Bone Cold
That knowledge stole her peace of mind and sometimes, like tonight, her sleep as well. It also fueled her imagination, pouring out of her in dark, twisted tales that pitted good against evil.
“Didn’t you know?” she asked, keeping her tone light. “All my research is hands-on. So please, don’t look in the trunk of my car, and be sure to lock your door at night.” She lowered her voice. “If you know what’s good for you.”
For a split second, the men simply stared at her. Then they laughed. Dalton spoke first. “Very funny, Anna. Especially since that gay couple gets whacked in your new story idea.”
“Speaking of,” Bill murmured, brushing at the sprinkling of powdered sugar on the table in front of him, “have you heard anything on the new proposal yet?”
“Not yet, but it’s only been a couple weeks. You know how slow publishing can be.”
Bill snorted in disgust. He worked in advertising and public relations, most of the time he was going ninety-to-nothing, hair on fire. “They wouldn’t last two minutes in my business. Crash and burn, big time.”
Anna agreed, then yawned. She brought a hand to her mouth, yawning again.
Dalton glanced at his watch. “Good Lord, look at the time! I had no idea it was so—” He turned toward her, expression horrified. “Heavens, Anna! I forgot to tell you. You got another letter from your little fan. The one who lives across Lake Pontchartrain, in Mandeville. It came today to The Perfect Rose.”
For a split second Anna didn’t know who Dalton was referring to, then she remembered. A few weeks ago she’d received a fan letter from an eleven-year-old local girl named Minnie. It had come through Anna’s agent, in a packet with several others.
Though Anna had been disturbed by the thought that her adult novels had been read by a child, she had been charmed by the letter. Anna had been reminded of the girl she had been before the kidnapping, one who had seen the world as a beautiful place filled with smiling faces.
Minnie had promised that if Anna wrote her back she would be her biggest fan forever. She had drawn hearts and daisies over the back of the envelope and printed the letters S.W.A.K.
Sealed with a kiss.
Anna had been so captivated, she had answered the letter personally.
Dalton dug the envelope out of the pocket of his sweat-suit jacket and held it out. Anna frowned. “You brought it with you?”
Bill rolled his eyes. “He grabbed it right after he selected David from his weapon collection. It was all I could do to stop him from baking muffins.”
Dalton sniffed, expression hurt. “I was trying to help. Next time I won’t.”
“Don’t you pay any attention to Bill,” Anna murmured, taking the letter and sending Bill a warning glance. “You know what a tease he is. I appreciate you thinking of me.”
Bill motioned to the envelope. Like the previous one, the girl had decorated it with hearts, daisies and a big S.W.A.K. “It came directly to The Perfect Rose, Anna. Not through your agent.”
“Directly to The Perfect—” Anna realized her mistake and for a heartbeat of time, couldn’t breathe. In her zeal to answer the child, she had forgotten caution. She had grabbed a piece of The Perfect Rose’s stationery, dashed off a response and dropped it in the mail.
How could she have been so stupid? So careless?
“Open it,” Bill urged. “You know you’re curious.”
She was curious. She loved to hear that a reader enjoyed one of her stories. It was satisfying in a way nothing else in her life was. But a part of her was repelled, too, by this physical connection to strangers, by the knowledge that through her work strangers had an opening into her head and heart.
Her work provided them a way into her life.
She eased the envelope open, slid out the letter and began to read. Bill and Dalton read with her, each peering over a shoulder.
Dear Miss North,
I was so excited when I received your letter! You’re my very favorite author in the whole world—honest! My Kitty thinks you’re the best, too. She’s gold and white with blue eyes. She’s my best friend.
Our favorite foods are pizza and Chee-tos, but he doesn’t let us have them very often. Once, I sneaked a bag and me and Tabitha ate the whole thing. My favorite group is the Backstreet Boys and when he lets me out, I watch Dawson’s Creek.
I’m so glad you’re going to be my friend. It gets lonely here sometimes. I felt bad though, about what you said about me being too young to read your books. I suppose you’re right. And if you don’t want me to read them, I won’t. I promise. He doesn’t know I read them anyway and would be very angry if he found out. He frightens me sometimes.
