Bone Cold (15 page)

Saturday, January 20
The French Quarter

A
t 7:00 p.m. sharp, Bill and Dalton knocked on her apartment door. Anna sashayed out, feeling sassy, sexy and more than ready for a night out with her friends. She deserved it, she had decided. For tonight, she would put everything that had happened in the past days out of her mind. She had even taken Bill's suggestion and invited Ben to join them.

“Couldn't your handsome doctor make it?” Dalton asked as if reading her mind.

“He's going to try.” She locked her apartment door, dropped her keys into her purse and turned to face her friends. “He had several late appointments.”

“His loss,” Bill murmured, taking in her tight blue jeans, soft black sweater and leather jacket. “You look good enough to eat tonight, darlin'.”

“Thank you very much, kind sir.” She laughed and then the threesome linked arms. “It sucks, however, that the two nicest and best-looking guys I know are gay.
Doubly sucky is the fact that they also happen to be the two men I spend the most time with.”

“All the more reason to fais do-do,” Dalton teased.

“Or cha-cha-cha,” Bill added, his smile devilish. “Maybe tonight's your night for a trip to paradise.”

Anna laughed with them, but she had no plans of cha-cha-chaing with anybody tonight. Not Ben—if he even showed—or anybody else. Casual sex was definitely not her style.

The three exited the building and started toward Tipitina's. The club, a famous fixture on the local music scene, was located only a dozen or so blocks from their apartment. Though cold, they chose to walk instead of cab, warmed by each other's company and the night's many possibilities.

Tipitina's was in full swing when they arrived. The Zydeco Kings drew crowds wherever they played, and particularly on a weekend night in the French Quarter. The crowd was a mix of locals and tourists, ranging in age from those barely of legal age to those one step from the grave—and everything in between.

Bill spotted some folks he knew from the arts council and they headed that way. They had a table, to which they added more chairs. Some friends of theirs from the neighborhood joined them, they brought some friends of their own. They dragged over another table, then added more chairs.

For the first hour Anna watched diligently for Ben. After that, she gave up, accepting that he wasn't going to show. Although disappointed, she let herself be pulled into the carnival-like atmosphere of the night.

The beer flowed. The music poured forth, a toe-tapping combination of guitar, washboard and harmonica. In true New Orleans fashion, Anna and her friends
ate and drank too much, laughed often and too loudly. Anna's group became loud, then rowdy. She found herself having more fun than she'd had in ages, dancing with one partner after another, laughing until her sides ached.

Anna returned to the table, hot, out of breath. “Water,” she gasped as she sank onto the chair beside Dalton, fanning herself. She grabbed her glass and downed it.

Dalton slid her his. “No sign of the good doctor yet?”

“Nope.” She sighed and eased against the chair back. “I've been watching.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I see that.”

She glared at him. “I have. In between dips and twirls.”

“Mmm. It's probably for the best anyway.”

She took a swallow of Dalton's water. “Yeah? And why's that?”

“Because,” Dalton murmured, “there's an incredibly good-looking guy staring at you right now. A real stud.”

“Me?” she said, twisting in her seat. “Where?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “But wait, don't look yet. You don't want to appear too eager.”

She looked anyway. All she could see was a sea of bodies. She turned back to her friend, pouting. “He's probably looking at
you,
Dalton. In this town, it seems like the best-looking guys are always gay.”

“No such luck this time, my sweet. This one's one hundred percent hetero, unless my gaydar's gone haywire. He's looking again… Uh-oh he's coming this way. Be still my heart, this one's a wet dream.”

“Coming this way?” She craned her neck to see
around a couple who had decided to two-step directly in her line of vision. “Are you sure—”

The man twirled the woman; the crowd parted. Her heart stopped.

Detective Malone.

And he most definitely was heading her way.

She swallowed hard as she watched him approach, unable to tear her gaze away.
Dear God, Dalton was right. In his blue jeans and chambray shirt, he really was a wet dream.

Anna decided that she had danced one too many two-steps and downed one too many Abita beers.

