Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (11 page)

“Had you?”

“No.”

“But you still keep his picture.”

Sam sighed. “Yeah, I know. It’s not that I don’t
like
him. I just don’t think we’re right for each other.” She caught herself and stiffened her shoulders. “I don’t think we need to get into the ins and outs of my love life.”

“Unless he’s the caller.”

“I said, it’s not him,” she reminded him, bristling. “I’d recognize his voice.”

Bentz didn’t let up. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“About a week ago,” she admitted, as Charon hopped into her lap. “In Mexico.”

“On that surprise trip?” Was there just a hint of judgment in his tone?

“Yes. I met him in Mazatlán…he thought it was going to be romantic, and as I said I just wanted to be sure I hadn’t made a mistake.” She read the questions in his eyes. “Believe me, I hadn’t. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now.”

“You didn’t mention him before.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I know, but he couldn’t have left the message or sent the letter; it was postmarked here, in New Orleans, and he was in Mexico. It wasn’t his voice on the tape. I would have recognized it, if it was. He didn’t call in, Detective.”

Bentz’s jaw slid to the side as if he didn’t believe a word she was feeding him. “I’m out here because you filed a report,” he said slowly, as if to a stubborn child. “I expect your cooperation.”

“I am cooperating,” she argued, though even she heard her defensive tone. It was true, the man got her back up. She felt as if she had to justify her actions.

“But you’re holding back,” he accused, staring at her so intently she wanted to squirm.

“I just don’t want a big scandal, okay? I’m a celebrity of sorts around these parts, but because I’m on the radio, the general public doesn’t really know what I look like. I have some anonymity, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

He chewed on that for a while, nodded, as if he understood, and finally snapped his notebook shut, clicked off the recorder and pocketed both. “I think this about covers it, but I’ll want copies of his calls to the station and I’ll check on the phone records and get back to you.” He pushed up from the couch.

“Thanks.”

“You might want to keep a low profile.”

She nearly laughed out loud. “That could be tricky, Detective. I am a radio personality and though most people don’t recognize me on the street, some do. I’m involved in a lot of charity work. In fact the station’s hosting a big event soon for the Boucher Center. I’ll be there. I can’t exactly hole up and hide.”

“You should consider it.”

She shook her head. “We both know I can’t. Why don’t you just catch the guy.”

“We will, but in the meantime”—he glanced at the cat purring contentedly on her lap— “you might consider trading in kitty for a rottweiler or a Doberman. You know, a mean sumbitch.”

“Charon’s pretty tough,” she said, as the cat stretched and started licking himself as if to prove her wrong.

The hint of a smile touched the gruff man’s lips. “That’s good to know,” he said as she gently shoved Charon aside and walked Bentz to the door. “The department could save a lot of money by using alley cats rather than trained dogs. I’ll write up a report for the commissioner. I’m sure he’ll be in touch with the K-9 Division.”

“Glad to be of help,” she quipped as she walked him to the door.

He paused on the porch, his light mood disappearing as he stepped into the thickening twilight. “Just remember to lock your door. The caller might only be a prankster, but I doubt it. Phoning into a radio-station talk show is one thing, sending this”—he lifted the plastic bag containing her mutilated publicity picture—“is another. Whoever did this is a real sicko, and he wants to scare the life out of you.”

“I know,” she said as she shut the door and threw the new dead bolt, grateful that she’d had her locks changed and the alarm system jury-rigged. The system was old and faulty, and the alarm company had promised to install a new one “in a couple of weeks.” In the meantime she was stuck with this dinosaur.

She thought of everything that happened to her in the past few days and tried to convince herself that the person terrorizing her wasn’t out to harm her, but the truth of the matter was she was scared to death.

Chapter Eight

“…so I never see my old man,” Anisha said with a frown. She was one of the six girls who had shown up for the session and was slumped in an old easy chair, her ankles crossed, her expression dark. Nervously, she twirled a lock of curly black hair around her finger. “I guess I shouldn’t expect to.”

“Have you tried to contact him?”

“In jail?” Anisha snorted through her nose. “Why should I?” Her smile was far too cynical for her fifteen years. “I got me a stepdaddy. My third one.”

And so it went. Six troubled girls, all with problems, all with chips the size of oil tankers on their slim shoulders, all to varying degrees, trying to get their young acts together.

The session was housed in an old camel-backed shotgun house not far from Armstrong Park. It was early evening, the sun was just beginning to set. The small room was hot, the jalousie blinds half-open, allowing in the barest of breezes and the sounds of traffic from Rampart Street. The back of Sam’s blouse was sticking to her despite the fan rotating from a table in the corner.

The girls were flopped on old chairs and a couch, talking about getting back into school, or staying in, or taking night classes as some of the teenagers had babies of their own. Some brought up the benefit for the center; they were excited, they’d been asked to attend and were looking forward to it. But Leanne, uncharacteristically quiet, sat next to Samantha and brooded, as if guarding a secret, though Sam suspected it was Leanne’s way of punishing Sam for being gone for nearly three weeks.

