Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (213 page)

That much was true. Kristi’s own father had interviewed the girl on an earlier case and she had proudly shown off her unique jewelry.

“Where did you get that?” Grotto asked.

“I found it in my apartment.”

“Your
apartment
?”

“Tara Atwater used to live there.”

“And you think it was hers?” he said, the corners of his mouth tightening, the temperature in the room seeming to drop ten degrees.

“I do. DNA will tell.”

“You’ve had some of the blood tested?”

She nodded.

His gaze was cold. “If the police were going to run any tests, they would have taken the necklace. You’re bluffing, Miss Bentz.”

“I sent drops in…claimed they were my own. I have a friend who works in the lab.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Don’t you care what happened to your students, Dr. Grotto?”

“They’re runaways.” He said it as if he believed it. Or as if he wanted to believe it.

“You think all four just left town? All four who attended your class? All four who were English majors? All four just up and decided to take a hike? That’s one helluva coincidence, don’t you think?”

“It’s more common than you think. They’re young and, from what I understand, troubled.”

“And missing.”

“It’s possible something happened to them, I suppose, but far more likely that they took off.” Grotto seemed torn between the desire to throw her out and a need to talk about the missing girls.

“Without a trace?” Kristi questioned skeptically.

“Ms. Bentz, even in today’s world, if someone wants to disappear, it can be done. Maybe not forever, but for a while. I think all of the girls will turn up. When they want to.”

“That’s such bull,” she said.

“Easy to say. You had a loving family, right? Father and mother who doted on you?”

She didn’t respond, didn’t want this turned on her. She refused to mention that her mother had died years ago in a single car accident and that her father, after pouring himself into a bottle, finally pulled himself together. Neither did she mention that she was adopted. The less Grotto knew about her, the better.

At that moment, his phone rang. Lucretia.

“Excuse me,” he said. Into the receiver, “Hello? Oh, yes…I’m on my way…sorry, running late. I’ll be there in”—he checked his watch—“fifteen minutes…yes…bye.” He hung up and stood, signifying the interview was over. “I really do have to go.” He picked up his briefcase again, walked to the door and held it open.

She’d pushed it as far as she could.

And had come up with nothing.

“Say ‘hi’ to Lucretia for me,” she said as they walked out, “and tell her I’d appreciate it if she’d return my calls.”

He glared at her and in that second she witnessed the paling of his complexion. Had she hit a sensitive spot? But the blanching went further than just a moment’s shock. Grotto’s entire face bled of color and she had the distinct hit that he, like so many others she’d seen on campus, might soon be dead.

“What?” he asked when he found her staring at him.

“Be careful,” she said, and saw the questions in his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re into, Dr. Grotto, or how deep, but it’s dangerous.”

He half laughed. “You’ve made up your own myth, haven’t you?”

Had she?

She could tell him that he’d turned gray—a signal, she was certain, of impending death or doom. But he would just laugh at her some more, think she was a real whack job, just like Ariel had.

What had she expected? That he would turn over and spill his guts, tell her about some dark, demonic cult? Admit that he killed the girls and what—drank their blood? Or drank it first and then killed them?

Grotto locked his door. If she’d thought she was going to get some soul-cleansing confession from him and break the case wide open or even gain information for her damned book, she’d been sadly mistaken.

She climbed the stairs to the first floor and found Jay seated on a bench near the stairwell. Less than fifty feet from Grotto’s door.

“Way to go, Sherlock,” he said, and she tossed him a don’t-mess-with-me look.

“You heard,” she said as they walked through the front doors and a blast of cool winter air hit them.

“I heard that you took the vial in there, taunted him with it, screwed around with evidence!”

“I thought it might be effective.”

“Damn it, Kris, that wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I should have told you,” she admitted as they walked along the brick path where other students were busily crossing campus. Bikes and skateboards whipped past and a jogger with two dogs on a leash raced in the opposite direction.

“But if you had, you knew I wouldn’t let you mess with it. What were you thinking?”

She wasn’t about to try to make excuses. Instead, she said, “I thought you were supposed to be waiting outside.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to be a little closer, just in case.”

“Of what? That he might attack me?”

