Bone Cold (18 page)

Monday, January 22
9:00 p.m.

B
en arrived home late that evening. The day had been hectic. Not only had he had back-to-back appointments, he had given up his lunch to fit in a patient in crisis then, though exhausted, had picked up Popeye's spicy fried chicken—his mother's favorite—and gone to the nursing home to have dinner with her as promised.

Ben sighed, fumbling for his keys. His plan to trap Anna's stalker had come up empty. Not one patient had given the book more than a cursory glance.

He refused to be discouraged. No, he hadn't caught his prey, but he had eliminated seven patients from his list of suspects. That was good news. It was a step forward. Tomorrow he would eliminate several more.

Ben unlocked the front door, stepped inside, then stopped, the hair on the back of his neck prickling.

Something felt wrong. He moved his gaze over the foyer, the parlor to his right and toward the dining room beyond. He frowned. The pocket door that separated
the two rooms was closed. Light streamed from beneath it.

He never closed that door.

Heart thundering, he started toward the parlor, moving slowly, his rubber-soled shoes silent on the wooden floor. He crossed to the fireplace, took the log iron from the rack, then closed the distance to the door.

He eased it open. The door slid silently back. Log iron at the ready, he stepped through the opening.

The room was empty. Nothing appeared out of place.

A sound came from the back of the house. A low murmur, like voices. The hair on the back of his neck prickled again.
Stop playing Rambo, Benjamin. Call the cops.

He started forward instead, adrenaline fed blood pumping crazily through his veins.

The sounds emanated from his bedroom. He reached the door, took a deep breath, grasped the knob and stepped inside.

The bedroom appeared empty. The television was on. Tuned to the Discovery Channel. Ben lowered the log iron, a self-conscious laugh rushing to his lips. He didn't remember leaving the set on, but that didn't mean he hadn't. He often played it while dressing, using it more for background noise than as entertainment. He crossed to the set, flipped it off and turned around.

His smile died. On the bed lay a large manila envelope, his name scrawled neatly in the upper left corner.

Ben stared at the envelope, a knot of apprehension in his throat. He didn't want to look at it. Didn't want to touch it.

He couldn't not.

He crossed to the bed, retrieved the envelope and opened it. Inside was an eight-by-ten, black-and-white photograph of him and Anna at the Café du Monde. The attached note was short and to the point:

 

I knew you'd like her.

I'll be watching.

 

Ben's hands began to shake and he slipped the photo and note back into the envelope. He should call the police. Call Anna.

His head began to hurt and he brought a hand to his temple. No. If he involved the authorities, the first thing they'd want would be a list of his patients, which he couldn't give them. They would insist on speaking with Anna, who already didn't like or trust the police. She would be upset. Frightened.

Their breakfast together had been so good. Their kiss had been…exciting. He hadn't felt about another woman the way he felt about Anna, not ever. He didn't want to lose her.

She seemed to feel the same about him.

So why this? Why now?

He sank onto the bed, exhausted, headache intense, a burning sensation behind his eyes. He told himself to go fetch a couple of the tablets his doctor had prescribed, but lay back against the mattress and stared blindly up at the ceiling instead.

Who was doing this? Why was he doing it?

He groaned and laid his arm across his eyes. And tonight, how had this person gotten in? When he arrived home, his front door had been locked. What about the back door? he wondered. What about the windows? He
needed to check them, although he would be surprised if he found any of them open. Living in metropolitan Atlanta had turned him into a fanatic about personal security.

His keys. The ones that had gone missing for twenty-four hours.

Ben sat up. Of course. The day they had disappeared he'd had them in the morning, had locked up his house then walked next door to the office. Once inside, he had tossed them on his desk. The same as he did every morning.

When he had gone to collect them, they had been gone.

Only to resurface twenty-four hours later. He had tripped over them. Literally.

He hadn't dropped them, the way he had assumed. Or brushed them off his desk and onto the floor. A patient—the same one who had broken in today, the same one who had left Anna's book and note about the E! program—had stolen them, made copies, then returned the keys two days later.

