Killing Her Softly (20 page)

Annabelle's breath caught in her throat. "I don't want you to leave."

Squinting his dark eyes into mere slits, he studied her, his gaze raking over her face with pensive intensity. "I'm trouble, honey. Bad trouble. Trouble with a capital
T.
Are you sure you can handle me?"

With her nerves quivering and her femininity clenching, she shook her head. "When it comes to you, Mr. Cortez, I'm not sure of anything."

*
   
*
   
*

Wythe rushed out of the elevator and ran down the corridor to the apartment that
Vanderley
, Inc. maintained in Memphis. His pulse raced. His heart was practically jumping out of his chest. When he tried to unlock the door, his hand shook so badly that he nearly dropped the key.

God what if someone had recognized him? If anyone found out where he'd been and what he'd done—no, he couldn't let that happen. He'd been discreet, taken every precaution. But what if the police were already involved?

Finally managing to insert the key, he unlocked the door, opened it and hurried into the apartment. Thank God Annabelle hadn't stayed here with him; otherwise she'd be here now and might suspect what he'd done.

Wythe locked the door behind him and went straight to the bathroom. He needed to shower and get rid of his clothes. He'd send them to the cleaners first thing in the morning. Just in case. No point taking any chances.

Once he had stripped and stood under the delicious warm water, he sighed. She wouldn't identify him. He'd made sure of that. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He never meant to hurt any of them. But sometimes he simply couldn't stop himself.

Griffin Powell stared at the faxes in his hand. A gnawing sense of unease spread through him as he considered the implications of the information in both faxes. It was too soon to jump to conclusions, not without more facts. Initially, he'd put three of his best people on this job, investigating Lulu
Vanderley's
murder at the same time the Memphis PD was scrambling to find and arrest her killer. His people understood how important it was to stay just under law enforcement's radar whenever possible. It was counterproductive to step on John Law's toes. The Powell agency didn't actually work with the law, but rather alongside it and never in opposition. He scanned the first fax sent from his Knoxville office. If this was true, then Wythe
Vanderley
was a real
sicko
. Griffin grunted. He had no sympathy for sexual predators, no matter how mentally ill they might be or how badly they might have once been abused themselves. He was a man who believed in basic, ancient principles. Some people didn't deserve to live. If he had his way, sexual perverts would be wiped off the face of the earth. And if half of what his investigators had discovered about Wythe
Vanderley
was true . . .

There was no point in confronting Annabelle with these findings. Not yet. It was possible she had no idea what kind of man her cousin Wythe actually was. But she had vacated
Vanderley
Inc.'s executive apartment as soon as Wythe had moved in, so that had to mean something.

Griffin put the second fax atop the first. This was the one that filled his mind with questions. Questions he wanted answered. Questions it would take more than three investigators to track down and unearth the answers to.

If the MO wasn't identical and if Quinn Cortez wasn't involved, he could chalk it up to coincidence. One of the things he'd told his crew at Knoxville headquarters to do was start searching for any other murders similar to Lulu
Vanderley's
, starting with Tennessee and working out to surrounding states.

New Orleans lounge singer Joy Ellis had been murdered in her apartment. Smothered to death. No report of rape or any physical violence, other than what it took to subdue her. And no evidence leading to a suspect. Another investigative team might not have dug any deeper, but that's why his agency was the best. They always went one step further. Far enough in this case to learn that the lady's right index finger had been severed. Postmortem. A fact never released to the press.

Griffin huffed.
Damn, Quinn, if you knew about this, why didn't you tell me? By hiring me, you had to know I'd find out.
That fact led Griffin to believe there was a good chance Quinn had no idea that Joy Ellis, the woman with whom he'd shared a very brief affair when he'd vacationed in New Orleans almost a year ago, had been murdered the day he left town.

Was it possible Quinn killed both Lulu and Joy?

Griffin survived by his instincts. They had kept him alive in numerous dangerous circumstances. He never ignored what he felt in his gut. And his gut told him Quinn Cortez was capable of killing, just as he was, just as most people were, given the right set of circumstances. But unless he'd badly misjudged the guy, Griffin didn't believe Cortez was a murderer.