Your friend and pen pal, Minnie
Anna reread the last lines three times, a chill moving over her. He frightened her. He didn’t allow her to eat pizza or Chee-tos often.
“Who do you think ‘He’ is?” Dalton asked. “Her dad?”
“I don’t know,” Anna murmured, frowning. “He could be her grandfather or an uncle. It’s obvious she lives with him.”
“It’s kind of creepy, if you ask me.” Bill made a face. “And what does she mean by ‘when he lets her out, she watches Dawson’s Creek?’ It makes her sound like a prisoner, or something.”
The three looked at each other. One moment became several; Anna cleared her throat, forcing a laugh. “Come on, guys, I’m the fiction writer here. You two are supposed to be my reality check.”
“That’s right.” Dalton smiled wanly. “What kid ever thinks they get enough junk food? In fact, at thirteen, I thought my parents were a couple of ogres. I felt so abused.”
“Dalton’s right,” Bill agreed. “Besides, if this guy was as bad as we’re making him out to be, he wouldn’t allow Minnie to correspond with you.”
“Right.” Anna made a sound of relief, folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. “It’s 2:00 a.m. and we’re overreacting. I think we all need to get some sleep.”
“I agree.” Bill stood. “But still, Anna, I wish you hadn’t answered her on Perfect Rose stationery. Given the types of books you write, who knows what kind of wackos might try to track you down?”
“It’s okay,” she murmured, rubbing at the goose bumps that crawled up her arms. “What harm could it be for an eleven-year-old girl to know where I work?”
2
Thursday, January 11 The French Quarter
“What are you saying, Anna?” Jaye Arcenaux asked, slurping the last of her Mochasippi up through her straw. “That you think this kid’s some sort of stalker or something? That would be so cool.”
Jaye, Anna’s “little sister,” had turned fifteen a couple of weeks ago and now everything was either so “cool,” or “totally out there.”
Anna arched an eyebrow, amused. “Cool? I hardly think so.”
“You know what I mean.” She leaned closer. “So, is that what you think?”
“Of course not. All I’m saying is, there was something strange about her letter and I’m not sure I should answer it.”
“What do you mean, strange?” Jaye reached across the table to snitch a piece of Anna’s chocolate-chip cookie. “Dalton said all three of you got the creeps.”
“He’s exaggerating. It was late and we were all tired.
But it did seem like there was something weird about her home life. I’m a little concerned.”
“Now you’re talking my area of expertise. I’ve seen pretty much every kind of weird home life there is.”
That was true, a fact that broke Anna’s heart. She didn’t let her feelings show, however. Jaye didn’t want her pity, or anyone else’s for that matter. Jaye accepted her past for what it was; she expected no less from those around her.
“Actually, I was hoping to get your opinion.” Anna reached into her purse and drew out the letter, handing it to Jaye. “I could be reading more into it than is there. After all, concocting trouble is my stock-in-trade.”
While Jaye read the letter, Anna studied the girl. Jaye was strikingly attractive for one so young, with finely sculpted features and large, dark eyes. Until a week ago, when she had shocked Anna by showing up sporting her just-dyed, flame-red hair, she had been a brunette, her tresses a warm mocha color.
Jaye’s physical beauty was only marred by the brutal scar that ran diagonally across her mouth. A final gift from her abusive father—in a drunken rage he had thrown a beer bottle at her. It had caught her in the mouth, splitting her lips wide open. The bastard hadn’t even gotten her medical attention. By the time the school nurse had taken a look at her mouth the following Monday morning, it had been too late for stitches.
But not too late to call Social Services. Jaye had been on her way to a better life, her father to jail.
A lump formed in Anna’s throat and she shifted her gaze. She had become involved with Big Brothers, Big Sisters of America after researching the organization for an element in her second novel. She had interviewed several of the older girls in the program and had been profoundly moved by their stories, ones of need, salvation and affection.
Those girls had reminded her of herself at the same age. She, too, had been troubled and lonely, she, too, had been in desperate need of an anchor in a time of emotional turbulence.
Anna had decided to become a Big Sister herself, figuring she didn’t have anything to lose by giving the program a try.
She and Jaye had been “sisters” for two years.