“Hello, Anna,” he said, stopping beside her table.

“Detective Malone,” she replied, her voice sounding high and nervous to her own ears.
What the hell was wrong with her?

“Call me Quentin.” He flashed her a quick smile. “Or just Malone, like everybody else.”

Dalton nudged her. “You going to introduce me to your friend, Anna?”

Her cheeks warmed. “Of course. Dalton, this is Detective Quentin Malone. The detective I told you about.”

“Oh,
that detective.
” Dalton smiled and held out a hand. “Anna didn't tell me you were a stud.”

Quentin shook his hand, apparently unfazed. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“If you ask her to dance, maybe she'll give you the opportunity to prove your stuff. If you're lucky.”

“Dalton!” She glared at her friend, irritated. “I suggest you switch to something nonalcoholic or go home and sleep it off.”

Quentin ignored her comment and held out his hand.
“I'd love the opportunity to prove my stuff. Dance with me, Anna?”

She opened her mouth to refuse but found herself being pushed to her feet by Dalton. As he did, he whispered “Paradise,” in her ear.

“Funny guy,” Quentin murmured, drawing her into his arms. “A good friend?”

“Yes.” She met his gaze and tipped up her chin, challenging him to make some crack about gays.

He didn't. Instead, he drew her a little closer. “You smell good.”

“Cool it, Casanova,” she murmured. “If Dalton hadn't all but dragged me to my feet, we wouldn't be dancing right now.”

“I'll have to thank him later.”

He swung her around and their thighs brushed. Her pulse jumped, and she frowned. “Save it. I promise you, tonight is definitely
not
your lucky night.”

“Aw, cher,” he murmured in a Cajun patois, pressing his mouth close to her ear, “you're breaking my heart.”

His breath stirred against her ear, warm, sensual. She steeled herself against the small flame of arousal it ignited inside her. “Sorry, Detective. Devastating as that patented charm might be to other women, it's not working on me.”

“Really?” He lowered his voice to a husky caress. “I thought it was working quite well.”

He was right, dammit.
She met his gaze, feigning cool irritation. “Actually, I find overconfident men a bore. I suggest you go lasso a malleable, willing little thing who'll buy your shtick, because it's wasted on me.”

She made a move to break away; he brought their
joined hands to his heart. “Aw, cher, cut a good ol' Cajun boy some slack. Dance with me.”

“With a name like Quentin Malone, I doubt you have a Cajun bone in your body. More like a good dose of Irish blarney.”

He laughed and drew her back into his arms. “You misjudge me, Anna.”

“Dalton said you'd been watching me. Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Don't play games with me, Detective. And don't feed me a line about me being the most beautiful woman in the room. I'm not naive or self-deluded enough to buy that.”

His smile faded. “Maybe I thought you needed protecting.”

“From whom? Dalton?” She made a sound of derision. “Please.”

The hand at her waist tightened. “From the kind of man who comes to a place like this to hunt. A predator looking for a woman like you, shaking it on the dance floor, uninhibited. Oblivious to his attention. Waiting.”

“As far I know, you were the only one watching me.”

“But I'm one of the good guys.”

“How do I know that?” She tipped up her chin, angry at his attempt to frighten her. “Because you wear a badge?”

“Yeah, because I wear a badge.”

“Sorry if that doesn't inspire my confidence.” She broke free of his grasp, suddenly more than angry. Suddenly, she was furious. “And what's that supposed to mean, ‘shaking it on the dance floor'? What are you saying? That I'm loose? Some sort of a cocktease?”

“I didn't mean that. Look, Anna, two women are dead. Both redheads. Both spent the last night of their lives out with friends, having a good time. Nothing wrong about that. Nothing except they caught the attention of someone they shouldn't have. Someone who was watching.”

Gooseflesh crawled up her arms. She shook the sensation off and faced him, cheeks on fire. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“Yes. Because people who are scared are careful.”

