Chapter 12

Annabelle stared at the single cream white rose nestled in the long, narrow florist box that had just been delivered. Knowing before she read the enclosed card exactly who had sent the rose and why, she hesitated. Dump the box, flower, and card all in the trash, she told herself. And do it now before you talk yourself out of making the wise choice. Halfway to the wastebasket in the bathroom, she paused to take another look at the rose. Long-stemmed, fragrant and perfect. Most men would have sent a dozen red roses as a way of apologizing. Someone like Quinn Cortez had probably sent dozens of women dozens of red roses. She had figured him for the type who would have gone the extravagant route and sent her half a florist shop. But no, not even half a dozen flowers. Only one. Cream white. Why only one and why white? Odd that she’d misjudged him. Ordinarily she had a knack for sizing up people correctly.

Don’t pick up that card, her inner self warned. But she didn’t listen. Acting purely on instinct, she laid the box on the vanity, removed the card and read the message.

Forgive me. Quinn

Straight to the point and succinct. Was the sentiment heartfelt and sincere? She had no idea, but she wanted it to be. And that fact bothered her greatly. She shouldn’t care how Quinn felt or what he thought or even what he did. The man meant nothing to her—unless he turned out to be Lulu’s murderer. And that was a definite possibility. She couldn’t allow herself to forget that fact.

Annabelle dropped the card back into the florist box, closed the lid and dumped the box into the trash.

Apology not accepted.

Apology not really necessary.

Quinn didn’t know her—the real Annabelle Vanderley— anymore than she knew him. They were practically strangers who had been brought together only because of a terrible tragedy. And they were temporarily bound to each other because of their business arrangement with Griffin Powell. If there was another family member she could trust to work with Griffin, there would be no need for her to ever see Quinn Cortez again. But there was no one else. If Wythe were the man he should be, the son his father wanted him to be, the brother Lulu had deserved, he would be here in Memphis alone, representing the family. But Wythe was weak, mentally sick, his mind warped.

Several fast, firm knocks at the outer door of her suite vanquished unpleasant thoughts of her cousin. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, but as she squared her shoulders and walked out of the bathroom, a flash of insight hit her.

That’s probably Quinn.

He had no doubt timed his arrival perfectly, so that his apology in the form of one perfect white rose would be delivered shortly before he showed up at her door. She had several choices, but was uncertain which to choose. If she didn’t answer the door, he might simply go away. But if she did that, he would probably come back later. If she opened the door and told him to go away, how would he react? Or she could invite him in and try to make him understand that whatever he wanted from her—understanding, friendship, a new conquest—he would never get.

Licking her lips nervously, Annabelle peeped through the viewfinder. An odd sense of disappointment fluttered inside her. The man standing outside in the hallway was not Quinn.

Opening the door, Annabelle smiled warmly. “Good evening, Sergeant George. Is there news about—”

“I’m not actually here in any official capacity,” he told her. “I just wanted to drop by and see how you’re doing and find out if there’s anything you need.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Chad George was incredibly good-looking in a male model sort of way, as if Mother Nature had airbrushed out all the physical imperfections. “Won’t you come in?”

“Thanks.” He entered the suite and followed Annabelle into the lounge area. “I hope you won’t think I’m stepping over the line here, but I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner? Nothing fancy. And if you need someone to talk to about things—about Lulu, her murder, the suspects. Anything. I’m a good listener.”

Why not? Why not go out to dinner with this handsome detective?

“You aren’t married or engaged or anything are you?” she asked.

Chad laughed. “No, ma’am. If I were, I wouldn’t be asking you out, even if this won’t actually be a date. I wouldn’t want to put that kind of pressure on you. It’ll just be two people sharing a meal and getting better acquainted.”

“That sounds an awful lot like a date to me,” she told him, her tone light, the comment made jokingly.

He grinned. “Is that a yes?”

She nodded. “Give me a few minutes to freshen up.”

“Take your time. I didn’t make reservations or anything.”

Annabelle rushed off to the bedroom, then called out before closing the door, “I’ll be right back.”

There was no point in changing clothes since she looked perfectly presentable and her available wardrobe was limited. Brush your hair, use some mouthwash, add a fresh coat of blush to your cheeks and put on some lipstick.

While flying about from one thing to the next, she considered the fact that she hadn’t been out on a date of any kind in ages and she was looking forward to spending the evening with Chad. What woman wouldn’t? After all, he was young, handsome, charming and trustworthy.

