Amnesia

by Beverly Barton

  “Yes, of course, if that’s what you think is best.”

  “Good decision,” Griffin told her. “I’ll talk to y’all tomorrow or before then if I have any relevant news.”

  As soon as Griffin left, Quinn shoved his chair back from the table and got up, leaving behind his untouched breakfast.

  “Quinn?”

  With his back to her, he inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm his anger. Anger directed at himself. What had he been thinking becoming Annabelle’s lover? Hell, he hadn’t been thinking and that was the problem. He’d wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone. And what Quinn wants, Quinn gets.

  “I’ve put you in danger by becoming your lover,” he told her. “God, Annabelle, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  With his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, he didn’t hear her approach, didn’t know she was behind him until she slipped her arms around him and laid her head on his back.

  “Don’t do this to yourself. You didn’t become my lover without my full cooperation, you know.”

  “But what if he comes after you?” Quinn couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Annabelle.

  “If he does, you’ll stop him. Or Griffin will. Or Lieutenant Norton.” Annabelle gasped. “Quinn, what if…if the police were to set a trap for him and use me as bait.”

  Quinn whirled around, grabbed her and hugged her fiercely. “Don’t think such a thing. And never, under any circumstances, suggest such a thing to the police. Do you hear me?”

  When she didn’t respond, he grasped her shoulders and shook her. “Annabelle? Do you understand?”

  She wrapped her arms around him and whispered, “Yes, I understand.”

  They hadn’t gone out at all today, instead they’d stayed in Annabelle’s suite and made love. After leaving their uneaten breakfasts on the table, they’d talked for a while, then Quinn had made a phone call. Half an hour later, a bellman had come to the door and delivered a small sack, which Annabelle soon discovered contained a box of condoms.

  “What if he tells the reporter?” she had teased Quinn.

  “You don’t care any more than I do.”

  They had made love in a wild frenzy, then slept for a couple of hours and ordered a late lunch. After devouring every bite on their plates, including a sinfully rich dessert that they shared, they made love again.

  What better way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon? Annabelle stretched her arms above her head, then rolled over and snuggled up against Quinn, who suddenly seemed a million miles away as if he were thinking very hard about something. Was he still worrying about the fact that the killer would find out they were lovers and possibly come after her?

  “Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

  He slipped his arm beneath her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “I don’t want us to have any secrets. I’ve told you why you shouldn’t be with me, why I’m such a poor risk for any woman.”

  She placed her index finger over his lips. “That’s the past. This is the present. You may not realize it yet, but you love me.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Before we take things any further—make any kind of plans—there’s something I have to tell you.”

  For about half a minute, Annabelle couldn’t breathe. “What?” she asked in a whooshing gasp.

  “About a year ago, I had an odd sleepy episode, sort of a blackout of some kind. And I’ve had three more since then.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “No. I didn’t think much about the first two, just chalked each one up to being overly tired. And even the third time, I wasn’t sure. But the fourth time, I knew something was wrong.”

  “We’ll make an appointment with the best doctor in Memphis and—”

  “No, not yet. I can’t. I…” He sat up in bed, pulling her with him, then turned her to face him. Looking at her, but not touching her, he said, “The first spell happened the morning Joy Ellis was murdered in New Orleans and the second happened the night Carla Millican was killed in Dallas.”

  Annabelle thought her heart stopped at that moment. For half a second at least. “And the other two times?”

  “The night Lulu was killed and the night Kendall was killed.”

  Oh, God! What was he trying to tell her?

  “Annabelle…querida…what if when I blacked out, I didn’t know what I was doing and I actually killed—”

  She grabbed him and wrapped her arms around him. “No!” She screamed the word. “You did not kill anyone and you know you didn’t.”

  Silence.

  “Quinn Cortez, I love you. And I trust you.”

  “You don’t know what it means to me for you to say that to me now. I don’t think I’m capable of cold-blooded murder, but it can’t be a coincidence that I’ve passed out each time one of my lovers was murdered.”

