Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) (18 page)

“It’s my—”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve already said. But think about it. You’ve got enough years in. You could retire.”

He thought for a second. The same old arguments played through his head. “I’m not even fifty.”

“I’m not saying quit working, I’m just saying change jobs. Do consulting. Become a PI. Go back to school. Teach. Whatever.” She threw up a hand. “Just something less dangerous. Okay?” Little worry lines appeared between her eyebrows. “I’d like you to see Ginny graduate from college and become the greatest nuclear physicist, or a senator, or the researcher who cures cancer.”

“Not the first female president of the United States?”

“Hopefully by then, the second or third woman who’s been elected, but, sure, Ginny could handle that in her spare time.”

He chuckled and the baby reacted, startled a bit, but didn’t wake. “Lofty aspirations, Mom.” He pressed his lips to Ginny’s head.

“Don’t be obtuse. You know what I mean. Your job is dangerous. Dear God, I almost lost you a few years back.”

“True.” Didn’t his leg still bother him, a constant reminder? He was suddenly stone-cold serious. “And I’ve nearly lost both you and Kristi.” A muscle worked in his jaw as he replayed the horror he’d felt knowing those who were dearest to him were at the mercy of monsters, psychos seeking revenge. “More than once.”

They stared at each other. Silently. Didn’t state the obvious, what they were both thinking: Bentz’s profession could potentially put their precious, innocent daughter at risk. His mouth went dry at the thought. He replayed his fears when both Olivia and Kristi had been kidnapped, each of them more than once, each of them nearly losing her life at the hands of a homicidal maniac, a killer Bentz had been chasing.

Bentz hunted the monsters.

And he attracted them.

Involuntarily his arms tightened around his daughter, and Ginny let out a soft little sigh. No, he thought as he breathed in the sweet smell of baby lotion, he could never put her at risk.

“Let Montoya handle the cases. He can partner up with . . . Lynn Zaroster or . . . or Brinkman or whoever.

In his mind’s eye Bentz thought about the younger junior detective. Zaroster was a little green, but eager and smart. Then there was Brinkman, past middle age and repellant. A decent-enough cop, Brinkman got the job done, but was a foulmouthed misogynist whose off-color jokes and offensive remarks cost him several wives and brought him few friends, rebukes from the brass, and disdain from his colleagues.

“If he ended up with Brinkman, Montoya would cut my retirement short by personally shooting me.”

“See what I mean? All this violence!”

“I was just kidding.”

“But that”—she pointed at the now-blank monitor—“that’s no joke.”

“No, it’s not,” he admitted. “But this is someone I need to put away.”

“You mean 21?”

He nodded.

“And the other one? The reason why you’re listening to psychobabble in the middle of the night? Father John. I suppose he’s another one you need to lock up.”

“Yes, two of the worst I’ve dealt with. It’s a personal thing with me. Both slipped through my fingers. Well, I thought 21 was behind bars, but I have to be sure. These guys, they’re bad men, and I want to make certain
both
of them are locked away forever.”

“It’s your personal mission?”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, blond curls dancing around her face. “When will it ever end? No, don’t answer that because you don’t know. No one does. And that end I’m asking about? It could be bad, Rick. For all of us.”

In his arms the baby stretched, her nearly nonexistent neck straightening, her little chin pointing upward for a second before she burrowed against him again. He knew Olivia was right. He could never do anything to put this precious child in danger. Nothing was worth that.

Not even his damned job.

C
HAPTER
18

S
itting on the edge of the bed in her one-room apartment, Tiffany Elite waited. She checked her watch.

He was late.

Great.

That would really piss her off.

