"It's a reasonable scenario." Jim took another swig from his second bottle of Guinness. "But it works only if Kelley Fleming was one of Cortez's women."
"I'm assuming you know what I know about Kelley." Griffin sipped on the Guinness, a strong, dark, Irish brew.
"And that would be?" Jim smiled.
"Okay, I'll give first—that her name was an alias, her ID all fake, that she either had a teenage kid or she had a boyfriend who was a teenager."
"Did you talk to Lieutenant Stovall?"
"I left him a message. He e-mailed me the info. Said he'd fax the crime scene photos in the morning."
"Then you don't have a photo of Kelley?"
Griffin shook his head.
Jim placed his beer on the cocktail table, then stuck his hand into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I talked to Stovall's partner, a guy named Estes. He faxed me the photos just a few minutes before Sanders called." Jim opened up the folded sheet and handed it to Griffin. "He sent several shots, but this is the only one that gives you a really good look at her face."
Griffin took the faxed photograph and studied it carefully. The woman appeared to be sleeping. "She was only forty, according to her phony ID. But she looked older."
"Maybe she was. Or maybe she'd just lived a rough life."
"Possibly both."
"She's not especially pretty, but not butt ugly either," Jim said. "Just haggard looking."
"I know what you're thinking." "Do you?"
"You're thinking that she's not Quinn Cortez's type," Griffin said. "All four of the other women had something in common, besides being Quinn's lovers. They were all very attractive women."
"Kelley might have been attractive at one time."
"Years ago, maybe, but not two years ago when this photo was taken."
"Then it could be that there is no connection between her and Cortez. Your theory could be wrong."
"It could be," Griffin agreed. "But I don't think so. Maybe Kelley knew Griffin ten or fifteen years ago, back when she might have been attractive."
"That blows your theory, too. Why would the killer have waited all those years to murder her? And if he did wait ten or fifteen years to start killing Cortez's lovers, why start with her? Why leave all the women in between then and now alone?"
"Damn good question."
"Yeah, and if we can find out the answer, we might be able to figure out who our murderer is." Jim paused, looked right at Griffin and said, "Unless Cortez turns out to be our guy after all."
Chapter 25
Unbelievable. Deliciously, wickedly, astoundingly incredible. Annabelle lay there on the sofa, her senses sated, her bones soft, her body floating on a wave of pure satisfaction. Quinn lifted himself and moved up her body, trailing kisses from her mound to her breasts. When he flicked one nipple with his tongue, she gasped with an intense pleasure/pain that signaled to him the hypersensitive state her body was in right now. Chuckling quietly, he came up and over her, then lowered his head and kissed her mouth. She accepted him greedily, kissing him back, tasting herself on his lips.
"How do you feel?" he asked, a devilish twinkle in his black eyes.
"Wonderful. No, I feel more than wonderful." She lifted her hand and shoved back the lone curl that had fallen onto his forehead.
Quinn eased up and off her, then reached down and brought her to her feet. "We're just getting started, querida. We have all night."
Annabelle sighed heavily, contemplating more pleasure as the aftershocks of fulfillment still rippled along her nerve endings.
He scooped her up into his arms.
She had never loved life more. She loved this moment. . . and this man.
After carrying her into the bedroom, he laid her atop the covers, then eased her unbuttoned silk blouse and unhooked bra down her shoulders and her arms. While he flung her clothing aside, she kicked off her one-inch heels and peeled off her knee highs; then she scooted over into the middle of the bed and propped her back against the headboard. Sitting there gloriously naked, she became aroused anew simply by being near Quinn.
Taking his time, Quinn undressed. First came his unbuttoned shirt. He tossed it on top of her discarded bra and blouse, which he'd thrown onto a nearby chair; then he sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes and socks. When he stood again, she watched as he shed his dark slacks and added them to the pile of their clothing. He shoved his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out three small shiny packets, each containing a condom; then he laid them on the nightstand.
Annabelle surveyed him, from his curly black hair to his large, wide feet. His shoulders were massive, his back broad, his waist narrow. His butt round and tight. When he turned to face her, he grinned and butterflies danced wildly in her stomach. He was, without a doubt, the sexiest man alive.
He stood there by the bed, allowing her to look at him, to rake her gaze over all seventy-three inches of his magnificent body, from head to toe. When her vision focused on his crotch, his erection straining against his black briefs, he slipped his thumbs underneath the elastic band on either side and slid them down his hips.
Annabelle held her breath with anticipation. When his briefs hung on the large bulge in front, he hesitated. Teasing her. "Take them off," she told him, practically licking her lips. Quinn whipped off his briefs, stepped out of them and left them lying on the floor. God, he was—impressive.
When he sat on the bed, she came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him, crushing her breasts against his back. Leaning her head to one side, she swooped down and nibbled on his ear, then licked a circle around the inner curve before whispering longingly.
"Make love to me," she said "I want you inside me, loving me, showing me how good it can be."
He leaned over and took one of the condom packages from the nightstand ripped it open and removed the rubber. Annabelle peeked over his shoulder to watch him apply the protection.
