Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (152 page)

“What’re you doing?” he demanded.

“Calling my father’s house.”

“Eve, he’s gone. I already phoned the police. They’ve got to be at the farm by now. They’ll answer and come directly here.”

But the call was connected, already ringing through. No one was picking up. Eve swallowed back her fear.
Come on, Dad, answer!
Her heart was beating a thousand times a minute, nervous sweat rising on her back and palms. When Terrence Renner’s voice mail answered, she said, “Dad? This is Eve. I’m sorry to call you so late, but I thought you’d want to know that…that I’m back in town…. I, um, should have called earlier. Call me back.”

She hung up, clutching the phone tightly, as if it were a lifeline.

Cole was pale as death.

She said, “No one answered.”

Cole took the phone from her hands as fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, darlin’,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and folding her shivering body against his. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“He can’t be dead. He can’t be….”

Strong, steady arms held her firmly and for a second she collapsed against him, accepting the grief that rose like a giant within her. The fingers of one hand curled over his biceps, and she fought the urge to strike out, to flail at him, to scream and rail to the heavens. Instead she held the feelings inside, apart from silent tears.

For just a minute.

Just long enough to catch a glimpse of their reflection in the window, a ghostly image of two lovers entwined. She squeezed her eyes closed. This was a mistake of gargantuan proportions, an irreversible error. She couldn’t trust him. Not for a second! Stiffening her spine, she pushed away from him. “Leave.”

“What?”

“Get the hell out of here, Cole.” Still trembling inside, she crossed her arms under her chest and glared up at him. “I don’t need you or want you here. If you’re telling the truth, then the police are going to show up here soon, and they’ll be all over you. You’ll be back behind bars before you can think twice. If you’re lying and have come here for some other reason, to get back at me, to play a cruel joke, or whatever, I don’t want anything to do with you, and I will call the police. Make no mistake. Either way, you’ll spend the rest of your first night as a free man back in jail.”

“I’m not lying.”

She believed him but steeled herself. “Fine. Go.”

“Eve.”

“Really, Cole. Get out.”

The muscles in the back of his neck tightened. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I’m fine.”

He hesitated. “I don’t have a phone. If you want to call—”

“I won’t.”

He seemed nearly convinced, when his gaze landed on the table where all the scraps of newspaper were spread. “What’re these?” he demanded, and before she could say a thing, he switched on the Tiffany lamp suspended over the table. He started to pick up one of the clippings, and she said, “No! Don’t touch anything!”

“Why? What’re you doing?” He scanned a few of the articles. “Making a scrapbook? About the days you spent at Our Lady of Virtues?”

“No.”

“Pinking shears?” He sent her a sideways glance full of questions. “Wait a minute. These are all about Faith Chastain.”

“I know.”

“She was Abby Chastain’s mother.”

“So?”

Frowning, he read each of the articles. “Abby Chastain is Montoya’s fiancée.”

“Reuben Montoya? The detective who…”

“Yeah. That one.” He looked baffled. “So, why are you interested?”

“I’m not.…I mean, these were left in my car.”

“
What?
When?”

“Today, I think.” She explained quickly, and the muscles in his face tightened.

“Why today? Why now?”

“I don’t know…but…”

“What?” he demanded.

In for a penny, in for a pound,
she thought. “I got a couple of weird phone calls today.”

“Today?”

She nodded then told him about the calls—the one on the road and the one less than half an hour earlier with its raspy voice that warned her, “
He’s free.”

Cole studied her soberly as he listened to her narrative. His eyes narrowed and his lips became a thin crease, but he held his thoughts in check.

Eve finished with a helpless gesture in his direction. “The next thing I know, you’re pounding on my back door.”

A muscle clenched in his jaw. “I don’t like it.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You need to go back to Atlanta. Or anywhere else. I don’t think it’s safe here.”

“Now, wait, this is my home.”

He stepped forward. “Two men are dead, Roy and your father. They were killed violently, viciously, and Eve, you were hit by a bullet. The day of your father’s murder, you get a packet stuffed into your car and strange phone calls. Eve, you need to leave. Drive to Atlanta, or at least check into a motel tonight. In Lafayette or Baton Rouge or anywhere else, but you really have to leave.”

“I’m not leaving. I need to know about my dad.”

“Oh hell, Eve!”

Her cell phone jangled, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Glancing down at the screen, she saw her brother Kyle’s number.

“Hello?”

“Eve!” Anna Maria’s voice sounded strangled. “Ohmigawd, I’m sorry to call so late, but Kyle’s not here and I just got a call from a friend of mine who works for a newspaper in New Orleans. He’s always listening to the police band, and he said there was a possible homicide and the victim’s name is Renner. He’s not supposed to have that information until everything’s confirmed and the next of kin is notified, but he thought…Oh Mother Mary, is it Dad? The address sounded like the farm and…and I don’t know what to do and…”

“No one’s called me,” Eve said, refusing to look at Cole, refusing to fully believe.

