Bone Cold (7 page)

Wednesday, January 17
The French Quarter

F
or the next four days Anna had called Jaye every day, at least twice. Each time, the girl had refused to take her call.

Anna missed her. Their falling-out had left a big hole in her life and her heart. Bill and Dalton believed Jaye would relent in time, that before long she would call Anna and everything would be all right.

Anna hoped they were right. But she knew Jaye. She understood her. When it came to relationships, if someone hurt Jaye, she cut them out of her life, swiftly and brutally. The girl had developed the tactic as protection against the kind of hurt she had suffered as a youngster.

Anna had never thought Jaye would feel compelled to use the tactic with her.

Sighing, Anna stepped through The Perfect Rose's front door. Dalton had beat her in this morning. He stood behind the register, counting the cash in the drawer.

“Sorry I'm late,” she called, slipping out of her jacket and heading for the workroom.

He looked up and smiled. “Good morning.”

“What's good about it?”

“I take it Jaye still refuses to speak to you?”

“You take it right.” She hung her jacket on the hook on the back of the door, then slipped her apron on. “Her foster mother's starting to get annoyed with my calls. Today she very firmly told me that Jaye would call when she was ready to talk to me. Then she hung up.”

He frowned. “Charming. I take it she's not your ally in this?”

“Hardly.” Anna made her way to the register. “It seems everyone thinks I'm the enemy.”

“Jaye'll come around. If you're missing her this much, think how much she's missing you.”

Anna thought more about how she had unintentionally hurt her friend. She changed the subject. “My agent called this morning, that's why I'm a little late.”

“Finally! Are they taking the new book?”

“They want it—” she held up a hand to stop his congratulations “—but only on their terms.”

“Their terms? What does that mean?”

“It means, they want it only if I'll let them publicize it and me as they see fit. It seems they think Harlow Grail has the ability to sell a lot more books than Anna North.”

“I don't understand.” He drew his eyebrows together. “Your new story doesn't have anything to do with your kidnapping experience.”

“Apparently, my past is a hook that'll get me a mother lode of media coverage.” A bitter edge crept into her voice. “As my agent explained, my book's just another
suspense novel. What makes it special is that Harlow Grail, kidnapped Hollywood princess, wrote it.”

“I'm sorry, Anna. That really sucks.”

“It gets worse. If I won't go along with their promotion plans, they're dropping me. I'm not profitable enough for them.”

“They want a home run or nothing.”

“Apparently so.” She began counting the cash in the bank bag, grateful to have something to do with her hands. “My agent wants me to agree. He doesn't understand my hesitation. Most authors, he said, would kill for the offer of a big push and lots of promotion. Besides, the cat's out of the bag now and the world hasn't come to an end.”

“Nice guy. Understanding.”

“I used to think he was on my side. Now I see he's on whichever side the money's on.”

Dalton gave her a quick hug. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know yet. I want to take the offer. I worked so hard to get published. You know how hard I worked. You know how much…how much writing means to me.” Tears stung her eyes and she fought them back. “But I can't imagine going on TV and radio and…talking about what happened to me. I can't imagine opening my personal life to strangers. I know what kind of people are out there, Dalton. I
know.
” She pressed her fist to her chest. “And I can't expose myself that way, I know I can't.”

“And if you don't—”

“I lose everything I've worked for.” A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed past it. “It's so unfair.”

He kissed her on the cheek. “I'm here for you if you need me.”

“I know.” She leaned into him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “And believe me, I appreciate it.”

The bell above the shop door jingled and Bill strode in. In his navy, double-breasted suit and crisp white shirt he looked like a banker.

“Caught in the act,” he teased. “And to think I trusted you both.”

Anna stepped out of Dalton's arms and smiled affectionately at her friend. “I'd steal him from you in a heartbeat, if I thought I had a chance.”

Bill brought a hand to his chest in mock heartbreak. “And here I thought you wanted me.”

She laughed and shook her head, grateful for her friends. “What are you doing here so early this morning? And looking so—”

“Boring?” he filled in, glancing down at himself in disgust. “I'm meeting with the group financing our new Art in the Park event. For some reason they're more comfortable giving money to men wearing blue suits. Go figure.” He crossed to the counter. He shifted his gaze to Dalton. “Did you give her the letter yet?”

Anna looked over her shoulder at Dalton—and caught him signaling Bill to shut up. She frowned. “What letter, Dalton?”

“Don't be mad. It came yesterday, while you were at lunch.”

“It's from your little fan,” Bill offered, rubbing his hands together. “The saga continues.”

Dalton sent Bill an annoyed glance, then pulled an envelope out of his front apron pocket. He held it out to her. “I know how her last letter troubled you. And you were so down yesterday…I didn't want to make your day worse. I was going to give it to you first thing this morning, but—”

“I didn't give you the chance. It's okay, Dalton.” She took the letter, feeling both hopeful and apprehensive. She had been thinking a lot about Minnie, she had reread her letters a dozen times. She had come to believe that the girl was an abductee.

Anna had grown so concerned she had called a friend who worked for Social Services. She had explained the situation and read her friend the letters. Although the other woman had thought the situation suspicious and had been sympathetic to Anna's concern, without something concrete to go on, a witness or even the girl's written claim of abuse, her hands were tied.

Anna swallowed hard and lowered her gaze to the envelope. She hoped this correspondence proved her wrong. She hoped that after she read it she'd feel like a reactionary idiot. She feared she wouldn't.

“Are you going to open it?” Bill asked.

She nodded and ripped open the envelope.