Naked fully aroused and projecting a savage power, Quinn turned and looked at her, then he caressed her face. His touch was electric, sending shock waves through her body. She closed her eyes and savored the moment. He gripped the back of her head and brought her mouth to his, then kissed her. Hard. Demanding.
While still kissing her, his mouth devouring hers, he maneuvered her backward and down onto the bed. Using his knee, he parted her thighs and slipped between them, pressing his penis against her mound. Her hips bucked upward in invitation. His mouth left hers and journeyed down her neck to first one breast and then the other. When he suckled her breast, she shivered as pure sensation shot through her body. Longing. Desire. A primeval need to mate.
"Now, please, Quinn, please."
Running his hands beneath her, her cupped her buttocks and lifted her up so that he could easily take her completely with one fast, deep lunge. She gasped when he filled her, stretched her, giving her all of himself. Her body accepted him, expanding to accommodate his size.
The feel of him inside her was ecstasy. And when he began to move, to retreat and lunge, retreat and lunge, the pleasure intensified. Falling into the rhythm he set, her body undulated with each strong thrust. The tension inside her built again, faster and faster as he increased the tempo. Knowing she was close to climaxing, she encouraged him with hot, erotic words—alien words that she had seldom used. And he told her, in no uncertain terms, what he was going to do to her and how he was going to do it. His gutter vulgarity sent her over the edge, but she didn't go alone. Just as the first wave of her orgasm exploded inside her, he jack-hammered into her. When he came, he shivered and jerked and uttered a deep, guttural groan. Quinn surrendered to the animal in him, then dissolved on top of Annabelle.
Breathing heavily, wet with sexual perspiration, they clung to each other, sharing wild, damp kisses. He eased off her and onto his side, then drew her into his arms.
As she lay there, cocooned in his embrace, one coherent thought wafted through her foggy brain. That was the best
damn sex I've ever had in my entire life.
The nightmare came again, as it so often did, seeming so real, as if it were happening at this very moment instead of in the past. Sometimes, like now, he knew he was dreaming, that he was asleep and would eventually awake, drenched in sweat, shivering and frightened. If only he could make himself wake now, before reliving those terrifying moments, but his subconscious mind would not allow him even that small mercy. This time, like the countless other times, he would be forced to recall the entire event, from beginning to end.
"How many girlfriends do you have?" she asked him, her voice deceptively sweet and calm.
"None, Mama. I swear I don't have any girlfriends."
"You're lying to me. You know it's not nice to lie, don't you?"
"I'm not lying. I swear I'm not."
"They're calling the house, asking for you. Two of them called just this afternoon, not thirty minutes after you got home from school. One's named Sherry and the other's name is Brittany."
"They're just girls I know from school."
She grabbed his arm and dragged him across the room. He dropped his book bag on the floor and tried to jerk away from her. He was growing bigger every day, taller and stronger. One of these days she wouldn't be able to overpower him. He was nine years old now and although small for his age, he knew that it was only a matter of time before he would be bigger than she was. When that day came . . .
She grabbed his shoulders and shook him soundly. "What have I told you about fooling around with girls? You're too pretty, too charming. You'll break their hearts. It's not fair for one person to be able to do that to another person."
When she stopped shaking him, she kept a tight hold on his shoulders, her long, thin fingers biting into him painfully. A glazed expression darkened her eyes. He'd seen that look before and knew enough to be frightened. Her mind was wandering off somewhere, to another time and place. Whatever had happened to her there, it must have been terrible because it had filled her with hatred. And cruelty.
Taking advantage of the moment, he jerked away from her and backed several feet from her before she realized he had escaped. Her head snapped up and her gaze punctured him with a dare. He froze to the spot.
"I will not allow you to hurt anyone else," she told him and when he made no response, she asked, "Did you hear me?"
He shook his head.
"You gave those girls our telephone number, didn't you? You wanted them to call and make fools of themselves. They both think you like them. They both think they're your girlfriend. You lied to them, made each one of them think she was special."
"No, I didn't. I swear, I didn't."
"You're doing an awful lot of swearing today, aren't you? Bad, bad Quinn."
Don't pee in your pants. Whatever you do, don't wet yourself. If you do, it'll just make her madder and she'll hurt you worse.
"I'm not—" He caught himself before he corrected her. She didn't like it when he told her she was wrong about anything. But he kept trying to tell her the truth. Just agree with her, he told himself. If you do that, she'll go easier on you.
"I'm sorry I gave Sherry and Brittany my phone number,"he lied. He hadn't given either girl his number. "I promise that I'll never do it again. I'll never give another girl my phone number."
"Good. I'm glad you understand what a bad thing you did."
God, please, don't let whatever she does to me hurt too much.
She curled her index finger and motioned for him to come to her. It took a couple of minutes, but he finally managed to make his feet move in her direction. He had learned from past experience that disobeying her only made things worse. When he stood in front of her, a couple of feet separating them, she reached out and patted his cheek. He gulped. "You know you've been a bad boy."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And what happens to bad boys?" "They have to be punished."
"That's right, darling. They have to be punished for their own good so that they will learn they can't use their handsome faces and charming personalities to take advantage of other people and hurt them."
