Killing Her Softly Read online

  "Fine. And you may call me Ms. Vanderley . . . because that's what I want."

  Chapter 7

  Jim had taken Sunday off, despite his boss's recom-men­dation that he not take any downtime right in the middle of a high profile case.

  "Look, Ted I've made plans with my son that are impor­tant to both of us. It's not as if I get a chance to be with Kevin very often. Besides, Chad's on top of everything. If he's going to get all the glory for breaking this case wide open, then let him do the work."

  Inspector Ted Purser, who was the head of homicide, had grumbled a little, but in the end he'd allowed Jim to take the day off. Ted knew as well as Jim did—as well as everyone in the department—that Chad George was on his way up. By hook or crook. And it was also a well-known fact that Jimmy Norton was on a one-way street to nowhere. He'd be lucky if he could hang on to his job long enough to draw his pension.

  On his own, Chad was bound to screw up. Not because he was stupid. Quite the contrary. The guy was highly intelli­gent. Nah, he'd screw up because he was an inexperienced homicide detective who was too damn cocky to realize he had a lot to learn. It was Jim's opinion that Chad was a know-it-all who needed taking down a peg or two. Not that he'd in­tentionally do anything to bring that about himself. Nah, he figured all he had to do was wait around and sooner or later Chad would shoot himself in the foot. Figuratively, of course.

  Jim chuckled softly.

  "What's so funny, Dad?" Kevin asked.

  Jim glanced over at his eleven-year-old son sitting in the passenger seat of his battered old truck and grinned. Kevin was the one good thing that had come out of his marriage to Mary Lee. He might regret all the wasted years he'd spent hung up on a woman who hadn't loved him enough to stick with him through the bad times and had repeatedly betrayed their marriage vows, but he'd never regret fathering Kevin. On the really rough days, when nothing in his world seemed right, all Jim had to do was think of Kevin and he remem­bered he had a very good reason for living.

  "Just thinking about my partner," Jim told his son.

  "Chad George?"

  "Yeah, you've met Chad. I introduced you to him a cou­ple of months ago."

  "I know Sergeant George."

  Jim picked up on something in his son's voice before he glanced at him and noticed Kevin had his head hung low and was staring at the floorboard.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing."

  "Is it something about Chad? Did he say or do anything that—"

  "I'm not supposed to tell you." "Who told you not to tell me?" "Mom did."

  Don't lose your cool. The last thing Kevin needs is to feel he's caught between you and Mary Lee, even if he is. Whatever she told him not to tell you, don't press him about it.

  Jim kept the truck on Highway 78, heading straight to­ward Holly Springs where his sister1 and her family lived. He'd planned this trip so they would arrive at Susan's just about the time church let out and right before Sunday dinner. He needed to concentrate on the positive—on sharing a fam­ily day with his son. Grilling Kevin about Mary Lee's secrets would ruin not only their day together, but also injure their already fragile relationship. Even though he couldn't prove it, he knew his ex-wife worked at undermining his relation­ship with Kevin. And she did it just because she could want­ing to hurt Jim and not caring that their son was the one who'd be harmed the most.

  "Dad?"

  "Huh?"

  "You don't care who Mom dates, do you?"

  "No, I don't care," Jim said. And he didn't. Not now, al­though for years after their divorce he'd been jealous of every man she'd dated. But that was when he'd still been in love with her.

  "Then I don't understand why Mom doesn't want you to know that she's dating Sergeant George."

  Jim grasped the steering wheel with white-knuckled ten­sion. Mary Lee and Chad? Goddamn son of a bitch. He couldn't help wondering which one of them had instigated their affair. Six of one and half dozen of the other. Them's the odds. Mary Lee would love for him to find out she'd been screwing his young partner. She actually thought he still cared. And Chad—God how he must love fucking Jim's ex-wife. At least four other officers had told Jim to watch his back where Chad was concerned.

  "Your mom's dating Chad huh?"

  "Yeah, for about a couple of weeks now. But it's no big deal, right? I mean, you don't care, do you?"

