Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) (24 page)

“Me?” Vincente shook his head, the ponytail whipping back and forth. “Nah, I’m in bed before the sun goes down. Watch a little TV, mainly sports. The Saints, they ain’t playin’ now, so I have to settle for baseball. I like the Rays, y’know. Tampa Bay?”

Bentz nodded, and Vincente went on to explain how he slept soundly and even with the window open he’d heard no struggle, no fight. He had only discovered the body, as he’d told O’Keefe and the 9-1-1 operator, when he’d been sweeping up and noticed Teri Gaines’s door cracked open.

The interview revealed few other details, so they moved on, up the stairs to apartment 2-E.

Frances Kowalski wasn’t a whole lot more informative, but the elderly woman in the second-floor apartment filled to the brim with religious artifacts and photos of a man Bentz assumed to be her late husband was certainly an eager witness. Whereas Espinosa had been guarded and a little reticent, Frances Kowalski was effusive to the point Bentz thought the older woman might be exaggerating, just to keep Montoya and him interested.

“About Ms. Gaines,” she’d said from behind owlish glasses, the tops of which brushed thick bangs of dyed red hair. “You know, I have a bird’s-eye view of her apartment. I see everything.” Her lips had pursed in a sanctimonious show of disgust. “And, I hate to judge, you know—”

Bentz thought the opposite was probably true. In his experience anyone who started with “I hate to” usually relished it. Whether it was “I hate to point out,” or “I hate to speak ill of the dead,” or in Frances Kowalski’s case, “I hate to judge,” it all boiled down to some kind of self-justification to spread a little gossip tinged with a bit of self-satisfaction. In some cases, he suspected that these people actually envied the person who broke the rules and walked on the wild side.

“But she had men coming and going all hours of the night.” Mrs. Kowalski’s eyebrows had arched pointedly over the top of the glasses. “They weren’t there selling vacuum cleaners or brushes, if you catch my drift.”

He caught it.

And it stunk.

The more Bentz had talked with the woman, the less he’d liked her. Her only pertinent information was that she had heard “something” and checked her window to witness a man “in black” entering Teri Gaines’s apartment. Her pale lips had pursed even more prudishly as she’d said, “I have no idea what she was doing down there.” A lie. “But it wasn’t good.”

“It ended badly,” Bentz had offered.

“Well, really?” A sniff of self-righteousness. “What could she expect?”

Unable to extract any more information from the woman, the detectives had left her to her snooping and exited the building.

Montoya reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of nonexistent cigarettes, then apparently remembered that he’d quit. Frowning, he said, “I’ll tell you what. I’m glad that old buttinsky isn’t my neighbor.”

“Buttinsky?” Bentz repeated.

“A term my mother used for people who couldn’t keep their noses in their own business. It applies here. With Frances not-a-guy Kowalski.”

“I guess.” Bentz noticed a news van for WKAM setting up shop on the street. “Looks like the press has caught wind of this.”

“A good thing.”

“I suppose.” Bentz wasn’t all that interested in talking to anyone from the media. Deep down, he hated dealing with the “fourth estate,” though it was part of his job. He considered all reporters to be a necessary evil. The relationship between cops and press should be symbiotic, right? Each helping the other? Both groups looking out for the good of the public? But in Bentz’s opinion, too many members of the press were interested in sensational journalism, creating news rather than reporting it, causing a greater public awareness, but also stirring up fear and sometimes panic. Hence, he was careful in dealing with the press and usually tended to avoid everyone who carried a press card.

The TV crew wasn’t alone. Also standing near Montoya’s Mustang was Jase Bridges from the
Observer,
the reporter angling for a job in the department. It had happened before, when someone from the outside had landed the position, a reporter no less. But Bentz wasn’t certain that Jason Bridges was the man for the job.

“Hey,” Bridges said. “How about a quick interview?”

Bentz shot him a glare. “You know the deal, Bridges. Nothing for me to say.”

