Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (47 page)

“There are some other things, too. The crime scene team will get it all, but it might not hurt for you to take a look before everything’s bagged and tagged.”

“I’m on my way,” Bentz said. His gut clenched tight as Stan rattled off the address. He hung up and was reaching for his jacket when his eyes met Montoya’ s. “There was someone killed in the fire over by Esplanade. Probably a woman. Burned beyond recognition, her hands and feet chained to the sink, her head nearly severed.”

“Holy shit,” Montoya muttered, sucking in his breath.

Bentz stuffed his Glock into his shoulder holster. “Precisely.”

Chapter Five

Kristi Bentz dragged her body from the Olympic-sized pool. Two miles. The longest she’d swum in six months and it felt good. She grabbed her towel from the hook over the benches against the wall and breathed deeply. Her nose was filled with chlorine, her ears plugged though she heard the echo of voices of the few other swimmers out this early. Ms. Carter, a masculine-looking swim coach wearing sweats and a whistle, was patrolling the area, padding in plastic slip-ons along the concrete siding, picking up kick boards and a pair of goggles that had been left.

Mist covered the windows, but through the foggy glass, Kristi noticed that students were hurrying to their classes, cutting across the quad by the athletic facility. She glanced at the clock.

Shit. It was seven forty-five. If she didn’t hustle, she’d be late to her first class. Dripping, she reached for a towel and noticed something out of place in her peripheral vision, something dark through the windows. She turned, got a glimpse of a figure through the foggy glass—a man abou six feet tall, peering inside. So why didn’t he just walk through the door?

And what did she care? So what if the guy was looking? He was probably some guy getting his jollies out of watching girls in swimsuits. A lame nerd who didn’t have the guts to ask a girl out.

Pathetic pervert.

She wrapped the towel around her, hurried into the locker room and took a quick, hot shower. The voyeur pushed out of her mind, she changed into jeans and a sweater. Quickly she snapped her hair back in a ponytail, slapped on some lipstick and mascara, then hauling her backpack, jogged across campus. Most of the kids who were awake at this hour had already disappeared into the lecture halls. Only a few were hurrying along the concrete paths crisscrossing the lawns between the ancient brick buildings. She glanced past the library to Adam’s Hall where she had English with Dr. Northrup back to back with Psychology with Dr. Sutter, both of whom were odd ducks in her estimation. They were so … intense. Northrup thought Shakespeare was a God, for Christ’s sake, and Sutter gave out tons of homework. Tons! If only she’d registered early and gotten into classes by some of the easier professors, but, as usual, she’d signed up late and ended up with Northrup, Sutter, and Dr. Franz, another gem of a professor. Talk about a nutcase!

She jogged down a path to her favorite class. Philosophy of Religion. But it wasn’t the subject matter that interested her, or the curmudgeon of a professor—Dr. Zaroster. God, he was as ancient as the books he taught from, but his T.A. Brian Thomas, a grad student. Now
he
was a reason to get up early and never miss a class. If Dr. Sutter or Dr. Franz had T.A.s like Brian, maybe she wouldn’t oversleep or skip class.

Kristi smiled at the thought of Brian. He’d showed her special attention during a couple of discussion groups and she’d been flattered. Tall, with thick hair and a body to die for, he’d flashed a shy smile in her direction more often than not. She’d caught him watching her upon occasion during the lectures, then quickly look away when she glanced in his direction. As if he didn’t want her to see him.

Well, it hadn’t worked. She hurried into the lecture hall and walked down the steps to take a seat in the front of the auditorium. Zaroster was just opening his book. The cranky professor shot Kristi an irritated glance.

Big deal. So she was a minute or two late. She ‘d wanted to make an entrance.
So Brian would notice … only … he wasn’t in the cavernous room. Kristi pulled out her notebook and paper. Others were already writing furiously; a couple even had palm pilots and were furiously entering data. Zaroster’s high-pitched voice started filling the cavernous room as he flipped through the pages of some musty old tome.

