Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (28 page)

The eggs were sizzling in the pan, and he stirred them with a wooden spoon. “We’re about done, here,” he said. “I thought we could eat outside.” He hitched his chin toward the back verandah.

“And then you’ll spill your guts about Annie Seger,” she surmised, leaning a hip against the counter and watching him play the part of the domestic in his shorts and T-shirt that was stretched across his shoulders. She took in his narrow waist and the backs of his legs—well muscled, tanned, covered with downy hair. Whether she liked it or not, Ty Wheeler got to her on a very basic level.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” he promised, and she remembered his claim that he’d feared he was falling in love with her.

“Anything?” she teased and he sent her a sizzling look over his shoulder.

“Anything.”

Her throat went dry just as the bagels popped in the toaster and the microwave dinged.

“Why do you think Annie Seger was murdered? The police have claimed that she committed suicide,” Samantha said, pushing her plate aside. She and Ty were seated at the glass-topped table under the porch overhang, and she’d waited until they’d finished eating before bringing up the question that had been pulsing through her mind for hours.

A hummingbird was flitting between the blossoms of the bougainvillea and sailboats skimmed across the lake. Somewhere down the street a lawn mower roared while overhead the wake of a passing jet was dissipating into the cloudless sky.

Ty rested a heel on one of the empty chairs and frowned. “So you haven’t had time to read my computer disk yet?” Before she could protest, he said, “I know you took it, and if you’d read through the research, you’d understand.” He leaned over the table, closer to her. “Annie Seger was despondent, yes, and she had been drinking—she’d gone to a party and some kids had witnessed it. She’d had a fight with her boyfriend, Ryan Zimmerman, probably over the baby and what to do about it. There were witnesses who’d said as much. Annie had even had her friend Prissy drive her home that night. When she got there, the house was empty. She’d tried to call you again, but hung up before she’d gotten through, and that’s when things get blurry. Did she sneak into her mother’s bathroom and steal the sleeping pills? Did she go out to the garage and find the gardening shears and then go all the way upstairs, write the suicide note and slit her wrists at the computer? Could she have, considering how much booze was already in her system?”

“That’s how I thought it happened.”

“That’s the way it was supposed to look,” Ty said, “and it’s the easiest explanation. But there were other footprints on the carpet. The maid had vacuumed while Annie was out and there were deeper impressions on the plush pile—a bigger foot.”

“Weren’t there tons of people at the scene? Police and emergency workers?”

“Of course and Jason, the father, said he’d come into the room to check on her. Since he found the body, no one thought anything of it.”

“A big footprint on the carpet. That’s not much to go on. In fact it’s nothing,” she said.

“I know. And there was potting soil from the gardening shed on the carpet, but not on any of Annie’s shoes.”

“Still thin.”

“How about this then? Her fingerprints were all over the gardening shears, true, but she was right-handed. It would seem that she would have slit her left wrist first, made the deeper cut. Instead it was just the opposite.”

“You think.”

He nodded.

“Ty, this isn’t enough to write a book about or argue her suicide,” Sam pointed out as she watched Charon slink through the shrubs. Absently she rubbed her neck, scratching at the bump left by the hornet’s sting. “Why would anyone want her dead? What’s the motive?”

“I think it has to do with her baby.”

Samantha’s stomach clenched. As horrid as it was to think that Annie ended her life, the thought of her baby dying as well was even more painful.

“I don’t think she would have killed the baby. Her boyfriend wanted her to get an abortion; she refused. It was against her morals. Against her faith. She was raised Catholic, remember. Killing herself and killing the baby were both mortal sins.”

“But she was despondent. You said so yourself.”

“But not suicidal. That’s a big leap. There’s more. The baby’s blood type. No one paid attention, but Annie Seger’s baby couldn’t have been fathered by Ryan Zimmerman. The blood type proves it.”

Sam felt the hairs on the back of her arms lift. “You think someone killed Annie because she could point the finger at them?”