"Excuse me, sir." Sanders stood in the doorway to his bedroom.

"Yes, what is it?" Griffin kept his back to his old friend.

"You should turn on the television. They've interrupted local broadcasting to go live to the scene of a murder in the South Bluff area."

Griffin glanced over his shoulder at Sanders. The man never made idle requests. Griffin nodded then walked over, picked up the remote control and turned on the power to the television.

"Channel three.
WREG's
late night news."

He clicked in the number, then focused on the screen.

"The police have not commented on any details of the murder," the reporter said. "We've been told that Director of Police Jay
Danley
will issue a statement in approximately an hour. This is the second murder of a well-known and highly respected Memphis resident in seventy-two hours and speculation is running high as to whether or not there is a connection, considering renowned trial lawyer Quinn Cortez was involved with both women."

A tight knot formed in Griffin's gut. He cast Sanders a Goddamn-it glance before returning his attention to the television screen.

"Kendall Wells was Mr. Cortez's lawyer and it's rumored the two have been close personal friends for a number of years," the reporter continued.

Griffin clicked the
off
button, dropped the remote onto the coffee table and stomped across the room to the telephone. As he dialed the number, he looked at Sanders. "See if you can get in touch with Cortez. I want to see him. Tonight."

"Yes, sir."

Griffin nodded, then when the office manager for Powell Investigations answered her home phone, Griffin said, "This is Griffin Powell. Hunt down Ben Sullivan and tell him to contact me ASAP. I need half a dozen more investigators on the Cortez/
Vanderley
case and I need them on it yesterday."

"Yes, sir. I'll find Mr. Sullivan and give him your message. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Powell?"

"Not unless you're psychic,
Charisse
, and can tell me if one of my clients is a murderer."

Chapter 14

As they started to enter the elevator at the Peabody to go up to Annabelle's suite, Quinn's cell phone rang. She tensed. Flush with the anxiety of admitting to Quinn and to herself that there was something sexual between them, Annabelle tried not to think about what lay ahead for them tonight. The rational part of her mind warned her that she shouldn't become just one more of Quinn Cortez's women, that their becoming lovers was an unwise course of action. But the purely emotional part of her that acted and reacted on gut instinct rather than pure logic wanted this man as she'd never wanted another.

Quinn whipped his cell phone from his pocket. "I have to take this call."

Pausing at his side, Annabelle nodded then glanced around to see if anyone else was nearby, either hotel employees or guests. Oddly enough, they seemed to be all alone, as if they were the only two people on earth. Crazy notion.

Quinn answered the phone call. "Cortez here."

Noticing Quinn's frown, Annabelle assumed the call wasn't good news. But then how could there be any good news, considering two women—both important in Quinn's life— had been murdered in the past seventy-two hours?

"Yeah, Marcy. Thanks for passing along the message. I'm at the Peabody now, with Annabelle
Vanderley
. We'll go straight to Mr. Powell's suite." Quinn nipped his cell phone closed and shoved it back into his coat pocket.

"We're going to see Griffin?" Annabelle asked.

Quinn grasped her arm and herded her into the elevator, then punched the number for Griffin's floor. "That was my assistant, Marcy, on the phone." Quinn slipped his arm around Annabelle and maneuvered her so that she faced him. When she looked up at him, he said, "I suppose Griffin has heard about Kendall. No doubt it's on the local newscasts."

"Tell him you didn't kill Kendall and he'll believe you."
Just as I believe you. Or at least, I desperately want to believe you. I will not allow myself to think that a man I'm so strongly attracted to could be a murderer.

"Do you believe me? Can you honestly tell me that you know"—he gently tapped her in the center of her chest— "deep down inside, that I didn't kill either Lulu or Kendall?"

Annabelle's mouth gaped open, the words caught in her throat. In that moment of hesitation, Quinn released his hold on her and his facial expression hardened. She wouldn't lie to him.

Before she could think of an acceptable response, the elevator stopped and a middle-aged couple holding hands smiled at them. "Going down?" the man asked.

"Going up," Quinn replied, then hit the
close
button and within seconds, the elevator continued its ascent.

