Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (128 page)

As he waited for his breakfast, he tried not to think about the killings, couldn’t yet let himself go to that place between wake and sleep where he relived the thrill, felt the thrum run through his veins, got off on the memory of their deaths. No, not yet . . . he needed his wits about him. And he also needed to take care of his injury, but not yet, not until he’d set his cover deeply, made sure everyone saw him having a leisurely breakfast.

Scanning the front page, he noticed that all mention of Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson’s deaths had been placed below the fold, though because of the funeral, Luke Gierman’s picture was at the top of the page. Other related stories were buried deeper in the pages.

“Real sick-o behind that,” a local trucker who delivered eggs said. He thumped the paper as he passed on his way to his favorite booth. The tag embroidered on his overhauls declared that his name was Hank. “Can’t wait ’til they catch that sumbitch and string him up by his balls.” He nodded, squared the bill of his trucker’s cap onto his head. “Yeah, I’ll like to see that. I listened to
Gierman’s Groaners
all the time. Can’t stand the fact that his sidekick, what’s the guy’s name?”

Maury Taylor, you imbecile,
he thought, but shrugged.

“Maury, that’s it. A real jerk wad, that guy. Ridin’ on Gierman’s coattails. Hell.” He rubbed his fleshy jaw, which sported two days’ worth of silver bristles. “Don’tcha just hate it.”

“Yeah,” he said as his platter of eggs, bacon, and grits was placed in front of him.

“Sorry about the broken yolk,” the waitress said. “New cook. You okay with that?”

No!

“I can get you a couple more.”

Don’t do it. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Smile and act like it’s no big deal that the cook is incompetent.
“This is fine,” he said.

“You’re sure? It’s no trouble.”

“I’m okay.”
Jesus, lady, back the fuck off!

“Well, then I’ll grab you a piece of pie. On the house. Pecan. Fresh baked.”

He nodded and Hank clapped him on the back. “Have yourself a good ’un.”

“You, too,” he said, momentarily shocked by the impact. He struggled for breath. Then Hank’s out-of-control gray eyebrows drew together over the tops of his thick glasses. “Hey, wha’d’ja do to yourself there?” he asked, pointing a thick finger at his shirt. “Cut yerself shaving?” Hank laughed but it sounded hollow.

He looked down. A red stain showed through his shirt.

He thought fast. “Chainsaw bucked the other day while I was cuttin’ brush.”

“Jesus Christ, man, you coulda kilt yerself. Gotta be careful with them things.”

“Hit a knot.” He nodded, pretended to show embarrassment that he couldn’t handle a tool. “I had it stitched up at the emergency clinic, but I think I’d better go back in.”

“Hell yes, you’d better go back in.” Hank frowned, nodded curtly, then lifted his hat and smoothed his hair before pulling the brim down low again. “See ya ’round.” Finally the old coot ambled back to his chair.

He zipped his jacket and ate fast, careful not to take one bite of the broken yolk. To appease the damned waitress, he even washed down four bites of pie with black coffee before leaving enough cash on the bar for the meal and a fifteen percent tip.

And all the while he silently cursed Billy Ray Furlough.

Well, the bastard got his, didn’t he?

Dawn broke as he drove through the small towns to the back side of Our Lady of Virtues’ campus. The truck bumped down an old forgotten road that had once led to a dairy farm, now long abandoned. He parked inside the barn, ducked through a hole in the fence, then headed down a path he’d walked years before, one that led to a private entrance to the bowels of the main building.

Once inside, he maneuvered through the maze of corridors and stairwells until he came to his private set of rooms, the ones he’d known years before and had reclaimed. Using his flashlight, he worked his way to an old surgery unit and there, in the drawers, found leftover bandages. Shrugging out of his jacket, he unbuttoned his shirt, then removed the soaking wads of gauze. As he took off the shirt, he saw that his blood was clotting, the flow had slowed considerably. If the bastard hadn’t managed to slice him, had just left a puncture wound, then it wouldn’t have bled so much in the first place.

Carefully, he cleaned the wound using cold water from the shower. He squeezed gel from a tube of antiseptic cream tucked into the reverend’s first-aid kit. Then he ripped open packages of sterile cotton gauze patches—courtesy of the old hospital—and placed them directly over the wound. He secured the bandage with adhesive tape, then wrapped his chest tightly with a stretchy Ace bandage that he’d found still lying in one of the drawers. The whole place felt ready for business, as if it had just shut its doors yesterday. But it had been a long, long time.