“Working girl, the victim?” he asked, undeterred. Obviously the homicide had already hit the wires. From the corner of his eye, Bentz noticed the approach of Brenda Convoy, a reporter from WKAM. A cameraman trailed a step behind her, shoulder cam in place.

“Look, Bridges, you’re not the PIO yet,” Bentz told Bridges, ignoring the TV reporter. “So talk to someone from that office. We’ve got notifications to make and a case to solve. Until I’ve got a good reason to share the investigation with the public, you’re out of luck. At least with me.”
And so is she,
he silently added, watching Brenda Convoy hurry along, high heels clicking unsteadily over the uneven sidewalk. In one smooth motion Bentz slid into the passenger seat of Montoya’s Mustang and closed the door. A second later, without a word, his partner hit the gas, maneuvering the sporty car so that it melded seamlessly into traffic.

 

 

Pain throbbing in her ankle, Zoe pushed herself to keep moving through the woods.

Through the branches, she saw that the sun was climbing higher in the sky. She’d watched it rise, knew which direction was east, not that it helped her much as she had no idea where she was, couldn’t conceive of where she would find civilization. But at least she was convinced she wasn’t walking in circles. She was able to limp with the aid of a stick, and with each torturous step she put as much distance as she could between herself and the prick who had abducted her. Sick bastard. God, she wished she’d killed him. Maybe, by now, Chloe had finished him off.

Zoe’s heart twisted.

Where was she?

Safe?

Or on the run like Zoe?

“Please, God, no,” Zoe whispered through cracked lips. She pressed her fingertips to them and found them encrusted, probably with mud. Maybe even some dried blood mixed in, too. She was still naked but sunburned and bitten by mosquitoes or whatever creepy crawly things had found her bare skin.

Light-headed from the lack of food, water, and sleep, she stopped and listened again, leaned on her stick, and strained to hear. Over the sounds of insects buzzing and a toad croaking, she heard the hum of traffic, wheels spinning over asphalt. Her heart soared.

She would make it.

She’d get to that damned road and flag someone down, someone who would drive her to safety. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them quickly away as if anyone here in this godforsaken lowland forest could see her. She’d spent a night listening to bats and owls, looking out for gators and even bears, but finally, she was about to be rewarded. She was going to make it.

But, damn it, she couldn’t tell how far away the road was.

A mile?

Two?

Five?

She wasn’t certain, but she’d get there, pushing through pain, thirst, and hunger. She just had to keep heading in the direction of the sound of engines and tires.

Through the lacy branches overhead she spied an egret sailing in the blue sky, long-necked and snowy white, flying gracefully. She almost smiled as she hobbled forward and brushed the gauze of a spiderweb out of her face.

Maybe she would reach the road in fifteen minutes.

Or it could take an hour.

She wouldn’t let herself think that it would be any longer. Surely she’d find civilization long before nightfall and not have to spend another frightening night alone in the wilderness.

Gritting her teeth, she headed toward the sound.

Somewhere in the far distance she heard a dog barking. Rapid, thunderous barks, as if it had picked up the scent of an animal it was tracking. Poor beast, she thought, relating to the fox or duck or whatever the hound was tracking.

The dog’s cries seemed to get louder and . . . closer. Her heart stopped as a horrifying thought slithered through her brain.

What if the dog was tracking her?

“No,” she said, but the thought took hold.

What if the hound was owned by the psycho who had abducted her?

What if, even now, she, not some woodland creature, was the hunter’s ultimate prey?

Impossible! She’d crossed the river. She’d gotten herself some distance from that horrible cabin with its dank cellar. And all that time she’d spent in the water . . . it had to make it difficult to track her. But still . . .

She swallowed hard. Told herself she was hallucinating. She was safe. Far away from the whack job with his stupid fascination about birthdays.

Right?

But the dog continued to howl, a horrid, plaintive sound that echoed through this shady forest of hickory and pine. Panic skittered down her spine.

