Hot Blooded (10 page)

Not that it mattered. Not that he cared, he reminded himself. She was just part of his research; an integral part.

“I’m thinking monogamy is societal and that since we’re basically all animals, anyway, monogamy is a fallacy.”

“Is this your personal experience, or your comment on our lifestyle?” Sam inquired, egging the caller on subtly.

“Both I guess.” Linda cleared her throat.

“Do you want to expand on that?”

“I’m just saying it as it is.”

“Are you? Does anyone else want to comment on Linda’s observation. Linda, would you mind staying on the line?” Dr. Sam asked, obviously searching for some kind of controversy, the kind of thing that caused the audience to react and listen, the true reason George Hannah had hired her and put her on the air. Ty knew enough about Hannah to realize the guy didn’t give a good goddamn about the listeners—
only about the numbers so that he could sell advertising space. George Hannah had learned about audience reaction to Samantha Leeds in Houston, and he was capitalizing on it. So was Eleanor Cavalier, though she was more subtle.

“Sure, I’ll hang on. No problem…” Linda was saying.

“Hello, this is Dr. Sam.”

“And this here is Mandy. Linda’s got it all wrong. Monogamy is the Lord’s will and if she doesn’t believe that she should start reading her Bible! She could start with the Ten Commandments!”

“Are you married, Mandy?”

“You bet I am. Fifteen years. Carl and me, we was high school sweethearts. We got ourselves three sons, and we’ve had our ups and downs, but we stick together. We go to church every Sunday and—”

Absently Ty stroked his dog’s broad head as he concentrated on the conversation playing through his speakers.

Dr. Sam spoke to a few more listeners and the argument about fidelity and marriage raged. He glanced at the phone, a shiny rotary relic from another century that had come with the house and sipped his whiskey slowly, letting it roll over his tongue. On the desk in front of him were dozens of notes, scattered pages filled with disjointed thoughts, facts that didn’t link together and questions circled over and over again as he’d tried to come up with answers, to write a story that had been on his mind for a long, long time. Ever since he’d been a cop in Houston.

Balanced on a corner of Milo Swanson’s desk, Ty’s laptop glowed, waiting for him to transcribe more of his notes onto the screen.

But the words hadn’t come tonight, and he knew why. He was blocked—that damned writer’s disease that assailed without any glimmer of forewarning.

There was only one way to break it.

He had to meet the good doctor face-to-face.

“I want you to check out what’s happening to Samantha Leeds.” Melinda Jaskiel handed Rick Bentz the report. “She’s a nighttime DJ—radio shrink, and she thinks she’s being harassed.”

“I’ve heard of her,” Bentz admitted. “My kid listens to her sometimes.” He was seated at his desk, chewing an old wad of Nicorette gum and wishing he could have a smoke. And a shot of Jack Daniel’s…yeah, that would be the ticket. But he wouldn’t.

“Dr. Sam, as she calls herself, doesn’t live in the city, has one of those nice places up on the lake in Cambrai. When this started a couple of days ago, she called the local PD. They were kind enough to fax over a copy of their report, and the officers in charge seem more than happy to have someone from the city help them out.”

He skimmed the pages, and Melinda, folding her arms across her chest leaned a hip against his desk.

“I’d like to keep a lid on this one,” she said. “The
woman’s a quasi celebrity around here. No reason to let the press get wind of it yet. They’re already sniffing around, hoping we’ve got a serial murderer on the streets. Let’s not give them anything else to stir up the public.”

Bentz wasn’t about to argue. His post was tentative at best in the department, and he was only helping out with homicide, mainly because of Melinda. He wasn’t going to blow it. He’d do whatever she asked. His duties included everything from burglary and arson to domestic violence. And he agreed with her one hundred percent about keeping the Dr. Sam story quiet. The last thing they needed was copycats calling up the station. There would probably be enough of those as there was just from her audience.

“I’ll check it out,” he said, and shoved the Rosa Gillette file aside. He’d spent the last few hours going over the autopsy report and evidence on the prostitute’s murder. She glanced down at his notes.

“Don’t give up on the murders,” she said, “but do check out Samantha Leeds. It looks like she’s got herself a bona fide nutcase. I just want to make sure he’s not dangerous.” “You got it,” he said, ignoring the computer screen where pictures of the two dead women, Rosa Gillette and Cherie Bellechamps, flickered side by side.

