Killing Her Softly Page 3

  Although he'd defended countless clients accused of murder, he'd never been on this end of a murder case. Never been a suspect. And he'd never discovered a dead body.

  Poor Lulu. God in heaven, who could have killed her? And why? She might have been practically worthless as a human being, having never worked a day in her life or gone out of her way to help another living soul, but she certainly had never intentionally harmed anyone. She'd been a free spirit, living life for the sheer pleasure of it. She was a good-time girl, fun to be around and a damn good lay.

  Quinn winced. That's no way to think of the dead, he re­minded himself, then huffed out a pained chuckle. Who was he kidding? Lulu would love being described as a damn good lay. She prided herself on her sexual prowess. The woman had been a tiger in the bedroom.

  I don't know who killed you, honey, or why, but if the po­lice can't find your murderer, I will.

  The door opened and Sergeant George poked his head in and said "Your lawyer's here."

  George had been a real pain in the ass, but Lieutenant Norton had conducted himself like the old pro he was. And it wasn't a matter of good cop/bad cop. It was a basic differ­ence in men.

  Quinn eased his fingers down over his cheekbones, then let his hands drop to the tops of his thighs as he glanced up at the cocky, young policeman. His gut instincts told him that no matter what the circumstances were under which he might have met Chad George, he wouldn't have liked the guy.

  "We haven't charged you with anything. And we weren't interrogating you, just asking you a few questions," the sergeant said. "You really didn't need to call in a lawyer."

  "Oh yeah, I think I did." Quinn rose to his full six-one height and looked the policeman in the eyes. George wasn't a large man. Five ten, one sixty-five. And too damn pretty to be a man. Bet he got plenty of ribbing from the other officers about being so movie-star handsome. Like a young, red­headed Brat Pitt.

  George's lips lifted in a hint of a smile, then he stepped backward and out of the way as Kendall Wells charged past him. She ignored the sergeant as if he were invisible. And when she closed the door behind her, Quinn grinned imag­ining the guy's indignant reaction to not only being ignored but also having the door practically slammed in his face. Bet Chad George wasn't accustomed to women treating him that way. But then, Kendall was no ordinary woman.

  "I hope you've kept your mouth shut," Kendall said as she approached Quinn, her three-inch black heels tapping against the floor.

  Quinn inspected his lawyer from head to toe. Ms. Wells was a looker. Tall, slender, leggy and though not classically pretty, attractive nonetheless. She dressed in the best her money could buy. Tailored suits. Simple gold jewelry. Her bright red sculptured nails made a statement that said although she was feminine, she could also be dangerous, possibly lethal.

  He'd known Kendall for a number of years. They'd worked together on one of her first cases after she joined Hamilton, Jeffreys and Lloyd which was now Hamilton, Jeffreys, Lloyd and Wells. At forty-four, she didn't look a day over thirty-five. By keeping her body toned and the gray in her hair cov­ered with a dark rinse, she managed to fool those who didn't know her true age. But Quinn knew. He knew a lot about Kendall. They'd been lovers briefly and she liked to talk— mostly about herself—in the afterglow of lovemaking. Even though he hadn't seen her in nearly five years, she'd been the first person he'd thought of when he decided he needed a top-notch Memphis lawyer right away.

  "You're looking good" Quinn said.

  Kendall smiled. "You look like hell."

  He rubbed his head. "I've got a killer headache."

  "Discovering a lover's dead body would give anybody a headache."

  Quinn narrowed his gaze and looked directly at Kendall. "I didn't kill Lulu."

  "That's good to know."

  Inclining his head toward the closed door, Quinn asked "Do they think I did it?"

  "Probably. The boyfriend or the husband is always a sus­pect. You know that."

  "I told them the basic facts of my having a late date with Lulu, driving in from Nashville, showing up at her house and finding her dead in her bedroom. But when Sergeant George starting implying I might have had a reason to want to kill Lulu, I called a halt to the questioning."

  "And telephoned me. Smart boy."

  "Mrs. Cortez didn't raise no fools."

  "Did you have a reason to want to see Lulu Vanderley dead?"