“Is anything bothering you?” she asked the girl at a lull in the session. “Something you want to talk about?”

Leanne lifted a shoulder. She was a pretty girl with porcelain white skin, brown hair and green eyes. Right now, she was playing with the fronds of a potted fern, trying to show disinterest.

“She’s just mad cuz her and Jay broke up,” Renee, a heavyset black girl accused around a wad of gum.

“That’s not it,” Leanne shot back, but quit fiddling with the plant long enough to skewer her friend with a harsh glare. A telltale blush crept up the back of her neck to ears studded with half a dozen pieces of metal.

“She’s usin’ again,” Renee added, lifting a dark, knowing eyebrow.

“Are you?”

“Just when I split with Jay. And it was my idea.” Leanne inched up her chin insolently. “He tried to control me.”

“Cuz he didn’t want you usin’ any of that shit,” Renee said.

“Ain’t no one controls me.”

“Yeah, right,” Renee scoffed, rolling her eyes.

Sam held up a hand. “Let’s hear what Leanne has to say.”

“I don’t want to say nothin’,” the girl insisted, crossing her thin arms under her breasts and looking pointedly away from Sam. She shot Renee another look that was guaranteed to kill. “And you just shut up. It ain’t none of your business.”

“Maybe we should all think about that,” Sam cut in, diffusing the argument before it exploded out of control. “We’ll discuss it next time. Everyone think about boundaries. When do you give a friend space? When do you step in? What are the consequences? Okay?”

Grumbling, the girls shuffled to their collective feet.

“I’ll see you all next week, and if anyone runs into Collette, ask her to join.”

“Collette moved,” Renee said. “Up ta Tampa.”

This was news to Sam. All the girls were supposed to tell her if there was a change in their living arrangements, though few ever did.

Talking among themselves, the girls picked up their books, backpacks and purses, then clambered down the stairs, platform shoes stomping on the bare wood. Leanne hung back, ostracized for the moment by Renee, who, whenever Leanne was in disfavor, became the leader. Renee smiled at Sam, then sent Leanne a smug look.

“I hate that fat bitch,” Leanne grumbled.

“Can you rephrase that.”

“I hate that big, fat fuckin’ bitch.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” Leanne scowled as she snagged her purse from the couch. “But I hate her.”

“Are you angry with her or yourself?”

Leanne started for the door. “I don’t need any of this shit.”

“Yeah, I think you do.”

“But Renee’s a pig.” The girl whirled and faced Sam again. “She’s always stickin’ her nose in where it don’t belong. Rootin’ around, like my granddaddy’s old sow out in the field.” She made snorting noises to accentuate her point.

“Maybe she’s trying to be a friend,” Sam suggested.

“A friend? Renee Harp don’t know the meanin’ of the word. She’d turn on me like that.” Leanne snapped her fingers. “Besides, it ain’t none of her business. What goes on between me and Jay that’s our shit.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Time’s up, ain’t it?”

Sam stuffed her notes into her briefcase. “We can talk on the way out.”

“It ain’t no big deal.” Green eyes studied the edge of the carpet, where fringe covered polished wood. There was a long pause and an even longer sigh. “I did get high,” she admitted, looking younger than her seventeen years despite her harsh makeup and too-tight clothes. “I just had a lot of pressure, that’s all. Marletta was on my case and…then Jay got pissed at me and I thought I’d show them both.”

“By smoking crack.”

“Yeah. So?” She started down the stairs, not wanting to hear a lecture, though Sam had no intention of giving her one.

“You tell me.” Sam caught up with her on the first floor, where Leanne was walking through the series of rooms to the front door. The girl shouldered it open and stepped down to the sidewalk where the heat of the day had collected.

Twilight had descended, the streetlamps were beginning to glow and the other girls in the group were already walking down the street chattering, two smoking long cigarettes. They split up at the corner, heading in different directions and disappearing along narrow streets.

“Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to get high,” Leanne admitted as they stood beneath a streetlight. She seemed sincere as she cocked her head to look directly at Sam for the first time in over an hour.

“Just think about it. You were trying to punish your mother and your boyfriend, but who did you hurt? What did you accomplish?”

Leanne rolled her expressive eyes. “Myself, I know.” She smiled and it was a killer smile, perfect white teeth and pretty lips.

“So, how do you feel?”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?” Sam asked. There was something about Leanne that touched her. Beneath her armor of filthy language and tough attitude was a softer soul, one who sent her e-cards, a little girl trapped in a tough-looking teenage body.

“Yeah, I’m sure. For a screwup,” she said, and laughed as a pack of teenage boys sauntered by. More than one of the boys eyed Leanne. Out of habit she tossed her short hair out of her face and met the boys’ gazes with a challenging, amused grin.

“You’re not a screwup,” Sam assured her. “Remember, no negative names.”

“Right. I’m
not
one, but I did mess up. Big-time.”

“You took a step backward. Now it’s time to go forward again.”

“Yeah, I know,” Leanne said, but her gaze was following the boys, who had stopped two streets up to join a group of people listening to the street musicians who were performing in front of the park.