In the course of those two years, they had become close. It hadn’t happened easily. At first Jaye, cynical for her age, angry and distrustful from a lifetime of being hurt and lied to, hadn’t wanted anything to do with Anna. And she had made her feelings clear.
But Anna had persevered. For two years she had followed through on every promise; she had listened instead of lectured, counseled only when asked and had stuck to her own beliefs, standing up to the girl’s every test.
Finally, Jaye had begun to trust. Affection had followed.
That affection was a two-way street. Something Anna hadn’t expected going into the program. She had wanted to do something to help someone else, in return she had forged a relationship that filled a place in her life and heart that she hadn’t even realized was empty.
Jaye looked up. “You’re not imagining things. This guy’s bad news.”
Anna’s stomach sank. “You’re sure?”
“You wanted my opinion.”
“When you say bad news, what do you mean…that he’s—”
“Anything from a major A-hole to a pervert who should be behind bars for life.”
A bitter edge crept into Jaye’s voice, one that made Anna ache. “That’s a pretty broad spectrum.”
“I’m not a psychic.” Jaye shrugged and handed the letter over. “I think you should write her back.”
Anna pursed her lips, less certain than her young friend that she should continue the correspondence. “I’m an adult. She’s a child. That makes communicating with her tricky. I don’t want an accusation of impropriety to come back from her parents. And I can’t very well just ask her about her father.”
“You’ll think of something to say.” Jaye wiped her mouth with her napkin. “This kid needs a friend.”
Anna frowned, torn. A part of her, the part that had always played it safe, urged her to toss the letter and forget all about Minnie and her problems. The other part agreed with Jaye. Minnie needed her. And she couldn’t turn her back on a child in need.
“Are you going to eat the rest of your cookie?” Jaye asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“It’s all yours.” Anna slid the plate across the table. “You’ve been really hungry lately, isn’t Fran a good cook?” she asked, referring to Jaye’s foster mother.
“Good cook?” Jaye made a face. “She’s like the worst cook on the planet. I swear, she must have studied at the Cordon-ralph.”
Anna laughed, then sobered. “But she is nice, right?”
Jaye lifted a shoulder. “She’s okay, I guess. When she’s not riding her broomstick and sacrificing small children and stray dogs under the full moon.”
“Very funny, wise apple.”
Anna supposed she liked Jaye’s new foster mother well enough, but something about her didn’t add up. She always seemed to be trying too hard. As if her heart wasn’t really into fostering so she had to pretend. Anna had been unsettled from the moment they’d met.
Still, she had been hoping Jaye would like Fran Clausen and her husband, Bob.
They left the CC’s coffeehouse minutes later, making their way out onto the French Quarter sidewalk. “So, how is everything going?” Anna asked.
“School or home?”
“Either. Both.”
“School’s okay. So’s home.”
“Next time, don’t bog me down with so many details. I’m overwhelmed.”
The girl grinned. “Sarcasm, Anna? Cool.”
Anna laughed and they continued to make their way along the busy sidewalk, pausing occasionally to ogle a store’s display. Anna enjoyed the scents, sounds and sights that were the French Quarter: a blending of the mostly old and sometimes new, of the garish and elegant, the delectable and offensive. Populated by both tourists and locals, street performers and street people, the place had captivated Anna on sight.
“Look at that,” Jaye murmured, stopping to peer in at a display of faux-fur jackets in a shop’s window. She pointed to a zebra-print coat in a bomber style. “Is that cool or what?”
“It is,” Anna agreed. “You want to try it on?”
She shook her head. “Only if they’re giving it away. Besides, it wouldn’t go with my hair.”
Anna glanced at Jaye. “I’m finally getting used to you being a redhead. The best part is that we look like sisters now.”
Jaye flushed, pleased. They continued on their way.
After a couple of moments, Jaye glanced at Anna. “Did I tell you about that creep who was following me?”
Anna stopped and looked at her friend, alarmed. “Someone was following you?”
“Yeah. But I gave him the slip.”
“When did this happen? Where?”
“The other day. I was on my way home from school.”