  Quinn lifted his brows and glowered at his lawyer. "Playing devil's advocate a little early in the game, aren't you, coun­selor?"

  Kendall shrugged. "They'll pin this on you if there's any way they can. You're a big fish. A headline maker. Just think what it could do for not only George's and Norton's careers but the DA's. I know Steven Campbell. He's as ambitious as they come. He'd love nothing better than to convict the Quinn Cortez of murder."

  "I had absolutely no reason to kill Lulu. We were friends . . . lovers."

  "Nothing serious between you two?"

  "Now when have I ever had a serious relationship with a woman?"

  "Hmm . . ." Kendall looked him over from head to toe. "What about Lulu, did she want more than you were willing to give?"

  Quinn shook his head. "Not that I know of. She drove up to Nashville and spent a couple of days with me about six weeks ago. I hadn't seen her since. She called this afternoon to congratulate me on winning the McBryar case and invited me to Memphis for a personal celebration."

  "What about other boyfriends? Do you know if she was seeing someone else—someone who might have been the jealous type?"

  "We didn't discuss other lovers when we were together."

  "I sure hope she had a jealous boyfriend. That would at least take some of the focus off you."

  "Look, honey, we can talk particulars later. I'd like to get out of here. Tonight."

  "That can be arranged. If they want to ask you more ques­tions, we can come back in the morning. This early in the in­vestigation, they apparently don't have any reason to hold you." Kendall slipped her arm through his. "Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

  "I'll check into the Peabody or—"

  "You'll stay with me."

  Quinn gave her an inquisitive look. The last he'd heard Kendall had gotten married about four years ago.

  "We're separated" she said as if reading his mind. "The divorce will be final next month."

  "Sorry it didn't work out."

  "Yeah, me, too." She shrugged. "He was a nice man. Widower. A couple of teenage kids. I thought it was what I wanted, but it wasn't. I should have stuck to my own kind."

  "And that would be?"

  "No-good heartbreakers like you, Quinn."

  * * *

  "Annabelle?" Wythe Vanderley's voice vibrated with an­ticipation. "Hiram said you wanted to see me immediately. Dare I hope you've changed your mind about—"

  Annabelle whirled around and glared at her loathsome cousin. "For God's sake, don't say anything else."

  He stared at her, speculation in his gaze. "You've been crying. What's wrong?"

  When he approached her, she held up a restraining hand. He stopped immediately.

  "Sheriff Brody just left. He came personally to deliver some bad news. . . about—she swallowed fresh tears—"about Lulu."

  Wythe's face turned pale. "What's happened? Has she been in a car wreck? Damn, how many times have I warned her not to drive so fast."

  "It wasn't a car wreck."

  "What is it? What? Is she in the hospital? Do we need to—"

  "Lulu was murdered" Annabelle forced the words, hating the very sound of them. Saying them aloud made the un­bearable truth more real.

  "Murdered?" Wythe shook his head. "No, that's not pos­sible. Who'd want to hurt Lulu? Everybody loved her. You know that." Pale and trembling like a leaf in the wind Wythe stared at Annabelle, a dazed look in his eyes.

  "Pull yourself together. Right now. I can't have you falling apart. I need you to help me tell Uncle Louis."

  "Daddy? Oh, Lor
d this will kill him."

  "What I want you to do is telephone Dr. Martin and tell him what's happened. Ask him to come over to the house im­mediately," Annabelle said. "I have duties to attend to, but as soon as Dr. Martin arrives, the three of us will take Uncle Louis aside and tell him."

  "You know I was never jealous of her." Wythe smiled, the expression on his face pathetic. "I was fifteen when she came along and I should have hated her, but I didn't. I adored the little puss from the first moment I saw her. Even knowing Daddy loved her far more than he ever did me didn't change the way I felt about her."

  Annabelle did not want to hear this. Not now. Not ever. She had no time—and no stomach—for any of Wythe's con­fessions. And she felt he was on the verge of one.