Quinn awoke gradually. Groggy and slightly disoriented, he opened his eyes and looked around, wondering where he was. Then it all came back to him—he’d been on his way over to see Kendall and had stopped by the florist to order flowers for Annabelle. He had decided on a single white rose instead of the six dozen he’d considered sending in way of an apology. A cream white rose as smooth and beautiful as Annabelle’s flawless skin.

Lifting himself upright from where he’d been halfway slumped on the car seat, Quinn glanced outside and noticed it was dark. Where was he and what had happened?

Think, man, think.

He’d left the florist and thought about going straight to the Peabody to see Annabelle, then decided it wasn’t such a good idea. Better to let the rose and the note speak for him. At least for the time being. She needed time to forgive him.

After nixing the idea of seeing Annabelle, he returned to his original plan and headed toward downtown. But he hadn’t made it to Kendall’s, had he? He vaguely remembered feeling odd, of becoming terribly drowsy.

Taking another look outside, he realized he was in a parking lot that serviced a restaurant and several shops. Had he pulled off the main thoroughfare and parked here? Yeah, that’s what he’d done. He remembered now, remembered thinking he should stop for coffee because he was so damn sleepy. Stress, restless nights, constant worry. It all added up. He’d probably just been totally exhausted and— No, that wasn’t it and he knew it. He’d had an odd spell like this before—several in the past year. How many episodes had there been? Two or three? No, this one made four. He had dismissed it the first time, could barely remember when it had happened or the details. The other episodes of feeling woozy, then passing out and coming to an hour or more later had occurred months apart, but this spell had happened only days after the last one, which had occurred the night of Lulu’s murder.

Maybe he shouldn’t keep putting off seeing a doctor.

But now wasn’t the right time, considering he was embroiled in a murder case where he was one of the suspects. Later, when all this hullabaloo about Lulu’s death had been cleared up, when her real killer had been caught and put behind bars, he’d have a complete physical. But there was no rush, was there? It wasn’t as if these spells had any real effect on his life. Having four blackout spells in the span of a year hardly warranted any real panic. After all, once he came to after an hour or two, he was able to function normally despite a headache that lingered for several hours.

Rubbing his palm across his face, he grunted, then leaned over and looked at himself in the interior rearview mirror. Other than his hair being slightly disheveled, he didn’t look any worse for wear. But he had a damn crick in his neck. As he massaged the back of his neck, he twisted his head from one side to the other.

Quinn checked his watch. Seven fifty-two. Damn, he’d been out over an hour and a half. After spearing his fingers through his hair, he turned the ignition key, started the Porsche and exited the parking lot. Realizing he was only a few miles from his destination, he wondered why he’d stopped here instead of trying to make it to Kendall’s house. He must have been really out of it when he left the flow of traffic.

With the late afternoon rush hour over and the streets not as congested as they had been earlier, it shouldn’t take him long to get to Kendall’s. He backed up his car and headed toward the main thoroughfare. His head hurt like hell. When he arrived at Kendall’s, he’d get a couple of aspirin.

Less than ten minutes later, when he turned onto the street where Kendall lived, he saw the whirling lights of an ambulance and patrol cars. A tight knot formed in the pit of his belly. Whatever’s going on, it’s not at Kendall’s house, he told himself. Don’t expect the worst, don’t think something’s wrong with Kendall just because you were the one who discovered Lulu’s body.

He slowed the Porsche to a crawl as he drew nearer the emergency vehicles, which were parked in a row along the street in front of Kendall’s house. A small group of neighbors were huddled together in the street on both sides of Kendall’s place, curiosity and concern fostering their vigil.

God, not again! This can’t be happening. Please, let Kendall be all right. She can’t be hurt. She can’t be dead.

Quinn drove by slowly, going several houses down from Kendall’s before he pulled his Porsche over to the curb and parked. After killing the engine, he sat there for a couple of minutes, willing himself under control. Although his gut was telling him he could now expect the worst, he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the possibility that something bad had happened to Kendall. Filled with dread, Quinn got out of his car and walked up the street. When he drew closer, he saw a patrolman manning the perimeter, keeping curiosity seekers and nosy neighbors at bay. He made it halfway to the front door when the young, freckle-faced officer stopped him.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”

“What’s wrong?” Quinn asked. “I know the lady who lives here. Kendall Wells. She’s my lawyer and a good friend.”

“I’m sorry.” The officer’s cheeks flushed. “I can’t give you any information at this time.”

