Killing Her Softly

by Beverly Barton

  "I said no." Mary Lee pointed her finger toward the corri­dor leading to the bathroom. "Go brush your teeth and get ready for bed. It's ten-thirty. I let you stay up thirty minutes later than usual."

  When Kevin gave her a pleading look, she frowned. "Your dad will come in and say good night before he leaves."

  "Go on, pal. Do what your mother says." Jim could fault Mary Lee on many issues and she might not be the ideal mother, but she tried her best. When she set rules for Kevin, Jim did what he could to support her.

  When Kevin reluctantly disappeared down the hall, Mary Lee turned to Jim. "Want another beer?"

  "No, thanks."

  Just as he'd predicted Mary Lee had ordered pizza and served them cold beer and their son iced cola. They'd eaten store-bought chocolate chip cookies for dessert and then Jim had helped Kevin with his homework while Mary Lee cleaned up. It wasn't fair to compare his ex-wife to his mom, who'd baked homemade cookies on a regular basis. And who had been a loving, supportive and faithful wife until her dying day.

  You 're not the man your dad was either, he reminded him­self. If you'd been a better husband, maybe Mary Lee would have been a better wife.

  "How are those murder cases going?" Mary Lee asked. "You haven't arrested that big shot lawyer from Texas, have you? Quinn Cortez. God even the guy's name sounds sexy."

  Mary Lee would think a name could sound sexy. Bet she'd jump Cortez's bones in a New York minute if given half the chance.

  "No, we haven't made an arrest yet."

  "Want to sit down?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "I'll just go say good night to Kevin and then leave."

  Mary Lee came up to him. "Look, let's lay our cards on the table, okay?"

  Here it comes. Whatever reason she invited me to dinner and let me have this extra time with Kevin. "Sure thing."

  "I know that you know I've been having a thing with Chad."

  Was that it? Was that what the invitation to dinner had been about? Did she honestly think he'd give a damn? Had she been concerned about how he would react when he found out? "Yeah. So?"

  "Don't you care?" She inched closer, so close that her breasts almost touched his chest.

  There had been a time that whenever Mary Lee just walked into a room, he got hard. "Why should I care?"

  With her body leaning into his, she lifted her arms and placed them around his neck. "Aren't you just the least bit jealous? Don't you wish you were getting some from me in­stead of him? The sex was always good for us, wasn't it, Jimmy?"

  His dick twitched as old memories flickered through his mind. "Yeah, babe, the sex was always good." He clasped his fingers around her arms and removed them from his neck, then took a step backward putting some breathing room be­tween them.

  She glanced down at his crotch and smiled when she noted his partially aroused state. "Why don't you stick around and after Kevin goes to sleep—"

  "I can't," he said. Damn, he was tempted to stay. A part of him still wanted her. Yeah, the part that didn't have a lick of sense. "I've got a late night date." He wasn't lying. Not ex­actly. Sandra had suggested he drop by tonight and she'd all but told him he'd be welcome to spend the night.

  Mary Lee's nostrils flared as she took in several quick, sharp breaths. He knew that look. She was pissed.

  "This was a one-time-only offer," she told him. "Take it or leave it, but know this—I won't ask you again."

  Yeah, she would. In the years since their divorce, she'd made the offer at least once every six months and every time he rejected her she swore it would be the last time.

  "Hey, Dad I'm ready for bed" Kevin called from down the hall.

  "I'll go say good night to Kevin." Jim glanced at his ex-wife briefly, then left her standing there fuming.

  "Be right there," Jim told Kevin as he walked out of the living room, halfway expecting Mary Lee to start screaming at him.

  But she didn't. And when he came out of Kevin's room ten minutes later, she was sitting in front of the TV and didn't even acknowledge his presence when he said good night.

  Annabelle had soaked in the tub for nearly an hour after coming upstairs to her room at Vanderley Hall, hoping it would relax her enough so that she could sleep. But as she lay in bed her eyes wide open and staring up at the twelve-foot ceiling, she realized that she probably should have asked Aunt Perdita for one of her sleeping pills.

