Amnesia (8 page)

Setting his coffee mug aside, Quinn punched the preset number on his cell phone and waited for Marcy to answer, which she did on the third ring.

“Hello.”

“Marcy, I need you to round up Aaron and Jace and y’all get the first flight out of Houston to Memphis.”

“What’s going on? I thought you planned to get some R&R before even thinking about taking another case.”

Marcy had been Quinn’s personal assistant for nearly ten years. Their association had lasted longer than a lot of marriages. He relied on her, trusted her and paid her an ungodly salary to be at his beck and call twenty-four/seven. In all their years together, she’d never let him down, which was more than he could say for most of the women in his life, past and present. And that was the reason he’d never allowed their association to change from the friendship level to something more intimate. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been tempted. Marcy was a doll. Cute as a button. All of five one and a hundred pounds soaking wet. But he wouldn’t do anything to risk losing her. Lovers were a dime a dozen; a great personal assistant was irreplaceable.

“Lulu Vanderley was murdered last night before I arrived at her house,” Quinn said. “I discovered her body.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, my sentiments exactly.”

“So, unless you’re phoning from the police station, I take it they haven’t arrested you.”

“Not yet, but I’m suspect numero uno.”

“You were told not to leave town, huh?”

“It was more of a request than a demand.”

“I’ll have to find Aaron and Jace. Might be tomorrow before they can fly in, but I can be there by this evening if you want—”

“Just wait and the three of you fly in together tomorrow. But you could do something for me from there. Two things actually.”

“Name them.”

“Check out renting us a place here in Memphis. Something I can lease by the month. I could be stuck here a week or two or if they try to pin this thing on me—”

“I’ll take care of it. What else?”

“Get me Griffin Powell’s home phone number.”

“Ask me to move the Smoky Mountains to Hawaii.”

Quinn chuckled. “I know it’ll take a minor miracle, but you’re good at pulling off the impossible.”

“Flattery will get you what you want,” she told him. “And maybe performing another minor miracle will get me a raise.”

“You’re overpaid already.”

“I wish.” She paused for a couple of seconds, then said, “Quinn?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“I know you didn’t kill Lulu Vanderley.”

“You’re one in a million, kiddo.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t,” he said. “Besides, if I do, you’ll remind me.”

“Got that damn straight.”

“Get me Powell’s number as soon as possible,” Quinn said. “He’s the best money can buy and—”

“You always buy the best.”

“You know me too well.” Quinn grunted. “I want my own private investigator to assist the Memphis police in their job of finding Lulu’s killer. Unless they come up with something damn quick, they may not look any further than me.”

He could hear her footsteps coming closer and closer. Any minute now she would open the door to his room and come inside, just as she always did whenever he had displeased her. He tried so hard to be good, to make her happy, but it seemed that he couldn’t do anything right. Everything he said and did was wrong. Even the way he looked angered her
.

“You’re much too handsome,” she had told him repeatedly, from as far back as he could remember. “You’re going to break a lot of hearts if I don’t stop you.”

“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”

“You’ve always been a liar. If I don’t punish you for your sins, God will. You’ll burn in hell if I can’t beat the evil out of you.”

Sitting in the middle of his bedroom floor, he trembled as he watched the doorknob turn. He had locked the door once, but when she’d removed the hinges and taken the door off the frame, she had been wild with anger. His punishment had been severe. She’d broken his arm that time. And when he’d hidden in the closet, she’d whipped him so severely that he still bore the scars on his buttocks
.

The door opened. His heart beat like crazy, thumping so
loudly that it deafened him to the sound of her voice. He couldn’t understand what she was saying as she stood there hovering over him, a stern look on her face. He knew she was screaming, outraged by what he’d done
.

He dared a quick glance up at her, his gaze focused not on her face, but on the erect index finger she pointed directly at him. Whenever she scolded him, she used her index finger to emphasize her point. God, how he hated that judgmental finger
.