“What did he look like? Was it just that once or has he followed you before? “
“I didn’t get that good a look at him. From what I did see, he was just another old pervert.” Jaye shrugged again. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s a very big deal. Did you tell your foster mom? Did she call—”
“Geez, Anna, get a grip. If I’d known you were going to flip out, I wouldn’t have told you. “
Anna took a deep breath. If she overreacted, Jaye would clam up. And that was the last thing she wanted. Jaye was a street-savvy kid, not an innocent who would be easily tricked by a stranger. She had even lived on the street for a time, a fact that never failed to make Anna shudder.
“Sorry for getting so intense,” she murmured. “Old people are such worrywarts.”
“You’re not old,” Jaye countered.
“Old enough to insist that if you see this guy again you’ll tell me and we’ll go to the police. Agreed?”
Jaye hesitated, then nodded. “Agreed.”
3
Thursday, January 11 The Irish Channel
Detective Quentin Malone entered Shannon’s Tavern, calling a greeting to a couple of his fellow officers. For many New Orleanians, Thursday night represented the official kickoff of the weekend festivities. Bars, restaurants and clubs all over the Crescent City benefited from the laissez les bon temps rouler attitude of the city’s residents, and Shannon’s Tavern was no different.
Located in the area of the city called the Irish Channel—named for the Irish immigrants who had settled there—Shannon’s catered to a working-class, local crowd. And to cops. The Seventh District of the New Orleans Police Department had adopted Shannon’s as their own.
Shannon McDougall, the tavern’s proprietor and namesake, a former bricklayer with hands the size and shape of meat hooks, had no problem with that. Cops kept the rougher crowd away. They kept the drugs, brawls and hookers out of his place and out on the street. As a way of thanking the boys in blue, he refused to allow any of the more seasoned officers to pay for anything. The rookies, however, were a different story. Just as in the force, the new kids on the block had to earn their stripes. Even so, tips were welcome from anyone and many a first of the month, green could be seen passing from a grateful detective or lieutenant’s hand to McDougall’s apron pocket.
Quentin definitely fell into the seasoned category. At thirty-seven he was a sixteen-year veteran of the force and a detective first grade. He was also a part of a NOPD family dynasty: his grandfather, father, three uncles and one aunt had been cops; of his six siblings only two had opted out of police work, Patrick who had become a number cruncher, and Shauna, the baby of the brood, who was studying art in college.
Quentin strolled toward the bar for a beer. He was waylaid by the barmaid, a perky twenty-three-year-old with super-short, spiky blond hair. She had made it plain she would love to go out with him, but Quentin had no desire to date a girl the same age as his kid sister. Something about that just felt a little weird.
“Hey, Malone.” She smiled up at him. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been around.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “You doing okay, Suki?”
“Can’t complain. Tips have been good.” She glanced toward a group making their way to one of the tables. “Gotta go. Talk later?”
“Sure.”
She started off then looked back over her shoulder at him. “John Jr. was in. He asked me to tell you to call your mother.”
Quentin laughed. John Jr. was the oldest of the Malone brood and had appointed himself caretaker of the family. If any of the siblings had a problem, they went to John Jr. If any one of them had an issue with another member of the family, they went to John Jr. And conversely, if John Jr. perceived there to be problem in the family, he took matters into his own hands. Obviously, Quentin had missed one too many of his mother’s Sunday dinners.
“Message received, Suki. Thanks.”
Quentin crossed to the bar. Shannon had already drawn the draft; he slid it across the counter. “On the house.”
“Thanks, Shannon. You seen Terry tonight?” he asked, referring to his partner Terry Landry.
“He’s here.” The older man jerked his thumb toward the back room of the bar. “Last I saw, he was breaking a new rack. Seemed a little off tonight, you know what I mean?”
Quentin nodded. He did indeed know what Shannon meant. His partner was going through a tough time. His wife of twelve years had recently kicked him out, claiming him impossible to live with.
Quentin didn’t doubt that was true. Because of the job, no cop was easy to live with. Terry, with his hard-partying ways and hair-trigger temper would be more difficult than most.
But even with his faults, Terry was a good father and a devoted husband. He loved his family and as far as Quentin was concerned, that counted for a lot.
Terry had taken the breakup hard. He was angry and hurt; he missed his two kids. He was drinking too much and sleeping too little, his behavior had become erratic. Partnering with him had become a tightrope walk.
But the way Quentin figured it, Terry had been there for him lots of times, now it was his turn. Partners stuck together.
