Killing Her Softly

by Beverly Barton

  "I can make coffee if you'd like," Annabelle called to him.

  He paused before opening the door and glanced over his shoulder at the digital clock on the nightstand. "It is nearly five o'clock, isn't it? Why don't we fix the coffee together and then later order breakfast. And if you're very good to me, querida, I'll make love to you between the coffee and our bacon and eggs."

  "I like the sound of all of that," she told him as she got out of bed. "The coffee, the bacon and eggs. But mostly the making love."

  She fumbled through their clothing until she found Quinn's shirt, then she slipped it on and buttoned it up to the vee be­tween her breasts. Barefooted and eager, she followed him out into the lounge. He flipped on one lamp, which partially illuminated the room, but left most of it in shadows. On his way to the coffeemaker, he paused and pulled the curtains open, revealing a dark, starless sky. A heavy patter of rain­drops hit the window. Off in the distance lightning flickered, then by the time Quinn removed the pot from the coffee-maker, a low, faraway rumble of thunder echoed.

  Annabelle opened the coffee packet as Quinn poured the water into the reservoir. While the coffee brewed, he drew her over to the windows, draped his arms around her and held her back to his chest as they stared outside at the city lights below and the rain peppering down steadily.

  "The dream was about my mother," Quinn told her, his voice just above a whisper. "I told you that I nearly beat a guy to death because of her."

  "Is that what the dream was about—you defending your mother?"

  "Yeah. I relive that night from time to time. I can see him hitting her, hurting her. And I tell him to stop, but he doesn't listen. Then I beg him to stop. But he just keeps hitting her. And then I tell him that if he doesn't leave her alone, I'll kill him."

  Annabelle tensed despite her best efforts to control her immediate reaction to what he'd said.

  "I know. I know. You'd rather think I'm not capable of killing someone." He turned her in his arms, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "But I am. Not in cold blood but to protect someone I care for. I wanted to stop that man from hurting my mother and I would have killed him if that's what it took to make sure he never hit her again."

  "I'm so sorry that you had to go through something like that." She hugged him, wanting to comfort him, longing to erase the unhappy memories that plagued him. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for him as a boy seeing his mother brutalized.

  "It's in the past." He stroked her back as he held her. "And it stays there, at least most of the time. He wasn't the first man who'd knocked my old lady around but until then, I hadn't been physically big enough to stop them. I'm telling you, Sheila could pick some real winners, including my fa­ther."

  "Your parents must have possessed some good qualities," Annabelle said lifting her face to his. "Otherwise they couldn't have produced such a remarkable son."

  Quinn's lips twitched. "You think I'm remarkable?"

  "Remarkable. Extraordinary. Incredible." Annabelle smiled.

  Quinn kissed her. Featherlight. Tender.

  "Those are words I would use to describe you, not me."

  "Then you must feel about me the way I feel about you," she told him, seeking the answer in his eyes.

  "If you love being with me, love making love to me, want me more than anything on earth and never want me out of your sight, then yes, I'd say I feel the same way you feel."

  Her heart laughed with joy. Whether Quinn realized it or not, he had just told her that he loved her. "Don't leave later this morning," she said. "Stay with me. Stay all day and again tonight."

  He kissed both of her cheeks and then her forehead. "You just try getting rid of me."

  Marcy got out of the rented SUV that she had parked down the street from the Peabody and walked in the rain, not caring that she was getting soaked to the skin. She had let Aaron screw her again last night. And yes, she had enjoyed it, but she didn't love Aaron. God, she wished she did. She'd give anything if she could love anybody other than Quinn. But what could a woman do when she was hog wild crazy about a guy and he kept her at arm's length because she was the best damn assistant he'd ever had?

  As she trudged up the street, her feet splattering water right and left, she wondered if she should threaten to quit her job and see what Quinn would do.

  He'd let you go, you ninny. He can hire another assistant. They'd be lined up six deep and two blocks long just for an interview, just for a chance to work for him. And even if by some miracle Quinn did become your lover, he'd leave you, just as he's left all the others. You'd be just one more in a never-ending stream of available women.