Ben's vision blurred, then cleared, a sign that his headache was making a move from excruciating to unbearable. He dragged himself off the bed, unwilling to give in to the pain, unwilling to let go of this mystery. Gritting his teeth, he went to each window then the back door. He checked to make sure each was secured—and to make certain his theory was correct and that he hadn't simply left one of them open.

He hadn't. Headache tablets in hand, he went to the phone. He called an all-night locksmith, then sat down to wait. When the locksmith had come and gone, he would collect his appointment book from his office. The book would tell him which of his patients had been in the day
his keys had gone missing. It would tell him if any of those same patients had been in twenty-four hours later. His sick friend might have just outfoxed himself.

He was going to find out who was doing this and stop them in their tracks.

Or die trying.

Tuesday, January 23
1:00 a.m.

A
quiet tapping awakened Jaye. She knew from the depth of the darkness and the silence that it was the deepest part of the night. The tapping came again, followed by a cat's meow.

“Shh, Tabby. I think she's sleeping.”

Jaye scrambled off the bed and hurried toward the door. “No,” she whispered when she reached it. “I'm awake. Don't go.”

For a moment, no sound came from the other side of the door. Then the other girl said, “I came to see if you're okay.”

“I am, but please don't leave.” She pressed closer to the door. “Stay and talk to me.”

“I don't know.” The girl's voice quivered. “He would be very angry if he knew I was here.”

“He won't find out,” Jaye said quickly. “I'll be quiet. I promise.”

The girl hesitated, then acquiesced. “Okay. But we have to be really quiet.”

Jaye promised. She knelt down in front of the pet door. “Tell me your name.”

“Minnie. And my kitty's name is Tabitha. She's my best friend.”

Jaye digested that. “Tabitha's a pretty name. What kind of cat is she?”

“A tabby. Her eyes are green. She has long, soft fur.”

Jaye smiled. “How old are you, Minnie?”

“Eleven. Tabitha's two.”

Jaye pressed closer. She heard the cat purring. “My name's Jaye. I'm fifteen.”

“I know. He told me.”

A chill raced up Jaye's spine, with it a feeling of dread. “Who is he, Minnie? Your dad or—”

“He's Adam. I don't know his last name.”

“How long have you been with him?”

“A long time,” the girl replied, sounding confused. “Forever, I think.”

Not forever, Jaye knew. This Adam had kidnapped Minnie, just as he had kidnapped her. “We have to work together, Minnie. I have friends who live near here. You help me get out of this room, and I'll get us away from him.”

“I can't. He would be very angry. He would hurt Tabitha. He's hurt…my friends before.”

Jaye squeezed her eyes shut. “You could go home, Minnie.” Her voice shook, and she worked to steady it. She sensed that Minnie would be more likely to have confidence in her if she sounded confident herself. “I'd make sure you got to go home.”

“Home,” she repeated, her whisper almost inaudible. “I don't remember home.”

Hatred rose up in Jaye, sudden and swift. For this
monster who would steal a child away from her family. With the hatred came a fierce determination to free them both and make him pay.

Certain that revealing her thoughts would send the other girl running, Jaye kept them hidden. “Tell me more about you, Minnie. Do you go to school?”

She didn't, but she did know how to read and write. That question led to others and before long, Jaye had what she thought was a good picture of the girl on the other side of the door. She was a timid girl, fair-haired and slight. She was a prisoner here and had been for some time, perhaps since she had been five or six years old.

Jaye told Minnie about herself, her life, the people she missed most. She told her about Anna.

Minnie began to cry.

“Don't cry,” Jaye said quickly. “Whatever I said, I'll stop. I didn't mean to make you—”

“It's not you. It's… He made me do it, Jaye. He made me write those letters. And now it's…it's my fault you're here. It's all my fault!”

Her voice rose, and Jaye tried to quiet her. She didn't want Minnie to awaken Adam. She didn't want to be alone again. “What are you talking about, Minnie? What letters?”