How in the world would she, limping as she was, outrun a dog?

C
HAPTER
24

I
n her practice, Brianna never stacked her clients back-to-back. Like most therapists, she gave herself at least fifteen minutes of breathing room between fifty-minute counseling sessions. She also worked to keep herself emotionally detached; empathetic, yes, but distant enough to remain objective and help each person find his or her path to emotional well-being. In the times she started to slip and become too involved, experiencing transference, she had worked through the issues with her own therapist. Generally, she was able to maintain her own mental equilibrium.

Unfortunately, her usual techniques were not helping her maintain objectivity with her last client of the day. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe her worries over Chloe and Zoe were wearing away her concentration. Whatever the reason, today she found it impossible to remain emotionally detached from this widower who was heartsick at the loss of his wife, a husband who was having trouble moving on. He didn’t break down, wouldn’t allow himself to shed a tear, but his chin wobbled and he twisted his gnarled hands around a handkerchief so hard the thin square of cloth had become a tightly wound paisley snake.

After he left, she walked outside to her garden and felt the warmth of the morning sun warm her back. Though it was just a little past ten, she didn’t have another client scheduled for the rest of the day, so she could spend more time helping Selma find her daughters.

“Don’t think that way,” she said, though she knew the odds of recovering the girls alive were diminishing with each passing hour. Trying to stay positive, she watched a sparrow flutter in the branches of the tree. St. Ives had also noticed the bird and made a nervous little groan of frustration at not being able to reach it.

“Stick with the mice. Or better yet, any rats hanging out here, okay?” She bent down to pet the tabby’s soft head, but he was having none of it. Focused on the bird, he ignored Brianna who, at the mention of rats, thought about her shower the night before. Letting herself outside the garden gate, she walked along the narrow path between the neighbor’s fence and the side of her house to the area around her bathroom window. She was an inch or two too short to see inside, but anyone near six feet tall would be able to see over the window’s ledge and view the interior.

Had someone been out here last night?

Her skin crawled at the thought of it.

The crepe myrtle seemed undisturbed . . . but the fronds of a fern were twisted, a few flattened, as if stepped on. A cold wash of fear spilled down her spine.

Had there actually been someone standing here in this very spot, peering through the window, watching as she showered?

“No way,” she whispered as St. Ives crept around the corner to move stealthily through the foliage. The cat stopped at her feet and looked up to meow at her. “Hey, buddy.” Bending over, she picked him up, catching him squarely this time. Holding his furry body against her chest, she walked to the front of the house where her small front yard ran into the sidewalk. There was a short wrought-iron fence around the front of her property with an unlocked gate leading to the front door. Anyone could have stepped through or climbed over, but who? And why? What kind of perv?

She didn’t want to think about it, but vowed to keep her blinds closed and windows shut at night. That would pose a problem in the bathroom, where steam built up when she showered. Maybe it was time to fix the exhaust fan that had given up the ghost six months earlier, and install motion detector lights outside the house. Or she could go to a local shelter and rescue a dog, a
big
dog that would cause any prowler to think twice about trespassing. She was definitely warming to that idea, as long as the dog got along with cats; well, at least with one overweight yellow tabby.

“That’s a must, isn’t it?” she said to St. Ives, as if the tabby could read her mind, or understand her words. “But it could be time to expand the family. What do you think? Hmm?” She buried her nose in his soft fur and he began to purr as she carried him inside and made a mental note to install the lights and fix the fan.

For now, the dog would have to remain on her wish list.

She had work to do today. The first order of business was to do some checking on Jase Bridges, find out a little information on the reporter. Just who was he? Certainly far more than the hell-raiser she remembered from her youth. Letting St. Ives climb onto the bookcase, Brianna located her laptop, dropped onto a corner of the couch, and plugged in. Just as she settled in, her cell phone dinged, letting her know that she’d missed a call. She snatched it and saw that she’d actually missed two: one from Tanisha and another from Milo Tillman. “Not now,” she said aloud. One thing at a time.

Although she told herself that she was checking out Jase Bridges to screen him for Selma, she had to admit that she found him more than a little fascinating. Sure, she’d like his help in finding the missing Denning girls. But there was more to her interest, a spark that had ignited when she was little more than a girl, a spark that, she sensed, could flare if she let it. She toyed with the idea. Her love life had been dismal since Max. What would it hurt?

“Don’t go there,” she warned herself. Getting involved with a man right now was a distraction she didn’t need. More than that. Getting involved with Jase Bridges would be a mistake. A big mistake. At least until Selma’s daughters were located.

But she did need to know more about him, especially if she agreed to work with him. “Forewarned is forearmed,” she reminded herself, remembering one of her mother’s favorite phrases.

He’d worked for several newspapers, including the
Savannah Sentinel,
before landing at the
Observer.
Nowhere did it mention that he’d ever been married, which corroborated what he’d told her. Not that it mattered, she told herself. And yet, she couldn’t help feel a small sensation of satisfaction.

“You’re hopeless,” she said aloud, then looked up to find St. Ives sitting on a shelf, flicking his ringed tail and staring at her as if he agreed.

 

 

“Son of a bitch!” Jase whispered under his breath as he glowered at the computer screen. His oath seemed to go unnoticed in the newsroom, where a steady hum of typing, conversation, philosophizing, and joking was the norm. Fluorescent lights suspended from the high ceiling of this converted warehouse offered a fake illumination that vied with the natural light pouring through a bank of massive windows facing the street. Centuries-old brick walls contrasted with the rows of sleek monitors and computers that processed the online version of the
Observer.

“Trouble?” Meri-Jo Williams asked from her desk barely six feet from his. Meri-Jo, always competitive and all of twenty-three, considered herself a dyed-in-the-wool journalist, fighting sexism to find her niche in the hardscrabble world of news. All bullshit.

“Nothing,” Jase said.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.” Her drawl, accentuated by the arch of a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow, accused him of the lie.

No way was he going to tell her that the document on the computer screen was personal. The last thing he needed was Meri-Jo breathing down his neck.

After being shut down by Bentz at the homicide crime scene, he’d spent a little time talking to the building’s superintendent, extracting the basics for his story, along with some sketchy information on the victim, Teri Gaines. He’d been careful not to cross the line, hadn’t pushed to view the crime scene or anything that would, at this point, piss off anyone in the department. He needed to do this job, of course, but it would be downright stupid to step on any toes in the New Orleans Police Department if he wanted to join their ranks.

“Wait. You’re working on the murder of the prostitute, right?” Meri-Jo was interested because she wanted his job. She knew he was thinking of leaving, and she made zero bones about the fact that she coveted his position as the crime writer. She wanted it now. Or sooner. “Trying to tie this one in with Father John?” She waved a hand, as if shooing away a bothersome fly. “Right? That psycho who dressed himself as a priest and killed hookers.” She gave a fake shudder. “What a douche.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“The truth, Bridges. The only way I ‘put it.’” She hooked her fingers into air quotes and glared at him as if he’d somehow offended her. Meri-Jo prided herself on being a fact-finding, truth-seeking, hungry-but-honest reporter who took her job more than seriously.

“Yeah, right,” Matthew Kennedy said as he cruised by with what was probably his second super-sized Diet Coke of the day. “That’s you, Meri, taking journalism to a whole new level.” Pushing sixty, with an I’ve-seen-it-all smile and a nose for self-important BS, Kennedy had been with the newspaper through three or four incarnations and still, he survived. “Thank God you’re keeping us old warhorses on the straight and narrow.”

“Shove it, Kennedy.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and sauntered off.

“God, he’s
such
an asshole.” She was perturbed, her truth-and-justice feathers seriously ruffled. But before she could launch into a diatribe about “old reporters not giving the new, innovative generation a chance,” her cell phone chimed and she snatched it from her desk, checked the screen, and turned her back to Jase.

Good.

Now he could absorb his discovery in private.

And absorb he did as he flipped from one page on his screen to another. After putting together his story on the homicide of Teri Gaines, he’d searched for information on his own family and dug up documents he had never seen before.

In truth, he’d always believed in “letting sleeping dogs lie” where his own history was concerned, having trusted that his father and grandparents had told him the truth about what had happened in the past. He’d been too young to remember his mother, though once, in the farmhouse attic, he’d come across a family album tucked between old books and bedding. Inside, he’d found a black-and-white photo of a wedding. His father, dressed in a dark, western-cut suit, stood next to a soulful-eyed girl in a white lace dress and veil. Their hands were clasped, rings evident as they stood under a simple altar.

Jase, being a rambunctious boy who accepted what grown-ups told him as fact and later, as a teenager who was always in trouble, had never really had too many questions about his mother or, for that matter, the brother who had died in Texas. He’d been too caught up in himself. It had seemed odd that Marian Selby Bridges, purportedly heartbroken at the loss of a son, had deserted her husband and two boys, leaving them to fend for themselves. However, his occasional questions about his mother had always evoked anger from his father or anguish from his grandmother. As an adult, he’d sided with his father in the belief that any woman who’d abandoned her kids and never once contacted them didn’t deserve the title of mother, and she certainly didn’t need to be located. He’d made a couple of lame-ass attempts to find her in his late twenties, but when the job had been more involved than he’d wanted, he’d let it go.

Was she alive? Dead? He’d been interested, yes. Hell, any kid would have questions about the woman who had given birth to him. But he hadn’t felt the urge to dig up any of the family dirt. Who knew what he would find? His mother’s rejection only confirmed that he didn’t need a woman who would walk out on him in a heartbeat, a woman who might require the same kind of care and attention that his father was now demanding.

Truth be told, Marian Bridges didn’t deserve to know the kids she’d left.

And then there had come the time when he’d met Arianna Hayward. From that point forward, his life had been turned upside down and inside out. His own secrets had crippled him emotionally, he figured. Deep down he was scared of the truth because he knew how dark, how innocently evil it could be.

No more.

Today, things changed.

With the speed of the Internet, his connections at the newspaper, a few phone calls, and some incredible search engines, he’d dug deeper than before, deeper than he probably should have.

But now, he knew for certain that the old man had lied. About Jase’s life. A web of lies that had grown with the years. Well, hell, what had Jase expected? He hit the Print button on several documents and tried to keep his rage in check.

It was time to call Edward Prescott Bridges on his crap.

Tossing the documents into his briefcase, he headed outside, but as he was walking out the glass doors, he nearly ran into Brianna Hayward heading into the offices of the
Observer.

“Hey! I was coming to see you,” she said. In sunglasses, her dark hair caught in a loose bun, she looked a little messy and sexy as hell as she stopped short and he stepped outside.

A woman with pale hair and a pissed expression was walking a dog past the building. Jase had to hop over the beagle’s tether to avoid tripping.

“Hey!” the blonde said irritably as beads of sweat glimmered over her compressed lips. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry.” He backed away just before he became entangled in the leash.

“Jerk! Some people!” She half-trotted briskly ahead, the dog straining and pulling her forward. “Get a life!”

“Still making friends,” Brianna observed drily.

“Always.” He watched the dog tug its owner around a corner at the end of the block, then turned his attention to Brianna. God, she was beautiful. A carbon copy of what Arianna would have looked like, had she survived. His jaw clenched a bit, and he remembered his resolution to stick to business with Brianna.

Too late.

Jase felt drawn to her, wanted to know more about her. Because of Arianna and his guilt? Of course. His emotions played a big part in it, but there was more to his attraction. Something about the way she angled her face up to his, her eyes guarded by the oversized colored glasses, her chin a little point, her lips wide. He was near enough to observe a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Silently he told himself that being this close to her was dangerous.