  “You’re right, it can’t be a coincidence, which means someone is drugging you. Someone wants you to think you might have killed those women. And they’re making sure you don’t have an alibi for the time the murders occur.”

  He enfolded her completely in his embrace and pressed his cheek to hers. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I swear I’ll protect you. If I lost you—”

  “You aren’t going to lose me. Not ever.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “That, my darling, is a solemn vow.”

  Chapter 27

  Jim Norton didn’t subscribe to the daily Commercial Appeal or any other paper or magazines. He usually glanced over the newspaper at work, but got the bulk of his news from TV, the way most people did. So, today when he’d been running late and hadn’t even flipped on the nineteen-inch television in his small living room, he had missed the news that the entire Criminal Justice Center was abuzz with this Tuesday morning. He heard snippets of gossip in the elevator, just enough to pique his curiosity. Something concerning the big story in the Commercial Appeal about four of Cortez’s lovers being victims of a serial killer. After getting off the elevator on the tenth floor, he went in search of a newspaper, which wound up being easy to find. Sandra Holmes handed him a copy when he stopped by her cubicle.

  “Somebody’s going to be in deep shit,” she said. “Only a handful of people were in possession of this information, right?”

  Jim scanned the headlines—DEADLY LADY-KILLER—and then the accompanying article that informed the readers about Quinn Cortez’s connection to four murder victims, the two most recent here in Memphis.

  “Goddamn,” Jim cursed under his breath. “Where’s Chad?”

  “He’s in Inspector Purser’s office. And the director is in there with them. Why do you ask? You don’t think Chad—”

  “It’s a sure bet that Cortez, his lawyer or Griffin Powell didn’t leak this information to the press, so that leaves the Memphis PD. I know I didn’t breathe a word of this to anyone, so by process of elimination…”

  “Jim, don’t go in there half-cocked and make accusations you can’t prove,” Sandra warned. “For all you know, Chad’s in there right now covering his ass if he did do it.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past the little prick to try to implicate me.”

  “I doubt he’d do anything that stupid. Purser has known you for a long time. He knows you’re a man of integrity.”

  Jim halfway smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Sandra looked at him with a soft glint in her eyes as if remembering their recent night together. That hungry look lasted all of thirty seconds, then she smiled back at him and glanced at the newspaper he held. “Why would Chad, or anyone else, leak that info?”

  “To sway the court of public opinion. Chad wants Cortez to be guilty, but we don’t have enough evidence against the man to arrest him. If the public demands an arrest, that will put pressure on Director Danley, which in turn puts pressure on Ted Purser to make an arrest.”

  “I don’t like to think that one of our own would try to manipulate
the situation. I know Chad’s got his faults, but maybe you’re wrong about him.” Sandra reached up and grasped Jim’s arm. “Don’t do or say anything you might regret later.”

  Jim pulled loose of her hold and handed her the newspaper. “Anything I have to say, I’ll say one-on-one to Chad. But you can be sure that Cortez’s lawyer is going to be demanding some answers. I see an all-out inquiry into this matter. Somebody’s going to get blamed for this and it sure as hell won’t be me.”

  “Norton!”

  Recognizing Ted Purser’s gravelly voice, Jim groaned.

  “Jim, please…” Sandra issued him a cautionary look.

  He smiled at her, then turned and headed toward the inspector’s office, where Ted stood in the doorway waiting on him.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” Jim took his time, sauntering leisurely toward his boss.

  “We need to talk. Now,” Purser said.

  As soon as Jim entered the inspector’s office and the door closed behind him, he glanced around at the small group assembled there. Ted Purser, of course. And Director Danley, Chad George and DA Campbell.

  “You’ve seen this morning’s Commercial Appeal,” Purser said in a matter-of-fact manner.

  Jim nodded.

  “I’ve already had a call from Cortez’s lawyer,” Director Danley said. “He’s demanding somebody’s head on a silver platter and he wants it served to him ASAP.”

