to be stuck in Memphis for a while, he’d need his own place.
Setting his coffee mug aside, Quinn punched the preset number on his cell phone and waited for Marcy to answer, which she did on the third ring.
“Hello.”
“Marcy, I need you to round up Aaron and Jace and y’all get the first flight out of Houston to Memphis.”
“What’s going on? I thought you planned to get some R&R before even thinking about taking another case.”
Marcy had been Quinn’s personal assistant for nearly ten years. Their association had lasted longer than a lot of marriages. He relied on her, trusted her and paid her an ungodly salary to be at his beck and call twenty-four/seven. In all their years together, she’d never let him down, which was more than he could say for most of the women in his life, past and present. And that was the reason he’d never allowed their association to change from the friendship level to something more intimate. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been tempted. Marcy was a doll. Cute as a button. All of five one and a hundred pounds soaking wet. But he wouldn’t do anything to risk losing her. Lovers were a dime a dozen; a great personal assistant was irreplaceable.
“Lulu Vanderley was murdered last night before I arrived at her house,” Quinn said. “I discovered her body.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah, my sentiments exactly.”
“So, unless you’re phoning from the police station, I take it they haven’t arrested you.”
“Not yet, but I’m suspect numero uno.”
“You were told not to leave town, huh?”
“It was more of a request than a demand.”
“I’ll have to find Aaron and Jace. Might be tomorrow before they can fly in, but I can be there by this evening if you want—”
“Just wait and the three of you fly in together tomorrow. But you could do something for me from there. Two things actually.”
“Name them.”
“Check out renting us a place here in Memphis. Something I can lease by the month. I could be stuck here a week or two or if they try to pin this thing on me—”
“I’ll take care of it. What else?”
“Get me Griffin Powell’s home phone number.”
“Ask me to move the Smoky Mountains to Hawaii.”
Quinn chuckled. “I know it’ll take a minor miracle, but you’re good at pulling off the impossible.”
“Flattery will get you what you want,” she told him. “And maybe performing another minor miracle will get me a raise.”
“You’re overpaid already.”
“I wish.” She paused for a couple of seconds, then said, “Quinn?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“I know you didn’t kill Lulu Vanderley.”
“You’re one in a million, kiddo.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Besides, if I do, you’ll remind me.”
“Got that damn straight.”
“Get me Powell’s number as soon as possible,” Quinn said. “He’s the best money can buy and—”
“You always buy the best.”
“You know me too well.” Quinn grunted. “I want my own private investigator to assist the Memphis police in their job of finding Lulu’s killer. Unless they come up with something damn quick, they may not look any further than me.”
He could hear her footsteps coming closer and closer. Any minute now she would open the door to his room and come inside, just as she always did whenever he had displeased her. He tried so hard to be good, to make her happy, but it seemed that he couldn’t do anything right. Everything he said and did was wrong. Even the way he looked angered her.
“You’re much too handsome,” she had told him repeatedly, from as far back as he could remember. “You’re going to break a lot of hearts if I don’t stop you.”
“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”
“You’ve always been a liar. If I don’t punish you for your sins, God will. You’ll burn in hell if I can’t beat the evil out of you.”
Sitting in the middle of his bedroom floor, he trembled as he watched the doorknob turn. He had locked the door once, but when she’d removed the hinges and taken the door off the frame, she had been wild with anger. His punishment had been severe. She’d broken his arm that time. And when he’d hidden in the closet, she’d whipped him so severely that he still bore the scars on his buttocks.
The door opened. His heart beat like crazy, thumping so loudly that it deafened him to the sound of her voice. He couldn’t understand what she was saying as she stood there hovering over him, a stern look on her face. He knew she was screaming, outraged by what he’d done.
He dared a quick glance up at her, his gaze focused not on her face, but on the erect index finger she pointed directly at him. Whenever she scolded him, she used her index finger to emphasize her point. God, how he hated that judgmental finger.
Suddenly, she stopped ranting. He held his breath, knowing what would come next. She lifted her hand and brought it down across his face, slapping him so hard that he reeled backward. He lay there, feeling completely helpless as she pointed her finger at him again and continued berating him. Cuddling into a small protective ball, he lay there waiting for the next blow. He didn’t have long to wait. She removed the thick leather belt from around her waist, folded it in two and then snapped it. He cried out with fear.
He hated that belt, the instrument of his torment. She wore it with every pair of jeans she owned. A brown leather belt with a wide brass buckle.
She kept talking, but still he couldn’t hear her, only the drone of her agitated voice. But he knew what she was telling him to do. With trembling hands, he slid his pajama bottoms down his hips and trembling legs, then kicked them off. He dared another glance up at her. She smiled at him.
Oh, God, help me. Don’t let her beat me again.
She motioned for him to roll over, which he did. The first blow to his backside stung something awful. Those first few blows were always the worst. After about a dozen strikes over his flesh, the pain was so bad that it began to become a part of him.
Tears welled up in his eyes.
Begging
