Bone Cold. Erica Spindler
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her to jump for the bait as well.
Sorry, stud. Not this century. Men who thought they were God’s gift to the female sex were not her cup of tea. Having grown up around the film industry, she had spent more time with that kind of man than she cared to recall. She found them to be cocky, arrogant and narcissistic, more interested in looking at their own reflection that into their lover’s eyes.
“Considering the lack of available manpower, I’m glad I wasn’t here to report a murder.”
“I’m glad too. Murders are bad. The less of ‘em the better.”
She frowned, slightly off balance. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“And failing. Obviously.” He flashed her another smile, one she was certain was meant to send her pulse racing, and took a small, spiral-bound notebook from his breast pocket. “Why don’t you tell me what brought you in today? “
So she did. Anna explained how she had received a fan letter from Minnie, then about her reply and the two letters she had received from the girl since.
She opened her purse and handed the letters to him. He scanned them while she spoke. “Something’s not right with this child’s situation. At first I was concerned but now, with this last letter, I’m frightened.”
“And that’s why you’re here? Because you’re frightened?”
“For her, yes. And now, for the other girl Minnie referred to in the letter.”
He looked up, waiting, expression giving nothing of his thoughts away. She made a sound of frustration. “I think Minnie is an abductee. I think the man she refers to as ‘He’ is her abductor. And I believe he’s planning to snatch another girl.”
For a heartbeat of time he was silent, then he leaned back in his chair. The springs creaked. “You’re reading a lot into these letters. Ms. North. This Minnie never comes right out and says she’s being held against her will or is in any kind of danger.”
“She doesn’t have to. Read the letters, read between the lines. It’s all there.”
“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