Jay shrugged, his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. “Maybe. You did bait the hell out of him.” He took her arm, pulled her closer to him as a bicyclist cut through the quad. “From now on, no secrets. If we’re in this together, we have to be honest with each other.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

He looked as if he didn’t believe her, but he didn’t release her arm as they walked briskly toward the student union. Jay pulled open the door and they stepped inside. A swell of warm air hit them and the sounds of laughter, music, and conversation filled the open area where students were hanging out, some studying, some plugged into iPods, others meeting friends. They seemed so innocent, so unaware of the evil that Kristi believed lurked in the crevices and corners of the campus.

Who would be next?
she wondered, and thought of how pale Dr. Grotto had appeared.

“Did you believe him?” Jay’s voice brought her back to the moment.

“Grotto?” She shook her head. “He was hiding something.” Despite the warmth of the low, well-lit building, she felt a whisper of cold deep in her heart. She looked up at Jay and saw that his eyes were troubled. “And he was lying through his fangs.”

CHAPTER 25

J
ay sat in his office and, using a magnifying glass, studied a picture of the severed arm. He’d seen the real thing, of course, but it was being kept frozen in hopes the body from which it had been detached would be found. There were computer pictures as well, those that could be enhanced, but sometimes the old-fashioned way was most familiar.

He’d been in the lab for ten hours on Tuesday. It was nearly quitting time now and he was testy. Edgy. Hadn’t felt right about returning to New Orleans despite Kristi’s insistence the night before. She hadn’t listened to any of his arguments, wouldn’t consider living in his aunt’s bungalow or even keeping his dog. She’d moved back to her apartment against all his protests. He was in constant contact with her, either by phone, text or e-mail, and so far she was all right.

So far.

So how will you feel if something happens to her?

He tried not to immediately go to the worst case scenario, but it was always there, looming in the background of his brain, ready to pounce on his consciousness again. He had to quit worrying about Kristi. As she’d told him time and time again, she was an adult. Could take care of herself. She swore that the idea her would-be video-taper might try to access her apartment didn’t bother her. Said she almost welcomed it.

“Bullshit,” he muttered, focusing again on a discoloration between the elbow and wrist.

“You talkin’ to me?” Bonita Washington asked as she walked into the lab area, eyeing the microscopes and careful not to touch the gas chromatograph.

“Talking to myself, I guess,” he said, rolling his chair back.

“Notice anything unusual about that arm?” She pointed to the picture lying on his work area.

“It’s missing a body.”

“Smart ass. Anything else?”

“Her fingernail polish doesn’t go with her lipstick, oh, wait—”

Washington, usually stoic or grim, actually cracked a smile. “I was talking ’bout this,” she said, stabbing a finger at a spot of skin in the lower arm. “What’s it look like to you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How about freezer burn?”

Jay looked again.

“Like when you put chicken in the freezer and the package isn’t sealed, or even if it is, if it’s been in there a good, long time?”

He rolled his chair back to the desk area and, using his microscope, studied the blemish on the arm. “You think the arm…no, the body was frozen before being dumped into the swamp.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So our perp doesn’t keep them alive,” he thought aloud. His hope that they would find the missing coeds alive took a direct hit.

“Don’t know what he does to them, but at one point, I’d be willing to bet my new Porsche that this woman was frozen.”

“I thought you drove a Pontiac.”

“So far. But if I had a Porsche I’d make the bet.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “Couldn’t take a chance on losing the Grand Am.”

Why would the killer keep the bodies on ice? Why not just dump them fresh, after the kill? Did he not want them to rot and smell, could he not get them to a dumping ground fast? And why was there no blood in the severed limb?

Jay tapped the eraser end of his pencil on the desk.

What kind of a nutcase was behind all of this?

Again, he thought of Kristi and this time, he couldn’t keep his dread at bay.

By midweek, Kristi was no closer to the truth than before. No one had dared come into her apartment; her meeting with Dr. Grotto had left him unruffled; he’d even had the nerve to call on her in class and smile almost benignly. The chat rooms, which she frequented every night, hoping to catch DrDoNoGood or JustO online, were a bust. They’d gone fairly silent, maybe with midterms looming in the next few weeks. Things on campus were quiet.

Almost too quiet.

The calm before the storm, she told herself as she rode her bike through the quad, heading for her writing class. She locked her fifteen-speed in the rack, then hurried into the building, a few steps behind Zena and Trudie.

Perfect.

