Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) (10 page)

“I will.” Bentz skirted a couple of uniformed officers climbing the stairs as he hurried down. “But I’m heading up there anyway. I want to see what they’ve got on the missing Denning twins. You can come along or not.”

“You know, just because some crazy-ass chick comes in and starts rattling your cage doesn’t mean she’s legit,” Montoya pointed out, but kept stride with his partner as they reached the first floor.

“We’ll see.” Bentz took a hallway leading to the back door and parking lot.

He was heading for his vehicle when Montoya said, “I’ll drive. That way you can make your calls on the way and it won’t take three hours to get to Baton Rouge.”

Bentz wanted to argue, but his partner had a point. Together they crossed the lot to the spot where Montoya’s Mustang was parked. Unbuttoning his collar, Bentz slid into the hot interior. The truth was that Brianna Hayward had hit a nerve, a raw one. He’d never felt a hundred percent certain about Donovan Caldwell as the 21 Killer. Back then the evidence had pointed his way and there’d been no other suspects. The DA had been intent on nailing Caldwell, and Bledsoe had zeroed in on Caldwell as the doer. As Brianna had pointed out, the evidence was highly circumstantial and largely due to Donovan Caldwell’s own Internet presence, where he’d hinted that he was instrumental in his sisters’ murders. He’d been stupidly bragging to what he’d assumed were like minds but, in reality, had been female cops looking to discover what turned him on.

Caldwell had pretty much buried himself. The jury had found Delta and Diana’s brother guilty of their ritualistic murders.

As Montoya sped through the city streets, Bentz dialed Jonas Hayes’s cell phone. It was two hours earlier in LA, so Bentz figured Hayes should still be working.

The Mustang’s air conditioner kicked on, cool air starting to stream through the vents as Bentz waited. He watched as the buildings of the city passed by, shadows crawling across the storefronts before Montoya angled the Mustang to the freeway, heading north-west.

His call went directly to voice mail.

It figured.

So far today, nothing had come together. He left his name and number.

Maybe he’d get lucky in Baton Rouge.

Then again, maybe he’d strike out.

C
HAPTER
10

T
he meeting hall smelled of age and disrepair. None of the antiseptic, bleach, or pine-scented cleaning supplies used to freshen up the old floors, walls, and counters could hide the fact that Aubrey House was well over 200 years old. As such, the timbers, bricks, and mortar had endured and survived dozens of disasters including hurricanes, floods, and even fire. Located in the French Quarter, Aubrey House had been built as the home of a baroness; over the decades and centuries it had been renovated and remodeled, cut into apartments, and retrofitted to its original glory. Now, it housed a variety of businesses, everything from a CPA to a psychic who read tarot cards and Brianna’s own business office, where she met with clients who were more comfortable in an office setting rather than in her home.

The original ballroom was now a meeting area, complete with portable walls that could be moved to accommodate different-sized groups. Tonight, the north-west quadrant was home to a twinless twins support group, which Brianna oversaw. Like Brianna, each person who attended the weekly meetings had lost his or her twin. The group provided a community of support to acknowledge feelings of loss over the death or removal of a twin. Discussions ranged beyond grief and separation anxiety to everyday stresses. They talked about jobs and bosses. Another family member, spouse, or significant other. Any topic was fair game, and the information shared here did not leave these walls. The idea was that victims with the shared experience of losing a twin could relate, but sometimes that wasn’t the case due to the many diverse personalities involved.

As the organizer and leader, Brianna usually arrived at the room forty minutes before the scheduled meeting. Tonight, running late, she hurried in to find Tanisha busy making coffee and arranging cups and napkins on trays set on the stage, now used by the group as a serving table. An extension cord snaked from the coffeepot to the nearest outlet, and an Air-Pot held hot water. On the other tray sat a container of powdered creamer and two sugar bowls, one with individual packets of different sweeteners, the other with varieties of tea.

“Where have you been?” Tanisha chided as Mr. Coffee gurgled and sputtered. Dressed as always to the nines, her hair scraped back by a glittering headband that held her tight-knit curls away from her face, Tanisha sent Brianna a smile meant to convey that she was kidding. “It’s not like you to be late.” Plucking a packet of sugar from the bowl, she shook the little package while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

“Delayed. Sorry.” Brianna dumped her purse on the far end of the stage.

“I know what you mean.”

Brianna seriously doubted it.

“I tell ya, I couldn’t get back to sleep last night,” Tanisha went on, her mocha-colored skin looking smooth as silk under the once-upon-a-time ballroom’s chandeliers. Suspended from twenty-foot coved ceilings, the lights gave off a warm glow reminiscent of another era. The old-world charm was definitely at odds with the mismatched twentieth-century furniture and portable “walls” used to separate the huge space.

