Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (3 page)

As if someone had been watching through the window and was hurrying away. Footsteps.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, whipping around in her chair and stumbling to the window only to look out at the dark, lonely night. The tick of the clock was barely audible over the beating of her heart, and as she stared through the steamy glass, the recorder played the next message.

“I know what you did,” a male voice whispered in a low, sexy tone.

Sam spun around and glared at the machine with its flashing red light.

“And you’re not going to get away with it.” The voice wasn’t harsh, not at all. In fact it was seductive, nearly caressing, as if the caller knew her personally. Sam’s skin crawled. “You’re going to have to pay for your sins.”

“You bastard!”

Charon hissed and jumped from the sill.

The recorder clicked off and went silent. The house seemed to close in on her, the shadowy corners of the walls, darkening. Was it her imagination, or did she hear footsteps running across the yard?

She took in several deep breaths, then, using her crutch, checked all the locks on the doors and the latches on the windows.
It’s a prank,
she told herself,
nothing sinister.
In her line of work she was a quasi celebrity, one who invited the public to contact her, to help them with their problems, to get to know her. As a radio psychologist she dealt with people’s problems and phobias every night while she was on the air. And this wasn’t the first time that her private life had been violated; it wouldn’t be the last. She thought about calling the police or David or someone, but the last thing she wanted to appear to be was a hysterical, paranoid woman. Especially to herself.

She was a professional.

A doctor of psychology.

She didn’t want to risk public disdain. Not again.

Her heart thundered, and she slowly let out her breath. She’d have to call the police whether she wanted to or not. But not yet. Not tonight. She double-checked all the locks and told herself to remain calm, go upstairs, read a book and tomorrow, in the morning light, reassess what had happened to her. There was just no reason to panic. Right? No one would seriously want to do her harm.

Repent?

Pay for her sins?

What
sins?

The guy was psyching her out. Which was probably his point. “Come on, big guy,” she called to the cat, “let’s go upstairs.” It was her first night home; she wasn’t going to let some anonymous creep ruin it.

Chapter Two

“If you ask me, she’s faking it,” Melba whispered to Tiny, then gave Sam a friendly wink as Samantha hitched her way past the receptionist’s desk at the WSLJ offices a block off Decatur Street. Wasp thin, with mocha-colored, flawless skin and a thousand-watt smile that could turn to cold, angry disapproval if anyone tried to get past her, Melba guarded the doors of WSLJ as if she were a trained rottweiler. Behind her was a glass case lit by soft neon lights and filled with everything from celebrity photos and awards for the station to a voodoo doll and stuffed baby alligator, memorabilia to remind any visitor that they were definitely in the heart of New Orleans.

Sam rolled her eyes. “You’re right. I’ve been wearing this—” She tapped her cast with the rubber tip of her crutch, “—just to get out of work and gain sympathy, yeah, that’s it. And that’s why I’m popping ibuprofen every couple of hours. I kinda get off on the masochistic thing.”

“Psychobabble,” Melba accused.

“What can I say? It’s my job.” She relaxed. It felt good to be back at the station, at work. After a fitful night’s sleep, she’d woken to the new day, told herself to quit being a chicken, checked the yard for footprints, found none, then eyed the mutilated picture of herself as a professional, from a distance. She’d listened to the ominous call again and decided not to freak out. There would be time enough for that later.

Melba propped one hand under her chin. A dozen bracelets clinked and caught in the light. “You know, I have a theory about all shrinks—er—psychologists.”

“Do tell,” Sam encouraged.

“I think every one of you got into the field because of some basic character flaw. Most shrinks I know are nuts. And you radio types are the worst. I mean, who would want to sit in this damned studio all night, listening to other people’s problems, when you know you don’t help em? They just call you cuz they’re lonely.”

“Or horny,” Tiny added as he passed through the glassed-in reception area. He dropped a package onto Melba’s desk as light jazz whispered from hidden speakers.

“Right. Or horny. Get your rocks off by calling Dr. Sam at 1–800-Dial-A-Shrink, New Orleans’s own private late-night couch. Confess and be healed.”

Sam’s head snapped up. She felt the smile slide off her face. “What did you say?”

“Get your rocks—”

“No, no, what’s that about confession?”

“Well that’s what you are,” Melba said as the phone rang. “Kinda like a priest, or preacher or whatever. And this whole place turns into a late-night, high-tech confessional. Even the name of the show, honey.
Midnight Confessions.
Need I say more?” She punched a button and studied her glossy pink nails. “WSLJ, New Orleans’s heart of smooth jazz and talk radio. How may I direct your call?”

“Don’t mind her,” Tiny said. “You know she’s always got a bug up her butt. She loves you.”