"I don't think you killed Lulu or Kendall," Annabelle said softly. "Is there even the slightest bit of doubt in my mind? Yes, of course there is. I don't know you. Not really. We're little more than strangers. You could be hiding all kinds of deep, dark secrets and I'd have no way of knowing."

"I told you before we got out of the car a few minutes ago that I'm trouble. My track record with women is abysmal and I'll be the first to admit it. There has never been one special woman in my life. That's not my thing. Commitment. Fidelity."

"I already figured that out about you."

"Yeah, sure." Quinn's grimace conveyed his barely controlled anger. "As for deep dark secrets . . . I've never killed anybody. Although when I was thirteen, I came damn near close to beating the hell out a guy. You see, I had a shit childhood. No father and a worthless bitch mother. When mama dearest's latest boyfriend tried to beat the crap out of her, I stepped in and did to him what he'd been trying to do to her."

"I'd say you were justified in what you did. After all, you were defending your mother."

The elevator stopped on Griffin Powell's floor. Quinn's gaze locked with Annabelle's. "I'll bet your mother was as beautiful and elegant as you are," he said. "And I'll bet she loved you more than anything and was very proud of you."

Tears born of tender sympathy filled Annabelle's eyes.

"Don't cry for me, honey," Quinn said. "It would be a waste."

Blinking several times to dissipate the tears, Annabelle wanted to put her arms around Quinn, hold him and tell him whatever it was that he needed to hear. All those things his mother apparently never told him. That he was special. Handsome. Smart. And loved.

But she didn't love him. She couldn't love him. She didn't even know him.

When Quinn stepped out of the elevator, Annabelle joined him in the corridor. He grasped her arm and said "Why don't you go to your suite and let me see Griffin Powell alone? I'll call you in the morning."

She shook her head. "I'm involved in your life now, whether I want to be or not. We're partners in hiring Griffin and we're . . . well, we're something. Not friends."

"And not lovers. Not yet. And if you're smart, you'll get the hell away from me and stay away."

"If you try this hard to run off every woman you meet, then I'm amazed that you consider yourself such a Don Juan."

"Don't say I didn't warn you." Quinn slid his hand beneath her elbow and guided her down the corridor to Griffin's suite.

He knocked; they waited.

"You should ask Griffin to let you see the report he has on me," Quinn said. "I'll give him permission to let you read it. If that doesn't make you run from me as far and as fast as you can, then nothing will."

A tall, muscular man with a shaved head and pensive dark eyes opened the door to Griffin Powell's suite. On first sight, the man was intimidating, but the minute his wide mouth curved slightly into a semi-smile, he seemed a little more welcoming.

"I'm Quinn Cortez and this is Annabelle
Vanderley
. I believe Mr. Powell is expecting me."

"Yes, sir, he is. Please come in."

Once they entered the suite, the man announced them.
Was he Griffin's servant?
she wondered. Odd that she hadn't met him before now, but perhaps he had just arrived in Memphis.

As they walked toward the lounge area, Quinn ran his fingers beneath the high collar of his lightweight turtleneck sweater. Was he nervous? Was he concerned about why Griffin had requested his presence?

Griffin stood with his back to the windows. When they approached him, he turned, came forward and instructed them to sit. "Would either of you care for something to drink?"

"No, thank you," Annabelle replied as she took a seat.

Quinn shook his head.

"I guess you heard about what happened to Kendall," Quinn said standing face-to-face with Griffin.

"Oh, yes," Griffin replied. "It's already on the local TV news and I'm sure her murder will make the front-page headlines in tomorrow's
Commercial Appeal."

"Before you ask—no, I didn't kill her."

Clenching his teeth, Griffin glowered at Quinn. "It looks bad for you. Two of your lovers have been murdered in the span of seventy-two hours. I imagine that, as with Lulu's
murder, you're the number one suspect in this one, too. How does that make you feel?"

Annabelle held her breath as she studied the two powerful men, gazes melded, bodies battle-station ready.
Don't do this to him,
she wanted to tell Griffin, but remained silent. She instinctively knew that Quinn wouldn't appreciate her coming to his defense. Not in this situation.

