microphones and cameras in her face.

  "Please, leave me alone." She tried to move past the throng that seemed to be multiplying by the minute, but she was surrounded. Try as she might, she couldn't find an es­cape route.

  As if from out of nowhere a tall, broad-shouldered man cut a path through Annabelle's tormentors, slid his arm around her waist and all but shoved the reporters aside. When they complained he paused faced them and snarled. With her breath caught in her throat, Annabelle took a good look at her rescuer. The fierce expression on his face would have backed down the devil himself. The reporters continued to grumble, but didn't make the slightest move in her direction.

  Whoever this man was—her protector—he took her breath away.

  "You heard the lady. Leave her alone," he said, his voice baritone deep and rich.

  Annabelle sighed with relief as she offered her white knight an appreciative smile. Who is he? she wondered. Could he possibly be a plainclothes police officer?

  She studied him hurriedly, taking in his appearance. He was a devastatingly attractive man with wavy jet black hair and large dark brown eyes. Handsome, but not pretty. Suave yet rugged. He was dressed in an expensive navy blue suit. Tailor-made, unless she missed her guess, which meant he was rich. So he probably wasn't a policeman. She doubted the base pay, even for a detective, was more than forty or fifty thousand a year. This man's suit had probably cost several thousand.

  He kept his arm around her waist, her body pressed against his side. Annabelle's heart beat faster and her stom­ach fluttered. Sheer nerves, she told herself.

  "Thank you so much, Mr.—"

  "Cortez. Quinn Cortez."

  "I appreciate your coming to my rescue, Mr. Cortez." Her gaze locked with his as they stared into each other's eyes. He was looking at her as if he wanted to say something.

  "These people can be real jerks," he told her. "You've just lost your cousin—"

  "How did you . . . Oh, you probably read about Lulu in the newspaper."

  A tall, dark-haired woman came through the crowd and walked straight up to Quinn. "I'm sure Ms. Vanderley will be fine now," the woman said. "We have an appointment"— she tapped her gold wristwatch—"in five minutes. You don't want to be late."

  He didn't budge and made no move to release his protec­tive hold on Annabelle.

  "Please, don't let me keep you from an important ap­pointment," Annabelle said. "I'll be fine now. Surely they won't follow me."

  His gaze caressed her, creating a fluttering sensation along her nerve endings. "Let me see you safely inside."

  Suddenly one of the newspaper reporters shouted out, "Ms. Vanderley, how well do you know Mr. Cortez? Obviously you don't think he had anything to do with your cousin's murder, right?"

  What had the reporter said? Why would he think Mr. Cortez had any connection to Lulu's murder?

  Annabelle broke eye contact with Quinn and looked right at the reporter. "What are you talking about?"

  "Did you and your cousin both have a romantic relation­ship with Mr. Cortez?" the same reporter asked.

  When Annabelle glared at him, puzzled by his question, he added "Seeing how chummy you are with Mr. Cortez and how he came rushing to your rescue, are we to assume that you two are close . . . friends?"

  "I never—" Annabelle realized she wasn't handling this media attack very well. Speechlessness and shock wouldn't work in her favor.

  "Ignore them," Quinn whispered in her ear as he urged her into movement.

  Escape was the best plan of action, so she allowed him to guide her toward the entrance.

  "You didn't kill Lulu, did you, Ms. Vanderley, when you found out she was sleeping with Quinn Cortez?" The blond reporter held out her microphone as she trailed behind Annabelle, Quinn and the dark-haired woman.

  Annabelle turned and faced the reporter. "Go away. Leave me alone. I don't know what you're talking about and I don't care."

  "You don't care that your cousin was murdered or that Mr. Cortez might have been involved?" Someone in the crowd shouted the question.

  "Let's go inside and get away from them," Quinn said. "Then I'll explain what's going on."

  "Explain now." She jerked away from him.

  "Don't give them a chance to exploit you and me and Lulu," Quinn warned.

  She stood still as a statue and glared at him. "Were you and Lulu . . . were you—"

  He spoke softly, saying the words for her ears only. "Lulu and I were lovers. We had a date last night. I'm the person who found her body."

  Chapter 4

  Although stunned by Quinn Cortez's confession, Annabelle managed to maintain her composure. Just barely. Odd how discovering her rescuer was one of Lulu's numerous lovers actually bothered her. And the fact that he'd been the one who had discovered Lulu's body concerned her. Hadn't the reporters implied that Mr. Cortez might have been somehow involved in the crime?

  Was she murdered by a lover?

  When one of the reporters asked that specific question, she hadn't paid much attention. But staring Quinn Cortez in the eyes, that question suddenly became of paramount im­portance.