  "Your mother and I are divorced" Jim said. "We both have the right to date anybody we want to. It's fine with me if Mary Lee is dating Chad."

  Dating? Maybe they were dating—dinner, movies, danc­ing, that sort of thing. But Jim figured their dates were spent in bed doing the horizontal. That was the only kind of rela­tionship Mary Lee was any good at. And he hated like hell that he could remember so vividly just how good she'd been.

  * * *

  Annabelle had expected to spend a quiet day at the apart­ment, catching up on work-related e-mails and making plans for Lulu's funeral. Although the plans couldn't proceed until the autopsy had been completed and Lulu's body released, Annabelle didn't want to leave things until the last minute. The family expected her to handle all the details and see to it that Louisa Margaret Vanderley's funeral would impress every­one in attendance. The Vanderleys always arrived and de­parted this life in grand style. It was a family tradition.

  Annabelle had slept later this morning than she intended. She was, by nature, a creature of habit and hated to alter her sleep schedule. But she'd tossed and turned half the night, not able to rest until sometime after four. If only she could have turned off her thoughts and disconnected her mind. Thoughts of Lulu tormented her. She wondered if she had tried harder to maintain a close relationship with Lulu, would her cousin still be alive? If she had looked after Lulu a little more closely, would it have made any difference? Don't be silly. You couldn't have done anything to prevent what happened.

  For most of her life, Annabelle had been a caretaker. Perhaps she'd been born an old soul with the need to nurture everyone around her. She'd always had a deep-rooted need to please others, to keep everyone happy. Being a spoiled only child could have turned her into a self-centered demanding bitch, but instead being the center of her parents' universe had placed a heavy burden on her young shoulders. She'd ac­tually believed that it was her duty to make her parents happy, and by the time she reached adulthood that feeling had trans­mitted itself to everyone around her.

  "You care so deeply about everyone and everything," Aunt Perdita had once told her. "Your devotion to Christopher is quite admirable, my dear child but you must occasionally think of yourself. You're a healthy young woman, with a woman's needs. And what you need is a man."

  Her aunt had been half right about her needing a man. She had needed the man she loved to be whole again, for Chris to be as he'd once been—her friend and lover. But that had been an impossible dream. Her darling Chris had been a paraplegic for nine years before his death, completely para­lyzed from the waist down and unable to function sexually. And two very brief and completely secret affairs had shown her that sex for the sake of sex was not what she wanted or needed.

  There had been times when she'd wished she could be more like Lulu, who could so easily go from man to man with no regrets. She doubted that Lulu's conscience had ever bothered her. What must that be like? Annabelle wondered.

  After setting her cup of chocolate caramel coffee beside her laptop on the desk, Annabelle pulled out the chair. When the telephone rang, she jumped. Her nerves were shot. Not only had memories of Lulu as well as concerns about her cousin's death and all that entailed kept her awake, but so had thoughts about Quinn Cortez. Ever since agreeing to be­come partners with the man in hiring Griffin Powell, she'd had a million and one second thoughts.

  On the third ring, Annabelle lifted the receiver from the base on the desk. "Hello."

  "Ms. Vanderley?" a man's voice asked.

  "Yes, this is she."

  "This is Sergeant George, ma'am. I was wondering if I could come by a
nd talk to you?" "I—er—when?"

  "Right now, if that's convenient. I can be there in no time."

  "Do you have information about—"

  "No, not really. Sorry. There's nothing new," he said. "But if you could spare the time, I'd like to go over a few things with you."

  "Yes, of course. I take it that you're nearby."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Then come right over. I want to do whatever I can to help the police."

  "Thank you."

  The minute she hung up the receiver, Annabelle dashed into the bedroom and stripped out of her comfy fleece sweat­shirt and pants. Her wardrobe was limited since she'd brought only a couple changes of clothes, but thank goodness she'd brought along a pair of jeans. After dressing hurriedly in jeans, white shirt and slip-on loafers, she had just applied pink blush and lipstick when her guest arrived. Taking a deep breath, she rushed through the apartment.