“I know you’d rather work on this,” she said, motioning to the autopsy reports. “And I don’t blame you. But we’ve got other things to worry about as well, and the Homicide team can handle it.”

He lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. He had more experience than the other men, but didn’t say it. He couldn’t. Because once before he’d given it all up.

“Brinkman will be back soon.” Melinda peered at him through rimless glasses. Smart, savvy, forever dressed in a suit, her makeup and short hair always perfect, she was his direct superior, but never threw her weight around. She didn’t mention that without her he wouldn’t have gotten the
job here in New Orleans; they both knew it. “Look, Rick, I know you’re overworked, overwrought and underpaid, but we’re short-staffed with vacations and officers out sick. I understand that you don’t like being shuffled from one area to the other, but until your next review, that’s just the way it is.” She offered him one of her infrequent smiles. “Besides, once upon a time you told me you didn’t want to work murder investigations any longer.”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“I hope so. In the meantime, I’d like you to talk to Samantha Leeds.”

It wasn’t a request; it was an order. He understood. But it didn’t mean he had to like it. Not when there was more important work to do—a killer on the loose.

“Montoya can help you with the legwork.”

He nodded. “You owe me one.”

“And you owe me a dozen. Payback time.”

“I thought I was past all that.” But he knew he never would be. The past had a way of hanging on, like a bad smell. You just couldn’t wash it off. No matter how hard you scrubbed. He didn’t just owe Melinda his job, but also life as he knew it.

“Okay, look,” she said, tilting her head to one side and studying him. “I’ll pass your good intentions and deeds on to the powers that be. It’ll make points.”

Bentz leaned back in his chair and offered her a half smile. “And here I thought
you
were the powers that be. The way people talk I figured you were some kind of goddess around here.”

Behind the fashionable lenses her eyes twinkled. She pointed a finger straight at his chest. “God. I’m God. All-powerful and without gender. It would behoove you to remember that.”

He gave her the once-over. Beneath her navy suit, she
hid a toned, fit body. Nice chest, small waist and long legs. “The without gender part might be hard to forget.”

“Watch it. That could be construed as sexual harassment these days.”

“My ass.
You’re
the boss.”

“Don’t forget it.” His phone rang, and she added, “Fill me in once you talk to Ms. Leeds, okay?”

“As I said before, ‘you owe me.’”

“And hell’s about to freeze over.”

She walked away, and Bentz snagged the receiver from its cradle. “Rick Bentz.”

“Montoya,” his partner replied, and from the buzzy connection Bentz guessed the younger detective was talking on his cell phone while driving his unmarked. Probably pushing the speed limit. “Guess what? I got a call from Marvin Cooper, you remember him over at the Riverview Apartments where we found the last victim—the Gillette woman?”

“Yep.” Bentz leaned back in his chair until it groaned in protest.

“So he tells me that Denise, the roommate, she’s asked about Rosa’s ankle bracelet. Says she always wore one, it was a gift or something. So I hightailed it over to the apartment building and Marvin tracks down Denise and she tells me about the gold bracelet.”

Bentz rolled his chair back to his desk and, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, searched through the reports on Rosa Gillette. “She wasn’t wearing any jewelry,” he said into the mouthpiece as he pulled up the files on Rosa Gillette and Cherie Bellechamps. “Neither was the first one.” He double-checked the photos flickering on his computer.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” Montoya said. “But maybe not. Denise thinks maybe the third hooker, Cindy Sweet, might have ripped Rosa off. I don’t think so.”

“Our perp wouldn’t be the first guy to take home a little
souvenir.” Rick zoomed in on the images of the victims, Rosa’s ankles, then both women’s entire bodies. Nope. No jewelry visible. So the killer was taking trophies. Not a surprise.

“Anything else I oughtta know? Shit!” There was a blast of a car horn over the crackle of the cell phone. “Some idiot nearly pulled into my lane. Christ, doesn’t anyone know how to drive in this town?”

“Only you, Montoya, only you. We’ll talk later.” Bentz frowned down at the report Melinda had handed him. “I’ve got to go out for a while. Jaskiel asked me personally to look in on a radio DJ who’s getting threatening calls.”