  She was an idiot for coming here, but she hadn't been able to help herself. When she'd woke at four and couldn't go back to sleep, she'd crawled out of Aaron's bed and started to her room, but instead she'd opened the door to Quinn's room and looked at his empty bed.

  He had spent the night with Annabelle Vanderley. He'd held her in his arms and made love to her.

  Even with her eyes wide open, Marcy could see the two of them together. Naked. Fucking their brains out.

  Marcy hated Annabelle. She despised her more than all the others, because she sensed that this woman meant some­thing more to Quinn, that she was different. Marcy had gone into Quinn's room and had lain on his bed thinking about what it would be like to lie in his arms, to have him make love to her. She had opened his closet and ran her hands over his tailor-made suits, then she'd gone into the bathroom, opened the lid on his cologne and sniffed.

  A couple of minutes later, she'd thrown on a pair of sweats and her sneakers and gone outside to the SUV Like a real nutcase, she'd flown along the mostly deserted Memphis streets, running one stop sign and one red light in her eager­ness.

  Now she was here. At the Peabody. Standing outside in the pouring rain, looking up and wondering just where Quinn and Annabelle were and just what they were doing right now. Lying in bed together, listening to the rain? Making love at dawn?

  You should be with me, Quinn, her heart cried. No one will ever love you the way I do.

  Over the years, she had disliked all those other women, but she'd kept telling herself that one day Quinn would look at her and realize he loved her and only her. Then as time passed and Quinn never saw her as more than his faithful as­sistant, she had begun to hate his other women. But she had never despised any of them the way she did Annabelle.

  What will you do if he loves her?

  As she stood there on the cool, dark street, gazing up, her tears mingled with the rain. Inside, she was dying. Dying and no one gave a damn. Least of all Quinn.

  Chapter 26

  Quinn and Annabelle had enjoyed their early morning coffee as they'd sat together on the sofa and watched the dark, rainy sky lighten at dawn, presenting them with a gray, rainy day. They had talked some, but mostly cuddled, savor­ing the quiet moments alone. And when passion had re­newed between them, they had gone back to bed and made slow, sweet love, then fallen asleep afterward and had been awakened less than an hour ago at ten o'clock by Griffin Powell's telephone call.

  Breakfast had arrived only a few minutes ago and while Annabelle finished up in the bathroom, Quinn lifted the cov­ers from their plates and poured coffee into their cups. Just as he removed the cellophane wrap from his freshly squeezed orange juice and took a sip, Annabelle emerged from the bedroom. He loved looking at her, every inch, from her long, silky blond hair to her slender feet, which he had discovered were extremely sensitive. Pausing in the doorway, she smiled at him and his gut tightened with awareness. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on with him, whether what he felt for her was love, but he knew that a brief affair wouldn't be enough. He wanted so much more from her, wanted to spend days—no weeks—-just being with her, holding her, touching her, making love to her. Or simply looking at her.

  "Think we'll have time to eat before Griffin arrives?" Annabelle came toward him, kissed him as if she hadn't seen him in days, then took the orange juice
from his hand and drank from his glass.

  "If not, he can have some coffee while we eat." Quinn seated Annabelle at the small dining table, but before he could join her, someone knocked on the door. "That'll be Griffin." Quinn checked his wristwatch. "Right on time. Precisely eleven."

  "I'll pour him some coffee."

  Quinn opened the door to Griffin Powell and found that he was not alone. Lieutenant Norton stood behind and to one side of his old UT teammate. Just the sight of the detective sent up a red warning signal in Quinn's brain. It wasn't that he had anything personal against Norton—not the way he did against Sergeant George—but irregardless, Norton was a Memphis cop and at present the Memphis PD was his enemy.

  Ignoring Griffin entirely, Quinn pinned his gaze on Norton. "Should I call my lawyer?"

  "I'm not staying," Norton said. "I'm just here to see if you recognize Kelley Fleming from the photo we have of her. No other questions and definitely no interrogation that will require your lawyer."

  "That's good since Judd went back to Chattanooga," Quinn said. "I saw no reason for him to hang around here when he can fly back to Memphis in an hour's time if I need him."