“Possibly. Maybe a married man. She was underage. The law would charge him with statutory rape if the guy was older. Or it could have been someone in her own family. Incest. Or her boyfriend could have come unglued and killed her in a fit of jealousy. That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet.” He leaned back in his chair, his gaze holding hers. “But I will,” he promised, “And while I’m doing it, I’m gonna figure out how this all ties in with the calls you been getting at the station. Somehow ‘John’ is connected to this thing. “We’ve just got to find out how, and then nail his ass.”

Chapter Twenty-five

“…it’s definitely not the same guy unless you’ve got a split personality,” Norm Stowell said from his cell phone somewhere in Arizona. Bentz wasn’t surprised. He’d already decided he had two killers on his hands. He glanced at the pictures on the computer screen in his office and could split the two cases right down the middle. Norm was still talking. “MO will evolve, we know that. As the killer learns what will work for him, he makes subtle changes in his approach or access route, but his signature remains constant. You’ve got two guys out there. One’s pretty messy—is careless with his clues, doesn’t seem to worry that you’ll nail him with his hair or fingerprints or semen, but the other guy—he’s clean. Neat. Careful. Definitely two perps.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Bentz said as he shoved a report on the wig fibers to one side of his desk.

“I’ll fax you my profile of your killers when I get home, and for the record, I’m sending a copy to the field agent.

Seems your partner hasn’t been forthright with the Federal boys, and they’re none too happy.”

“I’ll talk to him. Montoya’s a little green, but he’s good.”

“If you say so.” Norm wasn’t impressed, but then little did impress him. He was jaded far beyond his years—a short, stocky man who had never given up his allegiance to the crew cut he’d gotten at boot camp at Fort Lewis over thirty years earlier.

“So here’s what you’ve got to look for in the guy who’s killed Bellechamps and Gillette. He’s a white man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties. He must not have a prior as you said he’s careless with his fingerprints, body fluids and hair. If that’s the case, something triggered him to start killing, some emotional trauma. He’s got a job, but it’s not very grand, and he’s smart enough, but is from a highly dysfunctional and probably abusive family. He’s got a feeling of abandonment or deep-seated hatred of some woman in the family, probably a mother or stepmother or older sister or grandmother. He could have been sexually molested, and in his history he has arson and cruelty to animals or smaller children. He was probably a bed-wetter in grade school and something’s happened to him recently, something major that triggered him killing. Maybe he lost a job, or a girlfriend, or has been cut off from his family, which could likely be the major source of his income.”

“A gem of a guy,” Bentz muttered into the phone.

“And dangerous as hell. He could live alone, or he could be married, or have a girlfriend, but whoever he’s living with, she’s in danger. This guy’s escalating, Rick. You might have to let the public know what’s going on for safety’s sake and because someone out there might know a guy who’s been acting weird lately—unusually anxious. He could be pouring himself into a bottle or abusing drugs. Besides that, if he’s involved with a woman, she should know about the danger to her. If she knows what he’s doing, and we both know that a lot of women who are emotionally trapped in bad relationships will even be a part of their man’s crimes. Anyway this woman has probably seen his violence or suffered from it herself. Potentially she could be his next target—unless we get her to turn him in.”

Bentz thought the odds of that were somewhere between slim and none, and closer to none.

“As I said, this is just the high points. I’ll fax you what I’ve come up with, then get to work on your second guy.” “I’d appreciate it, Norm. Thanks,” Bentz said, and hung up, his worst suspicions confirmed. Two monsters were on the loose in New Orleans, killers with no conscience, murderers who hated women. He flipped through the computer files again, checking open cases that hadn’t been solved, ones that had bizarre elements. There were several that stood out, the most grotesque being the case of a woman who had been burned to death, her body then dumped at the feet of the statue of Joan d’Arc near the French Market last May 30. It had been macabre and surreal, that horridly charred body lying facedown on the grass, and reminded the press and police that St. Joan herself had met a similar fate.

Sometimes he wondered why he kept at this damned job.

Because someone has to nail these guys, and, for the most part, you’re good at it, you sick son of a bitch.

