Bone Cold

Quentin ignored the sarcasm, chalking it up to Terry’s marital problems and his having had too much to drink. “Hardly. We’re not talking rocket science here. Raging like a bull and calling names doesn’t soften a woman’s heart. Remember the song? Try a little tenderness.”

Terry’s face twisted with bitterness. “What’s going on here, partner? All those times my wife asked you over for dinner, what was that all about?” He leaned toward Quentin, eyes alight with fury. “While I was choking down her leftover meat loaf, what were you enjoying? “

Quentin hung on to his temper. “You’re going to regret that comment in the morning,” he said softly, tone deadly. “And because you’re going through a hard time, I’ll let it pass. This once. Do it again and I won’t be so forgiving. You got that?”

Terry crumpled. “I’m a screwup, man. A total screwup. A loser, like that chick said. Like my old lady always told me I would be. A worthless nothing.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re drunk and feeling sorry for yourself. Just don’t turn it on me, partner. I’m on your side.”

He pulled himself together. “I’m going back in there. I don’t want that cocktease or anybody else to think she’s won.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. The crowd grew bigger and rowdier, the redhead apparently grew bored and decided to take her goodies elsewhere and everyone seemed to forget the altercation between her and Terry. At the height of the night’s revelry Quentin lost sight of Terry, not hooking up with him again until they closed the place at 2:00 a.m.

“Shannon,” Terry said, clapping the bartender on the back, “I’m sorry, man. I shouldn’t have—” He weaved on his feet; Quentin grabbed his arm to steady him. “—shouldn’t have started nothin’ in your place.”

“It’s okay, Ter.” The big man waved off his apologies. “You’re going through a lot of crap right now. You just needed to let off a little steam.”

“No ‘scuse, man. None.” He shrugged free of Quentin’s grasp, swaying dangerously. He dipped his hand into a trouser pocket and pulled out a bill. He pressed it into Shannon’s hand. “No ‘scuse. Take it, it’s my ‘pology.”

Quentin glanced at the bill in Shannon’s hand, then looked at Terry in shock. A fifty? Where the hell had Terry gotten that?

Shannon must have been wondering the same thing because his eyebrows shot up in question a moment before he stuffed the bill into his apron pocket.

Quentin turned to his brothers who had hung around to help him get Terry home. “What do you say we get soon-to-be Sleeping Beauty out of here?”

Terry could hardly walk. With his brothers’ help, Quentin got him outside and poured into his Bronco. He handed Percy Terry’s keys. “See you there.”

“Yeah. Quent?”

He met his youngest brother’s vivid blue eyes. “That was a fifty Terry gave Shannon.”

Quentin frowned. “I saw.”

“That’s a lot of money to be throwing around.”

“No joke.” Especially for a cop who was supporting a family—at two separate residences. Unless that cop was on the take.

Terry was not. Quentin would stake his life on it.

“Forget about it, Percy.” Quentin saw the question in his brother’s eyes and turned away. “I’m beat, let’s get this over with.”

The insistent scream of the phone dragged Quentin from a deep sleep. Muttering an oath, he answered it. “Malone here.”

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” the desk officer drawled. “Time to go to work.”

Quentin muttered another oath. A call from the precinct this time of night meant only one thing. “Where?” he managed to say, voice thick with sleep.

“In the alley behind Shannon’s Tavern.”

The response jump started his brain. He sat up. “Did you say Shannon’s Tavern?”

“That I did. Female. Caucasian. Dead.”

Shit. “You don’t have to sound so damn cheerful about it. What are you, some sort of ghoul?”

“What can I say? I love my work.”

He glanced at his watch, calculating how long it would take him to get to the scene. “You call Landry yet?”

“He’s next.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Good luck.”

She had that right. Quentin hung up and dialed his partner.

4

Friday, January 12 5:45 a.m.

The scene resembled dozens of others Quentin had worked over the years. The seasons changed, the location, the number dead and amount of blood. The aura of tragedy did not. The smell of death. The perverted destruction of life that screamed so loudly no amount of small talk or tasteless one-liners could block it out.

This one stood out only because its location struck so close to home. A homicide was definitely not the kind of publicity a bar owner needed. And it’d been a quiet night murder-wise in New Orleans; Quentin figured this stiff would be page-one news. Too bad for Shannon.

Quentin swung out of his Bronco. The pavement was wet. The air damp and cold. To-the-bone cold. Quentin glanced up at the black, starless sky and shrugged deeper into his jacket. A lot of the locals complained about August in New Orleans. As far as he was concerned, hellfire hot beat out cold and damp as the grave any day.

But then, he’d spent too much time around the dead.

He flashed his shield at the uniform guarding the perimeter, then ducked under the yellow tape.

“Damn cold night to die,” the officer said, huddling deeper into his coat, obviously miserable.

Quentin didn’t comment. He crossed to the first officer, a rookie who hung out with his brother Percy. “Hey, Mitch.”

“Detective.” He shifted from his right foot to his left. “Man, it’s cold.”

“As a witch’s tit.” Quentin roamed his gaze over the area. “I’m the first.”

“Yup. Johnny on the spot.”

“Touch anything?”

“Nope. Checked her pulse and ID. Called it in.”

“Good. What’ve we got?”

“Female. Caucasian. According to her driver’s license, name was Nancy Kent. Looks like he raped her first.”