Only when he was finished did he carry his backpack to his private room and light candles at his shrine. He unfolded the secretary’s table, then reached into the pack and withdrew his new treasures. The rosary and revolver would go into one cubby together, shining blood-red beads wrapped seductively over the muzzle of the nickel-plated .357.

He fingered the other treasures, the watch and ring, the little gold cross and diamond-studded money clip . . . His collection was growing but it still had so far to go. Six items were locked away, but he needed eight more . . . all belonging to a special person, one of the chosen.

Opening a photo album, he examined the old pictures—the hospital, the staff, the patients, the nuns. There were other photos as well, for some of the players were not a part of the smiling group shots. Part of his mission would be to find pictures of them.

He’d chosen wisely, he thought. Spent years formulating and perfecting his plan. The fourteen men and women were not random. In a way, they’d chosen themselves, had they not?

He ran a finger down their faces, the ones that he’d marked with a red pen, and then he glanced up to the top of the secretary, where the framed picture of Faith Chastain stared down at him. He thought of her and their secret trysts so long ago . . .

And then as he heard the old pipes drip, and smelled the mold and death and darkness, he thought of the others . . . His mind reeled with the memory of each death, that pure moment, that heady feel of power, that potent sexual thrill . . .

He would hide.

Rest.

For a few hours, perhaps a few days.

“But not for long,” he vowed, staring at the photograph of Faith. “Not for long.”

CHAPTER 23

A
bby stretched and opened an eye. Sunlight was slipping through the blinds, striping thin slats of light across the rumpled covers where Detective Reuben Montoya was breathing deeply. One of his arms was thrown over his head, his lips open just enough to inhale and exhale puffs of air. His black hair was mussed, giving a decidedly boyish look to his normally serious features.

Recalling the night’s lovemaking, she smiled. Snuggling closer, she wrapped her arms around his torso, and spied the small gold ring in his earlobe. She kissed his temple, then nibbled at the tiny piece of jewelry.

“You’ve got half an hour to cut that out.”

“You’re awake.”

“Very,” he said in a low tone that seemed to throb through her.

In a quick movement, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him. He stared down at her. Then, he captured her lips with his and began rubbing her body intimately, touching all the spots that created heat to swirl and rise within her. Seconds later she joined in and they explored each other anew, rediscovering the passion that lingered from the night before.

She opened readily to him. As they made love, she closed her mind to everything but the pleasure that rippled through her body in deep, searing waves. It happened so fast it left her breathless and surprised by her own desperate response.

I’m falling in love with you,
she thought but didn’t let the words slip past her lips. No. She was enjoying this man, enjoying making love with him, but she wasn’t in love. She wasn’t about to mistake lust for love . . . yes, she cared for Montoya. She liked him. A lot. But that wasn’t necessarily love.

Later, when their breathing had slowed, Montoya looked up to see Ansel staring down from the bookcase. “Pervert,” he muttered.

“Maybe he’s taking notes.”

He grinned and rolled off the bed, searched a moment for his jeans, pulled them on.

“You’re spoiling my view,” she teased.

“Maybe you’ll get another look later.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Detective.”

“Fair enough.” He reached for his weapon, still lying on the dresser, and stuffed it into his waistband. “How about I make coffee?”

“Mmm.” She stretched lazily. “That sounds perfect.” She lolled her head to one side and tossed her hair from her face. “And let the dog out, would you?”

“Yeah, right. Just after I bring you the newspaper and a long-stemmed rose.” She watched him walk from the room, her mind’s eye imprinted with the muscular V of his torso, the smooth muscles sliding beneath the skin of his back, the low dip of his jeans.

I could get used to this,
she thought, lying back on the pillows to stare up at the ceiling. She bit her lower lip as images of their passion flashed behind her eyes. Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, she groaned aloud in embarrassed amusement. It had been so wonderful.

Hershey padded into the bedroom and hopped on the bed without an invitation.

“Hey, girl, how’re you?” Sitting yoga-like on the bed, Abby petted the dog. She felt a light thump as Ansel landed on the foot of the bed. The cat gave the dog a wide berth, then settled next to Abby on a pillow and began to purr.

She heard cupboard doors opening and closing and yelled, “Coffee’s to the right of the stove . . . upper shelf.”

More banging. Then she heard the back door open, a few seconds of silence, then it was slammed shut.