He found a half-full pack of Doublemint gum in his top drawer and jammed a stick into his mouth, then walked to the window and looked outside to the street below. Cars spewed exhaust as they crawled down the narrow streets, and people crowded the sidewalks, but Bentz hardly took any notice. He yanked at his collar. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back. He didn’t hear the hum of computers or conversations of the outer offices though his door was ajar. No, he’d blocked out the noise of the station and the scene below as he considered the prospect of two serial killers in the city, at least one of which was connected to the terrorization of Dr. Samantha Leeds. Some way. Somehow. He didn’t have any concrete evidence, no tangible link, but the knot in his gut told him whoever was calling was somehow involved with the murders. The mutilated C-notes so like the ruined publicity shot of Samantha Leeds, the radios tuned to her program at the time of death, the fact that the women who’d been killed were hookers and John had accused her of prostitution, but why sin? What redemption? What the hell did it have to do with Annie Seger, for crying out loud?

He walked to the tape recorder on his credenza and pushed the play button so that he could hear for the hundredth time some of the calls, particularly the one from the woman who called herself Annie…he’d played it over and over, as had the lab, and he’d come to the conclusion that the call from Annie had been prerecorded. There hadn’t been a live person on the phone. The woman proclaiming herself to be Annie hadn’t answered Sam’s questions directly, but only paused between her own statements…As if someone had anticipated what Dr. Sam would ask on the show that night. As if a woman was involved in this mess.

But who?

Someone who knew Annie Seger?

Someone connected to Dr. Sam?

Someone working with “John”?

And how had the call gotten through the screen at the radio station before being played on the air?

He snapped his gum, reached in his back pocket and found his handkerchief, then ran it over his forehead and mopped his face. How the hell did Montoya wear leather jackets in this weather and manage to keep his cool? The day was sweltering. Unforgiving. Intense. Bentz needed a beer. A sixteen-ouncer—ice-cold in one of those frosty mugs, yeah that would do the trick. And a pack of Camel straights. That old ache for booze and nicotine haunted his blood and he chewed his gum furiously as he walked back to his desk, where copies of telephone records were strewn.

The billing that interested him was from Houston, a cell phone registered in the name of David Ross. Not only had he called Sam’s home number, but the station as well, on a few of the nights that “John” had phoned, but his cell number had a block on it and his name had never shown on caller ID. Just his number. But those calls hadn’t even gotten through, not according to the station records. He must’ve called, then chickened out…or decided to use a pay phone. Ross had also been in New Orleans a couple of times in the past few weeks…but Samantha had insisted her love affair with the guy was over.

Maybe he didn’t like it.

Maybe he was getting back a little retribution.

The phone jangled. He grabbed the receiver. “Bentz.”

“Looks like we got another one,” Montoya said, his voice serious. “I’m driving over to a hotel on Royal, the St. Pierre. The story is that we’ve got another Jane Doe, strangled with a series of weird cuts on her neck. The maid let herself in with her key, ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign as it was after checkout time. The guy who rented the room is gone, but we might have gotten lucky because the clerk working the desk last night remembers him. I’m on my way to the St. Pierre now. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Bentz said, and slammed the phone down. Maybe they were finally catching a break.

Sam was nervous as she walked into the den. The edge that she’d felt after taking “John’s” last call had never quite left her. She was missing something, something important, a clue as to his identity.

Earlier, Ty had taken her into New Orleans to retrieve her car, followed her here, then made a quick trip home to pick up Sasquatch and his laptop computer. Now, he was seated on the couch, computer glowing on his knees, his notes splayed upon the coffee table. While the television flickered with images of the noon news, and his dog lay near the French doors, he started sorting through the box of Sam’s old, musty folders that he’d brought down from upstairs.

TGIF
went through her head as it was Friday, her weekend, and she didn’t have to work at the station again until Sunday night. Nonetheless she was burdened with the feeling that something bad was going to happen or had happened. “John’s” warning replayed through her head:
All you need to know is that what happens tonight is because of you, because of your sins. You need to repent, Sam, beg forgiveness.

So familiar, so direct. He’d called her Sam.

At first she’d thought he’d meant the damned cake, that he was just trying to freak her out, but as she’d remembered the tone of his voice, the cold warning, the pure evil of his threat, she was convinced that there was more.