"How the hell do you think it makes me feel?" Quinn's gaze became glassy. Although he was looking right at Griffin, it was as if he didn't really see him. "How can I defend myself against something like this when I can't prove I didn't kill anyone? That's why I need you. We have to find another suspect." Quinn glanced at Annabelle and then, with clear eyes, he glared at Griffin. "Two women I cared about are dead and I can't even mourn them because I'm too wrapped up in trying to figure out a way to keep from being arrested for their murders."

"Do you have an alibi for tonight?" Griffin asked point-blank.

Not replying immediately, Quinn sucked in his breath. Annabelle suddenly felt queasy.
Please, God, please let him have an alibi.

"I don't know exactly when Kendall was murdered," Quinn said. "But my guess is that I was alone in my car, on my way to her house, when it happened."

Griffin blew out a disgusted breath. "This isn't good. First you're the one who discovered Lulu's body, and now you don't have an alibi for when Kendall Wells was killed. You were involved with both women and they're both dead. And it's only a matter of time before the police discover what happened to Joy Ellis down in New Orleans."

Visibly tensing, Quinn glowered at Griffin. "Joy Ellis?"

"Yeah, you know the lounge singer you hooked up with when you went down to New Orleans about this time last year, not long after Mardi Gras."

Huffing, Quinn stomped loudly toward Griffin, stopping when they were less than two feet apart. "I know who Joy is,
but I don't know what you mean about something happening to her."

Griffin nodded. Annabelle noted what she thought was an expression of relief settle over his features.

"When's the last time you either saw or were in contact with Joy Ellis?" Griffin asked.

"Last year right before I left New Orleans," Quinn replied. "Our little fling was very private and very brief. How did you find out about it?"

"Good investigative work on the part of my detectives. And actually, your name wasn't mentioned but by putting two and two together, my guys came up with the inevitable four. Seems Joy mentioned you—by reputation only—to a girlfriend. The girlfriend told the police, but she couldn't give them a name and their ability to add two and two apparently wasn't that great. Nobody in the NOPD ever came up with your identity."

"Just what the hell are you talking about?" Quinn all but growled the question.

"Somebody murdered Joy Ellis and the crime is still unsolved. It's not common knowledge, but the lady was smothered with a pillow, just as Lulu was, and her right index finger was hacked off. What do you want to bet that Kendall Wells was smothered and she's missing her right index finger?"

"Why did you bother bringing the guy down here?" Chad George tramped across the room and glared at Jim. "We can question Kendall
Wells's
ex-husband all night and what good will it do? You let the real murderer walk off—no, drive off with Annabelle
Vanderley
at the scene of the crime. We both know Cortez is guilty. He's killed two women here in Memphis in the past seventy-two hours and he's walking around scot-free."

"Calm down and lower your voice," Jim Norton advised. "We have no evidence against Cortez. Just because he knew both women—"

"He was intimately involved with both women."

"Okay, so what if he was sexually involved with Lulu and Kendall. How does that fact make him their killer?"

"There's a link there somewhere. Something we haven't discovered yet. But we have a motive for the Lulu
Vanderley
murder. She was pregnant by Cortez, wanted him to marry her and when he refused, things got ugly and in a fit of rage, he killed her. And who knows what set him off with Kendall Wells. Maybe Ms. Wells was blackmailing him. Or maybe she threatened him in some way. What we need to be doing is grilling the guy. Give me ten minutes alone with him and I'll—"

"If you got those ten minutes alone with an
uncuffed
Cortez, my money would be on him. He'd either outsmart you or knock your lights out. The guy would tear you apart in no time flat." Jim chuckled. "You haven't read the report on Cortez, have you? He's smarter than you are. And besides that, the guy's not only a karate black belt—and I believe you're not, are you Chad?—but one of his hobbies is skeet shooting. He's a crack shot."

Chad swallowed hard. "Damn, Jim, he's dangerous and we shouldn't have allowed Annabelle to go off with him that way."

"That's what's really bothering you, isn't it—that Annabelle
Vanderley
stepped between you two and walked away with him?"

"Are you implying that there's something personal going on between them?"