Suddenly, she stopped ranting. He held his breath, knowing what would come next. She lifted her hand and brought it down across his face, slapping him so hard that he reeled backward. He lay there, feeling completely helpless as she pointed her finger at him again and continued berating him. Cuddling into a small protective ball, he lay there waiting for the next blow. He didn’t have long to wait. She removed the thick leather belt from around her waist, folded it in two and then snapped it. He cried out with fear
.

He hated that belt, the instrument of his torment. She wore it with every pair of jeans she owned. A brown leather belt with a wide brass buckle
.

She kept talking, but still he couldn’t hear her, only the drone of her agitated voice. But he knew what she was telling him to do. With trembling hands, he slid his pajama bottoms down his hips and trembling legs, then kicked them off. He dared another glance up at her. She smiled at him
.

Oh, God, help me. Don’t let her beat me again.

She motioned for him to roll over, which he did. The first blow to his backside stung something awful. Those first few blows were always the worst. After about a dozen strikes over his flesh, the pain was so bad that it began to become a part of him
.

Tears welled up in his eyes
.

Begging and pleading wouldn’t do any good. He’d tried that over and over again
.

I love you, Mommy. I want to obey you. I’ll try harder. I promise I’ll be good.

She hit him repeatedly, so many times that he finally lost count. The pain surged through him as blood oozed from the stripes covering his bare buttocks
.

“It’s my duty to punish you, to save you from yourself and your evil ways.”

Tears trickled down his cheeks
.

“You know I’m doing this for your own good, don’t you?” When he couldn’t manage a reply, she reached down, grabbed him and shook him. “You’ve been a very bad boy, Quinn.”

The scream inside him ripped him apart.

His eyelids flew open as he shot straight up in bed. It wasn’t real. Not anymore. It was a nightmare. That’s all. He’d been asleep, taking a nap, and as so often happened, his subconscious forced him to relive those horrific days from his childhood. With his heart thundering and sweat glistening on his skin, he took several deep breaths.

That same nightmare or one very similar plagued him relentlessly. No matter what he did, he couldn’t escape. No matter how many miles or years he’d put between the two of them, she would never release him completely. She’d be a part of him until the day he died.

But she can’t hurt you
, he told himself.
She can never hurt you again
.

Griffin Powell didn’t go into the office on the weekends, and unless he was personally working on a case, he didn’t do anything work-related on Saturday and Sunday. After all, a man had to make time for a social life. He’d spent most of the afternoon working out in the gym he had designed to fit into the basement of his Knoxville home. Keeping physically fit was one of his top priorities. After wiping the perspiration from his face, he hung the small white towel around his neck and headed for the shower, but before he reached the bathroom adjacent to the exercise room, Sanders appeared at the foot of the stairs.

Sanders had been Griffin’s assistant for a number of
years, ever since he’d been at Griffin’s side on his personal journey to hell and back. They shared a comradery only those who’ve depended upon each other to stay alive truly understood.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’ve taken two phone calls that were made to your private number.”

Griffin cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“One was from Quinn Cortez. He wants you to investigate a murder case. It seems he discovered his lover’s dead body last night and as of right now, he is a person of interest to the Memphis police department.”

“Quinn Cortez, huh?
The
Quinn Cortez.” Griffin’s lips lifted with amused interest. “I’ll call him after I take a shower.”

“There was a second telephone call.”

“Someone more interesting than Quinn Cortez?”

“This person’s call makes Mr. Cortez’s call even more interesting.”

“And this person is?

“Annabelle Vanderley.”

“Annabelle? Why didn’t you put her through to me immediately?”

Griffin recalled the one and only time he’d met the lady. And she was a lady, down to the very marrow in her bones. Born and bred to Mississippi royalty, the descendant of two wealthy, prestigious families—the Vanderleys and the Austins. They’d been introduced by a mutual friend at a charity function in Chattanooga three years ago and he’d found Ms. Vanderley vastly intriguing. He’d made subtle overtures, which she’d ignored. He was unaccustomed to being rejected, so out of curiosity, he had asked their mutual friend for details of Annabelle’s personal life. Once he’d been told she had a crippled fiancé to whom she was devoted, he hadn’t ask anything else. Encroaching on another man’s territory wasn’t Griffin’s style.