“The ones to your friend Anna. He made me do it. He said he would hurt Tabitha if I disobeyed.”

Jaye stiffened, alarmed. “Anna? I don't understand.”

But then she did. The fan letters Anna had received from that kid. The little girl.

Minnie.

Please God, no.

A shuffling sound came from the other side of the
door. When Minnie spoke, it sounded as if she had pressed her mouth to the pet door. “Your Anna's in danger. He talks about her all the time. He has these…plans. I listened.”

Minnie's voice lowered even more, almost as if it was fading away. Jaye pressed her ear to the door, straining to hear. “That's why he kidnapped you, Jaye. To get to Anna.”

A wave of icy-cold fear washed over Jaye. She thought of the fight with Anna, of the awful things she had said to her friend. Regret swamped her. Guilt.

All along, Anna had been right to be afraid. She had been right to keep her real identity a secret.

Jaye should have listened. A real friend would have. She should have put herself in Anna's shoes and tried to understand. But she hadn't.

Now, in a strange way, she was in Anna's shoes.

She had to warn her friend. She had to find a way to help her.

“Minnie?” she whispered. “What's he planning to do to Anna? You've got to tell me. We've got to find a way to help her.”

Only silence answered her and Jaye realized with a sense of loss that the other girl had gone.

Tuesday, January 23
7:00 p.m.

A
nna arrived home after a long, extremely busy day at The Perfect Rose. Typically, Tuesdays were slow, but this Tuesday had been an exception. When she hadn't been taking orders, she'd been helping Dalton fill them, adding bows, filling balloons and writing gift enclosures.

Frazzled, his fingers aching, Dalton had left her to close up shop. She had shooed him off, certain the last hour of the day would be dead slow. She had planned to straighten the shop, readying it for the next day. Instead, two frantic husbands had rushed in, one in search of flowers for his wife's birthday, the other for an anniversary.

Luckily, they'd both wanted roses—which she had been able to handle—though the two orders had eaten up her hour. She had stayed after, knowing that if tomorrow proved as busy as today, she and Dalton were going to need an orderly space in which to work.

Anna unlocked her apartment door and stepped
inside. She was hungry. And tired. And feeling about as low as a snake's belly.

Today, her agent had called. Cheshire House had made one last offer. It had been a good one, slightly better than before. They had wanted an answer immediately.

Her answer had been no.

Sighing, Anna tossed her keys onto the entryway table. She had wanted to accept—had wanted to with all her heart—but in good conscience she had been forced to refuse. No way in hell would she have been able to follow through on the publicity they proposed. She couldn't do it. Period.

The hopelessness of it had her feeling depressed. She planned to grab a sandwich and sit at her computer. She was hoping that getting back to work would lift her spirits. If she could just compose a good page or two, she knew she could rekindle her excitement about writing.

After changing into leggings and a big sweater, Anna headed to the kitchen. She glanced at the answering machine, noting that she had no messages, flipped on the radio and headed to the refrigerator.

The “Mardi Gras Mambo” filled her tiny kitchen, and Anna hummed under her breath as she collected her favorite sandwich fixings.

Turkey, she decided, loading up her arms. Lots of veggies and mayo. Big dill pickle. Maybe some chips. She set the ingredients on the counter, then returned for the pitcher of water, lifting it off the shelf.

Then she saw it. On a glass dessert plate topped with a red heart-shaped doily sat a finger. A pinkie finger.

Her heart rushed to her throat, a scream with it.

Anna took a step backward, the pitcher slipping from her fingers and crashing to the floor. Cold water sprayed her ankles and feet.

Kurt.

He'd found her.

Hysteria rose up in her; she turned and ran. Out of her apartment and into hall, next door to Dalton and Bill's apartment.

She pounded on the door, sobbing, calling their names.
Please be home. Please…please—

They were, and thirty minutes later she sat huddled beside Dalton on his couch, his arm protectively circling her shoulders. When she had been coherent enough to tell her friends what had happened, they had called Malone. Right now he and Bill were in her apartment, checking out the situation.