  “I was just explaining to the director that I do not believe anyone in my department leaked this information,” Ted Purser said. “Chad’s assured us that neither he nor you were in contact with any reporters.”

  “Jim and I aren’t the only ones who possessed this information about Cortez’s link to these four murder victims,” Chad said. “There are others in homicide who could have leaked the info to the press. Sandra Holmes ran a check—”

  Jim growled, the sound coming from deep in his chest. Before he hit Chad with a scurrilous glare, the sergeant stopped midsentence.

  “I wasn’t implying that Sandra is the one who did it,” Chad said. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think she did. She’d have no reason to have done it. Right, Jim?”

  “That’s right,” Jim said. “But all we have to do is find someone who did have a reason to want the public up in arms about Cortez, someone who wants Cortez arrested, even without hard cold facts to back up that arrest. Now, who would that be?”

  Chad flushed. Inspector Purser glanced back and forth from Jim to Chad. Not picking up on Jim’s subtle accusation, the director and the DA looked at him with puzzled expressions.

  Ted Purser cleared his throat. “We’ll be doing an internal investigation into this matter. We wanted you two to be forewarned since you’re the detectives in charge of the Vanderley and Wells murder cases.”

  “Will that be all?” Jim asked.

  “For now,” Purser replied.

  “Chad, you coming?” Jim asked.

  “Sure thing.”

  Jim walked out of the office, then waited for Chad to emerge, knowing his partner would have a few choice words for him. Right on cue, the minute Chad came out, he nailed Jim with a you-son-of-a-bitch glare, then motioned to Jim to follow him. They wound up in the restroom.

  Chad looked around, checking to see if they were alone, then when he saw that it was just the two of them, he said, “What kind of game are you playing, Norton?”

  Jim grinned. “I think that should be my question, don’t you?”

  “You practically accused me of being the one who leaked the story to Bob Regan.”

  “Is that the name of the Commercial Appeal reporter who wrote the article about Quinn Cortez?”

  Chad clenched his teeth, then took a deep breath. “I could have pointed the finger at you, but I didn’t. You’re my partner. It’s my job to cover your back, right? I expected the same from you.”

  “I can’t prove you gave confidential information to the press,” Jim said. “I’m not even a hundred percent sure you did it. But you’re the only one I know who wants Cortez to be guilty so badly that you’d resort to underhanded, unethical methods to get the man arrested.”

  “You’re a good one to talk about underhanded, unethical methods. At least I never went rogue and killed my partner’s murderer with my bare hands.”

  Jim saw red. Literally. Anger welled up inside him at an alarming rate. Do not let him get to you. He knew the right button to push to shove you over the edge. Don’t react. Don’t give him that satisfaction.

  When Jim moved, Chad jumped, then eased back away from him. The little shit’s afraid of me. Good. He should be.

  Without saying a word, Jim shoved open the restroom door and walked out, leaving Chad to stew in his own juices.

  Kendall Wells’s funeral at Memorial Park Funeral Home chapel in East Memphis didn’t involve the pomp and circumstance that Louisa Margaret Vanderley’s funeral had, but it was a solemn, dignified affair, with a respectable number of mourners. Those in attendance included not only Quinn and Annabelle, but Quinn’s entourage. Marcy Sims sat between Jace Morgan and Aaron Tully, on the same bench as Annabelle and Quinn. From time to time during the service, Annabelle felt someone staring at her and twice caught Marcy glaring her way. Apparently Marcy did have a major crush on Quinn and must be feeling quite jealous of Annabelle because, for the moment, she was the woman in Quinn’s life.

  One of Kendall’s partners in the law firm, Calvin Jeffreys, gave a rather touching eulogy, recounting not only Kendall’s professional accomplishments, but recalling several personal stories about his friend.