“He’s lost. I think I’d better go help, guys.” Quickly she threw on her robe and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where Montoya had just discovered the coffee and grinder. “Some detective you are.”

“Careful,” he warned, his lips curving. “I’m still the guy with the gun.”

She sobered slightly, remembering that Luke’s .38 was missing. “Need a hand?” she asked, settling onto a bar stool.

“I think I’ve got it now.”

“You’re sure?”

Near black eyes flashed in amusement and she found herself loving the way his hair fell over his forehead and the way his jeans settled low on his hips.

“Did you go outside?” she asked.

He nodded. “I checked under the laundry room window to see if there were any footprints, or any other sign of your thief. Nothing that I can see, but I’ll have someone from the crime lab come out and dust for prints and double-check the ground.”

“Doesn’t there have to be a crime committed?”

“You report the gun stolen, and I’ll pull a few strings. Then you get an alarm system.”

“I’m working on that,” she said. “So far the earliest I can get someone out here is next week.”

“Try All-Security. Mention my name.”

“You’ve got strings to pull there, too?”

“My brother Miguel works for All-Security. Has for years. I’m sure he can hook you up.” He ground the coffee, and as the screeching whir wound down, Hershey let out a quick bark and, toenails clicking on the hardwood, raced to the front door.

The bell rang.

“Company?” he asked, glancing at the clock. “At eight?”

“I don’t know . . .” Cinching the belt of her robe, she hurried to the door. Peering through the blinds, she saw Zoey looking back at her. Luggage was strewn over the porch and a rental car was parked in the drive near Montoya’s Mustang.

“About time!” Zoey said, hauling in a roller bag, computer case, and oversized purse as soon as Abby opened the door. Hershey scrambled and wiggled wildly around Zoey’s feet, as if she’d been missing Abby’s sister for months. “Hey, girl.” Zoey bent down and offered the dog some pets before straightening. “What’s with the car? That’s not your Mustang, is it? You didn’t finally trade in the old Honda? Or did you inherit one from Luke, or . . .” Her words faded as she spied Montoya, dressed only in his battered jeans, his side arm visible in his waistband, standing in the archway between the living room and dining room. “Oh . . . wow.” Her gaze returned to her sister’s. She cleared her throat. “A guy with a gun?”

“Zoey,” Abby said, feeling a blush stain her cheeks and wondering where in the world this was going to go. “This is Detective Reuben Montoya. He’s a
cop
with a gun and a black Mustang.” Abby looked at Montoya and motioned toward Zoey. “Montoya, my sister, Zoey.”

Zoey stepped forward and shook Montoya’s hand. “I guess I, um, came at a bad time.”

Montoya’s dark eyes glinted and he slid Abby an intimate glance, then winked. “Trust me, it could have been worse.”

“Ohhh . . .” Zoey looked envious.

Memories of their recent lovemaking flashed through Abby’s mind. She could see Zoey melting under Montoya’s charm. Just what she needed, her sister interested in her new man . . .
He’s
not
your new man, Abby,
she reminded herself sternly. Managing a smile, she resisted the urge to link her arm through the detective’s. “I think that was all the information my sister needs to hear right now.”

“Let me take those.” He grabbed Zoey’s bags and walked unerringly to the second bedroom, as if he carried guests’ bags through Abby’s house on a regular basis.

Zoey raised an eyebrow and couldn’t hide the smile stretching across her face as she watched him disappear. “Oh, Abby,” she whispered. “He’s—”

“He’s the detective investigating Luke’s murder,” she said, cutting off Zoe’s train of thought.

She looked surprised. “And he’s here, with you? The ex-wife? Isn’t that a major no-no? I watch those crime shows and the detective never gets involved with anyone close to the victim because it could—compromise the investigation.” Her green eyes slanted. “Not that I blame you, though.”

Sending her sister a warning glance, Abby said shortly, “Detective Montoya was just making coffee. You look like you could use a cup.”

“You got that one right. The flight was the worst. I mean
the worst
. From Seattle to Dallas, I sat between a bawling baby and stressed-out mom on one side, and a big guy who couldn’t get comfortable on the aisle. I was either retrieving ‘binkies,’ those pacifier things, or trying to shrink so the big man could play computer chess. Then I was hung up in Dallas and the next leg was worse. Mechanical problems, a new plane, no bin space, no food . . . speaking of which, what have you got?”

Montoya reappeared. He was smiling, obviously overhearing the tail end of their conversation.