“Like you don’t have enough to do.”

“Exactly.” He hung up, spit out his tasteless gum, hankered for a cigarette and grabbed his jacket.

Sam ran her fingers over the bindings of the books she’d held on to since college. Though she hadn’t looked at the tomes in years, she kept them on the bottom shelf of her bookcase in the den, just in case. She was certain she had a copy of Milton’s
Paradise Lost
from some required English literature course she’d had to take during her years at Tulane University. “I know it’s here,” she muttered to Charon as he hopped onto her desk. Then she saw it. “Aha!” Smiling, she pulled out the hardback and tucked it under her arm.
“Voilà.
Come on, you, let’s go down to the dock for a little R&R.”

She stashed the receiver to her cordless phone, the book, a can of Diet Coke and her sunglasses in a canvas bag that was already bulging from her beach towel, then, wincing against the pain in her ankle, walked outside and down a brick path to the dock. The sun was high, sending rays of light glancing over the water. Dozens of boats skimmed the
lake’s surface and water-skiers and fishermen were out in abundance.

Sam loved it here; the house had already started to feel like home. Though David had argued relentlessly that she could have had as much success in Houston, she loved New Orleans and this spot that she called home. For the first six months she’d lived in an apartment closer to the heart of the city. Then she’d found this cottage and fallen in love with it. Despite its morbid history. David had really blown a gasket over that one—that she’d actually bought a place and put down roots. In a house where a murder had been committed.

A
solved
murder she told herself, a crime of passion.

She settled into a chaise under the table umbrella, popped her can of soda and flipped open the pages of the musty-smelling book. Maybe this was a long shot; maybe “John’s” calls had nothing to do with Milton’s epic, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling that there was some connection, if only a feeble one.

Pelicans and seagulls flew overhead, and a jet cut across the clear blue sky as Sam skimmed the text wherein Satan and his army have been thrown into hell and the fiery lake.

“It is ‘Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven,’” she whispered, reading Satan’s words from the text. “Now, there’s a line.” She glanced at the cat stalking a butterfly that flitted out of his reach over the water. “Yeah, I know. I’m probably waaaay off base here.” Quickly scanning the pages, she wondered if she’d misinterpreted the caller’s intent when he’d phoned.

She lost herself in the words as she sipped her drink while basking in the warmth of the sun. Bees hummed, a lawn mower chewed blades of grass somewhere down the street and Mrs. Killingsworth’s pug started barking wildly, probably at a squirrel or a kid on a bike. A boat engine coughed, echoing across the water, sputtering and gasping. Sam didn’t
pay any attention. Just kept reading, her mind conjuring up the images Milton had scribed over three hundred years earlier.

The sun had lowered considerably when she looked up and saw the sailboat; not just any sailboat, but the same sloop she’d seen docked at Milo Swanson’s house, the very boat she’d thought had been gliding the waters late at night, though the sails were now down and the boat was being propelled by an engine that hesitated and died, only to cough and start up again.

A man was straining at the wheel, guiding the sloop closer to the dock and for once, it seemed, Mrs. Killingsworth was right. Even from a distance, she could tell he was fit, strong, and good-looking. His shirt was open, flapped in the wind and offered a view of a broad, tanned chest gleaming in the sunlight. Cut-off jeans hung from his hips, fraying over athletic thighs that strained as he kept his footing. His body glistened with sweat. Thick, dark hair blew across a high, tanned forehead. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and sitting at his feet, nose to the wind, was a dog, some kind of German shepherd mix, she guessed.

With difficulty he guided the dying craft into Sam’s slip, then threw his line over a mooring and tied up. As if he knew her. As if it was his right. The engine gave up a final growl, then died.

Sam straightened in the chair and set her book aside as she studied an angled face with strong cheekbones and a square jaw covered with a couple of day’s worth of shadow. Nope. She didn’t recognize him as he scrambled over the deck and started working on the engine. He didn’t so much as cast a glance her way.

She pushed herself upright and got to her feet. “Can I help you?”

No response. He was too engrossed in his work.

“Hello?” She walked along the dock. The dog gave off a sharp bark and finally he glanced over his shoulder.