  Two teenagers flanked Kendall’s ex-husband, Dr. Jonathan Miles, who had glared daggers at Quinn as he made his rounds before the funeral, speaking to those in attendance in his role as grieving widower. Apparently, he’d seen the front-page article in this morning’s Commercial Appeal and, like most of the people in Memphis, probably thought Quinn was a murderer. No, not just a murderer, but a serial killer.

  Annabelle and Quinn had spent the past two days together in her hotel suite, making love, becoming better acquainted and trying to shut out the rest of the world. But this morning, just as he had Sunday morning, Griffin Powell brought the outside world to them. This time in the form of the Tuesday issue of the Commercial Appeal.

  “I’ve already called Judd Walker for you,” Griffin had said as he came barreling into Annabelle’s suite at eight o’clock this morning, a ferocious look on his face as he brandished the newspaper at Quinn. “Someone in the Memphis PD is going to lose his job over this.”

  Having awakened only when Griffin called and said he was coming straight to Annabelle’s suite, she’d still been in her gown and robe and Quinn had been wearing the rumpled slacks and shirt that he’d worn since Saturday.

  Quinn had grabbed the newspaper, hurriedly read through the article and cursed under his breath. “Once again this bastard, Bob Regan, stopped just short of accusing me of murder, but by printing the facts the way he did, it makes me look like a monster.”

  “Judd’s contacting Director Danley and demanding a thorough investigation,” Griffin had said. “Judd thinks the article may be grounds to sue the newspaper as well as the Memphis PD. He said to tell you that he’ll catch the first plane out of Chattanooga later today.”

  Annabelle had read every word of the article while Quinn and Griffin discussed strategy. If she didn’t know Quinn, if she were just a Memphis citizen, she would assume the worst about lady-killer Cortez. Bob Regan had stated the facts—that four of Quinn’s former lovers had been murdered and the police knew Quinn had no alibi for the time of the two Memphis murders. Other than the four of them—she, Quinn, Griffin and Judd—only the Memphis PD possessed those facts. Since she knew for certain that none of them had shared the information with Bob Regan, that left only one other source. Someone in the police department had deliberately given a reporter confidential information.

  Her first thought had been Chad George. Was this all her fault? Had Chad’s jealousy of Quinn pushed
him into disregarding the very law he’d sworn to uphold?

  Suddenly Quinn grasped Annabelle’s hand and urged her to stand, bringing her abruptly back to the present moment. Kendall’s funeral. Only then did she realize the service had ended. Snapping her mind back to the here and now, she rose from the pew and, holding Quinn’s hand, walked at his side down the aisle and out of the building. Kendall’s interment would follow at the Memorial Park Cemetery, but she and Quinn had agreed earlier that they would not attend.

  The very second they emerged from the South Chapel, a horde of reporters swarmed down on them like manic bees. TV cameras zoomed in on them, microphones were thrust in their faces and a dozen voices bombarded them with questions.

  “Is it true, Mr. Cortez, that you murdered four of your former lovers?”

  “How did you kill them, Quinn? Love ’em to death?”

  “Ms. Vanderley, are you Cortez’s latest ladylove?”

  “Aren’t you concerned you’ll be his next victim, Ms. Vanderley?”

  “How does it feel to sleep with a killer, the man who murdered your own cousin?”

  “How many others have there been, Cortez? Just how many women have you killed?”

  “Does it turn you on to kill? Is that the reason you do it?”

  Quinn draped his arm around Annabelle’s shoulders and did his best to push through the crowd, but the reporters en masse kept them trapped within a vicious circle.

  “Leave him alone!” a female voice shouted.

  All heads turned toward the sound of that voice and the reporter nearest the woman shoved his mike as close to her as he could get it. “Who are you? And why are you defending Quinn Cortez? Are you another of his lovers?”

  “Who I am doesn’t matter,” Marcy Sims said, her voice loud enough to gain the attention of all the other reporters. “Quinn Cortez is a good man. He hasn’t killed anyone. You have no right to accuse him of such horrible things.”

  “Oh, God,” Quinn groaned. “It’s Marcy. They’ll eat her alive.”