Bone Cold

“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.

She followed him to his feet, furious. “I won’t hold my breath.”

Instead of being offended, he looked amused. Which only made her angrier. “You’re wrong, you know. The person who wrote these letters is a child. You only have to look at them to know. And even if an adult could have successfully feigned this handwriting, which I don’t believe they could, the person who wrote these thinks like a child. And that child’s in danger.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see it that way.”

“So, you’re not going to do anything about this?” Anna said, disgusted. “Not even follow up on the P.O. box or phone number? “

“No, I’m not. However, Detective Lautrelle might feel differently. He’s expected back tomorrow, I’ll give him a full report.”

“An unbiased one, I’ve no doubt.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Of course. I advise you to be careful right now, Ms. North. Report anything out of the ordinary. Anyone out of the ordinary. Be cautious about new people who enter your life.” He paused. “You didn’t respond to these letters using your home address, did you?”

Instead, she had responded using an address she could be accessed at six days a week. How could she have been so stupid? “My home address?” she repeated, sidestepping the truth, not wanting to admit to this insufferable know-it-all how careless she had been. “No, I did not.”

“Good.” He handed her Detective Lautrelle’s card. “Anything comes up, give Lautrelle a call. He’ll be able to help you out.”

She pocketed the card without looking at it. She crossed to the cubicle’s opening, stopping and looking back at him when she reached it. “You know, Detective Malone, after meeting you it doesn’t surprise me that there are so many famous unsolved crimes.”

11

Quentin watched Anna North walk away, half-amused, half-awed. Harlow Grail, in his office. Who would have thought it?

He had been fourteen when she’d been kidnapped and remembered sitting with his father and uncles and listening to them talk about the case. He remembered the newscasts, remembered staring at Harlow Grail’s image on TV and in the newspaper and thinking her about the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

He had fantasized solving the case and being a big Hollywood hero, and when she had escaped he had cheered for her—even as he’d listened to his father and uncles say that something about the case just didn’t add up.

Like it had the rest of the country, the Grail kidnapping had continued to fascinate him. Hers had been the first of many unsolved cases he had studied over the years.

“Hey, partner.” Terry ambled over to stand beside him. He motioned in the direction Anna North had gone. “Who was the dish?”

“Name’s Anna North.”

“She kill anybody?”

Quentin glanced at his partner from the corners of his eyes. “Only on paper. She’s a suspense novelist.”

“No joke? So, what’d she want with you? She gonna make you the hero in her next book? “

Remembering the way she had looked at him, Quentin doubted that. A victim, maybe. One who died a bloody and gruesome death. “Yeah,” he murmured, “something like that.”

Terry motioned the front desk. “We got our walking papers. LaPinto and Erickson just straggled in.”

Quentin glanced over. “They don’t look too good.”

“I say we get while the getting’s good.”

Quentin agreed. They signed out, then stepped out into the gray, chilly day. Terry shivered and zipped his leather jacket. “I’m getting pretty fucking sick of this cold. This is New Orleans, for Christ’s sake.”

“It could be worse,” Quentin murmured, looking up at the sky. “It could snow.”

“Bite your tongue, Malone. Remember the last time it snowed? A couple snowflakes and this town goes nuts. We’d be working around the clock.”

They reached his Bronco and Quentin unlocked the doors. After they had climbed in and buckled up, Terry turned to him. “So what did the redhead want? She really going to write you into her next book?”