Читать книгу Bone Cold - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 18

Quentin watched Anna North walk away, half-amused, half-awed. Harlow Grail, in his office. Who would have thought it?

He had been fourteen when she’d been kidnapped and remembered sitting with his father and uncles and listening to them talk about the case. He remembered the newscasts, remembered staring at Harlow Grail’s image on TV and in the newspaper and thinking her about the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

He had fantasized solving the case and being a big Hollywood hero, and when she had escaped he had cheered for her—even as he’d listened to his father and uncles say that something about the case just didn’t add up.

Like it had the rest of the country, the Grail kidnapping had continued to fascinate him. Hers had been the first of many unsolved cases he had studied over the years.

“Hey, partner.” Terry ambled over to stand beside him. He motioned in the direction Anna North had gone. “Who was the dish?”

“Name’s Anna North.”

“She kill anybody?”

Quentin glanced at his partner from the corners of his eyes. “Only on paper. She’s a suspense novelist.”

“No joke? So, what’d she want with you? She gonna make you the hero in her next book? “

Remembering the way she had looked at him, Quentin doubted that. A victim, maybe. One who died a bloody and gruesome death. “Yeah,” he murmured, “something like that.”

Terry motioned the front desk. “We got our walking papers. LaPinto and Erickson just straggled in.”

Quentin glanced over. “They don’t look too good.”

“I say we get while the getting’s good.”

Quentin agreed. They signed out, then stepped out into the gray, chilly day. Terry shivered and zipped his leather jacket. “I’m getting pretty fucking sick of this cold. This is New Orleans, for Christ’s sake.”

“It could be worse,” Quentin murmured, looking up at the sky. “It could snow.”

“Bite your tongue, Malone. Remember the last time it snowed? A couple snowflakes and this town goes nuts. We’d be working around the clock.”

They reached his Bronco and Quentin unlocked the doors. After they had climbed in and buckled up, Terry turned to him. “So what did the redhead want? She really going to write you into her next book?”

Quentin grimaced. “With the way our meeting went, only if I get whacked right off the bat.”

The other man laughed. “No doubt about it, you’re a charmer.” He angled toward Quentin. “So, if she’s not going to make you her next hero, what’d she want?”

“She’s been getting some disturbing letters from a fan.”

“No joke? Threats?”

“Not to her, no. Supposedly this fan’s a kid. An eleven-year-old girl.”

“Supposedly?”

“I’ve got my doubts.” Quentin filled his partner in. “Ms. North believes the child’s in danger. I’ll fill in Lautrelle when he’s back to work. He can follow up if he thinks there’s anything there.”

Terry leaned his head against the rest and closed his eyes. “After getting a look at her, my mind’s made up. I’m putting in for transfer to the Eighth. Maybe they’ll give me Lautrelle’s caseload.”

“Give it up, Terror. No way you’d even get to first base. She’s way out of your league, partner.”

Terry smiled but didn’t open his eyes. “You so sure about that? I’ve nailed way classier broads than her before.”

“Nailed? Broad?” Quentin laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Quentin crossed Poydras Street, heading uptown. “How’d it go with PID yesterday?” The Public Integrity Division was the NOPD’s version of Internal Affairs. Terry had been called in for questioning about the Kent murder the day after her murder, then again yesterday.

“They asked me a shitload of questions about Nancy’s murder, then let me go. Thanks in no small part to your statement. I appreciate it, man.”

“I only told it the way I saw it.” He glanced at his partner and grinned. “What’s the deal? You and the deceased on a first-name basis now?”

“After the past week? We’re practically family.”

They drove in silence until they reached the Seventh. Quentin parked the Bronco; they climbed out of the vehicle and headed into the building. After signing in, they parted company. On his way through the squad room, Johnson called him over.

“What’s up?”

He tossed a manila folder across the desk. “Take a look.”

“The Kent homicide?” He flipped open the folder. “What’ve we got?”

“Official cause of death was suffocation. Raped first.”

Quentin scanned the medical examiner’s report. Other than tearing and bruising to the labia, she was relatively unmarked. A few abrasions to the back of her head, legs and arms and that was it.

“Weird,” he murmured.

“What?”

“She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

“Think she knew the guy?”

“Yeah, maybe. They get much from under her nails?”

“Nada. Got the blood test back. Our guy’s O-positive. Like nearly half the population of New Orleans.”

“Not me,” Quentin murmured, flipping forward in the report. “I’m A-positive.” He stopped, frowning. “You and Walden didn’t interview any women from the bar that night?”

“The waitresses. We focused on the guys. Why?”

“Think about it, Johnson. You’ve got this gorgeous woman monopolizing every available guy in the bar with her exhibitionist antics. Basically, she’s cutting in on every other woman’s chance of making a connection. Right?”

“Right.” The other detective scratched his head. “So?”

“So, you have some pretty pissed-off chicks. And what happens when somebody pisses you off?”

“You punch ‘em in the face?”

“Not in this case.” He answered his own question. “In this case, you can’t take your eyes off them. The other ladies at that bar were watching every move Nancy Kent made. Keeping count of the men she danced with and for how long. They’re who we have to talk to.”

Johnson nodded. “You’ve got a point, Malone.”

Quentin stood. “I’ll pay a visit to Shannon this afternoon, get a list of names. Start making calls.”

“By George,” Johnson said in an attempt at a British accent but coming off as a mentally challenged Cajun, “I think he’s got a plan.”