“That dream I had?” Tanisha continued. “Whooee. So damned real. Lord!” Her eyebrows drew together as if she were still attempting to figure out the nightmare. “Don’t know what it means. But something was off last night. Something big, a separation thing.” As if she realized she was talking to herself, she glanced at Brianna. “What about you? You said you had a bad dream, too. Everything okay?”

“No.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I guess you haven’t talked to Selma?”

Tanisha gave a soft snort of disgust. “Why would I?” Tanisha rolled her expressive, mascara-rimmed eyes. She and Selma had never really gotten to know each other. Whereas Selma Denning was in her midforties and stuck in a rut where her ex-husband was concerned, Tanisha, at twenty-eight, thought Selma should “kick that son of a bitch’s ass to the curb and move the hell on.” Ever forthright, Tanisha had said as much in one session. Of course, Tanisha’s advice had gone over like the proverbial lead balloon.

“I don’t know, I thought she might have called you and . . . and some of the others in the group,” Brianna said as the coffeepot gave off a final hiss and the warm scent of java tried valiantly to hide the musty odor of the building.

“Well, she didn’t.” Tanisha’s back was still up. “So what’s up? God, that woman’s a dishrag. No backbone, y’ know.”

“Her twins are missing. Both girls.”

“Missing?” She still wasn’t getting it. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she frowned. “What do you mean ‘missing’? As in adult kids didn’t come in or call Mommy?”

“It’s more than that.”

As Tanisha doctored her coffee with sugar and powdered cream, Brianna gave her a quick rundown, and as the gravity of the situation sunk in, Tanisha’s face fell. Compassion replaced belligerence. “Oh, my God, that’s awful. You don’t think . . . holy shit,” she whispered. “The 21 Killer?” She blinked, disbelieving. Though she and Brianna had discussed the fact that Brianna thought the wrong man had been imprisoned, Tanisha had believed, or wanted desperately to believe, that 21 was behind bars.

“We don’t know. Yet.”

“This is awful.” Tanisha set her undrunk cup on the tray holding the Air-Pot and glanced toward the entry as members of the group began to stream in.

Lincoln Robinson, a musician, could rarely scare up a smile despite the fact that he was happily married and the father of a fifteen-year-old scholar who was following in her father’s footsteps as a pianist. Still, the weight of losing his brother was a burden Lincoln had trouble shouldering. Survivor’s guilt. Both boys had been in an automobile accident nearly twenty years ago; while Lincoln survived, his brother had been pronounced DOA at the hospital. Tall, lean, and African American, Lincoln was a thoughtful member of the group, offering his stories and opinions quietly. He was the opposite of outspoken and direct Tanisha.

Lincoln lifted a hand in greeting and made his way to a chair he favored, positioned near the broad bank of windows running along one side of this third-floor room. “Evenin’,” he said with a nod as Milo and Desmond walked in.

Milo, in his usual camouflage gear, grabbed a cup of black coffee and found a seat. He was on the quiet side, his connection being the loss of his twin sister when he was in his early twenties. He rarely spoke up and was vague when asked questions, even concerning his twin’s death, but seemed to gain strength just being a part of the group.

Desmond didn’t bother with coffee, and as he lumbered in, Brianna felt her insides twist a little. Desmond Underhill had always made her uncomfortable. She thought of him as a lurker. A big man, fortyish, and a carpenter with meat hooks for hands, he never offered much, even when spoken to. All she knew about him was that he’d lost his twin sister, Denise, when she drowned at age seven. That was why he felt out of step with other people. That was why he was here.

However, Desmond had never connected with the group or anyone who attended. It was almost as if he were an obvious voyeur, one who came and listened to everyone else’s story without adding much of his own. Tonight, he was wearing his plaid shirt buttoned to his neck, his thin hair pulled into a scraggly ponytail, a few cuts visible on his face, which wasn’t unusual. When asked about the abrasions, he’d always shrugged. “Work,” he’d say, or “Huntin’ in the woods.” He beelined for his chair, in this case a faded wingback, pushed into the farthest corner, away from the rest of the group.

In the past Brianna had suggested that he pull in closer and engage in the discussion, but her request had always been met with silent resistance. He maintained his distance, content to watch the others. Despite the weather, he always wore a long-sleeved shirt and a vest with big pockets that oftentimes bulged. She wondered what he was hiding. A bag of jerky? A recorder? A folding knife or gun? Or just his wallet? Her imagination took her to places she’d rather not go.

She told herself not to be so paranoid, recognizing that the situation with the Denning girls had amped her fears upward in the stratosphere.

For the most part, Brianna had given up trying to include Desmond in the ongoing discussion. It was hard enough to get Milo or Elise to participate, especially when Tanisha and Enrique always threatened to take over the meetings. Brianna hoped Desmond would join in when he felt compelled. But she wasn’t counting on it.