  "Use the phone in here to call Dr. Martin." As Annabelle walked past her cousin on her way to the door, she paused momentarily and offered him a sympathetic glance. The car­ing, nurturing part of her wanted to reach out and hug him, offer him comfort. But she could not bring herself to touch Wythe, not knowing what she did about him.

  Once outside in the hallway, she hurried down the corri­dor, her head held high, her eyes dry. And all the while her heart was aching. Poor Lulu. No matter how wild and crazy she'd been, no matter how useless her life or how many times she'd disappointed her father, she didn't deserve to die. The murder of a Memphis socialite, the daughter of a Mississippi multimillionaire and the reigning emperor of the Vanderley empire, would be front-page news by morning. Once she told Uncle Louis about Lulu, she'd make plans to drive to Memphis first thing in the morning. She would take charge, do her duty and represent the family. She intended to make it her mission to see that Lulu's murderer was found and punished.

  Quinn parked his Porsche in the two-car garage alongside Kendall's BMW. She waited for him to retrieve his overnight bag from the trunk, then held the door open for him to enter through the kitchen of her South Bluff home, a downtown "zero lot line" house. As he followed her into the great room, he noted that the decorating style reflected the lady herself. Sleek, smart and modern. Nothing homey about the place. Lots of glass and mostly basic black-and-white, with a few tans and creams thrown in for good measure.

  He was a man who noticed details, had built his career on his shrewd intuition as much as his intelligence. The house told him clearly that Kendall slept here, occasionally ate here and probably had sex here, but this place wasn't her home. The woman didn't have a home anymore than Quinn did. They were, by nature and nurture, vagabond loners.

  He owned a penthouse in Houston, a vacation home in Jamaica and a time-share in Vail. But he didn't have a home. Not even the ranch he'd bought in the hill country adjoining his old friend Johnny Mack Cahill's property was really home.

  He'd never needed a home. He'd been too busy building a career and getting filthy rich to be bothered with matters as mundane and unimportant as a home. But that had been in the past. He now had everything he'd ever wanted. And more. So why did he feel so empty? And so alone?

  Kendall paused by the counter separating the state-of-the-art, stainless-steel kitchen from the great room. "I could fix us some hot tea or if you prefer, I can make you a stiff drink."

  "How about some hot tea and a couple more aspirins." He rubbed his left temple with his forefinger.

  "Hot tea and aspirins coming right up." She nodded to­ward the hallway opening to the right of the great room. "I have two guest bedrooms. Take your pick. They both have their own private bath."

  Quinn nodded. "I'm not picky. Not tonight. I'm just grateful you offered me a place to stay. At a time like this, a little tea and sympathy is appreciated."

  She looked at him suspiciously, as if doubtful about his sincerity. "I'll give you all the tea you want, but no sympa­thy."

  Quinn heaved a deep sigh, then chuckled mirthlessly. "I meant that literally, honey, not metaphorically. I didn't think you'd brought me home with you so you could have your way with me."

  She raised an eyebrow. "You've changed."

  He shrugged. "Not really. Not much. But all I want from you is a cup of tea, a couple of aspirins . . . and maybe a lit­tle genuine sympathy. I haven't been on the wrong side of the law since I was a teenager. I don't like the feel of it— being a suspect in a murder case. And even though Lulu and I weren't in a serious relationship, I did care about her."

  "As much as you can care about a woman. That's what you mean, isn't it?"

  "Did I hurt you . . . back when we—"

  Kendall laughed. "God what an ego. No, you didn't hurt me. And before you jump to any other erroneous conclusions— I have not been pining away for you all these years. It's just that I know you. Correction, I knew you."

  "I never realized how much you disliked me," Quinn said.

  "I didn't dislike you back then and I don't dislike you now," she told him. "Hell, Quinn, if I disliked you so damn much, do you think I'd have come when you called that I'd have invited you to stay here with me if—"

  She stopped midsentence as she watched him drop his overnight bag on the floor and walk toward her. When he was within a foot of her, he reached out and caressed her face with his fingertips. "It's not me, is it? It's your ex. The guy must have done a real number on you."