  "You—you discovered Lulu's body?"

  "Please, Ms. Vanderley, you don't want to do this here, in front of the reporters," Quinn said.

  She nodded. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

  When he gripped her elbow, she instinctively jerked away from him, but when he and his female companion flanked her in a protective manner, she followed them straight into the building. The last thing she wanted was to give the re­porters a show.

  "They'
ll follow us," the woman said. "You two go on ahead and I'll deal with them."

  "Thanks, honey." Quinn bestowed a devastating smile on his companion. "I'll meet you upstairs."

  The woman eyed him speculatively. "Don't get side­tracked." She looked pointedly at Annabelle.

  "I won't." Quinn grabbed Annabelle's elbow and ushered her forward. "Let's go now, while we can, and let Kendall handle things here."

  "Kendall?"

  "Kendall Wells, my friend and lawyer."

  Lawyer? Did this man need a lawyer? Was he guilty of a crime? Was he a suspect in Lulu's murder?

  Despite her uncertainty, Annabelle didn't protest his as­sistance in their escape from the media and willingly al­lowed him to lead her into the building and through the metal detectors. Neither spoke a word until they were se­curely inside the building and safe from prying eyes. When they reached the two banks of elevators across from each other, she pulled away from him, tilted her chin and nar­rowed her gaze. He faced her with the same devastating smile he'd used on his friend and lawyer. She punched one of the elevator up buttons.

  "You and Lulu were lovers?" she asked as they waited.

  "Yes, we were."

  "You had a date with her last night and you found . . . you discovered her body."

  "That's right."

  When the elevator doors to their right swung open, Anna­belle entered, punched the tenth-floor button and turned to Quinn, who was still at her side.

  "Do the police suspect you were involved?"

  "Probably. In any murder investigation, the victim's closest relatives and friends are usually suspects, at least in the beginning."

  "You say that as if you—"

  "I'm a lawyer," he told her. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of me. I'm famous. Or perhaps I'm infamous." He grunted sarcastically.

  When she stared at him, a tight knot of apprehension clutched her stomach muscles. "Lulu often chose influential, powerful men as her friends. And usually those men were quite a bit older than she was."

  "I'm thirty-nine. I suppose twelve years makes me some­what older. But I know for a fact that she enjoyed her share of guys her age and younger."

  "You seem to know more about my cousin than I do."

  "You two weren't close," Quinn said. "At least not since you were kids."

  "She told you about me?"

  He nodded. "Your name came up once or twice. Apparently she never mentioned me to you."

  "As you said we haven't been close in a very long time. Lulu and I chose very different paths in life."

  "You say that in a very superior manner, Ms. Vanderley. I take it that you didn't approve of your cousin's hedonistic lifestyle."

  The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor. Annabelle hadn't even thought about the fact that they were both headed for the same floor, that they probably had the same destina­tion.

  Instead of responding to his comment, she asked "Are you being interrogated concerning Lulu's murder this morn­ing, Mr. Cortez?"

  After stepping out of the elevator, he placed his hand so that he could keep the doors from closing on her. "I'm being interviewed."

  "What's the difference?" She stepped out of the elevator, taking every precaution to make certain her body didn't so much as graze his.

  Ignoring her question, he said "I want you to know something, Ms. Vanderley."

  "What's that, Mr. Cortez?"

  Staring at each other, eye to eye, tension vibrated be­tween them. Subconsciously, Annabelle held her breath in anticipation.

  "I didn't kill Lulu," he said.

  Annabelle swallowed. Why was it that she so desperately wanted to believe him? What possible difference could it make to her whether this man was innocent or guilty?

  "I don't think there's any reason for us to continue this conversation or for us to see or speak to each other again," Annabelle told him. "So I'll take this opportunity to thank you again for coming to my rescue with those reporters, but—"

  "I want to find out who killed Lulu just as much as you do. Lulu and I weren't family, but we were friends. Close friends."

  "The way you and Ms. Wells are friends?"

  Annabelle groaned mentally. Why had she asked him such a personal question?

  His lips twitched. "Yes, the way Kendall and I were once close friends."

  There, I guess that answers your question, doesn't it? He and his lawyer are more than friends. And he didn't mind telling you.

  "Finding another suspect would certainly be to your advantage, wouldn't it?" She wanted to get away from this man as quickly as possible. He had the strangest effect on her and she didn't like it. I believe it's called charm, she told herself. No doubt this man has been charming women all his life. She shouldn't flatter herself by believing she was different from countless others he had charmed or that she was in any way important to him. Except. . . ? Except as Lulu's cousin and the official representative for the Vanderley family, it would work to his advantage if she liked him, if he could persuade her to trust him.