Just as the paramedics came out of the house via the front door, a black Chevy Trailblazer pulled up behind one of the patrol cars parked on the street. Quinn immediately recognized the man who emerged. Memphis’s medical examiner, Udell White.

Quinn’s heart sank. Somebody inside Kendall’s house was dead. If not Kendall, then who? As the ME came closer, he glanced at Quinn and apparently recognized him immediately.

“Did this guy find the body?” the ME asked the young officer.

“No, sir. He just showed up. The victim’s ex-husband actually discovered the body. He’s inside with—”

“Kendall’s dead.” Quinn felt sick. “How…who…?”

“Cortez, you’d probably better wait around,” Udell White said. “I’m sure Norton and George are on their way. They’re bound to have a few questions to ask you.”

“How did she die?” Quinn asked. “Did her ex-husband kill her? Was it an accident? Did an intruder—?”

“Keep him out here,” the ME told the young policeman, indicating Quinn with a hitch of his thumb in Quinn’s direction as he headed straight for the front door.

“Sir, if you’ll just stay out of the way and wait here, I’d appreciate it,” the policeman said to Quinn.

With his head pounding and his stomach churning, Quinn nodded, then turned and walked to the curb. Disregarding his surroundings and the murmurs of the small crowd nearby, Quinn sat down on the curb, hung his head and dropped his clasped hands between his knees. How was it possible that in the span of seventy-two hours, two of his lovers had died?

Annabelle found herself enjoying Chad George’s company a great deal. Since being seated and ordering dinner at Pat O’Brien’s, located two blocks south of the Peabody on Beale Street, they hadn’t mentioned Lulu or anything connected to her murder. Chad had relayed basic personal facts and she’d done the same. He was nearly thirty, never married, his mother was a widow who taught English at Memphis State, his uncle was a congressman and his older sister was a pediatric nurse who lived with her husband and one daughter in Horn Lake, Mississippi, which was pretty much considered a suburb of Memphis.

The waiter had just brought their after-dinner coffee when Chad’s beeper went off.

He glanced at the number displayed, frowned and said, “Sorry, but I need to call in about this.”

“Certainly. Go right ahead.” Annabelle lifted the cup to her lips, tasted the hot coffee and sighed. Delicious.

Using his cell phone, Chad made the call. When he groaned, Annabelle glanced at him and noted his furrowed brow.

“Say again.” Chad’s features hardened. “Yeah, I heard you. Have you contacted Norton? Okay. I’m on my way. I’ll meet him there.”

“What’s wrong?” Annabelle asked.

“I’m afraid I have to leave now. There’s been a murder in the South Bluff area. I have to go, but I’ll drop you back by your hotel.”

“Yes, of course, but I assumed you were off duty.”

Chad stood. “I am, but this murder—this possible murder— well, it might be connected to another case my partner and I are working on.”

Annabelle’s stomach muscles tightened. “Lulu’s case?”

When she stood, Chad placed his hand on the small of her back. “The victim—the deceased—is Kendall Wells,” he whispered, for her ears only.

Annabelle gasped. “Quinn Cortez’s lawyer has been murdered?”

Chad grasped her elbow and led her through the restaurant and out to the street. “I don’t know any details, except that Ms. Wells is dead and the ME has been called. But, yeah, it looks like foul play, according to the first officers on the scene.”

“Don’t waste time taking me back to the hotel,” Annabelle told him. “I’ll go with you.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“I’ll stay in the car and out of the way. I promise. But if Kendall Wells was murdered and her death is in any way connected to Lulu’s, then I want to know. I need to know.”

“I shouldn’t take you along,” Chad said as he led her to his parked car, but when she gazed at him pleadingly, he gave in without putting up much of a fight. “You stay in the car, out of sight and keep quiet.”

“I will. I promise.” She reached out and grasped Chad’s hand, then smiled appreciatively at him as she twined her fingers with his and squeezed. “Thank you.”

When Jim Norton arrived on the scene and saw Quinn Cortez sitting on the curb outside Kendall Well’s house, a jolt of déjà vu hit him.

Jim nodded toward Quinn. “What’s he doing here?” Jim asked freckle-faced Officer Vickers. “Don’t tell me he found the body.” Just the fact that Cortez’s lawyer was dead, probably murdered, was peculiar enough, but if Cortez had discovered the body, what were the odds anyone would believe he hadn’t murdered her? After all, he was already a prime suspect in Lulu Vanderley’s murder.