  Kendall sighed then turned and moved away from Quinn. With her back to him, as she reached up in a cabinet for the box of tea bags, she said "His name was Dr. Jonathan Miles. I was madly in love with him. The sex was great. His kids were holy terrors and both of them hated me. We thought that would change. It didn't. In the end he chose his kids. Can't blame him. After all, he was still in love with his wife—his dead wife—and they were her kids."

  "You're well rid of him, honey. The man didn't deserve you."

  "No, he didn't." Kendall blew out a deep breath, then filled a kettle with water and placed it on the eye of her ceramic-top range. She glanced at Quinn and offered him a weak smile. "Why don't you pick out a bedroom, freshen up and by then I'll have the tea ready. I don't figure you'll get much sleep tonight."

  He nodded, then headed down the hall. No, he probably wouldn't get any sleep tonight. He didn't want to close his eyes because he knew what he'd see. Lulu's lifeless body lying there on her bed. Beautiful and sexy, even in death. And her bloody hand, one digit missing. Why would anyone cut off her index finger?

  Annabelle waited for Dr. Martin on the far side of her uncle's bedroom, Wythe at her side. He'd been remarkably well-behaved keeping his own emotions in check and actu­ally putting his father's needs first. She supposed in his own selfish way, Wythe did love Uncle Louis.

  "No, please, please, tell me it isn't true," Louis Vanderley moaned as the sedative his personal physician had given him began to take effect. "My little Lulu. My precious baby girl. She can't be dead."

  "Just lie back and relax, Louis," Dr. Martin said.

  "Annabelle?" her uncle called for her.

  She went to his bedside. Dr. Martin looked at her sympa­thetically, then moved aside. Annabelle leaned over and took her uncle's hand.

  "I'm right here," she told him.

  "Go to Memphis. Find out what happened. Our Lulu can't be dead."

  She squeezed his age-spotted hand. "I'll leave first thing in the morning. And I'll call you as soon as I know any­thing."

  "Someone has lied to us," Louis said his voice a mere whisper. "Lulu isn't dead."

  Annabelle leaned over and kissed her uncle's forehead. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. She eased the satin coverlet up and over his chest. Uncle Louis was her father's elder brother. Her father had been the youngest of four, fif­teen years his elder brother's junior. There had been two sis­ters born between them. Meta Anne, who'd passed away only a few years ago, an unmarried childless career woman who'd devoted herself to helping Louis oversee the vast Vanderley empire. And Annabelle, the sister who'd died in the forties with infantile paralysis at the age of three. That Annabelle, as well as the present Annabelle Vanderley, had been named in honor of a great-great-grandmother who'd c
ome from France as the bride of Edward Vanderley in 1855.

  "Rest, dearest." Annabelle adored her uncle Louis, who'd been a second father to her since her own father had died of a heart attack seven years ago. "I'll find out what happened to Lulu. I promise."

  Dr. Martin stopped her on her way out of the room. "Annabelle?"

  "Yes?"

  "He's seventy-eight, in poor health and has received a ter­rible shock," Dr. Martin said.

  "Are you trying to tell us that he might die?" Wythe asked.

  "Hush." Annabelle glanced at her uncle, who seemed to be asleep, then glowered at Wythe. "He might hear you."

  "He's out cold" Wythe told her.

  "All I'm saying is to prepare yourselves," Dr. Martin said. "Louis could well survive this, but. . . Well, it will depend on his will to live, at least in part. I've seen it happen before, patients who give up the will to live and die in a few weeks or a few months."

  "I'll give him something to live for," Annabelle said. "Once he accepts that Lulu is dead he'll want to see her killer punished. That alone will keep him going."

  Dr. Martin shook his head. "Revenge can be a strong mo­tivator. Just be careful that it doesn't turn on him. And on you."

  "I wasn't referring to revenge. What I want—what Uncle Louis will want—is justice."

  Quinn lay in the bed, the back of his head resting in his cupped hands, his fingers entwined. A cup of tea, a couple more aspirins and a sympathetic ear had partially eased his headache but hadn't helped him fall asleep. In a few short hours, he would have to return to police headquarters and answer more questions. Be grilled about Lulu's death.