  Her aunt was a walking drugstore, keeping a large variety of prescription and nonprescription medication with her at all times.

  "You never know when you or a friend will need some­thing for pain or to sleep or to pep you up," Perdita had once told Annabelle.

  Maybe she should go down the hall and knock on her aunt's door. What would it hurt to take a sleeping pill tonight since she so rarely used anything stronger than an aspirin? Just as Annabelle flung the covers back and slid to the edge of the bed her cell phone rang. Knowing before she lifted the phone from the nightstand who the caller was, she snatched the phone up, flipped it open and said "Hello."

  "Are you all right?" Quinn asked.

  "I am now," she replied honestly.

  "Rough day, huh?"

  "A really bad one."

  "I guess you know the Memphis PD will have the DNA test results tomorrow morning."

  "Yes, I know," she said.

  "Did Jim Norton call you?"

  "He called Sergeant George, who in turn told me." Silence. "Quinn?"

  "Chad George was at Lulu's funeral? He was there with you this evening?"

  "Yes."

  "He's got a thing for you, doesn't he?"

  "Yes, I believe he does."

  "How do you feel about him?" Quinn asked.

  "I should tell you that it's none of your business how I feel about him, but. . . He's what my parents would have re­ferred to as a very suitable young man."

  "Meaning he's a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant from a re­spectable middle-class background and is an up-and-coming member of a time-honored profession."

  "Yes."

  "He's much better for you than I am. You'd be a fool to re­ject him in favor of me, considering I have none of his at­tributes to recommend me."

  Tell him. Admit the truth. You can't keep lying to yourself, so why lie to Quinn?

  "You're assuming it's an either/or situation," she said.

  Quinn laughed quietly, a low rumbling chuckle. "Yeah, I guess I did narrow down the field and limit your choices, didn't I?"

  "Quinn, I'm coming back to Memphis in the morning," she told him. "I want to be there when you find out the DNA results."

  "I should tell you not to come, to stay as far away from me as possible, but I can't do that. You see, honey, I'm a self­ish bastard. I want you to want to be with me."

  "I'll see you in the morning and afterward . . . after we leave the police station, we should go somewhere and talk. I'll stay at the Peabody again, so—"

  "There's something you should know."

  "What?" Her heart skipped a beat.

  "Griffin has found out that another woman I used to know—Carla 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 any more than I killed Lulu or Kendall or Joy Ellis."

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

  "She was smothered and her right index finger 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. And with the evidence Griffin has acquired so far, it appears the first murder was a year ago."

  "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 ali
bi any of the four times, the police could figure that I killed all four women."

  "But you didn't. I know you didn't." How did she know? How could she be so sure? It wasn't as if she had any past experience with Quinn on which to base her conviction. Just because she was infatuated with Quinn—possibly in love with him—didn't mean he was innocent.

  "I couldn't blame you if you had some doubts. Hell, if I didn't know better, I might think I was guilty."

  "Maybe my head has some lingering doubts," she admit­ted. "But my heart doesn't."

  "Ah, Annabelle. Honey." Genuine anguish saturated his speech. "Please, please don't let me hurt you."

  At eleven-fifteen, Jim Norton stood outside Sandra Holmes's apartment. He rapped on the door only a few times and as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb her neighbors. He waited. Knocked again. Then waited. And just when he'd given up on her responding and turned to leave, the door opened.

  "Jim?"

  He did an about-face. Sandra wore a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized T-shirt, her pointed nipples pressing against the material. "Hi," he said. "Is it too late to—?"

  She reached out, grabbed the lapels of his jacket and tugged him toward her. "It's not too late for you, Jimmy Norton. It would never be too late."