Anna drew in a shaky breath and Dalton squeezed her shoulders. “It's going to be okay, Anna.”

He didn't sound convinced. His voice shook slightly, and Anna wished she could reassure him. But she couldn't find the words.

Kurt had found her. He had been inside her apartment.

He meant to kill her.

She shuddered and pressed herself closer to Dalton's side. “I'm scared.”

“I know.” He let out a long breath. “I am, too.”

Malone returned then, plate, doily and finger bagged and marked. Anna shifted her gaze from it to Bill, he trailed behind Malone, pale as a ghost. She swallowed hard. “Was it… I mean, could you tell who—”

“It's a fake,” Malone interrupted, crossing to her. “A good one. A prosthesis.”

He laid the bag on the table and Anna averted her gaze. Fake or not, looking at it made her feel ill.

Malone squatted down in front of her, blocking her view of the bagged finger and forcing her to look
directly into his eyes. “Anna, when you got home, was your front door locked?”

She thought a moment, then nodded. “The dead bolt slid back, just like always. I walked inside and dropped my keys on the entryway table.”

“And nothing seemed out of place to you? You didn't get the sense that something was wrong?”

She shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

“Did you know your balcony door was unlocked?”

“Are you certain?” She frowned. “That can't be right.”

“It was,” Bill confirmed. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“The other morning,” Dalton murmured, “when Bill and I were breakfasting on the patio. You called to us from the balcony. Could you have forgotten to relock the door?”

She supposed she could have, but it would have been totally out of character. She rubbed her forehead. “I don't remember if I did or not.”

“All the other windows were locked,” Malone said. “I didn't see any sign of a forced entry.”

“You think he got in that way?”

“He could have.” Malone took his spiral from his jacket pocket, then looked her in the eyes. “There's another possibility. Does anyone else have a key to your apartment?”

“Just Dalton.”

Malone looked at him and Dalton flushed. “I own the building, so actually I have the master key to everyone's apartment.”

“But that doesn't mean he would ever use it,” Anna said, coming to her friend's defense. “Besides, Dalton and Bill are my friends, they'd never try to—”

“Of course they wouldn't,” Malone murmured, turning his gaze back to her. “What about former boyfriends or live-ins?”

Their eyes met; her cheeks heated. Though completely appropriate, his question felt too intimate. It left her feeling exposed. “No, none.”

“Any roommates at all?” She shook her head, and he jotted her response in his notebook. “Do you have any idea who could have been behind this?”

His question hit her squarely in the chest; she felt herself beginning to fall apart and squeezed her hands into fists, fighting hysteria off. “Kurt.”

“Kurt? You don't mean the man who kidnapped you twenty-three years ago?”

“Yes, I do. He's found me, I know it.”

Malone glanced at her friends, then cleared his throat. “Do you have any proof of this?”

She laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “What more proof do I need than what…happened tonight?”

Malone fell silent a moment. When he spoke his tone was gentle, his words careful. “It's understandable you would feel that way, Anna. But it's much more likely that someone else has singled you out this way. Someone who knows your story and has become fixated on it and you.”

“Great,” she whispered. “You're saying I have more than one psycho after me. Some girls have all the luck.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, though she knew not because her situation amused him. “Here's the deal.” He looked at Dalton and Bill, then back at Anna. “It's most likely someone in your life now. A friend or acquaintance. A business associate. A regular customer
at The Perfect Rose or someone else who plays a part in the periphery of your life.”

He moved his gaze between the three again. “This stunt shows a high level of planning and determination. It also exhibits familiarity and expertise. Now, think. Does anybody you know come to mind?”

Anna twisted her fingers together. “No. Except for Kurt. I can't imagine who would have done this to me.”

She looked at Dalton, then Bill for confirmation. Both shook their heads. “Nobody I know comes to mind, Detective Malone,” Bill murmured. “I wish someone did.”