“Then I’ll see you next week.”

“Okay. Sure.” With a wave, Leanne dashed across St. Peter, pausing at the next corner to light a cigarette. She was a smart girl, whose mother, Marletta, had been arrested not only for dealing drugs but prostitution as well. Marletta, faced with losing her kids, had been clean for a couple of years, but Leanne had watched and learned from her mother. At seventeen Leanne had her own rap sheet for drugs and soliciting. Attending Sam’s young women’s group, being a part of a drug-counseling program that included routine testing and doing community service were all a part of her sentence.

Sam headed for her car but felt something, someone watching her. Assuming it was Leanne, she glanced over her shoulder, but the girl was nowhere in sight. The crowd that had paused to watch the band was increasing as the music played, people gathering around the brass ensemble that had set up near the entrance to the park. But one man stood apart from the others—a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black-leather jacket, dark pants and sunglasses despite the shadows crawling across the city. He wasn’t looking at the performers. Instead he was staring straight at Samantha. Hard. He was too far away, and it was too dark to get a good look at his features, but Sam had the sensation that she’d seen him before, perhaps even knew him.

Goose bumps rose on her flesh, though she told herself she was being silly, for as she watched, he turned his attention to the band, melded into the group of people surrounding the musicians and seemed to disappear.

As if he’d never been there.

Maybe he hadn’t been looking at her, but someone or something behind her. Maybe she was letting the events of the last few nights get to her, but as she walked along the street to her Mustang, she had the very real sensation that things were only going to get worse.

The night was hot, just the way he liked it, the air heavy against his skin as he paddled through the cypress to the tiny cabin on stilts hidden here, deep in the bayou. No one knew about this place; no one could ever know. He docked and climbed up a ladder to the bleached white porch surrounding the one-room shanty. The smell of the swamp filled his nostrils, the feeling he was free here, safe, made his tense muscles relax. He loosened his fly and took a piss over the railing, not only relieving himself, but letting the other creatures of the night know this was his place.
His.

He heard the bats in the trees as he zipped up. Boots ringing hollowly, he made his way inside the cabin, where he lit a kerosene lantern. The ancient wood walls, filled with knotholes and gaps between the boards, glowed warmly. Mosquitoes droned, fireflies flickered through the open doorway and the sluggish water lapped against the old pilings. Alligators and cottonmouths swam in this part of the bayou, and he felt akin to the slippery beasts, a part of this dark night, this water forest.

There was no electricity, and the old chimney had started to crumble, not that he would dare light a fire. Smoke could be seen or smelled…no, he would keep in the relative darkness, only chancing the lantern. He opened the single cupboard and peered inside. A spider scurried into a crack as he reached into a corner where a worn velvet sack lay hidden. Inside the soft folds were his treasures, items he carefully withdrew. A cross suspended from a necklace. A fine gold chain just big enough to fit around a woman’s slim ankle. An old locket from another lifetime. Just the beginning.

Carefully he placed his treasures on the rickety table next to his battery-powered radio. He surrounded the necklace, locket and ankle bracelet with his rosary, creating a perfect circle with his souvenirs squarely in its center. Then, satisfied, he checked his watch, waited forty-five seconds and pressed a button on the radio. Then she was with him. Over the hoot of an owl and crackle of static he heard the sound of the fading intro music and her voice—clear as if she were standing next to him.

“Good evening, New Orleans, this is Dr. Sam ready to take your calls at WSLJ. As you know we’ve been tackling a series of tough subjects about love, sin and redemptions. Tonight we’ll discuss forgiveness…”

He smiled inwardly. Forgiveness. She was purposely baiting him, engaging in his game. Expecting him to call. He conjured up her face in his mind, remembered seeing her only a few hours earlier on the street near the park. She must have felt his gaze, been drawn to him, for she’d looked straight at him in the twilight.

Blood pumped furiously through his body, ringing in his ears, bringing an erection.

“…let me know what you think, how forgiveness has touched your life or conversely, how it hasn’t? Is it always possible?” she asked in that smooth, coaxing, sexy voice, the voice of a Jezebel, a seducer, a whore. Sweat broke out between his shoulder blades, and he stood, walking restlessly, concentrating on the words—her words—touching him, caressing his mind, just as if she was speaking to him. Only to him. “What is it that constitutes forgiveness and can we always give it?”

The answer was no. Some acts were too vile to be forgiven and for those there was only one answer: retribution. His cock was suddenly rock-hard, straining against his fly. He needed relief. He imagined her hands, her mouth, her tongue as he touched himself.

Dr. Sam’s voice was farther away now, muffled by the static on the radio and the buzz in his mind, but soon, oh, so soon, Samantha Leeds would understand.

About forgiveness and retribution.

About atonement and punishment.

About paying.

For her sins.

All of them.

He’d make her.

Just you wait, Doctor. Your time is coming. Then we’ll see what you think about forgiveness,
he thought, stroking himself.

Then we’ll hear you beg.