  Flinging open the door, she gasped when she saw the man standing there. Not Sergeant George. Definitely not the handsome young police officer.

  "Mr. Cortez, what are you doing here?"

  Wearing faded blue jeans, a beige turtleneck sweater and a brown leather jacket, he didn't look like a wealthy lawyer. But even in casual attire, he possessed an aura of power and strength. And danger.

  "I thought we needed to talk," he said. "After we settled things with Griffin Powell last night, you rushed off in quite a hurry before we had a chance to discuss the situation."

  Go away. Leave me alone. I don't want to see you or talk to you or think about you.

  "There isn't anything to discuss," she said. "Not until Mr. Powell has some information for us."

  "May I come in?" he asked.

  "I don't see the need. Besides, I'm expecting company any minute now."

  "This shouldn't take long. What if I come in and stay until your company shows up? Then I'll leave."

  He wasn't going to take no for an answer. It was that plain and simple. Short of slamming the door in his face—which is probably what she should do—her only alternative was to give him what he wanted.

  "Very well, Mr. Cortez, you may come in for a few min­utes."

  As he entered the apartment, he paused and their gazes locked. "I thought we agreed last night that you'd call me Quinn."

  Heat suffused her, warming her from head to toe. "Please, come in, Quinn."

  "Thank you, Ms. Vanderley."

  When he smiled at her, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Dear God had she gone so long without a man that she had become little more than a bitch in heat? What was wrong with her? She never—not ever!—reacted this way to a man.

  Annabelle cleared her throat. "Would you care for some­thing to drink? I just made a fresh pot of chocolate caramel coffee."

  "Yes, thanks. That sounds good."

  "Please, have a seat." Annabelle all but ran from the room, glad for any excuse to get away from Quinn.

  While safe in the kitchen, she grasped the edge of the tile countertop and closed her eyes. Get control of yourself. And do it now.

  She took her time preparing his coffee, calling out once to inquire about sugar and cream. He took his coffee black.

  When she reentered the living room, she found him sit­ting on the sofa, looking like he belonged there. He exuded an air of confidence as if he controlled the world and every­one in it.

  Instead of handing him the cup of coffee, she placed it on a coaster atop the cocktail table. No need to risk their hands accidentally touching. She sat across from him in one of two straight back wooden chairs that doubled as dining chairs and matched the small dining table in front of the windows.

  "I don't bite," he told her, glancing pointedly at the sofa cushions where he had apparently thought she would sit. "At least not without an invitation."

  "Do you find that comment amusing?"

  "You really are uptight, aren't you, honey?"

  "I am not your honey."

  "Do you dislike me because you think I killed Lulu? Or do you object to the fact she and I were lovers? Or is there another reason . . . a more personal reason?"

  Annabelle jumped up, balled her hands into tight fists and kept her arms straight down on either side of her body. "Why are you really here, Mr. Cortez? You know as well as I do that we have nothing to say to each other. I agreed to become partners with you in hiring Mr. Powell because I believed doing so would be the lesser of two evils. But let's get some­thing straight—I do not want to become better acquainted with you. I do not want to be your friend or your lover."

  He rose from the sofa in one quick, fluid move. Annabelle gasped when he rounded the coffee table and came over to her before she realized his intent. Nervous and taken by sur­prise, she tried to retreat, only to encounter the chair behind her. The backs of her thighs hit the wooden edge.

  She shook her head and held up a restraining hand. He was close. Too close. She couldn't breathe.

  "What makes you think I want to be your friend. . . or your lover?" His black eyes bored into her. "My God you're afraid of me, aren't you?"

  Annabelle's pulse pounded. "Why shouldn't I be afraid? After all, you might have killed Lulu."

  A mocking smile played at the corners of Quinn's mouth. "No, that's not it. You're not afraid of me because you think I might be a murderer. You're afraid of something else."

  "Don't be absurd."

  He reached out toward her. Shivering, she stood her ground despite wishing she could bolt and run. When his fingertips touched her cheek, she gasped.