She hazarded a glance around the room and then she saw him. At the back of the lecture hall, in the top row, handing out some kind of quiz. She must’ve missed that part by coming in late.

Oh well … she’d wing it. How tough could a quiz on the Buddha be?

She looked over her shoulder and caught Brian looking at her. She smiled, and to her surprise, he smiled back.

Oh, God. Her heart did a major flip. She felt the color rush up her face and she glanced down for just a second. Caught her breath. He was so much older than she was—probably closer to thirty than twenty.

So what? Who cared?

And what about Jay?

She felt a moment’s guilt. Jay was her boyfriend. Or had been. But since she’d left New Orleans and started college, their relationship had turned rocky. She glanced at the ring on her finger. A promise ring. The kind you get before you get engaged. It seemed foolish now. Adolescent.

She worked it off her finger as old man Zaroster droned on, then slipped the simple silver band into her pocket. Then she hazarded one last glance over her shoulder. Brian was only two rows above her, still handing out the tests. His eyes didn’t meet hers again, but she wasn’t worried. Sooner or later he’d ask her out. She’d bet on it.

The air smelled bad.

Smoky and damp, filled with the scent of wet ashes and charred wood.

Bentz glowered at the crime scene where a burned-out shell of a house smoldered in the morning light. Roped off by yellow tape, saturated by the firemen’s hoses, a few blackened timbers remained standing around the smokestack of a crumbling chimney. In the yard, half a dozen crepe myrtles and live oak trees had been singed, matching the seared siding and roofs of neighboring houses.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he stared at the soggy, smelly mess. The crime scene staff were already working, carefully sifting through the rubble, a photographer and vidiographer scanning the site, preserving a visual image of the remains. Uniformed officers were keeping out the curious, and department vehicles, some with lights flashing, were parked across the street, closing access. One news crew was still filming; another was already packing up a van to leave.

Good. The press was always a nuisance.

The deceased had already been examined, photographed, and taken away in a bag. Bentz had taken a look and nearly lost the contents of his stomach. He’d witnessed a lot in nearly twenty years of being a cop, but what had happened to this woman was up there with the worst he’d seen.

One fire truck remained. Several police cars and a police van were parked at odd angles around the perimeter of the site. Some of the neighbors were still hanging around, asking questions, or talking among themselves as a wintry sun peeked through a bank of thick gray clouds layering over the city. Bentz had talked to a couple of the officers and the ME and was still trying to piece together how in the hell Olivia Benchet had called this one.

Right on the money.

As if she’d been here. Bentz found a pack of gum in his pocket and removed a stick of spearmint from its wrapper. What the hell was with that woman? If she hadn’t been here, in the room or looking through a window, how could she have known what had happened in the house?

Stan Pagliano walked up. His face was smudged with soot and dirt, the lines webbing across his forehead appearing deeper than usual. “Man, this was a nasty one,” he was saying, “but then they all are.”

“What happened?” Bentz had heard the story from one of the cops on the scene, but wanted Stan’s assessment.

“From what I understand, a neighbor got up to go to the bathroom, looked out the window, and saw the flames. By the time he called it in, it was too late to save the house. The first truck got here within three minutes, but by then the whole house was fully involved. We were lucky to save the surrounding property.” He motioned to the single-story homes, most of them identical shotgun doubles with decorative supports, hip roofs, a door on each side, and narrow windows in between. “Near as we can tell, the fire started in a closet in the back, one that housed an old furnace … and for some reason the fire moved from the firebox through one of the vents, almost as if it followed a trail of something slow burning to the bathroom … strange.” His dark eyes met Bentz’s. “But then there was the victim—chained, for Christ’s sake.
Chained.
What kind of sick bastard would do something like that?” He reached beneath his sooty yellow slicker and found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and offered a filter tip to Bentz, but much as he craved a smoke, he shook his head.

“Oh, yeah, you quit, right?” Stan flicked his lighter to the end of his Winston and inhaled deeply. “You know, Bethie always tried to get me to quit, for years. All that shit they hear about secondhand smoke in school, then just last summer she dropped her purse and guess what fell out? A half-pack of Marlboro lights.” He said this through a cloud of smoke. “Go figure.”