The letter began in much the same way as the others had, with a greeting and a sentence or two of chitchat about Tabitha, Anna's books and small occurrences in Minnie's days. But this time, it took a frightening turn:

Anna reread those few lines, her heart in her throat. “Dear God.” She lifted her gaze to her friend's. “He's going to do it again.”

The two men exchanged concerned glances. “Do what, Anna?”

“Another girl.” She handed Dalton the letter, her
hand shaking. “I think he's planning to abduct another girl.”

Bill peered over Dalton's shoulder so that he, too, could read the letter. He whistled when he finished. “I don't like the way that sounds.”

“Neither do I.” Dalton frowned. “What are you going to do?”

Anna was silent a moment, considering her options. There were few. She came to a decision, the only one that made any sense. She slipped off her apron and crossed to the workroom to retrieve her jacket. She pulled it on, then met her friends' concerned gazes. “You'll have to hold down the fort for a while. I'm going to the police.”

 

Forty minutes later, Anna was shaking hands with Detective Quentin Malone. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “I apologize for the wait. We're short-staffed today. Half the force is down with the flu.”

She slipped out of her coat and sat. “So the desk officer explained. He also informed me that you would take my statement but another detective would follow up later.”

“I'm usually assigned to the Seventh.” He sat and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “My partner and I are filling in here today.”

“And you just happened to be the lucky one who got me.”

“Yes, ma'am, that's me.” He slid his gaze over her, then smiled, the curving of his lips slow and suggestive. “Lucky.”

She would just bet he was.
Tall, broad-shouldered and strikingly good-looking, she had no doubt that this
man was never without willing female companionship. And by the way he was sizing her up, he expected her to jump for the bait as well.

Sorry, stud. Not this century.
Men who thought they were God's gift to the female sex were not her cup of tea. Having grown up around the film industry, she had spent more time with that kind of man than she cared to recall. She found them to be cocky, arrogant and narcissistic, more interested in looking at their own reflection that into their lover's eyes.

“Considering the lack of available manpower, I'm glad I wasn't here to report a murder.”

“I'm glad too. Murders are bad. The less of ‘em the better.”

She frowned, slightly off balance. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“And failing. Obviously.” He flashed her another smile, one she was certain was meant to send her pulse racing, and took a small, spiral-bound notebook from his breast pocket. “Why don't you tell me what brought you in today?”

So she did. Anna explained how she had received a fan letter from Minnie, then about her reply and the two letters she had received from the girl since.

She opened her purse and handed the letters to him. He scanned them while she spoke. “Something's not right with this child's situation. At first I was concerned but now, with this last letter, I'm frightened.”

“And that's why you're here? Because you're frightened?”

“For her, yes. And now, for the other girl Minnie referred to in the letter.”

He looked up, waiting, expression giving nothing of his thoughts away. She made a sound of frustration. “I
think Minnie is an abductee. I think the man she refers to as ‘He' is her abductor. And I believe he's planning to snatch another girl.”

For a heartbeat of time he was silent, then he leaned back in his chair. The springs creaked. “You're reading a lot into these letters. Ms. North. This Minnie never comes right out and says she's being held against her will or is in any kind of danger.”

“She doesn't have to. Read the letters, read between the lines. It's all there.”

“You're a suspense writer, isn't that correct?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with—”

“This kind of story is your stock-in-trade.”

Anna felt angry heat flood her cheeks. “You think I'm making this up? What, do you think I'm doing research here?”

“I didn't say that.” He leaned forward once more, gaze unflinchingly on hers. “I have another theory about these letters. One I wonder if you've considered.”

She stiffened. “Go on.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that these letters could be some sort of a scam?”

“A scam?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe an eleven-year-old girl didn't write these letters. Maybe Minnie is some wacko fan trying to yank your chain. Playing some sort of sick game with you?” He paused for effect. “Or pretending to be Minnie in an attempt to get close to you?”

A chill raced down Anna's spine. She shook it off. “That's ludicrous.”

“Is it?” He cocked an eyebrow. “You write dark suspense novels. There are a lot of sick people out there, one of them, for whatever reason, could have fixated on you or your stories. It happens.”

Her hands began to shake, and she folded them in her lap so he wouldn't see. She tipped up her chin. “I'm not buying any of this.”

“You should.” He leaned toward her. “Considering your personal history, you should not only buy it, but you should take it very seriously.”

She stiffened. “Excuse me, but what do you know about my—”

“Think about it, Ms. North. With your history, the sick game becomes sicker. Your obsession with children in jeopardy makes you an easy mark for—”

“Obsession with children in jeopardy? Excuse me, I don't think so. And just what do
you
know about my personal history?”

He sat back. “Sorry, ma'am, but even big dumb cops like me can put two and two together. You're the novelist Anna North. You write suspense novels for Cheshire House. You're a green-eyed redhead of approximately thirty-six and you reside in New Orleans.” He motioned her hands, clasped in her lap. “And you're missing your right pinkie finger.”

She felt exposed and ridiculous. And was angry that she did. Angry with him for toying with her. He had known her full identity this entire time, yet he hadn't let on until now. The macho jerk. She would write him into her next novel—as a bumbling buffoon who did not get the girl and ended up waxed.

She sent him her frostiest stare. “And sometimes, big dumb cops watch E!”

He flashed her a quick “aw-shucks” smile, closed his spiral and slid it back into his breast pocket. “Actually, studying famous unsolved crimes is a hobby of mine. Yours is one of the ones that interests me.”

“I'm flattered,” she muttered, anything but. “Solve it yet?”

“No, ma'am, but you'll be the first to know when I do.” He handed her the letters and stood, signaling the end to their meeting.