Bone Cold. Erica Spindler
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“Yeah. But I gave him the slip.”
“When did this happen? Where?”
“The other day. I was on my way home from school.”
“What did he look like? Was it just that once or has he followed you before? “
“I didn’t get that good a look at him. From what I did see, he was just another old pervert.” Jaye shrugged again. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s a very big deal. Did you tell your foster mom? Did she call—”
“Geez, Anna, get a grip. If I’d known you were going to flip out, I wouldn’t have told you. “
Anna took a deep breath. If she overreacted, Jaye would clam up. And that was the last thing she wanted. Jaye was a street-savvy kid, not an innocent who would be easily tricked by a stranger. She had even lived on the street for a time, a fact that never failed to make Anna shudder.
“Sorry for getting so intense,” she murmured. “Old people are such worrywarts.”
“You’re not old,” Jaye countered.
“Old enough to insist that if you see this guy again you’ll tell me and we’ll go to the police. Agreed?”
Jaye hesitated, then nodded. “Agreed.”
3
Thursday, January 11 The Irish Channel
Detective Quentin Malone entered Shannon’s Tavern, calling a greeting to a couple of his fellow officers. For many New Orleanians, Thursday night represented the official kickoff of the weekend festivities. Bars, restaurants and clubs all over the Crescent City benefited from the laissez les bon temps rouler attitude of the city’s residents, and Shannon’s Tavern was no different.
Located in the area of the city called the Irish Channel—named for the Irish immigrants who had settled there—Shannon’s catered to a working-class, local crowd. And to cops. The Seventh District of the New Orleans Police Department had adopted Shannon’s as their own.
Shannon McDougall, the tavern’s proprietor and namesake, a former bricklayer with hands the size and shape of meat hooks, had no problem with that. Cops kept the rougher crowd away. They kept the drugs, brawls and hookers out of his place and out on the street. As a way of thanking the boys in blue, he refused to allow any of the more seasoned officers to pay for anything. The rookies, however, were a different story. Just as in the force, the new kids on the block had to earn their stripes. Even so, tips were welcome from anyone and many a first of the month, green could be seen passing from a grateful detective or lieutenant’s hand to McDougall’s apron pocket.
Quentin definitely fell into the seasoned category. At thirty-seven he was a sixteen-year veteran of the force and a detective first grade. He was also a part of a NOPD family dynasty: his grandfather, father, three uncles and one aunt had been cops; of his six siblings only two had opted out of police work, Patrick who had become a number cruncher, and Shauna, the baby of the brood, who was studying art in college.
Quentin strolled toward the bar for a beer. He was waylaid by the barmaid, a perky twenty-three-year-old with super-short, spiky blond hair. She had made it plain she would love to go out with him, but Quentin had no desire to date a girl the same age as his kid sister. Something about that just felt a little weird.
“Hey, Malone.” She smiled up at him. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been around.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “You doing okay, Suki?”
“Can’t complain. Tips have been good.” She glanced toward a group making their way to one of the tables. “Gotta go. Talk later?”
“Sure.”
She started off then looked back over her shoulder at him. “John Jr. was in. He asked me to tell you to call your mother.”
Quentin laughed. John Jr. was the oldest of the Malone brood and had appointed himself caretaker of the family. If any of the siblings had a problem, they went to John Jr. If any one of them had an issue with another member of the family, they went to John Jr. And conversely, if John Jr. perceived there to be problem in the family, he took matters into his own hands. Obviously, Quentin had missed one too many of his mother’s Sunday dinners.
“Message received, Suki. Thanks.”
Quentin crossed to the bar. Shannon had already drawn the draft; he slid it across the counter. “On the house.”
“Thanks, Shannon. You seen Terry tonight?” he asked, referring to his partner Terry Landry.
“He’s here.” The older man jerked his thumb toward the back room of the bar. “Last I saw, he was breaking a new rack. Seemed a little off tonight, you know what I mean?”
Quentin nodded. He did indeed know what Shannon meant. His partner was going through a tough time. His wife of twelve years had recently kicked him out, claiming him impossible to live with.
Quentin didn’t doubt that was true. Because of the job, no cop was easy to live with. Terry, with his hard-partying ways and hair-trigger temper would be more difficult than most.
But even with his faults, Terry was a good father and a devoted husband. He loved his family and as far as Quentin was concerned, that counted for a lot.
Terry had taken the breakup hard. He was angry and hurt; he missed his two kids. He was drinking too much and sleeping too little, his behavior had become erratic. Partnering with him had become a tightrope walk.
But the way Quentin figured it, Terry had been there for him lots of times, now it was his turn. Partners stuck together.
Quentin motioned in the direction of the back room. “Think I might go lend a little aid and expertise. Wouldn’t want Terry to lose his rent.”
Shannon chuckled, shook his head and moved down the bar to serve another customer.
Quentin made his way through the still sparsely filled room. An hour from now it’d be standing room only, music blaring from the jukebox, a fine haze of cigarette smoke hanging above the crowd, a dozen or more couples gyrating on the makeshift dance floor. But for now, bar to back room was a clear shot.
Until Louanne Price stepped directly in his path, stopping his forward progress. The woman had the face of an angel and the body of one of Hugh Hefner’s bunnies, and many a man had fallen adoringly at her feet. Problem was, any man in the vicinity of Louanne’s feet would likely be kicked square in the gut. Or even lower.
That was the kind of woman Louanne was. And life was too short for a kick in the balls. Even if preceded by a trip to paradise.
She moved nearer Quentin, not stopping until her body brushed his. She stood on tiptoe, laid her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him. “Malone, sweetie, what am I going to have to do to get you to share some of that fine Irish sugar with me?”
He flashed her a quick smile. “Aw, Louanne,” he drawled. “You know Dickey’d kick my butt if I so much as wagged my tail in your direction.” Dickey was her father and an NOPD sergeant. “I’ll just have to lust after you from afar.”
“That would be a crime, I think. And you’re a cop, sworn to uphold the law.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “He wouldn’t have to know. It could be our little secret.”
Quentin set her away from him, feigning regret. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy aggressive women, he had certainly been friendly with a number of them. It was Louanne’s sly edge, her easy dishonesty that turned him off.
“Sorry, babe. You know there aren’t any secrets in the NOPD. At least ones that everybody doesn’t know. Catch you later.”
Quentin walked away without a backward glance. He found Terry just where Shannon had promised, a pool cue in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked