Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (113 page)

But the doors were shut!

And you saw someone staring at you! You did, Abby! You’re not imagining things. You are
not
cracking up!

“Who knows about this gate?” she asked.

Maria shrugged. “Except for the Sisters, not too many. As I said, there are a few who have access to the hospital now, but that’s about it. When the hospital was open, some of the staff used it, of course, but only a few of those people are still around.” She chuckled, swiping a drop of rain from her nose with the back of her hand. “You know, there was a time when we had trouble keeping people locked inside the gates, not the other way around.”

“Why don’t the people who are buying the hospital just go through the main gate?”

“Oh. That.” Sister Maria stopped as they reached the parking lot, seeking protection from the rain beneath the overhang from the garage. “They will. But the sale isn’t exactly a ‘done deal’ yet. Until all the snags are worked out through the parish and the archdiocese and the engineers and architects and the Mother Superior here, nothing will happen.”

“The hospital’s not sold?” Abby asked.

“Let’s just say ‘we’re in negotiations’ and leave it at that because I’ve probably said more than I should.” She looked at Abby again. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

I’ll never be all right,
Abby thought.
My mother was a paranoid schizophrenic who committed suicide by throwing herself through a window, my father is slowly dying from disease, my sister slept with my fiancé who cheated on me with several women after we were married. Once Luke became my ex, he publicly humiliated me and now he and some coed are dead in a macabre, staged death scene. Oh, no, I will never be all right.

“I’m fine.”

Concern drew lines across Sister Maria’s forehead. “Maybe you should come inside.” She glanced up at the heavy clouds. “I think I could scare up a cup of tea.”

“Not necessary. Really.” Now that she was out of the creepy old hospital, she was ready to make tracks and fast.

Sister Maria’s gaze was skeptical.

“Would you call me when the lock’s been fixed and I can get into my mother’s room again?”

“You’re certain that’s what you want to do?”

“Yes!” Abby said with renewed conviction, gazing over her shoulder to the fence and woods beyond. From here she couldn’t see the red bricks of the hospital, cosseted as it was by acres of forest, where, the idea had been, the gentle sounds, smells, and sights of nature would help soothe the tortured minds of the patients within.

“Then of course I’ll call.” The rain began to pour even more heavily, slanting with the wind.

“I’ll phone the convent later with my number.”

At the nun’s nod, Abby waved a good-bye and dashed to her car, sliding behind the wheel. Through the foggy windshield she watched an amazingly spry Sister Maria sprint toward a doorway cut into the wall surrounding the convent.

Abby twisted on the ignition of her little Honda and pulled a quick one-eighty, then nosed the car toward the main road.

She didn’t bother taking the fork that jogged to the old hospital.

She’d seen more than enough for one day.

He waited as she drove away.

From the third-floor window he could see over the gates, and at one point, where the trees parted, there was an eagle’s eye view of the road. Just a short glimpse, maybe two seconds, when her car would pass, turning the corner to the main road. But it was enough. For now. Taking up his vigil, he lifted his powerful binoculars so that he was ready, would be able to catch her expression as she drove by.

It took a little longer than he’d figured, probably because of that prattling nun, the one who had a few dark secrets of her own, secrets that were so close to his own. His lips twitched at that thought. The meek woman, draped in her black habit, might seem holy to some, but he knew better.

Soon, her secret would be exposed.

As would those of the others.

He had to work fast and so he intended to step up his time schedule. Through the field glasses, he saw a flash of silver in the rain. His heart pounded and anticipation thrummed through his body. A hot rush slid through his veins as he caught a glimpse of her taking the corner too fast. In the driving rain, the Honda’s tires slid, the back of the hatchback fishtailing.

He imagined her fear as she struggled with the steering wheel.

He licked his lips as she managed to right the Honda and drive out of sight.

His heart pumped wildly and he felt a bit of sweat upon his upper lip. She looked so much like Faith . . . his throat went dry and lust slid like a hot, determined snake through his veins.

Faith . . . oh, beautiful . . .

His head pounded and he remembered the sweet, welcoming warmth of her, the way she gasped as he entered her, the glimmer of fear beneath the hot, anxious look in her eyes. His body thrummed as he thought of her seduction, her ultimate surrender, the need that had caused her to pant beneath him and press her teeth into his shoulder.

His lips curled back as he sucked in his breath. God, how he wanted her now, ached to feel the hot, urgent suppleness of her body clinging to his.

All in good time,
he reminded himself as he squeezed his eyes closed. Faith’s face came to him . . . her hot eyes, her throaty laugh, the naughty invitation of her slick lips. And as he imagined her, almost smelled her, her features altered slightly and the memory of the mother became a vision of the daughter.

CHAPTER 13

“L
ook, I’m telling ya, it was the last time I saw him,” Maury Taylor insisted as they stood in the reception area of the radio station. Bentz, having called in advance, had shown up about the time that Maury, spending extra hours in Luke Gierman’s chair, was free. The Gierman show was being played at various times in the afternoon and evening and apparently, from the latest poll, skyrocketing in the ratings.

That’s what being killed did for a person. Instant fame. Or infamy. In Gierman’s case, it was probably the latter.

“I explained this all to that other detective. What was his name?” Maury asked, then snapped his fingers. “Brinkman, the big guy with the gut.”

Bentz nodded. “I know, but I was out of town and I’m just double-checking a few details,” he said, which was pure garbage. Brinkman had done a decent enough job talking to everyone at the station, but Bentz just wanted his own “hit” about how things were going down here.

Besides, this was familiar territory. He’d been here often enough a few years back when Father John, a psycho of the worst order, was haunting the streets of the city. The killer’s fascination with Dr. Sam, a late-night radio psychologist, had been a grisly nightmare.

The radio station, a block off Decatur Street and close to Jackson Square, looked pretty much the same as it had then, the reception area with its padded benches, one wall covered by a glass case filled with awards and news items, pictures of celebrities, and even an authentic voodoo doll. Melba, the receptionist, seemed forever on the phone.

“I don’t know anything else except Luke was really pissed, and I mean
really
pissed at his ex-wife,” Maury explained. “She’d thrown away some of his stuff and he let her have it on the show that day.” He pulled a face. “I know we do some pretty off-the-wall things here, but usually Luke didn’t overdo the personal shit, you know, he wasn’t into bringing up his own personal dirty laundry. He had kind of an . . . unwritten rule or code of ethics about that.”

“Code of ethics?” Bentz didn’t buy it. He figured Gierman would have done anything including moon his own grandmother if he thought it would boost the ratings for his show as well as his own inflated ego.

“It was, I don’t know, and he’d deny it to the death but . . . oh, hell,” Maury said when he heard himself.

“But what?”

Taylor glanced away, toward a colorful neon display that reflected pink and blue on his face, then returned his gaze to the policeman’s. “But I think he was still in love with her.” At the quirk of Bentz’s eyebrow, he quickly added. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I know. He liked the young ones. Hell, don’t we all? The way he told it, he couldn’t get enough . . . was a regular man-slut. I don’t know all the women he banged, but he told me about a few and I gave that information to the other cop. The only one I remember, and Luke only mentioned it once, when he’d had a few too many, was his wife’s sister.”

“What?”

“Yeah . . . it didn’t sit too well with the wife, if ya know what I mean. The minute Luke confided in me, even though he was drunk, he clammed up about it, laughed it off, like he was joking, but I don’t think so.”

Bentz made a mental note and felt an old pang of anger. He’d been there. Man, oh, man had he been there. He didn’t know what it meant to Abby Chastain to know that her husband had cheated with her sister, but it couldn’t be good.

“It really didn’t matter if the fling with his sister-in-law was true or not.”

Like hell. It mattered a lot.

“I just always had this feeling that he really never got over his ex-wife.”

“Did he say so?”

“Luke? Admit to being hung up on a woman who would have nothing to do with him? Nah. Not his style.” Maury raised his slim shoulders and shook his head. “But then who knows, maybe I got it all wrong.”

“The ex-wife couldn’t have liked the attraction to her sister.”

“Ooh, no. Ouch! You know what they say about love and hate.”

Bentz didn’t disagree, but he knew from personal experience that the line between love and hate was so thin as to be invisible at times. Passion was a hair-trigger emotion.

“Anyone mind if I look through his desk and his closet?”

“Knock yourself out, but that other cop—”

“Brinkman?”

“Yeah! Geez, why can’t I remember that guy’s name?” Taylor snorted. “Not a good sign. I need my memory man, need to think fast on my feet or in my seat.” He offered up a proud, toothy smile. The high school geek who’d just made a touchdown. “The station manager’s talking about making me the next Gierman. How ’bout that?”

Bentz figured the station manager wasn’t doing the listening public of New Orleans any great favors. “What about Brinkman?”

“Oh. Right. He already looked through Luke’s stuff. Took what he wanted. Luke’s desk is this way.” Maury guided Bentz down the main hallway, known as “the aorta,” through the labyrinthine corridors of the old building. They passed other employees as well as glassed-in sound booths and editing rooms. “What about Gierman’s girlfriend?”

“Nia?” Taylor snorted. “Nice ass. But not much upstairs, if ya get my drift.” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Not exactly a brainiac, and Luke, he’d get bored quickly if the woman couldn’t keep up with him. The physical chemistry was nice, always got him goin’, but that only lasts awhile, y’know.”

As if this guy were Casanova or Dr. Phil. The trouble was, in Bentz’s opinion, this time Maury Taylor was right. Wasn’t Bentz, himself, a prime example? He’d never planned to remarry after his first wife, but in Olivia Benchet he’d found a woman who was, he’d discovered, his mental match as well as drop-dead gorgeous. What combination was sexier than that?

Taylor, passing by a showcase of vintage LPs, was still rambling on, “Nia and Luke broke up—I guess you know that. From what I heard, she’d already found some new guy, a jock . . . even more of a workout nut than Luke, if ya can believe that. ‘Tall, dark, and handsome,’ she told Luke, then really stuck it to him. Claimed this guy was the best lover she’d ever had. Can you beat that? Ouch!” He looked over his shoulder at Bentz and gave him the we’ve-all-been-
there
look. “Turns out, little Nia had been seein’ this guy on the sly for weeks. How’s that for a turn of events? The cheater got cheated on. Some kind of cosmic justice.”

“Except that the cheater ended up dead.”

“Yeah,” Maury said, grimacing. “Except for that. Double ouch! Sucks, ya know?”

“Big time.” They reached the back of the building, where a rack of built-in desks vied for wall space with lockers. “What about Gierman? Did he have any other girlfriends, or exes that he might have teed off ?”

“Don’t think so. On the air he always acted like he had a girlfriend whether he did or not. That was part of the routine,” Maury said as he pointed out Gierman’s desk, where Sharpie pens were kept in one of those personalized cups with a picture of a chocolate Lab on it. On the bulletin board over the desk were snapshots of Gierman sailing, skiing, playing tennis, leaning against the fender of a sporty BMW, or romping with the same brown dog that was on the coffee mug—a virtual shrine to himself and his hobbies. An ego-maniac if Bentz had ever seen one. The only other photo was a small one of a woman Bentz recognized as Abby Chastain. In the picture she was staring out to sea, her curly red-gold hair was tangled in the wind, her lips parted into a sexy smile that showed a hint of dimple. She had the kind of eyes that seemed to delve straight into a man’s soul.

Yep, he figured, Maury Taylor was right. No one would keep a picture like this unless he was seriously hung up on the woman.

Bentz glanced back at Taylor. The smaller man, too, was staring at the snapshot.

“What did I tell you?” Taylor said, his jaw sliding to one side. “The only woman Luke Gierman ever really gave a damn about was his ex-wife.”

Montoya eyed the crowd, mentally checking off each of the mourners who had come to stand around the chapel door at All Saints College. A young priest, Father Anthony, stood straight-backed on the steps in front of the lancet-arched doorway. Flanking the fresh-faced priest was the old relic, Father Stephen, his bare head bent in prayer. Beside him was Dean Usher, the brim of her hat dripping in the rain.

Hundreds of students surrounded the chapel steps, each holding a candle, each listening raptly to the priest’s smooth, calm voice at this, the vigil for Courtney Mary LaBelle.

Chapel bells tolled softly as Father Anthony, a rapt, fervent individual, recounted the joy of knowing “Mary” and the tragedy that she, who had pledged herself to the service of God, was struck down, so young. So innocent. So trusting in God. Father Anthony’s white collar, a stark beacon in the night, stood in deep contrast to his black shirt and suit. The priest lifted his hands in supplication.

But he wore no vestments, Montoya noted, assuming the formal robes would be saved for the real funeral mass.

Wind rushed through the campus, causing the Spanish moss to dance from the branches of trees overhead, as Father Anthony warned that no one should be “heavy of heart” as Mary was with the Father now, she was safe and cared for, in a place far better than the rest of the crowd was.

Montoya listened with only half an ear.

The group of mourners prayed and cried, holding their candles in the darkness, and as they did, Montoya photographed them with a small, hidden camera. The pictures would be blurry at best, but they were at least something; he was certain Father Anthony would not approve a video camera with lights filming the students, faculty, and whoever else happened to stop by in his or her hour of grief.

Montoya only hoped that the killer would be hyped up enough to attend. Often times the murderer wanted to be a part of the investigation, to be close to the action, to revel in what he considered his superior intellect while the lowly police attempted to track him down. The killer would show up at the crime scene or the wake, or a vigil, joining with the others or hiding in the shadows, eager to be connected to the investigation and grief. It fed his ego to know that he was the mastermind behind the tragedy. It was usually only a matter of time before he showed his hand.

So, Montoya pretended to pray, to listen heedfully to the priest’s words of wisdom, but all the while he was checking out the faces in the crowd, noting which seemed out of place . . . not that appearances would matter. Some killers had the innate ability to blend in, to look more than normal, to appear so boring and bland that no one would suspect them of being able to slice their wife’s throat, or shoot the neighbor for scratching a borrowed lawn mower, or plan with meticulous detail the deaths of a string of victims.

At first no one had suspected serial killer Ted Bundy, a good-looking guy with a degree in psychology and a bright political future. Bundy had actually worked at a rape crisis center in Seattle. Then the BTK killer in Wichita was a compliance officer, a religious man who looked like an Average Joe. Closer to home there had been Father John and The Chosen One, neither of whom had raised anyone’s suspicions as they’d gone on their gruesome killing sprees. Dr. John McDonald, a brilliant young surgeon, was serving time for butchering his family, though he still vehemently protested his innocence.

No one, by looks alone, could identify a killer.

Meticulously Montoya photographed each and every individual who either genuinely or fraudulently expressed grief for Courtney Mary LaBelle. Someone who felt so fervently about the killings that they’d ventured out on this miserable, wet, blustery night.

As if to reinforce his thoughts, the wind gusted, causing candles to flicker and die, umbrellas to be whipped out of clenched hands, and in one case turned completely inside out.

“Let us pray to the Father,” the priest said, lifting his hands toward the heavens again, “and then come into the chapel for the rest of the service.” He folded his hands and bowed his head.

Everyone standing near the chapel did the same.

Except for Montoya.

“You said you’d call back,” Zoey accused as Abby answered the phone in the kitchen.

Abby’s gaze darted around the room. She was still creeped out by her experience at Our Lady of Virtues and couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Which was just plain paranoid.

No,
not
paranoid, just overly cautious.

The refrigerator door was hanging open, Hershey standing expectantly beneath it, while Abby, with her free hand, searched through the bottles of half-used salad dressing and sauces to find a container of yogurt.

“I waited for hours,” Zoey pouted.

Oh, get over yourself,
Abby thought. “I know, I know, Zoe. I’m sorry . . . time got away from me.” She was irritated that she felt the need to explain herself and apologize to her older sister. She was thirty-five, for crying out loud, not a baby, not a recalcitrant kid, not
Zoey’s
child. “I was busy. And no, I haven’t heard a word about Luke’s funeral.”

“It has to be soon, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know when it ‘has’ to be. If his family decides to cremate him, they might hold a service later. Look, Zoey, I’m not sure what my role in this is. Or even if I have a role. Ex-wife isn’t particularly high on the food chain, y’know. It doesn’t exactly mean I have royal status or even real ties to the family. But that said, I’ll pay my respects. It’s just that I’m not sure I had any. Not in the end.”