They were in no hurry and she walked briskly, closing the gap between them so that when they reached the door to the classroom, she was on their heels. Zena found an empty desk. Trudie took one next to it and Kristi snagged one nearby. She glanced around the room. Wasn’t Ophelia—JustO—in this class? If so, she was nowhere in sight. Kristi definitely wanted to try and buddy up to her after their last meeting at the play. O, she thought, had secrets to spill.

Nor was Ariel anywhere to be seen. In fact, as Kristi thought about it, Ariel hadn’t been in any of her classes all week.

And Kristi had witnessed her changing from color to black and white, which, recently hadn’t meant much.

Still…

If it weren’t flu season, Kristi might have gotten suspicious. Instead, she made a mental note to check on the girl.

As Preston started his lecture, she glanced over at Zena again but didn’t catch the other girl’s attention. She would have to wait. She pretended interest in Dr. Preston as he lectured on the importance of perspective and clarity when writing, and she hoped she didn’t fall asleep.

Today, he seemed more content to rest his jean-clad hips on the edge of his writing table, rather than pace. Still, he flipped the chalk, his expression affable enough, but beneath his tan and California good looks, she thought she noticed a harder edge.

But then hadn’t she experienced just that same feeling with Dr. Grotto and Emmerson? Even Professor Senegal, the mother of twins, seemed to have a darker side to her, one she hid behind her sleek glasses and burgundy-colored lips.

Most of the students seemed to be in the same Zombie-like state as she. Kristi was beginning to recognize some. A few desks over was Marnie, the blonde she’d followed into Wagner House. Marnie, it seemed, was also a part of the group of friends including Trudie and Grace. Then there was Bethany, another girl in most of Kristi’s classes. She was busily taking notes, her fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop as if Dr. Preston were giving out the answers to the universe.

One of
those,
Kristi thought as the girl asked a question to clarify a point on symbolism. A real suck-up.

Hiram glowered in his chair, and Mai was tuned into the lecture, taking fastidious notes.

Save me
. This class was too basic for her taste. She’d already sold articles on true crime and she just wanted to hone her skills for the book she was putting together. She wasn’t certain Dr. Preston was the answer.

He must’ve read her thoughts. “Miss Bentz?” he said, his voice simmering with authority.

She froze.

“Am I boring you?” he asked, and when he stared at her, she wanted to melt into the floor. “Or you?” he said, swinging his gaze back to Hiram Calloway.

“Yeah,” Hiram said insolently. “You kinda are.”

“Kinda?” Preston said, snapping his chalk into his fist.

“Okay, no, you are. You’re boring me. I just want to write. I don’t think we need to study symbolism or imagery. We all took that in high school. Isn’t this supposed to be a college course? Sheeeiiiit.” With that he closed his laptop, stuffed his books into his backpack, kicked back his chair, and left the classroom.

Kristi thought all hell would break loose. But the anger in Preston’s face quickly disappeared. “If anyone else feels the way Mr. Calloway does, I invite you to leave at this time.”

The room went absolutely silent. No one even dared cough.

Preston’s glare traveled over each student and once he decided no one else was intent on leaving, he cleared his throat. “Good. Let’s continue…”

Once again he began flipping his chalk and pacing.

Kristi tried her best to pay attention. But it was hard. Hiram was right, the class was seriously boring.

She glanced at the clock and spent the next forty-five minutes noting that Trudie and Zena pretended interest in the class while texting each other. They held their cell phones just under the desk and were adept enough at working the keyboards to effectively “pass notes” without getting caught, which was a little weird. This was college, not junior high. But Kristi did her part as well, trying her best to read the information they sent back and forth.

It proved impossible, for the most part. The screens were too small, but she did pick up a line or two and quickly jotted down the piece of shorthand she saw. WH came up frequently…
Wagner House?
Or was she just willing it so? She also saw: Grto, which she assumed was in reference to Dr. Grotto, and a series of numbers, which, she thought, referred to Friday, which was more than just the start of the weekend, it was also the date of the last performance of
Everyman.
The rest of the information made no sense whatsoever, but she jotted notes down just the same.

When class was over she was once again behind the two girls but saw no reason to break into their conversation, nor did she overhear anything worth noting.

It was as if the whole world were holding its breath.

Outside was the same. The air was still. The sky filled with pewter clouds that didn’t seem to move.

The hairs on the back of her arms raised and though there was nothing obviously wrong, she knew, deep in her heart, that evil was lurking in the shadows.