She crossed to the front window, pushed aside the curtain, and looked past the bars. Her apartment was located half a block from Chartres and just enough outside the French Quarter to be affordable, but easy enough for her clients to locate. The place was a bit of a dive, but the good thing about it was the manager turned a blind eye to the happenings within the old building. In return, the occupants didn’t complain too much about dripping faucets or a rat or two that scurried around the corners of the crumbling brick and mortar apartment house. Well, except for Mrs. Kowalski. That old hag bitched about everything from her high electric bill, to the street noise, to a toilet that wouldn’t quit running. Tiffany wanted to say, “Hey, lady, you live in New Orleans in an apartment that’s older than you. Get used to it!” But she’d always just smiled, afraid to rattle the older woman who might suddenly take offense to her nocturnal visitors and call the cops. Nosy busybody.

Her A/C was on the blink again, and the first-floor unit got a little stuffy. She opened the window over the sink in the area that was the designated kitchen, barely more than a closet with a hot plate and microwave sufficing as the stove, and a refrigerator that couldn’t hold much more than a quart of milk. Not that she cooked much anyway. In Tiffany’s opinion, culinary skills were highly overrated.

Sounds of the night filtered in, though it was late enough that there was little traffic. There was the occasional hum of wheels on the city streets, or an engine purring as it passed, but at least there were no horns honking, no damned sirens screaming. A peaceful time in the city.

From this window she had a direct view of the apartment building just beyond the alley, but the unit across the small space was dark. Its occupants had probably gone to bed already. The elderly couple who occupied it kept opposite hours from Tiffany. The Sorensons were just getting up and shuffling around about the time that Tiffany turned out the lights. Once in a while Tiffany would peer through the window and catch the old lady in her bathrobe and hairnet, studiously making coffee while Tiffany was downing her last shot of vodka for the night.

“Different strokes,” she murmured, and felt a breath of night air against her skin. Was that the scent of magnolia on the breeze, or her imagination?

Again, she glanced at the clock.

Ten more minutes had passed. If he ever had the balls to show up, she’d charge him extra. With each passing minute, she became a little more agitated. She figured the john could at least be prompt. She was a working girl, had to stagger appointments. Fortunately this guy, not one of her regulars, was her last client of the night. A good thing, ’cause she was beat. Besides this gig, which she considered her side job, she worked part-time as a waitress at a restaurant in the brewery-turned-shopping mall on Decatur. Usually she covered the lunch shift, but sometimes dinner as well. For all her work at Sylvia Black’s, she collected a few piddly tips for umpteen orders of po’boys, gumbo, and crawfish étouffée. So she supplemented.

“Come on, come on, I ain’t got all night,” she said, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. So far there was no sign of gray in the springy black curls that she’d highlighted with a few thin gold streaks. She told herself the lines on her face just added a little character, and there weren’t many. Not yet. Her eyes were still clear, a light brown with flecks of green. Tonight, they were sultry, rimmed in glittery shadow and thick mascara.

Unbuttoned to her navel, her oversized blouse was sheer and showed off her figure as well as offering a peek-a-boo glimpse of her breasts, still firm and high despite having a child and pushing thirty. She’d compressed them into a leopard print bra with cups at least one size too small so that she appeared to be spilling out of it.

She was fit. Trim. Waitress work kept her in shape and she’d given up her pack-a-day habit. Well, not entirely, but at least she could make her pack stretch for three or four days. An improvement, right? Wasn’t that what life was all about? She’d kicked the meth and most of the booze, now the cigs. Well, almost. By the time she was forty she’d be so damned healthy she wouldn’t be able to stand herself, and then maybe she’d get joint custody of Logan back. Her heart turned a little cold at the thought of her son. He was nine already. Nine? Oh, man, she’d already missed so much and by the time she turned forty he would be . . . oh, sweet Jesus, he’d be twenty, the age she was when she bore him. No, no, no. It was going too fast! She couldn’t wait that long. She needed her baby boy back now. Somehow she’d have to clean up her act and—

Finally, knuckles knocked sharply on her door.

She straightened her short skirt, made sure it was snug and even across her buttocks, tossed her hair over her shoulders, licked her lips, and stepped into her heels before crossing to the door. Placing a hand over the top lock, she said, “Who is it?”