Dalton echoed his partner. Malone frowned. “I'll be blunt with you. Best-case scenario, you're dealing with someone with a twisted sense of humor. Someone who's getting his kicks out of terrorizing you. He's doing it from afar, in secret, that's part of the thrill. You're in little physical danger from him because he doesn't want a face-to-face confrontation. He doesn't have the guts for one.”

“And the worst-case scenario?” she asked, working to keep her voice steady.

“Worst-case, you're dealing with someone whose sickness is much more dangerous. Terrorizing you from afar is only the beginning of his plans. His campaign of terror is going to escalate in intensity. He means you physical harm.”

“Lord almighty,” Dalton murmured.

Bill sat down hard. “I think I need a drink.”

Anna felt faint. “What should I…do?”

“First thing you can do is help me do my job. Has anything unusual happened in your life? Anything out
of the ordinary? Any new people? Any run-ins with anybody?”

“No run-ins, but—”

Malone's gaze sharpened. “But what?”

“It started a little over a week ago,” Anna explained, feeling foolish for not having told him about this before. “There was a package waiting for me, no return address. It contained an interview my mother gave an independent videographer. The interview that ended up as part of the E!
Unsolved Hollywood Mysteries Show
.”

“The videographer's name?” Malone asked.

She named him then went on to detail the events as they had unfolded, ending with her most recent conversation with Ben Walker. “He was certain the package had been left by one of his patients, though he didn't know which one or why. I asked about the name Peter Peters, but he doesn't have a patient by that name.”

Malone arched an eyebrow. “And this Dr. Walker has no previous connection to you?”

“No. He located me through the B.B.B.S.A. director.”

“You confirmed that?”

Anna made a sound of surprise. “No, but I had no reason to suspect…I mean, he's a really nice—”

“Guy,” Malone supplied, tone dry. “A lot of wackos are.”

Her cheeks heated, and she jumped to Ben's defense. “Call him if you'd like. I think you'll find he's
exactly
who and what he says he is.”

“I'm sure I will. Do you have his number?”

“No, but his practice is uptown. His full name is Dr. Benjamin Walker. He's a psychologist.”

Malone made note of the information. “Anything else?”

“The letters,” Dalton said.

“The ones you told me about?” Malone asked. “The ones from the little girl?” She nodded and he frowned. “You think they might be related to tonight's event?”

“I don't know.” She looked at her friends for support; they nodded their encouragement. “After the last letter, we figured somebody was playing a sick joke on me. Just like you suggested.”

“The letter was over the top,” Bill said. “Just way too much to believe.”

“Do you still have that letter?”

“I do. I'll—”

“I'll get it for you, Anna.” Dalton stood. “Are they in your desk?”

“Yes. Upper right-hand drawer.”

A moment later, Dalton returned with the bundle and handed it to Anna. She retrieved the latest letter and gave it to Malone. He glanced at the envelope, then up at her. “She knows where you work?”

Heat stung her cheeks. “I answered the first time on Perfect Rose stationery. I wasn't…thinking.”

Malone stared at her a moment more, then returned his attention to Minnie's letter. “Have you received another letter since this one?”

“No.” She twisted her fingers together. “Do you think we were right, about it being a hoax?”

“Could be.” He pursed his lips as if with thought. “Somebody's playing a game with you, Anna. And not a very nice one.”

“I still need that drink. Anybody else?” Bill stood and started for the kitchen. “Mine's going to be a double.”

Malone ignored him. “Could I hang on to this?”

“Sure. Would you like the others as well?”

Malone said he would and she gave them to him. He
slipped the bundle into his jacket's inside breast pocket. “Anything else I should know about?”

“I don't think so.” Anna looked at Dalton in question. He shook his head. “No, nothing.”

“Okay, then.” Malone stood. “I'm going to call this in. Order an evidence collection team to the sight. Dust for fingerprints.”

“You think you might find something?” she asked, cringing at the hopefulness in her tone.

“Truthfully? No, but there's always a chance. I'll be in touch.”