“What?” Zoey asked.

“Nothing,” Abby assured her as they headed to the kitchen, Hershey bounding in front of them.

“A private joke?” Zoey asked. “How long have you two”—she wagged her finger between Abby and Montoya—“been together?”

“It’s not a private joke. More like common knowledge that my culinary skills are . . . limited.” Abby adroitly sidestepped Zoey’s question as she opened a cupboard. “So I’ve got toast and . . . peanut butter.”

“Is it fat-free?”

Abby gave her sister a look. “It’s peanut butter, Zoe. Plenty of fat and . . .” She picked up the jar and rotated it so that her sister could view the label. “. . . it’s chunky. Pieces of real peanuts. Not the fat-free kind.”

“I’ll take it. Beats what I had on the plane, though, you know, you could have stocked up.”

Montoya laughed.

“I see he knows you already,” Zoey grumbled. As Montoya poured cups of coffee all around, she slid onto one of the bar stools. “I’m telling you, I’m going to eat this and then do a face-plant on the daybed. Wake me up an hour before the funeral and I’ll pull myself together.”

“It’s at eleven.” Abby found half a loaf of bread in the refrigerator, examined the slices for mold, then slid a couple into the toaster.

“Good. I can sleep a bit before the service and then catch up if I need more afterwards.” She stared into her coffee cup. “I’m not looking forward to it.”

You and me both,
Abby thought.

A phone chirped from the living room.

“That’s mine,” Montoya said and strode out of the room.

Zoey, sipping from her cup, followed him with her eyes. “Nice butt.” She turned her gaze on her sister. “As a matter of fact, pretty nice all around.” Her eyes gleamed. “You should have told me.”

“It’s all new, I mean,
real
new.”

Zoey gave Abby’s state of undress and tousled hair the once-over. “Looks like you’re pretty involved.”

Abby didn’t like where this was going. “As I said, ‘new,’ I’m not sure how . . . involved . . . we are.”

“Run with it, Abs, the guy’s definitely hot.” She sipped from her cup. “But I don’t know about the whole cop thing.”

“I’m not marrying him, Zoe. We’re just . . .” What were they? Not dating. “. . . seeing each other.”

“Mmm.” Zoey took a sip. “Don’t blame you . . . not at all.”

“What do you mean, ‘missing’?” Montoya asked, his heart turning to stone.

The Mother Superior sighed. “I mean that we’ve searched the building, the grounds, everywhere. Sister Maria is missing. Her bed was obviously slept in, unmade, and . . . she’s just gone. I hated to call you, but she spoke so highly of you and told me if ever something was wrong, I was to phone you first.”

He was rapidly getting dressed, throwing an arm through a shirtsleeve, finding his socks and shoes.

“Who was the last person to see her?”

“I think I was.”

“Where?”

“At the door to her room, sometime before vespers, we passed in the hallway . . . and . . . oh, dear.”

“I’m on my way,” Montoya assured her, a cold hammer of dread pounding at his skull. “Don’t let anyone into her room or even in the hallway by the room. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He threw on the rest of his clothes, strode into the kitchen. Abby looked up from slathering peanut butter on a piece of toast.

“I gotta go.” He didn’t have time to explain, but she looked so damned seductive in the white terry bathrobe that he couldn’t stop himself from pulling her into his arms, kissing her hard, then releasing her. “Lock the doors,” he said, already heading out the door. “I’ll call later.”

“Okay.”

Zoey sat with the uneaten toast in front of her.

“My God, Abby,” she whispered. “He’s hot.”

*  *  *

“You’ve looked everywhere?” Montoya asked, trying to keep his cool as he sat in the chair in the Mother Superior’s office, a large wood-paneled room with a fireplace, broad desk, and windows that opened to the cloister.

“Everywhere in the convent. Everywhere she usually goes.” The woman, about half of his aunt’s height, was in her eighties, with papery skin, half-glasses, and eyes as blue as all of June. The lines around her lips were deep, but her mind seemed as sharp as it ever was. “Sister Maria is known to go on walks, alone. I’ve cautioned her against it, to take someone with her, but . . .” She sighed and shook her head slowly, making the sign of the cross over her thin chest.

“Have you searched the grounds?”

“Just around the convent here, but I’ve asked Mr. DuLoc to check the surrounding areas.”

“Lawrence DuLoc, right? The groundskeeper?” Montoya remembered.