“John.”

That was what he’d said his name was. Really? Some of her first-timers used it as an alias, thinking it was funny, but that was just fine. As long as they paid. She unlocked the first dead bolt, then the second, opened the door a crack, and peered through to the outside.

He stood beneath the porch light. A tall man dressed in black, with thick, coffee-colored hair, this one was leaner and fitter than her average customer. A pair of Ray-Bans covered his eyes as if he were hiding his identity. No surprise there.

He smiled. A disarming grin showed a flash of white teeth. “I have an appointment.” he said. “You’re Tiffany?”

“That’s right,” she said in a cool tone. At night she was definitely Tiffany Elite, not Teri Gaines, the waitress who hopped from table to table, mopping up spilled soda and beer while smiling at her customer’s stupid jokes in order to catch a fatter tip. No, tonight Tiffany was definitely in the house. She unlocked the chain and held the door for him. “Come on in.” As he stepped through, she felt a little tingle of warning run up the back of her neck. What was it?

No worries. He was already reaching for his wallet and placing a bill on the table, a hundred-dollar bill from the looks of it, though it was marred. “Let’s take care of business first,” he said, leaving the C-note faceup.

Dear God, were Ben Franklin’s eyes actually blackened?

Weird.

But it would spend.

“So,” she said with a coy smile. “What can I do for you? That”—she pointed at the bill on the table—“will get you started, but you won’t go far.”

“Let’s see how far we can go,” he said. “Why don’t you start by stripping?”

She lifted an eyebrow, as if she found his request fascinating when really, wasn’t it the normal routine?

“All right,” she said, “but I don’t like to party alone.” Bending over, offering him more than a little glimpse of her cleavage, she slid off one red heel, then slowly, the other. If he wanted a striptease, she was going to make it worth his while. She probably should leave the shoes on—guys liked her in nothing but garters and stockings and mile-high heels—but she wasn’t going to make the mistake of wobbling while she undressed like she did last week when she fell. That john had laughed at her discomfiture, damn him. As for nylons and garters, she wasn’t into that unless a client specifically requested an outfit; then, of course, she’d accommodate him. And charge accordingly.

This one hadn’t asked for anything. Just an appointment.

She kicked off the heels and suddenly lost four inches so that now she was a good foot shorter than he. To be expected. Looking up at him, she noticed that he wasn’t just fit, but muscular as well. Strong. His black shirt, buttoned to his neck, seemed off somehow. Something odd about it. But it didn’t really matter.

Watching him, she slid out of the sheer blouse, let it fall to the floor, and then slowly wiggled out of the tiny skirt.

Was he getting off?

She couldn’t tell.

No bulge appeared in his black jeans, but whatever. He wasn’t complaining.

“Want to help?” she asked, fingering her bra.

“You do it.”

“Whatever you want.” She tamped down her boredom and tried to sound breathless, as if she were turning herself on. Though it was all an act, a routine she’d gone through a thousand times. “Why don’t you take off some of your clothes?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Why don’t you help me?” he said.

That was more like it.

She looked up at him and offered a sexy smile along with what she hoped was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. “Sure, baby,” she said, and sauntered closer to him. “Let’s start with these.” Reaching up, she tried to remove his glasses, but he caught her hand.

“They stay.” Firm. Almost angry. He jerked his head back.

“Sure . . . sure. Whatever you say.”

He let go of her arm and she tried to recover. The guy was a little freaky . . . quick to ignite. Best to do him and get it over with; escort him out the door and turn the lock behind him. She didn’t like the edgy ones, but she needed the money.

“How ’bout we start here?” she suggested, and slid her fingers down the waistband of his pants.

“How ’bout?” he agreed, and lifted one hand to tangle his fingers in her hair.

