Bone Cold

“Good cook?” Jaye made a face. “She’s like the worst cook on the planet. I swear, she must have studied at the Cordon-ralph.”

Anna laughed, then sobered. “But she is nice, right?”

Jaye lifted a shoulder. “She’s okay, I guess. When she’s not riding her broomstick and sacrificing small children and stray dogs under the full moon.”

“Very funny, wise apple.”

Anna supposed she liked Jaye’s new foster mother well enough, but something about her didn’t add up. She always seemed to be trying too hard. As if her heart wasn’t really into fostering so she had to pretend. Anna had been unsettled from the moment they’d met.

Still, she had been hoping Jaye would like Fran Clausen and her husband, Bob.

They left the CC’s coffeehouse minutes later, making their way out onto the French Quarter sidewalk. “So, how is everything going?” Anna asked.

“School or home?”

“Either. Both.”

“School’s okay. So’s home.”

“Next time, don’t bog me down with so many details. I’m overwhelmed.”

The girl grinned. “Sarcasm, Anna? Cool.”

Anna laughed and they continued to make their way along the busy sidewalk, pausing occasionally to ogle a store’s display. Anna enjoyed the scents, sounds and sights that were the French Quarter: a blending of the mostly old and sometimes new, of the garish and elegant, the delectable and offensive. Populated by both tourists and locals, street performers and street people, the place had captivated Anna on sight.

“Look at that,” Jaye murmured, stopping to peer in at a display of faux-fur jackets in a shop’s window. She pointed to a zebra-print coat in a bomber style. “Is that cool or what?”

“It is,” Anna agreed. “You want to try it on?”

She shook her head. “Only if they’re giving it away. Besides, it wouldn’t go with my hair.”

Anna glanced at Jaye. “I’m finally getting used to you being a redhead. The best part is that we look like sisters now.”

Jaye flushed, pleased. They continued on their way.

After a couple of moments, Jaye glanced at Anna. “Did I tell you about that creep who was following me?”

Anna stopped and looked at her friend, alarmed. “Someone was following you?”

“Yeah. But I gave him the slip.”

“When did this happen? Where?”

“The other day. I was on my way home from school.”

“What did he look like? Was it just that once or has he followed you before? “

“I didn’t get that good a look at him. From what I did see, he was just another old pervert.” Jaye shrugged again. “It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal. Did you tell your foster mom? Did she call—”

“Geez, Anna, get a grip. If I’d known you were going to flip out, I wouldn’t have told you. “

Anna took a deep breath. If she overreacted, Jaye would clam up. And that was the last thing she wanted. Jaye was a street-savvy kid, not an innocent who would be easily tricked by a stranger. She had even lived on the street for a time, a fact that never failed to make Anna shudder.

“Sorry for getting so intense,” she murmured. “Old people are such worrywarts.”

“You’re not old,” Jaye countered.

“Old enough to insist that if you see this guy again you’ll tell me and we’ll go to the police. Agreed?”

Jaye hesitated, then nodded. “Agreed.”

3

Thursday, January 11 The Irish Channel

Detective Quentin Malone entered Shannon’s Tavern, calling a greeting to a couple of his fellow officers. For many New Orleanians, Thursday night represented the official kickoff of the weekend festivities. Bars, restaurants and clubs all over the Crescent City benefited from the laissez les bon temps rouler attitude of the city’s residents, and Shannon’s Tavern was no different.

Located in the area of the city called the Irish Channel—named for the Irish immigrants who had settled there—Shannon’s catered to a working-class, local crowd. And to cops. The Seventh District of the New Orleans Police Department had adopted Shannon’s as their own.

Shannon McDougall, the tavern’s proprietor and namesake, a former bricklayer with hands the size and shape of meat hooks, had no problem with that. Cops kept the rougher crowd away. They kept the drugs, brawls and hookers out of his place and out on the street. As a way of thanking the boys in blue, he refused to allow any of the more seasoned officers to pay for anything. The rookies, however, were a different story. Just as in the force, the new kids on the block had to earn their stripes. Even so, tips were welcome from anyone and many a first of the month, green could be seen passing from a grateful detective or lieutenant’s hand to McDougall’s apron pocket.

Quentin definitely fell into the seasoned category. At thirty-seven he was a sixteen-year veteran of the force and a detective first grade. He was also a part of a NOPD family dynasty: his grandfather, father, three uncles and one aunt had been cops; of his six siblings only two had opted out of police work, Patrick who had become a number cruncher, and Shauna, the baby of the brood, who was studying art in college.

Quentin strolled toward the bar for a beer. He was waylaid by the barmaid, a perky twenty-three-year-old with super-short, spiky blond hair. She had made it plain she would love to go out with him, but Quentin had no desire to date a girl the same age as his kid sister. Something about that just felt a little weird.

“Hey, Malone.” She smiled up at him. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been around.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “You doing okay, Suki?”

“Can’t complain. Tips have been good.” She glanced toward a group making their way to one of the tables. “Gotta go. Talk later?”

“Sure.”

She started off then looked back over her shoulder at him. “John Jr. was in. He asked me to tell you to call your mother.”

Quentin laughed. John Jr. was the oldest of the Malone brood and had appointed himself caretaker of the family. If any of the siblings had a problem, they went to John Jr. If any one of them had an issue with another member of the family, they went to John Jr. And conversely, if John Jr. perceived there to be problem in the family, he took matters into his own hands. Obviously, Quentin had missed one too many of his mother’s Sunday dinners.

“Message received, Suki. Thanks.”

Quentin crossed to the bar. Shannon had already drawn the draft; he slid it across the counter. “On the house.”

“Thanks, Shannon. You seen Terry tonight?” he asked, referring to his partner Terry Landry.

“He’s here.” The older man jerked his thumb toward the back room of the bar. “Last I saw, he was breaking a new rack. Seemed a little off tonight, you know what I mean?”

Quentin nodded. He did indeed know what Shannon meant. His partner was going through a tough time. His wife of twelve years had recently kicked him out, claiming him impossible to live with.