  "You shouldn't believe everything you hear about me." He caressed her cheek. "I know I have a reputation where the ladies are concerned but I can assure you that I've never forced myself on an unwilling woman."

  "I—I haven't heard anything about you. I don't know your reputation."

  "Believe me, Ms. Vanderley, I don't want anything from you except your cooperation. And maybe your trust" He eased his hand down her throat, allowing his thumb to skim her bottom lip before resting on her chin. "Work with me to find Lulu's killer. I need for you to believe I'm innocent."

  She felt as if she were suffocating. "We are working to­gether. We hired Mr. Powell jointly."

  When Quinn removed his hand and stepped backward Annabelle drew in a deep, cleansing breath, then let it out on a long, rushed sigh.

  "1 think we can help Powell and the police if we put our heads together and try to figure out who might have had a motive for wanting Lulu dead. You're a member of her fam­ily and I'm a member of her social set. The two of us proba­bly know most of the people in Lulu's life."

  "What you say makes sense," she told him. "But I have no reason to trust you. You could be using me, knowing that as the Vanderley family representative if I believe you didn't kill Lulu, then the media and even the police might—"

  "Tell the damn police that you think I might be guilty. Call a press conference and tell the media you think I killed Lulu." He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. None too gently. Fear raced through her at breakneck speed. "If that's what you want to do, then do it."

  He released her so quickly she almost lost her balance and just barely managed to keep herself from falling back­ward onto the chair.

  "I came here hoping—hell, I don't know what I was hop­ing. I must have been out of my mind to think you'd give me a chance." Quinn strode toward the door.

  Annabelle cried out his name silently, inside her mind. Quinn, don't go. Stay. I want to believe you didn "t kill Lulu. I want to trust you.

  After opening the door, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. "You said you didn't want to be my friend or my lover. That's your loss, honey. I make a good friend. Ask any of my friends and they'll tell you that I'm loyal to a fault. I stand by my friends and would do anything for them." He narrowed his gaze, raking her with a contemptuous glance. "And if I ever became your lover, I'd satisfy you the way no man ever has."

  Annabelle stood there, her eyes wide and her mouth agape as Quinn walked o
ut of her apartment and disappeared down the hall.

  Chapter 8

  Quinn zipped his Porsche along the street, forcing him­self to go no more than five miles over the speed limit. The last thing he needed was to be stopped by the police. He'd had his fill of the Memphis PD, especially Sergeant George. As he'd exited Annabelle's apartment building, he caught a glimpse of the pretty boy cop heading for the elevator. They'd barely missed running into each other.

  So that was the company she'd been expecting. Even if Annabelle thought the sergeant's visit pertained to nothing more than official police business, Quinn knew better. Nobody with eyes in his head could have missed the way Sergeant George had looked at Annabelle yesterday. As if she were a Christmas present he couldn't wait to unwrap. But who could blame him? The lady projected a hands-off attitude that a man couldn't help but take as a challenge.

  Was that why he'd gone to see her today? Maybe. Prob­ably. What's that old saying about a leopard not changing his spots? He'd been a ladies' man since reaching puberty. Was it his fault that the opposite sex found him irresistible? It was that combination of Mexican and Irish genes that gave him his rugged good looks, just about the only good thing he'd inherited from his parents. Having been jerked up by the hair of his head instead of being raised properly had made him a bad boy. And women loved bad boys. Every damn one of them thought they'd be the woman to tame him.

  Quinn had some regrets, things he'd done that he wished he hadn't. And a few things he hadn't done that he wished he had. But for the most part, he didn't look back. For years he'd looked to the future as he scratched and clawed his way out of the gutter. Money and power were his gods. Romancing the ladies was his hobby.

  If he was arrested for Lulu's murder, everything he'd spent a lifetime building would be destroyed. He couldn't let that happen. He'd do whatever it took to save himself. Hell, he was a survivor, wasn't he? If he hadn't been, he'd have never made it through childhood. Not with Sheila Quinn Cortez as his mother.