She slipped the button out of its hole, then slid his zipper down slowly and noticed that he wasn’t even starting to get hard, no evidence of any erection whatsoever. Damn, this was going to take more work than she’d planned. Big, healthy man, in the prime of his life, and not turned on by her?

Her fingers touched his skin and he flinched, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a chain.

She paused.

What the hell?

No, not a chain, a necklace.

Really? Some kind of kinky thing?

No, not a necklace. A rosary! Oh, God, was he some kind of religious nut, here to try and save her or himself?

“Hey, what’s up?” she asked, trying not to frown as she looked up and saw that his jaw had hardened. “What’s going on with—”

He struck quickly, looping the rosary over her head and neck.

“Hey! Wait!” she yelled as the linked beads tightened. She tried to scream, but the air was caught in her lungs. What the fuck was he doing? Trying to scare her? Asphyxiate her?

Tighter and tighter, the holy noose was twisted, closing her throat, her airways, her lifeline.

This was no sex game. No way! She started hitting at him. Kicking. Her lungs were burning. Her eyes felt as if they were beginning to bulge.

No, please God, no!

No amount of kicking could stop him, and her arms flailed uselessly. She grabbed at the links of beads, hoping to get her fingers beneath the string, hoping to break the damned thing, but she couldn’t get a grip on it. The beads were sharp, the wire holding it together strong.

He lifted the chord and raised her off the floor. The world started to spin as she struggled, her legs kicking wildly, her lungs ready to explode. She couldn’t die . . . she wouldn’t die. Not like this. Not without seeing her son . . .

With a grunt he jerked hard.

Her head snapped back, and she caught a glimpse of her distorted image in his dark glasses.

Then nothing.

 

 

“Stay!” Chloe ordered the dog as she slammed the padlock shut and rose to her feet. Though totally freaked out, she glared at the dog and tried like hell to seem calm, in charge. She’d heard the monster down in the dungeon whistle to the hound, who appeared more confused than anything else. “Good dog,” she said as she edged back. She had to be firm . . . steady. “You just stay there.” Backing away, she made her way to the door as the dog stared at the shut trapdoor and whined. “He’ll be fine,” she assured the dog, though she hoped the son of a bitch rotted in hell for all eternity and then some.

At last, she stepped outside, but the damn dog was following. She grabbed the door to fling it shut behind her, then hesitated. Should she close the dog up in the house? Locked away from water? Trapped in the heat? Crap! She left the door open behind her and kept one eye on the doorway. The dog seemed disinterested, whining and pacing in and out of the house.

Fine.

She had her own problems. But at least she could breathe gain. Outside the night was thick, the air heavy and sultry, the sound of crickets competing with a chorus of frogs. The stars were out, shining behind high clouds, and a bit of moon cast silver shadows. A plane flew high overhead, lights winking.

She tried to get her bearings as she stood there shaking. She wanted nothing more than to put some distance between her and this god-awful place. But first . . . with trembling fingers she punched 9-1-1 onto the face of the phone.

Nothing.

Wait. The screen was dark.
Think, Chloe, think.
She switched the cell on, but no lights began to glow, no numbers lit. She tried again to make the call. The freak had just been talking on the damned thing to that Myra nutcase, and . . .

Again, she only heard dead air.

“What the hell?” Disbelieving, she turned her head to the sky. “Why?” How could the phone be dead? The device wasn’t searching for a cell phone tower, and there was no indication of low signal strength. No. The phone was dead. She wanted to throw the useless piece of shit as far as she could, but she restrained herself. The phone was evidence and could link the bastard to Myra, the freakin’ mastermind. Holy crap, what kind of mess had she and Zoe stepped into?

Her throat closed. Where was her sister? Why hadn’t she returned with the police and guns blazing? Chloe bit her lip. For the first time since escaping from the dungeon, now that her adrenaline rush had worn off, she felt the pain of her injuries. Every muscle in her body hurt, and exhaustion tugged at her. But she couldn’t give up. Not yet.