“And it’s great to be loved,” Sam muttered, still wondering about Melba’s remarks. Maybe she was just jittery, looking for hidden meanings. She hadn’t gotten much sleep, her leg had ached while her mind had spun reviewing the damned taped message and the scarred publicity shot. Her cast had been heavy and cumbersome, making getting comfortable impossible, and so far the day had been nerve-stretching. First she’d dealt with the Cambrai police, talking to an officer on the phone, then waiting for him to show up. He’d assured her they would patrol the area more often and had taken the tape, envelope and publicity shot with him. Later, still edgy, she’d called credit-card companies to make sure they’d gotten Melanie’s message from Mexico about her lost cards, driven with difficulty to the DMV to get a new driver’s license, gone to a locksmith and asked him to come over to replace all of the locks in the house and make a duplicate set for her car. Then she’d finally stopped by the Social Security Administration to stand in line for nearly an hour to ask that a new card be issued. She hadn’t yet replaced her prescription sunglasses, but that was the last item on her list and for a while she’d settle for contacts and over-the-counter shades.

“…I’ll give Mr. Hannah the message,” Melba said as she clicked off the telephone and scribbled a note. “Why we don’t have voice mail around here is beyond me. It’s like we’re in the damned dark ages or somethin“.” She glanced over at Tiny. “You’re the computer genius, can’t you hook us up?”

“I’m working on it, but it’s the damned budget.” “Yeah, yeah, always the budget, the ratings, the market share.” She rolled her expressive eyes, and her curly hair shone under the fluorescent tubes that passed for lighting in the reception area. “Well, I hate to admit it,” she said to Sam, “but, from the stack of fan mail in your cubby, it looks like you were missed.”

“Surprising.”

Another call came in, catching Melba’s attention, as Tiny walked with Sam down the central hallway known affectionately as “the aorta.” The station was a virtual rabbit’s warren, a maze of offices and hallways linked together fitfully as the ancient building that housed WSLJ and its sister stations had been remodeled over and over again in the past two hundred years, the nooks and crannies incorporated into closets, studios, offices, and meeting rooms.

“Check your e-mail as well,” Tiny advised as he stopped at the door of his office—a small room that had once been a walk-in windowless closet placed smack-dab in the middle of the offices. Inside was a single desk chair, benchlike table and laptop computer. Tiny’s only nod to decorating was a large poster of an alligator, which Sam guessed, from the multitude of tiny perforations on the slick surface surrounding the gator’s snout, Tiny used as a dartboard. Where he hid his darts was a continuing mystery that no one in the station had unraveled.

Tiny seemed to know what was going on in the station at all times. A part-time communications student at Loyola, he designed and maintained the station’s web site and was a whiz when it came to any computer glitch. In Sam’s opinion, Tiny was invaluable, if slightly out-of-sync with the rest of the world. He was still gawky, a computer nerd in serious need of braces, Scope and Clearasil, but a hard worker who just happened to have a crush on Sam. A crush she pretended didn’t exist.

“Lots of e-mail?” she asked, and the kid visibly brightened.

“Tons. All of it about the same—the listeners want you back.”

“You
read
my e-mail?” she asked.

The tops of his ears turned bright red. “Some of it was addressed to the station in general, but it was mainly about you and when you’d be back. I, uh, I didn’t look at any of the personal stuff.”

Oh, right,
she thought sarcastically, but before she had a chance to question him, the program manager’s deep voice assailed her. “So the prodigal has returned!” Eleanor’s words ricocheted down the hallway.

A tall black woman who had brass golf balls fashioned into a paperweight that she kept forever on her desk, she strode down the hallway and smiled wide enough to show off a gold-crowned molar. “And oh, look at you…” She motioned to the cast covering Sam’s leg. “High fashion if ever I saw it. Well, come on, haul yourself down to the office, where we can talk.” She preceded Sam down the aorta and took a right near the back of the building, across from the glassed-in studio where Gator Brown was pretaping some smooth jazz favorites that he planned to play on his shift. Earphones covering his bald spot, Gator saw Sam, grinned and raised a freckled hand, never once interrupting his velvet-voiced patter as he started to play another CD for the tape.

“Okay, so tell me,” Eleanor said, waving Sam into a chair crammed between bookcases stacked high with files, disks, tapes and books, “how long are you gonna have to put up with that?” She waggled a finger at Sam’s left leg as she sat behind her cluttered desk.

“Less than a week more, I hope. It’s just a sprain. Nothing broken. I can still work, you know.”

“Good. Cuz I want you back in that booth. Your listeners are clamoring for you, Sam, and WNAB is getting more aggressive with your audience. They’ve moved Trish LaBelle from seven to nine, to get a jump on your show, then go head to head with you when you come on at ten. I’m considering moving you up an hour, and Gator’s screaming bloody murder, claiming his audience will stop listening, that his style of jazz
has
to be played late at night. He’d rather you be pushed back from ten until midnight.” She reached into the top drawer of her desk and found a bottle of Tums. “And my husband can’t understand why I have high blood pressure.”

Sam wasn’t buying all the competition. “WNAB is AM, we’re FM, entirely different format, demographics and audience.”