  "We can have Mr. Walker flown in on the Vanderley jet," Annabelle said as she came up beside Quinn and laced her arm through his.

  At that moment, Quinn felt about ten feet tall. And all be­cause of the woman at his side, the woman who believed in him. Trusted him. Loved him.

  "May we come in?" Griffin asked, his tone marginally ir­ritated.

  "Of course." Annabelle tugged on Quinn's arm, prompt­ing him to move backward so that Griffin and Lieutenant Norton could enter.

  "I'll pour two more cups of coffee," Annabelle told Quinn. "Close the door and"—she lowered her voice to a whisper— "be nice to Lieutenant Norton."

  Quinn grinned, then when she turned to go back into the lounge area, he closed the door, took a deep breath and joined the others. Both Powell and Norton remained stand­ing.

  "Coffee?" Annabelle offered a cup to Norton.

  "No, thank you, ma'am."

  "Griffin?"

  "Yes, thanks." Griffin accepted the coffee, then glanced at Quinn. "Jim's got a photo from the crime scene when Kelley Fleming was killed. It's all we have right now, although I've sent one of my best men to Baytown, Texas, to track down all the information he can get on the lady. And by the way, Kelley Fleming was an alias."

  Norton eased a manila envelope out from under his jacket and handed it to Quinn. "Take a look and tell us if you rec­ognize her."

  Quinn took the envelope, opened it and removed the photo. His muscles went taut as he looked at the picture, halfway hoping he would recognize the woman and halfway praying he wouldn't. Either way could work in his favor or against him. He studied the woman's face, then her features, one by one.

  "I don't recognize her." Quinn slipped the photo back into the envelope.

  "We didn't think you would." Jim held out his hand for the photo. "She's not exactly your type."

  Quinn handed the envelope back to the lieutenant. "Meaning?"

  "Kelley Fleming, or whoever she was, might have been attractive at some point in the past, but let's face it"—Norton waved the envelope back and forth—"this old gal looked like hell. And not just because this is a photo taken post­mortem."

  "Does the fact I didn't know her help me or hurt me?" Quinn asked.

  "Neither, actually," Norton replied. "At least not at this point."

  "Jim needs to know where you were on the date that Kelley Fleming was murdered," Griffin said. "Since Baytown is within easy driving distance of Houston, let's hope you were out of town because that would prove you couldn't have killed Kelley."

  "When did she die—two years ago?" Quinn frowned. "I'm not going to remember an exact date from that long ago, but records from my office might help us."

  "All I need is your permission to access that informa­tion," Griffin said.

  "When y'all can give us the answer, call me," Norton said. "In the meantime, I'm going to go out on a limb and as­sume we have ourselves a serial killer."

  "Then that rules out Quinn as a suspect," Annabelle said.

  "Not necessarily," Norton replied. "Mr. Cortez could be a serial killer, although I seriously doubt it." Norton looked right at Quinn. "Don't leave Memphis. If we call you in again, we'll be charging you with at least one of our two murders."

  Quinn looked the detective squarely in the eye. "I appre­ciate the fact that you're not concentrating strictly on me as the only suspect."

  "I don't have any real leads," Norton said. "But there are a few things I'm going to look into and if we're lucky, we'll find our killer."

  Quinn and Norton shook hands, then Griffin walked Jim Norton to the door. Norton paused, glanced back at Quinn and said, "The coroner's office has released Kendall Wells's body. I understand her funeral will be Tuesday."

  "Thank you for telling me," Quinn said.

  Norton nodded, then left.

  After closing the door, Griffin came back into the lounge, picked up his cup and sat down on the sofa. "You two eat breakfast while I talk. I heard from Derek Lawrence this morning. He's the former FBI profiler we hired to give us some insight into our killer. Using the preliminary profile, Jim and I put our heads together and have come up with a couple of ideas on who the killer might be. Jim's input was unofficial, of course."

  "How are we supposed to enjoy our breakfast while you talk about murder and mayhem?" Annabelle glared at Griffin as she speared her scrambled eggs with her fork.