But nothing had happened.

Yet. Nothing’s happened
yet.

This is just the calm before the storm.

She tried and failed to take heart in the fact that Annie’s birthday had come and gone. If the cake was the worst that had happened, she should be relieved. But she couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that the cake was just the tip of the iceberg.

In the den, she sat at her desk and noticed Charon cowering on the top of the bookcase, eyes round.

“Sasquatch is okay,” Sam assured the cat. “You’ll get used to him.”

Just like you’ll get used to having Ty around? Remember, he lied to you from the git-go, and now he’s pursuing this half-baked theory of his.

She crumpled a wad of paper and tossed it at the cat, who couldn’t help himself and swiped at the “toy.”

Ty was convinced that Annie Seger had been murdered and the killer had gotten away with it. Sam wasn’t so certain.

Could the Houston police have been so wrong? So negligent? Or had they covered up? It seemed unlikely, and even if Annie’s murder had “slipped through the cracks” nine years ago, how did “John” and the call from the woman posing as Annie link to the past? Why was this all happening now?

Could it have been someone in the station trying to rekindle interest in a nearly forgotten case, all for publicity? Was someone at the station involved, or had one of the employees inadvertently passed along information about the phone lines into WSLJ?

Stop this. It could be anyone. A phone company employee, or someone who had worked at the station in the past, or any guest or repairman or visitor who just looked the system over when Melba’s back was turned. Someone else might have stumbled across the number. With all the computer links and technoknowledge available, any nutcase could have figured out the phone-line numbers. It’s not that big of a deal.

Scraping back the chair from her desk, she reached for the phone. She needed to call her father and tell him that Corky had seen Peter, that her brother was alive, and seemingly clean and sober.
This is Peter’s responsibility,
her voice nagged, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t bailing Peter out, as she might have been accused in one of the upper-division psychology courses she’d taken. This was real life, and her father deserved to have his mind put at ease about her brother. After talking to her dad she’d call Leanne Jaquillard.

She’d picked up the receiver and had started to dial before noticing that the answering machine light was flashing. Her stomach knotted. She hadn’t picked up her messages in nearly two days. Had she somehow missed another call from John? Another threat? She pushed the play button and heard a hangup. “Damn.” Then another click. Her skin crawled. It was “John,” she was certain.

A second later Leanne’s voice came through the small speaker. “Hey, Doctor Sam, I was wonderin’ if we could get together? I need to talk to you about somethin’ and it really can’t wait until group. I mean…I want to talk to you about it alone, if that would be okay? Call or e-mail me if you get this.”

Click.

The machine stopped.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. There were no other messages, no contact from “John.” She switched on her computer, checked her e-mail, and found yet another note from Leanne asking her to call.

Charon hopped onto Sam’s lap and she stroked the cat out of habit. Something was weighing heavily on Leanne, she thought. The girl had never before called her at home. Quickly, she looked up Leanne’s phone number on her computer screen, then picked up the phone and punched out the numbers. “Be home,” she said, picking up a pencil and tapping the eraser end on the desk as the phone rang.

On the fourth ring a woman answered, “Hello?” Sam recognized Leanne’s mother’s irritated voice, and she braced herself.

“Hi, this is Samantha Leeds, Leanne’s counselor at the Boucher Center. Is she in?”

“No, as a matter of fact, she isn’t. That little fart didn’t bother comin’ home last night. I was just about to call the police and report her missin’, but I imagine she’ll come draggin’ in later this afternoon.”

Sam bristled and tapped the pencil again. The cat jumped off her lap and slunk cautiously out of the den. “Leanne left me a couple of messages, and I’d like to get in touch with her.”

“You and me both, I should a been ta work two hours ago, and I ain’t got no one to watch Billy. That’s Leanne’s job when she ain’t in school. I’m tellin’ you this is the last time she pulls this kind of stunt on me. I was up half the night worried about her.” There was an edge to Marletta’s voice, a fear that she couldn’t quite mask. “She’s usin’ again, I swear. God, don’t you discuss this with her in that stupid group she goes to?”