“Not so different.” Eleanor was all business. She popped two pills. “Look, we’ve all worked hard to make this station the best, and we don’t want to lose our audience now. I don’t begrudge you your vacation, of course,” she said, holding up her hands, palms outward, “but I’ve got to be practical. It’s my job. We can’t let WNAB or anyone else muscle in on our ratings.” She managed a smile that seemed false and when the phone rang, took the call. “This is Eleanor…yes…I know.” Stretching the cord, she rolled her chair back and searched in a stack of files that was piled on top of a credenza. “Okay, let me see. Did you talk to the sales department?” Her voice was tight. Strained. “I understand…we’re working on it. What? Yes. Samantha’s back, so late night’s taken care of…Right. Just give me a minute.” Turning back to the desk, she grabbed her computer mouse with her free hand and signaled to Sam with her eyes that the discussion was over. “Listen, George, just sit tight. I said I’d handle it.”

Samantha hobbled out of the room, but Eleanor’s voice drifted after her.

“I’ll come up with something. Yes, soon. For God’s sake, don’t have a heart attack. Just calm down. I understand.”

Negotiating two corners, Sam entered the hallway that opened to the glassed-in studios and recording rooms. She glanced through one window and saw Gator still leaning into the microphone, talking to the tape as if he were actually speaking to the audience and every listener were his personal friend. He’d cut this tape into his regular program. On the air his voice was a soft drawl, inviting, a real down-home boy. In person he was much more animated and lively. Sam waved, Gator gave her a cursory nod and she wended her way past several more studios, an editing room, the library and finally wound up at the communal office she shared with the other DJs. Her mail was, indeed, stuffed into her cubby. Remembering the ugly missive she’d received at home, she sorted through the envelopes carefully. Telling herself that the prickle of dread crawling up her spine was totally out of line, she slit open each envelope and scanned the pages.

Nothing was out of the ordinary.

Nothing was the least bit suspicious.

Offers to speak at or host charity functions, well-wishes from listeners who had found out she’d been in an accident, advertisements, more bank-card offers…nothing sinister. She’d told herself that she wasn’t going to bring up the letter and crank call to anyone at the station, but she would talk to the police again. The letter and voice on her answering machine were probably just pranks. Nothing more. Some guy getting his perverted jollies at her expense.

Then what about the footsteps on the porch?

How about the way Charon had reacted?

What about the way you
felt
last night, as if unseen eyes were watching your every move?

Gritting her teeth, she reminded herself for the hundredth time she was letting a couple of stupid, malicious pranks get to her. She’d dealt with crank callers before. As long as she changed the locks, fixed the faulty alarm system that had come with the house and made sure that the Cambrai police were true to their word and increased their patrols of the area, she’d be fine.

Right?

A few hours later, after most of the staff had gone home for the night, Sam was tossing the trash into a wastebasket when the click of high heels caught her attention. Turning, she spied Melanie breezing into the room. Her hair was windblown, her cheeks pink from the heat of the summer night.

“Welcome back,” Melanie greeted with a grin. All of twenty-five, Melanie had graduated at the top of her class at All Saints, a small college in Baton Rouge, where she’d majored in communications and minored in psychology. She’d worked at the college radio station, then landed a job in Baton Rouge before accepting a position with WSLJ not long after Sam had hired on. Melanie, like Sam, was one of Eleanor’s recruits.

“Thanks.”

“I’m gonna run down to the shop on the corner and pick up coffee and something totally fattening and sinful…Probably a beignet smothered in powdered sugar. Want one?”

“Tempting, but I think I’ll pass.” Sam set the mail aside and rolled her chair back from the long counter that served as a desk. “And thanks again for taking care of the cat and leaving me the coffee and milk. You’re a lifesaver.”

Melanie beamed under the compliment—in many ways she was still a kid. “Just remember that when it comes time for my review and raise, okay?”

“Oh, I get it. You bribed me.”

“Absolutely!” Melanie was blocking the doorway, a hand on either side of the jamb. In a gauzy purple dress, thin black cape, platform shoes and fresh makeup, she looked ready to go out on the town, rather than work.

“Hot date?”

“A girl can hope.” Melanie laughed and lifted one shoulder. “Maybe I’ll get lucky. And—” she held up a finger, “—no motherly advice about being careful. I’m a big girl now.”

“And I’m
not
old enough to be your mother.” “Then no friendly or even professional advice, okay?” Sam knew when to button her lip. Melanie’s past relationships had been less than stellar, and the girl was waiting to get her heart broken again, but Samantha didn’t argue. After all, she wasn’t exactly batting a thousand in the love department herself. “When are you off duty?”

Melanie looked at her watch. “After the show, same as you. Now, what can I get you from the coffee shop before it closes for the night? Tea? Perrier?” “You don’t have to wait on me.” “I know. It’s only because of the cast. Once you’re on your feet again, you’re on your own, so make a slave of me now, if you feel so inclined.”