Quentin motioned in the direction of the back room. “Think I might go lend a little aid and expertise. Wouldn’t want Terry to lose his rent.”
Shannon chuckled, shook his head and moved down the bar to serve another customer.
Quentin made his way through the still sparsely filled room. An hour from now it’d be standing room only, music blaring from the jukebox, a fine haze of cigarette smoke hanging above the crowd, a dozen or more couples gyrating on the makeshift dance floor. But for now, bar to back room was a clear shot.
Until Louanne Price stepped directly in his path, stopping his forward progress. The woman had the face of an angel and the body of one of Hugh Hefner’s bunnies, and many a man had fallen adoringly at her feet. Problem was, any man in the vicinity of Louanne’s feet would likely be kicked square in the gut. Or even lower.
That was the kind of woman Louanne was. And life was too short for a kick in the balls. Even if preceded by a trip to paradise.
She moved nearer Quentin, not stopping until her body brushed his. She stood on tiptoe, laid her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him. “Malone, sweetie, what am I going to have to do to get you to share some of that fine Irish sugar with me?”
He flashed her a quick smile. “Aw, Louanne,” he drawled. “You know Dickey’d kick my butt if I so much as wagged my tail in your direction.” Dickey was her father and an NOPD sergeant. “I’ll just have to lust after you from afar.”
“That would be a crime, I think. And you’re a cop, sworn to uphold the law.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “He wouldn’t have to know. It could be our little secret.”
Quentin set her away from him, feigning regret. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy aggressive women, he had certainly been friendly with a number of them. It was Louanne’s sly edge, her easy dishonesty that turned him off.
“Sorry, babe. You know there aren’t any secrets in the NOPD. At least ones that everybody doesn’t know. Catch you later.”
Quentin walked away without a backward glance. He found Terry just where Shannon had promised, a pool cue in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked up at Quentin, eyes glazed from drink.
Terry had been here awhile already.
“‘Bout time you got your ass down here. Night’s half over already.”
“Only if you’ve already drunk so much you’re going to be out cold an hour from now.” Quentin sauntered into the room. He pulled a chair from one of the tables, swung it around and straddled it. “Covered for you with the captain.”
Terry lined up his shot, drew back on the cue then followed through. The ball sailed into the pocket. “Where was I? The john?”
“You went to see Penny. To talk.”
“That bitch? No thank you.”
Quentin cringed. He’d known Penny Landry for ten years and she was many things, bitch not among them. Terry hurt, he was angry and bitter, but still Quentin couldn’t let it pass. Some things just weren’t right.
He took a swallow of his beer, working to keep his demeanor casual. “Seems to me she’s doing what she feels she has to. For herself and the kids.”
Terry missed his shot and swore. His opponent, a man Quentin had seen run a table many a time, smiled and stepped up to shoot.
Terry downed the last of his beer, then glared at Quentin. “Whose side you on, partner?”
“I didn’t know I had to take sides.”
“Damn right you do.”
“Penny’s a friend.” Quentin met the other man’s gaze evenly. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
Terry flushed. “This is just f’cking wonderful. Outstanding. My best friend’s telling me he—”
“Eight in the corner.”
They turned and watched as the other player nailed the shot.
“Rerack?” he asked.
“Screw it. The table’s yours.” Terry looked at Quentin. “I need a drink.”
The last thing his partner needed was another drink. But stating the obvious would serve no purpose but anger the other man. They left the pool room and headed out front.
In the twenty or so minutes he’d been in back, the crowd in the bar had doubled. Quentin saw a number of their fellow officers, his brothers Percy and Spencer among them. They caught sight of him and started over.
“What do you say we get out of here and go grab some grub? I’ll ask Percy and Spencer along.”
“Hell no.” Terry’s words slurred. “The night’s young. Ripe with possibil… Hey now, who do we have here?”
Quentin shifted his gaze in the direction Terry indicated. A woman in a spandex minidress was shaking it on the floor. She wore her bottle-enhanced red hair long, in a mass of tousled waves. As she danced, she moved her fingers through it, her gold bangle bracelets jangling as she did. It wasn’t clear if she was dancing with one man, several or just putting on a show for them all.