  When she slid her arms around his waist and dropped her hands to cup his buttocks, Jim's body reacted immediately. She stood on tiptoe, lifted her face and kissed him. Responding to her advances, he grabbed the back of her neck and deep­ened the kiss. She thrust her tongue into his mouth and moaned when their tongues did a wicked tango.

  Sandra practically dragged him into her apartment. Once inside, he kicked the door closed behind them, not even bothering to lock it. Within two minutes flat, she was naked from the waist down and had unzipped his fly and freed his rock-hard penis. He toppled her over and down onto the couch in the living room, then just before he lost it com­pletely, he paused.

  "Wait just a second." He lifted himself up and off her just long enough to remove a condom from his pants pocket and hurriedly slid it down over his erection.

  Chapter 21

  Jim woke to the sound of humming and the smell of cof­fee perking. He rolled over, rooted his head against the pil­low and opened his eyes. This wasn't his bed and this wasn't his apartment in the Exchange Building. He'd been living on Second Street, three blocks from the Criminal Justice Center, for the past five years and this definitely wasn't the bedroom in his place. For one thing, his room wasn't painted pale yel­low and for another—he rubbed the sheet covering him be­tween his thumb and forefinger—he didn't own any yellow satin sheets.

  "Don't panic," a female voice said. "It's only six-thirty."

  He rolled over, stretched and looked up at Sandra Holmes standing over him at the side of the bed a bright red cup in her hands and a smug smile on her face.

  Now it was all coming back to him. Sandra. Sex. Satis­faction. Jim smiled. "Good morning."

  "Yes, it is a good morning. And it was an incredible night." When Sandra sat down on the edge of the bed and held out the red mug to him, her oversized T-shirt rode up high enough to give him a glimpse of her naked thighs and bare hips. It was obvious that she wasn't wearing any panties.

  Yeah, it had been a rather incredible night. Sandra was a top-notch officer, as good as any man on the force, but in the bedroom she was all woman. And his two performances last night—or rather early this morning—hadn't been too shabby, if he did say so himself. From the way Sandra had acted when she came both times, he figured he must have done some­thing right.

  As he sat up in bed the sheet dropped to his hips. He reached out and took the mug from Sandra. "I hope this is coffee."

  "Hot and black."

  "Just the way I like it." Taking a sip, he focused on the mug in order to avoid prolonged eye contact with the woman sitting beside him.

  Jim wasn't sure what to say now. He'd never been much good at mornings after and this time, things were a bit more awkward than usual. This was a first for him—the first time he'd ever slept with a fellow police officer.

  "I'm glad you stopped by last night," she told him.

  "Yeah, me, too." He took another sip of coffee.

  She chuckled the sound deep throated. "It's okay, Jim, I don't expect anything from you this morning. Last night, I wanted you and you wanted me. We had some fantastic sex— twice—but we didn't make any promises or declare our un­dying love. If this turns out to have been a one-night stand I'm okay with it. And if we decide we want to see each other again, that's fine with me, too."

  Jim heaved a huge internal sigh, although outwardly he simply looked at Sandra and grinned. He took another swig from the mug, then handed it back to her and said "I'd better get going. I need to run by my apartment to shower, shave and change clothes before heading to the office."

  Sandra stood then keeping her back to him, responded "I'm off duty this weekend so I'll see you Monday." Not waiting for him to comment, she walked out of the bedroom, into the adjoining bath and closed the door behind her.

  Jim jumped out of bed picked up his discarded clothing and dressed as quickly as he could. But he felt he needed to say something to Sandra before he left, even if it was just good-bye. He walked over and knocked on the bathroom door.

  "Yeah?" Sandra called. "I'm leaving now."

  She eased the door open no more than three inches, just enough for him to get a glimpse of her naked body. Her hot body. The lady was stacked.

  "Come back anytime."

  Jim swallowed hard. "Yeah, I just might. Thanks."

  "Thank you." She winked at him, then closed the door.

  Get going while you still can. If you don't leave now, you 'll be humping her in the shower in three minutes flat.