Others filtered in. Elise Gaylord, the introspective thirty-five-year-old working on her PhD in history who was never without her knitting, was followed by Enrique Vega. Muttering under his breath, Enrique strutted across the room, found a chair, and plopped down with an energy drink he didn’t appear to need. He worked out daily at a gym, his biceps huge beneath a tight T-shirt. Brianna believed his constant state of anger had more to do with still living “at home” at thirty than the loss of his twin, who might not even be dead. Juan Vega had disappeared, leaving for San Francisco and never talking to anyone in the family again. Enrique didn’t know if his brother was still alive with a new identity, deliberately separated from the family, or the victim of foul play.

More than anything Enrique seemed pissed that his brother had taken off without him. “If Juan had taken me with him,” Enrique had said on one occasion, his shaved head shining beneath the overhead lights, “he would be alive today. Okay? See what I mean? But he didn’t even tell me he was leaving! What kind of brother does that? And he calls himself a twin! Bah!”

Now, slumping in his chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his eyes sparking with anger, Enrique popped open his drink and glowered as he drank and waited for the meeting to begin. Twice he glanced at the clock, then at Brianna. “We doin’ this, or what?” he asked impatiently.

“In a minute,” Brianna said loudly enough for him to hear. There were still a few others who might attend. Roger, the ex-football player who lived out of town. A big man who rarely spoke, he seemed bottled up and Brianna thought if anyone prodded and poked him too much, he might explode. There was anger beneath the surface of his calm. All Brianna really knew about him was that his twin, Ramona, had died at a campsite and that he blamed himself. Though her fall had been ruled an accident, Roger sensed that everyone, including his parents, thought he should have saved her.

A cell phone rang and Elise jumped, pulled it from her knitting bag, and spying the number on the screen, scuttled out to the hallway to find some privacy as she answered in hushed tones. She glanced furtively over her shoulder, as if she’d been caught in some kind of crime.

That was the thing with Elise. She always acted as if she had something to hide and much of her life was secret, which wasn’t unusual in this group. The call was short and she hurried back inside to reclaim her seat. “Sorry,” she said. “Ashton.”

Tanisha turned her back to the young woman and rolled her eyes. Ashton was, as Elise had said in a moment of candor, the love of her life. But in the few comments Elise had made about him, Ashton seemed obsessive and controlling. Once Elise had received a call from him that prompted her to jump up and leave in the middle of the session. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I just . . . I just have to go. Ashton needs some cold medication . . . he’s not feeling well . . . I have to go.” She’d nearly run from the room.

“That is such bullshit,” Tanisha had said.

Brianna had shook her head as there were supposed to be no judgments in the group.

“You know it. I know it. Even
he
knows it,” Tanisha had added, hooking a thumb toward Desmond. “That guy she’s with, he’s a control freak.”

Elise had missed the next meeting, but had shown up ever since, never saying a word about her abrupt departure. She simply acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. However, one time when Tanisha had asked how Ashton was, Elise had flinched. Her knitting needles lost their rhythm. “What do you mean? He’s fine.”

“Got over that cold or flu, did he?” Tanisha had asked as if she were truly interested, all the time ignoring Brianna’s stern glance.

“The flu?” Elise seemed perplexed, then got it. “Oh. Sorry. No. He didn’t have the flu or . . . or a cold. No. It was . . . was a rash. He just needed some . . . some cream. We were out.” She’d smiled quickly, an embarrassed grin that hadn’t touched her eyes and faded quickly at her obvious lie.

Now, Enrique scowled and cocked his left wrist, then tapped it repeatedly, even though he didn’t wear a watch. His eyebrows arched as he tried to silently encourage Brianna to get on with it.

Brianna didn’t understand what Enrique expected from the group, but she told herself if he didn’t need the support, he wouldn’t show up each week, which he did, faithfully. As he waited for his turn to speak, his leg bounced nervously, and he stayed attentive, like a racehorse ready to explode through the gate at the starting bell. Some of the members kept to themselves, but not Enrique. Nor, for that matter, did Tanisha, who was ready to tell the entire group about the failings of her family and current boyfriend. Tanisha and Enrique were definitely the firecrackers in the group.

Brianna was about to begin when Jenkins Olander strode into the room. Jenkins was a breath of fresh air. Unlike the other members, he offered a broad grin and lifted a hand in greeting as he made his way to the coffee machine. “How are you?” he asked Brianna, and gave a hug.

“Been better,” she said as he broke off the quick embrace.

“Seriously? Ouch. I’m sorry.” Jenkins pulled a face. “I hope it’s not bad news.” In his midtwenties, Jenkins was blond, with a trimmed beard and quick sense of humor. Gay and in a long-term relationship, he had a job he liked and a supportive family. Still, he couldn’t put behind him the fact that his twin brother had died from a rare form of cancer that even a bone marrow transfer from his identical twin hadn’t been able to destroy.

Before Brianna could explain, Selma appeared, dressed in the same clothes she’d been wearing earlier in the day, her face devoid of makeup. Her hair hung limp in the ponytail, strands falling around her face and behind her glasses. Her eyes seemed to have sunken into her skull.