“I wasn’t aware you knew the lady,” Sanders said, his face expressionless.

“We met briefly several years ago.”

“And she made a favorable impression.”

Griffin nodded. “What did Annabelle want?”

“She also wants to hire you to investigate a murder case. It seems her cousin was murdered in Memphis last night and—”

“Damn! Annabelle’s cousin and Quinn Cortez’s lover are one in the same, right?”

Sanders nodded his slick bald head. His keen brown eyes studied Griffin. “What do you intend to do? You’ll have to turn one of them down. Mr. Cortez’s call did come in first, if that helps you decide what to do.”

“It doesn’t.”

“You have met Ms. Vanderley, so perhaps—”

“Telephone each of them, on my behalf. Naturally, don’t mention anything about one of them to the other. And arrange for a suite for me at the Peabody. If we can get the suite set up today, I’ll fly to Memphis this evening and meet with Ms. Vanderley and Mr. Cortez tonight. Let’s say around eight o’clock.”

“You plan to speak with both of them at the same meeting?”

“It’ll save time.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Sanders turned and headed up the stairs, Griffin called to him, “See what kind of background check we can come up with on both of them by tonight.”

Sanders didn’t reply verbally, but Griffin knew he’d heard him. They had worked side by side for so many years that they were practically psychically linked. When a man saved another man’s life, it bonded them in a way nothing else could.

Vanderley Inc. kept an executive apartment in Memphis since a great deal of their business was conducted in this city. Heading up the Vanderley family’s numerous philanthropic organizations, Annabelle came to Memphis several
times a year, the last time less than three months ago. At that time, it had been over a year since she’d seen Lulu and nearly six months since they’d spoken over the phone. Only at her insistence had Lulu agreed to meet her for dinner that evening. As usual, they wound up in an argument. And as usual, it was about the same things—money, Uncle Louis and Wythe.

Annabelle snapped open her overnight bag that she had placed on the suitcase rack at the foot of her bed. She had no idea how long she’d be in Memphis, how many days or perhaps even weeks it would take the police to find Lulu’s killer and formally charge him with her murder. If she needed more clothes, she’d send home for them. Or she’d just buy something off the rack at a department store. Whenever she stayed in any of the apartments Vanderley Inc. maintained in various cities, one of the first things she did was unpack and put everything in its place. Being neat was simply a part of who she was. She despised clutter.

After taking her toiletries into the bathroom, she arranged them carefully on the vanity and inadvertently caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She stared at her reflection for a moment. When they were children, she and Lulu had been close, despite Lulu being nearly seven years younger. Family and friends had thought it sweet that Annabelle had been like a big sister to her young cousin. More than one person had mentioned how much the girls resembled each other, both blue-eyed blondes with strong Vanderley features. But that had been before Lulu reached puberty and blossomed into a model-thin, bosomy, leggy version of her mother, who’d been Uncle Louis’s third wife and twenty-five years his junior.

Annabelle glanced away from the mirror and returned to the bedroom. No one would have noticed anything more than a vague resemblance between the cousins in the past fifteen years. Lulu had been considered the family beauty; Annabelle had been thought of as the brains. It wasn’t that
she envied her cousin—quite the contrary—but there had been times when she’d wondered what it would be like not to feel the heavy weight of family responsibilities she bore on her shoulders. Lulu had been irresponsible and frivolous, but Annabelle knew only too well that her cousin’s life had been far from perfect.

Just as she zipped her overnight bag closed, the telephone rang. Rounding the bed, she lifted the receiver from the base on the bedside table. “Hello.”

“Ms. Vanderley.”

“Yes.” She didn’t recognize the man’s voice.

“This is Sanders, Mr. Powell’s assistant. I’m calling on his behalf.”

“Yes, Mr. Sanders—”

“Just Sanders, ma’am.”