  Jim all but ran to the front door and out into the hall. As he headed downstairs, he slowed his pace and started whist­ling.

  Chad George met Annabelle when she entered the tenth floor of the Criminal Justice Center. She'd called his cell phone on her drive into Memphis to tell him she had decided she wanted to be there this morning when the DNA results came in. After all, she felt she owed him the courtesy of telling him beforehand and not just showing up unannounced.

  "There's really no need for you to be here," he told her. "I would have phoned you with the information." He slipped his arm through hers and led her straight to the interview room, which was empty. "Let me get you some coffee."

  "No, thank you." She glanced around the room and out into the office through the open door. "Am I the first to ar­rive?"

  "We're expecting Cortez and Aaron Tully, along with Cortez's lawyer, any minute now, and Randall Miller's bring­ing his lawyer with him, too."

  "Have you seen the DNA report?"

  "No, I just arrived a few minutes ago. I'm sure my part­ner has the report by now."

  Annabelle noted something in Chad's voice and in the expression on his face. Anger? Yes, that was it—disguised anger, but anger nonetheless. Was he upset that his partner, the senior detective on the case, would see the report first?

  "Will you be staying in Memphis overnight?" Chad asked. "If you are, I'd like to take you to dinner."

  "I'm staying, but I have to decline your offer. I've already made plans for this evening." She had no intention of telling him that she planned to spend the evening with Quinn.

  "Oh." A combination of irritation and disappoint-ment etched his features. "Another time then."

  When Chad started to say something else, she just knew he was going to ask her with whom she'd made plans for this evening. But Jim Norton breezed into the room whistling, unwittingly coming to her rescue.

  The minute Lieutenant Norton saw Annabelle, he nodded to her and said, "Good morning, Ms. Vanderley. I didn't ex­pect to see you today."

  "I decided I should be here to represent the family." And to be with Quinn when he finds out whether or not he fa­thered Lulu's baby.

  "You're certainly welcome," Norton said. "The Memphis police dep
artment wants to do everything possible to assist you and the Vanderley family."

  Jim Norton held a file folder securely tucked beneath his arm. The DNA report? As he laid the folder on the table and pulled out a chair, Annabelle studied the police lieutenant. Broad shouldered lean hipped washboard flat belly. His dark brown hair was cut conservatively short. His clothes were neat, but inexpensive, probably several years old and pur­chased off the rack. He appeared to have freshly shaved this morning and there was a twinkle in his eyes. She sensed that he was happy about something. Something personal.

  "Have you read the report?" Chad eyed the folder, then reached for it.

  After sitting down, Jim slammed his big hand down on top of the folder, preventing Chad from picking it up. "Yeah, I've read it. And as soon as everyone involved gets here, I'll reveal the results."

  Chad glowered at his partner.

  Voices outside the open door gained Annabelle's atten­tion. A silver-haired man in his fifties and a forty-something, partially bald man entered the room. Pleasantries were ex­changed between Chad and the silver-haired man whom Chad called Mr. Miller. So that was one of Lulu's other lovers, the one she referred to as Randy. The man was twice Lulu's age, but that was no surprise. Lulu loved older men. Especially rich and powerful older men.

  "Let's get this over with," Randall Miller said.

  "We're waiting for Mr. Cortez and Mr. Tully," Chad ex­plained.

  "Who's this Tully?" Miller asked.

  "Another man who had sex with Lulu Vanderley in the past two months," Lieutenant Norton said. "Another daddy candidate."

  Miller's face pinched into a displeased expression.

  "Won't you sit down, Mr. Miller? And you, too, Mr. Baldwin." Chad pulled out a chair for Miller.

  Annabelle couldn't help noticing the differential way in which Chad treated Randall Miller and his lawyer. The ex­pression "kissing up" immediately came to mind. It had be­come quite apparent to her that Chad aligned himself with people he thought could benefit him in some way. What did he think real estate czar Miller could do for him? Just what were Chad's plans for his future?