  This man could be Lulu's killer. Never forget that fact.

  "Whatever my motives are, you and I want the same thing," he told her, his dark eyes roaming over her with dis­turbing familiarity. "If we were to work together—"

  "Ms. Vanderley, is this man bothering you?" The mascu­line voice came from behind her.

  Whipping around she faced a beautiful young man with short auburn hair and a deadly serious expression on his flawless face. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen a prettier man in her entire life.

  "No, Mr. Cortez wasn't bothering me," she said. "We were just. . . talking."

  "I wasn't aware that you two were acquainted." The young man looked right at Quinn.

  "We aren't," she said. "I mean we weren't until a few minutes ago when Mr. Cortez rescued me from a marauding band of reporters."

  Giving Quinn a harsh look, the other man held out his hand to Annabelle as he focused all his attention on her. "I'm Sergeant Chad George, ma'am. My partner and I are the detectives in charge of the investigation into your cousin's death."

  "Her death? I was told she was murdered."

  "Yes, ma'am, she was," Chad said. "Allow me to offer you my condolences."

  "On behalf of the Memphis police department?" Quinn asked. "Or are you offering Ms. Vanderley your personal condolences, sergeant?"

  Annabelle sensed a hostile tension between the two men as they glowered at each other. And she had the oddest sen­sation that, for the moment, she was the prize in this particu­lar battle of wills.

  "Both," Chad said sharply, then softened his voice when he spoke again. "Ms. Vanderley, if there's any-thing I can do for you . . ."

  "I would like to speak to you and your partner and anyone else involved in this case. I will be representing my family in this matter and expect to be kept informed about anything and everything involving my cousin's murder."

  "Certainly. Lieutenant Norton and I have an appointment with Mr. Cortez"—Chad glanced at his wristwatch—"right now, so allow me to escort you to the director's office. He's expecting you and can answer some of your questions. Then when Norton and I are free, we'll be glad to do whatever we can for you."

  Annabelle gave Quinn Cortez a sidelong glance. "Is Mr. Cortez a suspect?" Silence.

  Annabelle glanced back and forth from one man to the other. "Knowing if Mr. Cortez is a suspect falls under keep­ing me informed about anything and everything to do with Lulu's murder."

  Chad cleared his throat, then said hurriedly, "Mr. Cortez discovered the body. We will be questioning him again this morning, with his attorney present."

  As if on cue, Kendall Wells stepped off the elevator di­rectly behind them. "What have we here, a little informal powwow?" she said as she approached her client. "You've been behaving yourself, haven't you, Quinn?"

  "Don't I always?" he replied.

  His lawyer gave him a censoring glance, then zeroed in on the sergeant. "We're here on time and ready for the inter­view.
Let's get this over with so Mr. Cortez can—"

  "We'll be ready for y'all shortly," Chad snapped his re­sponse, then turned to Annabelle, all smiles and concern. "Ms. Vanderley, if you'll follow me, I'll show you to Director Danley's office." He took her arm and tugged gently.

  Annabelle went with him, all the while fighting the urge to look back at Quinn Cortez.

  "Don't make us cool our heels too long," Ms. Wells called after them.

  Sergeant George mumbled under his breath. "I apologize for someone not meeting you outside and escorting you in. It's unfortunate that you had to be subjected to meeting Quinn Cortez, especially this morning, so soon after. . . Well, I am sorry."

  "Exactly who is Quinn Cortez and why did he think I should have heard of him?"

  Chad harrumphed. "The man's an egomaniac. He thinks the whole world knows who he is because he's a criminal de­fense lawyer who has gotten quite a few murderers off scot-free. He just won a big case over in Nashville. The Terry McBryar case."

  "Oh, yes, I seem to recall hearing something about that trial on the news. Wasn't McBryar's lawyer some hotshot from Texas?" Annabelle gasped as she remembered what one newscaster had said about McBryar's lawyer, whose name she'd forgotten.

  He not only has a reputation as a dangerously formidable opponent in the courtroom, but also as a real lady-killer in his personal life.

  She wasn't sure why that comment had stuck with her when she had forgotten the man's name and had no memory of seeing him on the newscast. The words dangerously for­midable and lady-killer repeated themselves again and again in Annabelle's mind.

  "A far as I'm concerned Cortez is scum," Chad told her. "He's an immoral moneygrubber. A real shyster."

  "Are you saying you believe the man has no conscience? If that's the case, then he's capable of murder, isn't he? Is that what you think—you think he killed Lulu?"