For a single moment, she couldn't find her voice. Her thoughts flooded with the things she would say if she could speak. And with memories. Ones she wished she could forget. Ones of a trusting thirteen-year-old girl and an innocent six-year-old boy.

“Sometimes being careful means shit,” she said softly, voice shaking. “Sometimes being a target has nothing to do with anything but being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm fine, Detective Malone. Leave me alone.”

She turned and walked away, dodging two-stepping couples, earning a number of curious—and annoyed—glances. He didn't do as she requested, however, and caught up with her at the edge of the dance floor.

Hand to her elbow, he turned her to face him. “I'm sorry if I upset you.”

“Well, you did. Now, for the second time, leave me alone.”

She broke free of his grasp and crossed to Dalton. “I'm going home. Please hand me my purse.”

“Anna?” He shifted his gaze to Malone, expression confused. “I don't understand. What's wro—”

“I have this effect on women,” Malone said. “Big feet, big mouth. The curse of the Malone clan.”

Anna didn't smile. She held her hand out. “My purse, Dalton. And jacket. Please.”

Dalton handed it to her. “I'll grab Bill and we'll all go.”

“No need. You to stay and have fun.” She bent and kissed his cheek. “Tell Bill I said good-night. I'll see you in the morning.”

Dalton hesitated and once more Malone stepped in. “Don't worry, I'll take her home. Just give me a minute to let my partner know what's going on.”

She looked disbelievingly at him. “No, you won't take me home. This is good-night.”

She walked away. He followed her. “I know you're angry at me, but don't be stupid. Women are dying.”

She wouldn't be afraid. She wouldn't allow him to make her afraid. The French Quarter was her home. She had dozens of friends who lived between the bar and her apartment building. Because of her past, there were already too many areas of her life where she harbored fear. But not here. Here she felt safe.

“Look, Detective, I relieve you of all responsibility for my safety. In fact, I insist. Good night.”

She marched toward the bar's front entrance, Malone on her heels.

“Let me call you a cab.”

“No.”

“Anna, this is no joking matter. There's a killer out there.”

“And a rapist and crook and a…a kidnapper.” She fought for an even breath. “But I can't live in fear. This is my home. I live a dozen blocks from here. Between here and there are the residences of several friends, ones I could call on in case of emergency. In addition, I've walked through the Quarter alone hundreds of times,
never with any problem—” She could see by his set features that her argument was falling on deaf ears.

She tried another tack. “Fine. All right, I give up.” She sighed with feigned exasperation. “Walk me home if it'll help you sleep. Go tell your partner, I'll wait here.” She frowned. “Just don't take too long. I'm liable to take off.”

He looked relieved. “Great. I'll be right back.” He started off, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Promise you won't bolt?”

She held up two fingers. “Scout's honor.”

The moment he disappeared into the crowd, she turned and ducked out the door. She smiled at her own ingenuity, only feeling the tiniest prickle of guilt at having tricked him. After all, he was the one who had forced his company on her.

Besides, she had never been a Scout.

Anna walked quickly, certain that the moment Malone discovered her gone, he would try to catch up with her. She frowned. What a pushy, overbearing man. No doubt that obstinate and dogged determination made him a good cop. It also made him annoying as hell.

She hugged her leather jacket tighter around her, cold without Dalton and Bill's company. The French Quarter streets—their sounds, sights and smells—were familiar. Comfortable.

Usually. But not tonight. It had rained while she had been in Tipitina's, one of those cold, drenching downpours that sent all but the hardiest—and most fool-hardy—in for the night. The deserted sidewalks were glassy and slick; the dampness seeming to seep through the soles of her shoes, chilling her.

She turned onto Jackson Square. The storefronts around the Square were dark, closed up tight for the
night. She glanced at her watch, noting that it was after one already, much later than she had thought.

Two women were dead. Both redheads. Both killed after a night out clubbing with friends.

Anna muttered an oath and hugged herself tighter. Damn Detective Malone for frightening her. Damn him for forcing himself into her evening and ruining it. She was fine. Safe and in no danger at all.