  "Sorry," Griffin said, "but if you two don't want me hang­ing around all day, let's get this over with this morning." Griffin cleared his throat. "And just as a word of caution—if I were y'all, I'd consider staying in and not going out, unless you want the fact that you two are a couple now broadcast all over the news. At least one TV station has a cameraman posted across the street and my guess is there's a reporter or two lurking about."

  "Do they know I'm here at the Peabody?" Quinn asked.

  "The manager informed me that an employee was let go this morning because he was overheard telephoning someone— probably a reporter—and telling them that Quinn Cortez spent the night in Annabelle Vanderley's suite."

  "Goddamn son of a bitch!" Quinn pounded his fist on the table, clinking the silverware against the plates and sloshing his and Annabelle's coffee out of the cups and over into the saucers.

  "Cool down," Griffin said. "Until you two are seen leav­ing the Peabody together, it's only supposition. So, Quinn, when you do get ready to leave, either we'll find a way to slip you out of here or you and I will go out together and Annabelle will stay safely behind."

  "I don't care if the whole world knows that Quinn stayed here with me last night." Annabelle dropped her fork, then reached across the table and covered Quinn's fist with her hand.

  Quinn stared at her, a sense of well-being flourishing inside him. He had never known anyone like Annabelle. No pretenses. No lies. No hidden agenda.

  "If Annabelle doesn't care, then I sure as hell don't." Quinn opened his fist, grabbed her hand and squeezed.

  Griffin cleared his throat again. "Business first."

  Blushing, Annabelle slipped her hand out of Quinn's. "Of course."

  "You said that you've already heard back from the pro­filer," Quinn said. "That was quick, wasn't it?"

  "You get what you pay for and we paid dearly for him. Derek Lawrence is one of the best." Griffin slipped his hand inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small notebook. "This is only a preliminary profile, of course, but it certainly gives us something to go on."

  "Where would you even begin to look for a serial killer?" Annabelle asked.

  "We start with this profile," Griffin replied. "Lawrence says our guy is nomadic. The word is self-explanatory. He or she isn't stationary or territorial. He's killed in Texas, Louisiana and Tennessee. Thirty-four percent of serial killers are no­madic. And our guy—or gal—is probably a mission killer. This person
believes it's his duty to eliminate a certain type of woman. In this case, a woman who sleeps with Quinn Cortez."

  "What are you saying?" Annabelle's eyes widened. Sur­prise? Fear? "All the women Quinn slept with in the past have not been murdered. And he didn't even know Kelley Fleming or whatever the woman's real name was."

  "Just because he didn't recognize Kelley Fleming doesn't mean he didn't know her," Griffin said.

  "If I knew her, I would have recognized her." After speak­ing hurriedly, defending himself, Quinn consid-ered the pos­sibility that Griffin might be right. "But what if I knew her five or ten years ago and she'd changed so much that—"

  "Save that supposition for when I present the scenarios that Jim and I came up with," Griffin contin-ued. "If all of these women, including Kelley, were Quinn's lovers, then that's why they were killed. Either by someone on a mission to eliminate the competition or to punish these women, thus he or she is a mission killer."

  "Why did the murders begin only in the past couple of years?" Annabelle asked. "Actually, except for Kelley, only in the past year?"

  "Good question," Griffin said. "If the murders began with Kelley and if we can figure out why she was the first, we'll be one step closer to finding our killer."

  "The person we're looking for is a nomadic, mission killer," Quinn said. "What else?"

  "The murders seem to be victim and method specific," Griffin told them. "The victims were all Quinn's lovers and the way in which they were killed—smothered with a pillow—is the same, as is the postmortem removal of the right index finger."

  "A nomadic, mission killer whose murders are both vic­tim and method specific. What does this really tell us?" Annabelle shook her head as she spread her hands, palms up, in an exasperated manner.

  "Lawrence said the person we're looking for was proba­bly abused as a kid, suffered severe emotional trauma and maybe physical abuse. Removing the right index finger of each victim could be symbolic of a female authority figure who pointed her index finger at him while chastising him. A mother, a teacher, a foster parent, a nun . . ."