Bone Cold. Erica Spindler
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“How can I help you?”
The moment of truth. “I’m Benjamin Walker.” He held out his hand. “Dr. Benjamin Walker.”
She looked surprised, but took his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“So, what can I do for you today? We have some really nice hydrangeas in. From California. And our roses are always—”
“Perfect?” He smiled. “Actually, I’m here to see you.”
“Me?”
“First let me say that I’m a fan of your work.”
“My work?” she repeated. “Oh, you mean the arrangements. I’m sorry, but I can’t take credit for them, though I wish I could. Dalton Ramsey is both the owner of The Perfect Rose and the artistic force behind its creations.”
“You misunderstand, Anna. I’m a fan of your novels.”
The blood drained from her face. “My nov—How did you—”
“Justine Blank is an acquaintance of mine. She told me how I could reach you.”
Anna looked confused. And upset. He hurried to reassure her. “I’m a psychologist and quite harmless, as Justine knows. My specialty is the effect of childhood trauma on adult personality and behavior. Your case has always interested me and when I learned you were both Harlow Grail and the author Anna North, I took a chance on coming by here. I hope you’ll agree to speak with me.”
She seemed to absorb that information. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, but not much. “This past Saturday you saw the special on unsolved Hollywood mysteries and put two and two together?”
“Yes. And I saw your dedication to the B.B.B.S.A. in Killing Me Softly. I figured Justine would be able to tell me how I could get in touch with you. I was right.”
She looked away, then back at him. He saw now that she was angry. “My case, as you call it, has interested a lot of people. But I’m not interested. In fact, I’ve done everything I could to forget it. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
“Please, Ms. North, hear me out.”
“I don’t think so.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m a private person, Dr. Walker. By hunting me down like a prize in a child’s treasure hunt, you’ve invaded my privacy. I don’t appreciate that.”
“It frightens you, I understand.”
She frowned. “I didn’t say it frightened me.”
“You didn’t have to. Of course it does. You lived through a nightmare. You were snatched by a stranger and held against your will. Control of your life was taken away. Control of your body. You were physically assaulted and forced to helplessly watch a friend be killed.
“The ordeal left you with a very real sense of the sickness and evil in the world. You hide from the public because of that knowledge. Because you promised yourself you would never put yourself in that position again. You promised yourself that you would never offer some stranger the opportunity to take your life away from you again.
“So you changed your name. Left your past behind. Anonymity makes you feel safe. And my showing up here today makes you feel anything but safe.”
“How do you know this about me?” she managed to say after several moments, voice shaking. “We’ve never met.”
“But I know about your past. I’ve read your novels.” He pressed a business card into her cold hand. “I’m writing a book on the effects of childhood trauma on personality. I’d like to interview you for it. The inclusion of your story, how your ordeal has shaped you and your life, would greatly enhance the book.”
She opened her mouth; to refuse, he knew. He saw it in her eyes. In the tightness around her mouth. He didn’t give her a chance to refuse. “Just think about it. Please. That’s all I ask.”
Without another word, he turned and quickly left the shop.
13
Thursday, January 18 8:45 a.m.
For Anna, the next twenty-four hours crawled by. She had found herself on edge, constantly looking over her shoulder, scanning the faces in the crowd, searching for the one that didn’t fit. She’d noticed each groan and creak of her old building, had heard each footfall in the hallway outside her door.
Sleep had eluded her. She’d tossed and turned, remembering the past and worrying that somehow it had caught up with her. When she had managed to drift off, she’d awakened terrified, a scream and Timmy’s name on her lips. Timmy’s name, not Kurt’s.
A fact she found odd and somehow more frightening.
Anna was uncertain who she blamed more for her state of mind: Ben Walker for having found her so easily or Detective Malone for planting the seed of doubt about Minnie’s letters.
She’d decided on a combination of the two but focused the majority of her irritation on Detective Malone. Because until him, she had taken Minnie’s letters at face value.
Anna muttered an oath and stepped out of her morning shower. Damn Malone for making her jumpier than she already was. For scaring the life out of her yet being unwilling to do a thing to help. She shook her head. Minnie wasn’t some obsessed fan playing a sick game with her, she was a child. She thought like one; she wrote like one. And she needed Anna’s help.
And help Anna would give her, NOPD or no NOPD.
Anna checked the time, then dried off and dressed. She didn’t have to be in to The Perfect Rose until noon. That gave her three full hours to do a little investigative work of her own.
She found her shoes, stepped into them and tied the laces. The night before, she had called the number Minnie had given in her first letter. A man had answered. That had been a disappointment. She had hoped to reach Minnie directly. Undaunted, she had taken a deep breath and asked for the girl.
The man had been silent for a full fifteen seconds, then had hung up on her without saying a word. It was then that Anna had known for certain that Minnie needed her.
In the hopes of the child answering, Anna had called back a half-dozen times, including twice this morning, but had gotten no answer. Today, she planned to drive across the lake to Mandeville—a bedroom community on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain—to check out where Minnie lived. Once there, she would decide what to do next.
An hour later she saw that there was little she would be able to do with this address. It belonged not to a residence, but a mail and copy store.
Anna double-checked the number, then went inside. She smiled at the man behind the counter and introduced herself. “I’m a writer and I’ve been corresponding with a fan. She claimed this as her return address.” Anna handed him an envelope. “I’ve responded so I know she’s received my letters, but now I wonder how that can be.”
The man, who turned out to be the store owner, handed the envelope back, smiling. “Actually, one of the advantages of renting a mailbox from us instead of the post office is that you get a street address instead of a P.O. box number.”
“You’re saying, this person rents a box from you?”
He smiled again. “That’s correct. You see, a street address suggests permanence. Permanence equals solvency. Commitment. Believe it or not, a street address helps when applying for a job or credit. There are other advantages to using our box service. For one, you can receive shipments from carriers who won’t deliver to a P.O. box, Federal Express for one. Also, we offer other features, like a forwarding service. For an additional charge, of course.”
Obviously, this guy believed in his business. She worked to hide her disappointment. “It sounds like a great service.”
“It