It was after four on Friday and Portia was a little jangled from the eight—or had it been nine?—cups of coffee she’d had throughout the day. She
had
to ease back on that. Today, she’d stopped counting when she’d reached six, even though she’d switched to decaf in the early afternoon. She was still feeling the effects as she parked her car in the lot at the station. Probably more from lack of sleep than the caffeine. She’d been working twelve-hour shifts, eight on the clock, four on her own time. When she got home, she walked on the treadmill for forty-five minutes, ate some microwavable, fat-free, low-carb, vitamin-fortified, tasteless meal, then hit it again, only taking a break for a glass of wine with the news. All to get rid of the twenty pounds that had crept on once she’d turned thirty and given up cigarettes.

Sometimes she wondered if she’d made the right choice.

The rest of every evening, she was buried in her work and she didn’t even want to think about what she really earned per hour. It would be too depressing. “Remember the benefits,” she reminded herself over and over again as she sweated on the treadmill, cranking up the music with her increasing pace. And then there was the simple fact that she loved her work.
Loved
it. Nothin’ better. Even if it meant sleeping in her big king-sized bed alone most nights.

She had to remind herself of that fact as she walked through the doors to the station house the following afternoon and made her way to her desk. She’d spent the past four hours talking to witnesses in a domestic violence case, and she was cranky from the conflicting testimony. Half the people at the party where the alleged incident had taken place insisted the wife was at fault; she’d baited her husband by flirting with his brother, then really heated things up by punching him in the gut. The other half said the husband, a possessive jealous type, known to use a steroid or two, had overreacted: he’d grabbed his gun and shot his wife dead.

Overreacting…no shit. How could people be so stupid?

Portia had about two hours of paperwork, and then she was going to call it a day. Shifts were about to change and there was a lot of activity in the office: phones jangling, computers humming, suspects in cuffs and shackles seated at desks protesting their innocence and bad treatment by the cops.

She passed by one of the young secretaries’ desks. A burst of color in the form of carnations and roses indicated that someone was thinking of her. Portia peeled off her raincoat and hung it on a peg near her desk while laughter erupted from somewhere near the fax machine. Then she stared at what appeared to be a mountain of reports to be processed.

So much for the whole “paperless society thing.”

She plowed through some of the files. Reminding herself she did
not
want a cigarette, she sorted through the paperwork as well as a butt-load of her e-mails.

The phone rang sharply. She picked up the receiver, her eyes still on her computer monitor. “Homicide, Detective Laurent.”

“This is Jay McKnight from the crime lab. I got your name from Sonny Crawley. I think he made a request for me.”

“Oh, right. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” Her interest was immediately diverted from her paperwork and she started typing commands on her keyboard. “It just so happens I was gonna give you a buzz a little later. Just had some final loose ends to tie up…here we go.” She found the correct file and brought it up. “Let’s see. It’s taken a little time but I’ve got a list of potential vans, all domestic and dark, Louisiana plates, owned by people who work at the college. I’ll send them if you give me your e-mail address.”

“Great.” Jay rattled it off. Portia would verify it before sending, even though she recognized the URL as belonging to the state police.

“I’m driving up tonight,” McKnight added. “I could stop by the station, exchange information.”

“Good idea. Maybe by then I might have more info on the background checks you requested. Still working on those.” She pulled up Jay McKnight’s file on her computer. Though she’d never officially met him, she’d seen his name and observed him once at a crime scene. So far so good.

“It’ll be late. I work until seven. By the time I get there it could be close to nine. As long as things stay calm and I don’t have to pull any overtime.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ll be here,” she assured him, grateful that someone in the department was starting to believe they had a problem at All Saints. A big problem.

“See you then.”

Portia hung up and not only sent the list of vehicles to McKnight but printed out another copy for herself. She was surprised at how many of the workers there owned a dark van. Along with a gardener and a security guard, the parish owned a black ’98 Chevrolet full-sized van; an assistant professor named Lucretia Stevens owned an ancient Ford Econoline that looked like it had once belonged to someone else in her family; another person named Stevens, Natalie Croft’s husband, owned a dark green van that he used in his construction business; and Dr. Dominic Grotto’s brother, too, owned a black van. Portia had widened the swath a little, just because she was suspicious of the guy. She’d interviewed him twice. He was too smooth for her. One of those who thought he was smarter than the rest. His conversation with her had brushed on supercilious, though he’d acted concerned, as if he wanted to help.