Bone Cold. Erica Spindler
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“You don’t have to sound so damn cheerful about it. What are you, some sort of ghoul?”
“What can I say? I love my work.”
He glanced at his watch, calculating how long it would take him to get to the scene. “You call Landry yet?”
“He’s next.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Good luck.”
She had that right. Quentin hung up and dialed his partner.
4
Friday, January 12 5:45 a.m.
The scene resembled dozens of others Quentin had worked over the years. The seasons changed, the location, the number dead and amount of blood. The aura of tragedy did not. The smell of death. The perverted destruction of life that screamed so loudly no amount of small talk or tasteless one-liners could block it out.
This one stood out only because its location struck so close to home. A homicide was definitely not the kind of publicity a bar owner needed. And it’d been a quiet night murder-wise in New Orleans; Quentin figured this stiff would be page-one news. Too bad for Shannon.
Quentin swung out of his Bronco. The pavement was wet. The air damp and cold. To-the-bone cold. Quentin glanced up at the black, starless sky and shrugged deeper into his jacket. A lot of the locals complained about August in New Orleans. As far as he was concerned, hellfire hot beat out cold and damp as the grave any day.
But then, he’d spent too much time around the dead.
He flashed his shield at the uniform guarding the perimeter, then ducked under the yellow tape.
“Damn cold night to die,” the officer said, huddling deeper into his coat, obviously miserable.
Quentin didn’t comment. He crossed to the first officer, a rookie who hung out with his brother Percy. “Hey, Mitch.”
“Detective.” He shifted from his right foot to his left. “Man, it’s cold.”
“As a witch’s tit.” Quentin roamed his gaze over the area. “I’m the first.”
“Yup. Johnny on the spot.”
“Touch anything?”
“Nope. Checked her pulse and ID. Called it in.”
“Good. What’ve we got?”
“Female. Caucasian. According to her driver’s license, name was Nancy Kent. Looks like he raped her first.”
Quentin looked at the rookie. “Medical examiner’s on his way? “
Mitch nodded.
“Who found her?”
“Garbage collector.” Mitch jerked his thumb in the direction of the Dumpster. Two legs poked out from behind the far side of the Dumpster, which obscured the rest of the body. They were fish-belly white against the dark pavement. One foot was bare, the other encased in a strappy, high-heeled pump.
The hair on the back of Quentin’s neck prickled.
“Got the driver’s name and employee number,” Mitch continued. “He had to finish his route. Said he knew the drill, found a body once before. About ten years ago.”
“I’m going to take a look. My partner gets here, send him over.”
Quentin approached slowly, scanning the ground before him, left to right. Finally, with a sense of inevitability, he brought his gaze to the victim. She lay faceup on the pavement, eyes open, legs spread. Her black mini dress had been shoved up over her hips, her black G-string panties ripped half off. Her long red hair spread in a tangle around and over her face, partially covering her mouth, open to a silent scream.
The woman from the bar. The one who had refused Terry’s advances.
“Damn.” He muttered the word on an expelled breath, a cloud forming behind it.
He turned at the sound of footsteps. Terry approached, his face as pale as the one at the pavement below. “Evidence team just pulled up.” He rubbed his hands together. “Could this creep have picked a crappier night to—”
“We have to talk. Now.”
Terry’s gaze moved past Quentin’s to the victim. A sound slipped past his lips; it reminded Quentin of one a small, trapped animal might make. He returned his gaze to Quentin’s. “Oh, shit.”
“You’ve got that right, partner,” he said grimly. “And it’s about to hit the fan.”
5
Friday, January 12 Seventh District Station
Two hours later, Quentin tapped on his captain’s open office door. Captain O’Shay, a trim, sharp-eyed brunette, glanced up. She didn’t look happy to see them so early in the morning. Beside him Terry shifted nervously. This meeting could go one of two ways: bad or worse. Captain O’Shay didn’t approve of her detectives participating in drunken brawls—or of them having altercations with women who turned up dead hours later.
“Got a minute?” Quentin asked, flashing her a quick smile. If he had hoped to disarm her he saw immediately that he’d been wasting his energy. Patti O’Shay had fought her way up through the ranks of mostly male, sometimes misogynist and often chauvinist officers, earning rank of captain through brilliant police work, single-minded determination and the ability to go toe-to-toe with some of the best bullshitters around. There wasn’t a captain on the force tougher than Patti O’Shay.
“We’ve got a potential situation,” Quentin said.
She frowned and waved them into her office. Her gaze flicked to Terry, then back to Quentin. “You two look like hell.”
Not quite the opening they were hoping for. “We were at Shannon’s last night.”
“Surprise, surprise.” She folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “That’s where that girl was found.”
“Correct. In the alley behind the bar.”
“Fill me in.”
“Her name was Nancy Kent.” Terry cleared his throat. “Twenty-six years old. Recently divorced. A party girl. Had come into some serious cash with her divorce settlement. Apparently, she was flashing it around last night.”
Quentin took over. “M.E. places time of death somewhere between one-thirty and three.”
Captain O’Shay seemed to digest that piece of information. “That means Kent was killed either while the bar was still open or within an hour of closing. By that time of night the crowd should have thinned considerably.”
“Not last night, Captain,” Terry said. “At one-thirty the party was still in full swing. Shannon had to force the diehards out at two. Threatened to call the cops.”
She ignored his snicker—a third of those diehards had been cops—and turned to Quentin. “What about Shannon?” she asked.
“Questioned him,” Quentin answered. “He was pretty shaken up. Didn’t hear or see anything. Same for Suki and Paula, the two waitresses who closed with him.”
“Any chance Shannon’s our guy?”
“No way. Besides, he has an alibi. Until closing, he never got out from behind the bar. After closing, he was with Suki and Paula. They all walked out together.”
Terry chimed in. “Usually Shannon takes the trash to the Dumpster while the girls clean the bar, but last night each of the girls grabbed a bag, then they all walked out together.”
“What time was that?” she asked.
“Between 3:00 and 3:10 a.m.”
“And