“No sir, he’s just a friend and client who showed up a few minutes ago,” Officer Vickers said. “Ms. Wells’s ex-husband, Dr. Jonathan Miles, is the one who discovered the body. He told us that he stopped by to see her occasionally, that their divorce, which isn’t official yet, was an amicable one and they were still friends. When he arrived, he noticed the side door was wide open, so he went in and called out to Ms. Wells. When she didn’t answer, he went through the house searching for her and found her in her bedroom.”

“How did she die?” Jim asked. “Was she shot, stabbed—”

“No visible wounds of any kind, except…” Vickers swallowed. “Her right index finger had been cut off. And there was a pillow lying over her face, so we figured she’d been smothered.”

“Goddamn,” Jim grumbled. “Is Udell White in there now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The guy over there sitting by the curb…” Jim indicated Quinn. “How much did you tell him about what happened here?”

“Nothing. I swear. I didn’t tell him anything.”

“He wasn’t told that you suspect Ms. Wells was suffocated? Or that her index finger had been cut off?”

Vickers shook his head. “No, sir. I’d never…I mean I know what to do and what not to do. I’m not exactly a rookie. I’ve been on the force for over a year now.”

Jim patted the guy on the back. “I’m sure you handled things just fine. It’s just that the man over there on the curb is Quinn Cortez. He’s a possible suspect in a recent murder and—”

“That’s Quinn Cortez, huh? I thought he looked familiar. Strange isn’t it that his lawyer’s dead now, only a few days after his girlfriend was murdered. You think there’s a connection?”

“It’s possible. But since we don’t have any of the facts in Kendall Wells’s death yet, it’s a little too soon for suppositions,” Jim said, although he figured that with this killer’s MO appearing to be identical to Lulu’s killer’s MO, it was more than coincidence. “I’m going inside to speak to the ME. When my partner shows up, let me know.” Jim walked away, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “Keep an eye on Cortez, will you? I might want to question him later.”

Jim showed the officer inside Kendall Wells’s house his ID, then glanced at the middle-aged man sitting at the kitchen table, tears streaming down his pale face. The ex-husband, Jim surmised, then headed up the hall. When he reached the bedroom, the door stood wide open. He surveyed the area and noted that nothing appeared to be out of place. The bed was still made, but the spread was wrinkled beneath the body as if Kendall Wells had wriggled around on it. Or had struggled against an attacker. She lay there perfectly still, a towel still partially wrapped around her head, a few tendrils of dark hair poking out against her forehead. The silk robe she wore was belted, but spread slightly apart so that one long, slender thigh showed plainly and the inner curve of each breast was visible.

And her right hand rested at her side, the index finger missing. A small spot of dark blood stained the spread beneath her hand.

“What can you tell me?” Jim asked when Udell White turned and looked right at him.

“I’d say there’s a good chance that either we’ve got a serial killer on our hands or this is a copycat murder. She was probably smothered with the pillow.” Udell indicated the large pillow lying at the foot of the bed. “It was over her face. There are signs of a minor struggle, as if she tried to fight her attacker, but he overpowered her. No outward signs of sexual assault. And as you can see, her killer removed her right index finger.” Udell shook his head, making a silent comment.

“This seems very similar to the Lulu Vanderley murder,” Jim said.

Udell nodded. “Just like with the Vanderley woman, it’s as if she knew her killer. There’s no indication that she ran from him or fought him at all until he had her down on the bed.”

“Time of death?”

“A couple of hours, at the very most.”

Something didn’t sit quite right with Jim about this whole thing. If Quinn Cortez killed Lulu Vanderley in a fit of rage because she was pregnant and demanding marriage, then who killed Kendall Wells and why? Even with a strong motive, Cortez would have to be an idiot to kill a second time and in exactly the same manner. Either an idiot or a psychopath. He didn’t think the man was either.

Chad parked behind a line of other cars, cautioned Annabelle to stay put and then got out and spoke to the policeman standing outside the house. Annabelle had met Kendall Wells several times, always with her client, Quinn Cortez. It seemed odd to think that the woman was dead. Had she been murdered, as Lulu had been? It would be unbelievable if she’d been murdered, wouldn’t it, considering her close connection to Quinn.

Slightly uneasy, her mind filled with questions, Annabelle glanced out the windows, scanning the area in every direction. This was a lovely neighborhood, upscale and modern. People were gathered in the streets. Neighbors, no doubt. Police vehicles, cars and SUVs lined the street and driveway. Was this what it had looked like at Lulu’s house the night she was killed? A shiver tingled through Annabelle’s body.

Suddenly, her gaze paused on a lone man sitting by the curb, his head bowed, his hands resting on either side of his head. Illumination from a nearby streetlight shined directly on the man. Annabelle’s heart skipped a beat. No, it couldn’t be. What would he be doing here? But when the man dropped his hands down between his knees and turned his head to one side, Annabelle gasped.

Quinn Cortez!

What was he doing here? Had he discovered Kendall’s body as he had Lulu’s? Did the police believe he had killed his own lawyer? Surely, if the police suspected him of murdering Kendall Wells, they would have arrested him, not left him sitting alone on the curb. When Annabelle caught a glimpse of his face, she fought the tender sympathy that overwhelmed her. He looked like a lost soul, a man in mourning.

Quinn was not a murderer. She felt it deep inside her, at a gut level. Of its own volition, her hand reached for the door handle and before she realized what she was doing, she stood outside Chad George’s car. As if drawn to him by some unknown and overwhelming force, Annabelle moved past the car and walked up the street toward Quinn. Then without warning Chad came marching toward Quinn from the other direction. Annabelle stopped and held her breath.

“Cortez!” Chad bellowed the name.

Quinn glanced behind him, saw Chad and shot up off the ground. When Chad was within two feet of Quinn, he paused and the two men glared at each other.

“Did you kill her?” Chad asked, his voice loud but calm.

“Sergeant George, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jim Norton called from the open front door.

Annabelle’s gaze darted from Quinn and Chad to Lieutenant Norton, who came out of the house and headed toward the other two men.

“Then she really is…dead,” Quinn said, a catch in his voice.

“Yeah, she’s dead,” Chad replied. “Quite a coincidence, don’t you think—first your latest lover and then your lawyer. Both women murdered. And Kendall Wells was one of your lovers, too, wasn’t she?”

“Damn,” Jim Norton cursed under his breath as he approached the two men. “Mr. Cortez, we’ll probably have a few questions for you tomorrow, but for now, why don’t you go on home. I’ll contact you in the morning.”

Quinn nodded. “Was she—was Kendall murdered?”

“You know damn well she was,” Chad said. “What is it with you, Cortez? Do you get off on killing your lovers?”

“That’s enough!” Lieutenant Norton told Chad as he walked between the two men.

Quinn snarled. Annabelle noted the rage in his black eyes, the way his nostrils flared and his jaw tightened. Acting on instinct, she ran toward them and when she reached Quinn’s side, she put her arm through his. His muscles were so tight they felt like stone. “I need a ride back to the hotel,” she said. “Would you mind driving me to the Peabody, Mr. Cortez?”

“Annabelle, no—” Chad held out a restraining hand toward her.

Jim Norton grabbed Chad’s arm and said, “We’ve got work to do. I don’t know how Ms. Vanderley got here or why she’s here, but I think it’s a good idea for Mr. Cortez to take her home.”

“It’s all right, Chad,” she told him. “We’ll talk later. Tomorrow or whenever you’re free.” She turned to Quinn. “I’m ready to leave now, if you are.”

Quinn didn’t respond verbally; instead he nodded, and then led her down the street. When they reached his silver Porsche, he opened the passenger door. After she slid into the seat, he rounded the hood and got in on the driver’s side. Once inside, he sat there for several minutes, staring at Kendall Wells’s house.

“Aren’t you afraid to be alone with me?” he asked, bitterness in his voice.

“Should I be?”

He faced her then and something purely feminine and nurturing inside her reacted. She reached out and touched his cheek. “You cared about Ms. Wells. You’re in pain right now, mourning her death.”

He stared deeply into her eyes and for a split second she thought he was going to open up to her, to share his sorrow. But he jerked away abruptly, as if her touch had burned him.

“Why did you do that?” He inserted the key into the ignition and started the car.

“Why did I do what?”

“Come to Sergeant George’s rescue. You knew I was on the verge of hitting him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I sensed that you might do something foolish—like hit Chad.”

“Chad, huh? You two have become very chummy. Did you come here with him tonight?”

“Yes, I did. We were having dinner when he got the call about Ms. Wells.”

Quinn laughed, the sound harsh. Anguished.

“Why do you automatically assume that it was Chad I was trying to protect?” she asked.

He cut his eyes in her direction, his gaze puzzled.

“Maybe I came to your rescue. Did you ever think of that?” she asked. “If you’d hit a police officer, you’d have been in a great deal of trouble. Don’t you think you have enough problems as it is?”

“Are you saying you whisked me away from there to save me, not to protect Chad George?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I felt I needed to save you from yourself?”