“They start to grow up and realize that we’ve been lyin’ to ‘em half the time,” Bentz said, watching as Montoya talked to several people clustered around the street. The neighbors.

“Ten to one the victim was young. Not much older than Beth Ann or Kristi, unless I miss my guess,” Stan said, and Olivia Benchet’s words burned through Bentz’s mind:
You’re a father. Detective Bentz … How would you feel if the killer zeroed in on your daughter?

“Hey, Stan, over here. Give a hand, would ya?” another fireman called from the remaining truck.

“Right there.” He took a long drag, then nodded to Bentz. “Talk to ya later,” Stan said. “And Rick—”

“Yeah?”

“Nail this shit head, would ya?”

“You got it.” Bentz watched Stan jog toward the truck.

Montoya had finished with the neighbors. Skirting the crime scene, he wended his way through the parked vehicles, then leapt over a puddle on the street. “What’s the ME have to say?” he asked.

“He’ll send us a report, but from what he observed, it looks like our ‘witness,’ if that’s what you want to call her, definitely knew what was going on.”

“Makes ya wonder, doesn’t it?” Montoya observed.

“I think we’d better check her out, front, back, sideways, and inside out.” He stuffed his fists into the pockets of his slacks. “There’s more to her story.” Frowning, considering Olivia Benchet and how downright determined and innocent she appeared, he wondered what he’d dig up. Probably nothing he’d like. “I’ll talk to her again, and you, check out her background. The grandmother, mother, boyfriend, if she’s married, how many times, where she went to school, all that stuff.”

“You got it.” Montoya gave a quick nod.

“So what did you find out? Any of the neighbors see anything?”

Montoya snorted. “Not much. No one remembers anything suspicious, or if they did, they’re keepin’ it to themselves. Aside from the guy takin’ a leak in the pink house, there”—he gestured to a shotgun house next to the one that had burned—“none of the neighbors so much as looked out their windows until they heard the sirens.
Then
they smelled smoke and noticed that the neighborhood was glowing like a damned nuclear explosion.” He shook his head, disgusted. “The neighbor who noticed the fire, Elvin Gerard, he saw the flames, woke up his wife, Lois, and called nine-one-one. End of story. Except that he claims the house was a rental duplex, but it had been empty for a month or so. Both sides of the unit vacant.”

“But someone was there tonight.”

“Yeah.” Montoya flipped open a little notebook. “According to Gerard, the house had been owned by an elderly couple, the Jalinskys. First he died, then the wife within the year. Their kids inherited it and rented it out through a local management firm, Benchmark Realty. No one’s been there, except someone from Benchmark showing it to potential renters and a janitorial company that cleaned up the mess from the previous tenants.”

The firemen were beginning to retrieve the hoses, the neighbors were disbursing, and even the last television crew was packing it in. A police officer was taking down the barricades on the street and waving cars with rubbernecking drivers through.

“I’ll check with Benchmark, get a list of who’s been asking about the place,” Bentz said. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Maybe. The only break we’ve got is one of the neighbors pulled out his video camera and caught the fire on film just as the fire department arrived.”

“You get the tape?” Bentz was interested.

“Yep. The guy was only too happy to oblige.” Montoya reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a cassette. “I think we’ll have to suffer through the Hendersons’ trip to Disney World, but after that we can take a look at the fire.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and see something on the tape,” Bentz said, not believing it for a moment. The killer would have been long gone by the time the groggy neighbor had focused on the inferno, unless the murderer had gotten his rocks off by sticking around to view the havoc wrought by his work. It happened upon occasion and then the police got lucky. But it was a long shot. Right now, the most serious link they had to the crime so far was Olivia Benchet. Bentz’s eyes narrowed on the soggy mass that had once been a house and thought about Olivia Benchet’s bizarre story—a naked chained victim, a priest with a radio and a sword, and the anniversary of JFK’s assassination.

“I’ll check with missing persons, see if we can figure out who the victim is, then talk to Ms. Benchet again.”