He trembled inside, but managed not to shake outwardly.
"You know I love you. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't care. And I wouldn't work so hard to make you a better person."
He nodded. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. An involuntary quiver jiggled his hands, which he held down to either side of his thighs.
She grabbed him by the nape of his neck, then she drew back her other hand and slapped him hard across the face. He reeled from the impact, but didn't cry out even though his cheek and jaw hurt really bad. Using her hand on his neck to force his head to turn in the opposite direction, she hit him again. Harder. He moaned unable to stop himself. She smiled. God he hated it when she smiled that way.
She hit him again and again, until she had busted his lip, bruised one cheek and blackened an eye. Then she stopped looked at him and frowned. "Why do you force me to do these things to you? Now you won't be able to go to school for a few days. Not looking like that."
"Please, don't keep me at home," he begged. "I'll tell the teacher I fell off my bicycle."
"She won't believe you, dear. You know how teachers are. They don't understand my type of punishment. If they knew it was the only way to control a person like you, they'd understand. But we don't want to have to move again, do we? If they send a social worker to the house, we'll have to leave here, maybe even move to another state."
He knew it wouldn't do any good to argue with her. The only time he felt secure and unafraid was when he was at school. She couldn't touch him there. But if he stayed at home the rest of the week, he'd do something to upset her every day. And she would punish him every day.
"Go to your room," she told him. "There won't be any supper for you tonight. No food for bad little boys."
Thankful to escape from her, he grabbed his book bag off the floor, then turned and ran down the hall and into his room. Just as he started to close the door, he heard her call, "Leave your door open. I don't want you doing something naughty in there. I'll come check on you in a little while, after I've had my dinner."
He left the door wide open—he had no choice.
Hoisting his book bag onto his bed he sat down, opened the top flap and pulled out his math homework and a pencil. He read over the first problem, but he couldn't concentrate. All he could think about was how much his face hurt, how bad the blood in his mouth tasted and what his mother would do to him later when she came to his room to check on him.
I wish she was dead. I wish one day Id wake up and she d be gone to Jesus. If she could just go to heaven, she wouldn't suffer anymore and she could never hurt me again. He glanced up at the ceiling and prayed. Wouldn't it be better for both of us if she died? Couldn't you just strike her dead? Please.
But he knew God wouldn't kill her. God left things like that to people here on earth. He understood that God expected him to help his mother. And he would—someday, when he was older, when he had the power to ease all her suffering.
You will be the one to give her peace, he heard a voice inside his head saying. It will be your duty someday to send your mother to heaven.
Quinn tossed and tumbled. When he groaned, he rolled over and flung the sheet off, his big arm waving in the air before it came down across Annabelle. His restlessness the past few minutes had roused her, but not until he draped his heavy arm over her and moaned in her ear did she awake completely. "Don't. Please, don't." He talked in his sleep. Annabelle touched his forehead. He was warm and sweaty. "Quinn?"
"Kill you . . . I'll kill you. Please, don't," he mumbled.
Every nerve in Annabelle's body went numb, her muscles stiffened. It was apparent that he was dreaming and had no idea what he was saying. But listening to his words unnerved her. Hearing him pleading with someone, telling someone— what? that he'd kill them? frightened her.
He's having a nightmare, she told herself. Who wouldn't have terrible dreams abo
ut death, about murder, if they'd been through what he had? Four of his former lovers had been killed and even though he wasn't the murderer, he still felt guilty. If someone had killed those women—including Lulu—because they'd been Quinn's lovers, it was only natural that he'd feel partly responsible.
"No!" Quinn cried out, then shot straight up in bed, his eyes wild, his breathing erratic.
Annabelle put her arms around him. "It's all right, darling. You were just having a terrible nightmare."
Blowing several times, then drawing in some deep breaths and releasing them, Quinn quieted. She felt the tension in his big body subside, but his muscles remained somewhat taut.
"I'm sorry." He turned to look at her. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's all right." She reached up and shoved his unruly, damp curls off his forehead. "Want to tell me about it?"
"About my nightmare?"
She nodded.
"It's an old nightmare, one I haven't had in years, but I suppose after all that's happened recently . . ."
He grabbed her hand, flipped it palm up and kissed the center, then lifted his gaze to hers. "I wanted to wake early and make love again." He nodded toward the nightstand. "We've still got one condom left."
"You changed the subject. I thought you were going to tell me about your nightmare."
"You don't want to hear about that."
"Yes, I do."
He looked at her, an inquiring squint to his gaze. "I said something, didn't I? I talked in my sleep. What did I say?"
"You said, 'please don't.' And then you said, 'I'll kill you.' You said it twice."
Quinn eased out of her arms and stood, fully naked there in the semidarkness of her bedroom, only the faint glow from the nightlight in the bathroom saving them from total darkness.
"If we're going to talk about old demons that still haunt me after all these years, I'm going to need a drink first."
Quinn got out of bed, rummaged through their pile of clothes on the chair and found his pants. After putting on his rumpled slacks, he headed toward the door.
Killing Her Softly Page 30
