Читать книгу Bone Cold - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 11

Friday, January 12 5:45 a.m.

The scene resembled dozens of others Quentin had worked over the years. The seasons changed, the location, the number dead and amount of blood. The aura of tragedy did not. The smell of death. The perverted destruction of life that screamed so loudly no amount of small talk or tasteless one-liners could block it out.

This one stood out only because its location struck so close to home. A homicide was definitely not the kind of publicity a bar owner needed. And it’d been a quiet night murder-wise in New Orleans; Quentin figured this stiff would be page-one news. Too bad for Shannon.

Quentin swung out of his Bronco. The pavement was wet. The air damp and cold. To-the-bone cold. Quentin glanced up at the black, starless sky and shrugged deeper into his jacket. A lot of the locals complained about August in New Orleans. As far as he was concerned, hellfire hot beat out cold and damp as the grave any day.

But then, he’d spent too much time around the dead.

He flashed his shield at the uniform guarding the perimeter, then ducked under the yellow tape.

“Damn cold night to die,” the officer said, huddling deeper into his coat, obviously miserable.

Quentin didn’t comment. He crossed to the first officer, a rookie who hung out with his brother Percy. “Hey, Mitch.”

“Detective.” He shifted from his right foot to his left. “Man, it’s cold.”

“As a witch’s tit.” Quentin roamed his gaze over the area. “I’m the first.”

“Yup. Johnny on the spot.”

“Touch anything?”

“Nope. Checked her pulse and ID. Called it in.”

“Good. What’ve we got?”

“Female. Caucasian. According to her driver’s license, name was Nancy Kent. Looks like he raped her first.”

Quentin looked at the rookie. “Medical examiner’s on his way? “

Mitch nodded.

“Who found her?”

“Garbage collector.” Mitch jerked his thumb in the direction of the Dumpster. Two legs poked out from behind the far side of the Dumpster, which obscured the rest of the body. They were fish-belly white against the dark pavement. One foot was bare, the other encased in a strappy, high-heeled pump.

The hair on the back of Quentin’s neck prickled.

“Got the driver’s name and employee number,” Mitch continued. “He had to finish his route. Said he knew the drill, found a body once before. About ten years ago.”

“I’m going to take a look. My partner gets here, send him over.”

Quentin approached slowly, scanning the ground before him, left to right. Finally, with a sense of inevitability, he brought his gaze to the victim. She lay faceup on the pavement, eyes open, legs spread. Her black mini dress had been shoved up over her hips, her black G-string panties ripped half off. Her long red hair spread in a tangle around and over her face, partially covering her mouth, open to a silent scream.

The woman from the bar. The one who had refused Terry’s advances.

“Damn.” He muttered the word on an expelled breath, a cloud forming behind it.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. Terry approached, his face as pale as the one at the pavement below. “Evidence team just pulled up.” He rubbed his hands together. “Could this creep have picked a crappier night to—”

“We have to talk. Now.”

Terry’s gaze moved past Quentin’s to the victim. A sound slipped past his lips; it reminded Quentin of one a small, trapped animal might make. He returned his gaze to Quentin’s. “Oh, shit.”

“You’ve got that right, partner,” he said grimly. “And it’s about to hit the fan.”