“I’ve tried to call Kyle, but he’s not picking up,” Anna babbled. “He’s an idiot when it comes to operating a cell phone. And then I didn’t see any reason to call Van, as he lives so far away, and until we know what’s happening…” She paused, and Eve heard the click of a lighter, then a deep breath.

“Don’t call Van.”

“Someone should. I tried to call Dad, but no one answered. Just the damned machine.”

“I’ll drive out there,” Eve assured her, and she saw Cole react out of the corner of her eye.

“No…you’ve gone through too much already. Kyle should be handling this!”

“It’s all right, Anna. I’ll take care of it,” Eve insisted, although it almost felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience. Her phone stuttered in her ear. “Look, I’ve got another call coming in. I’d better take it.”

“Call me back!”

“The minute I know anything, I promise.”

Cole’s eyes found hers. Then Eve glanced down at her phone. She recognized the prefix on her LCD as one for the parish in which her father resided. She snapped the phone closed without answering and gave Cole a twisted smile. “That was Anna Maria.”

“And the other call?”

“My guess—the sheriff’s department. You said the police would call back, didn’t you?”

A muscle worked in Cole’s jaw. “Yeah.”

The phone rang again, and she glanced at the luminescent screen. “Same number.”

Cole gritted his teeth. “They’re on their way to inform you of your father’s death.”

“Then you’d better take off.”

He hesitated a fraction, swore under his breath, and stared at her so hard she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he reached for the handle of the door and yanked it open. With one foot over the threshold, he glanced back. “For the record, I’m really sorry about all this, Eve, really sorry.”

She swallowed hard.

“It’s not over, you know.”

She gazed at him. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand what he was talking about.

But she knew better than to think there was anything left between them.

She shook her head, but he’d already disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER 10

B
entz climbed into the cruiser, and Montoya threw the car into reverse, flooring it.

“Fill me in. What’ve we got?” Bentz asked, looking pissed as hell. Montoya hadn’t explained, had just told him that they had a case and he was on his way, that he would pick Bentz up at the cottage he shared with his wife, Olivia, in the swampland on the outskirts of the little town of Cambrai. Grumbling, Bentz had said he’d be ready, which today meant faded jeans, no socks, slip-on shoes, and a sweatshirt.

“Terrence Renner. Dead. Killed with the same MO as Royal Kajak.”

“Shit.”

“On the first day that Cole Dennis is out of prison,” Montoya added, his headlights cutting into the predawn gloom. “A buddy of mine from the parish where Renner lived called me. Knew about the Kajak case and thought we’d be interested.”

“We are,” Bentz said with a snort. He was a big man, a guy who had to fight his weight by working out with a punching bag, a man who had to battle his addictions day by day.

“How stupid is Dennis?” Montoya asked, his leather jacket creaking as he reached up to adjust the mirror.

“He’s not.” Bentz ran a hand around his unshaven face and glared out the windshield. “He’s a smart-ass attorney. A street kid who worked the system, kept his nose clean after getting into some trouble as a juvey, and somehow got through college and law school. Graduated third in his class.”

“He knows how to work the system.” Montoya braked as he rounded a corner, then hit the gas again as they reached the freeway. He punched it, and the Crown Vic shot forward, flying along the pavement. The engine thrummed, the tires whined, and the police band crackled as Bentz, solemn, held onto the door handle with his usual white-knuckled grip. “Dumb prick.”

“Dennis isn’t dumb,” Bentz reiterated.

“He broke the terms of his bail.”

“Yeah.” Bentz didn’t sound convinced.

Montoya was having none of it. He wanted to nail the slime-ball so bad he could taste it. “Look, man, he screwed up. Tried to see Eve Renner while he was out last time.”

Bentz grunted.

“And he was found with weed. Pulled over because his taillight was out. Opened his glove box and—looky here!—out falls a baggie of pot.”

“My point. Why would Dennis do something so spectacularly stupid?”

“Cuz he’s obsessed where Eve Renner is concerned. He can’t stay away from her.”

“And the taillight and baggie? A fuse was taken out of his car. Missing. Someone removed it. So he’d be pulled over. Then, when he goes to get his registration, the weed falls out.”

“What are you try in’ to say?” Montoya demanded, flying around an eighteen-wheeler before cutting across to the off-ramp.

“You think the son of a bitch was set up?”

Bentz shook his head, reached into his pocket then came up with a stick of gum that he unwrapped and popped into his mouth. “Why not hide the weed somewhere else?”

“Cuz he’s an arrogant SOB who is above the law.”

“And the fuse?”

“He could’ve taken it out to replace something else.”

“He was out on bail, knew the terms.” He chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes while Montoya negotiated the winding country roads leading to Terrence Renner’s farmhouse. “Nah.”

“He’s our guy!” Montoya couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. He and Bentz had been working the Roy Kajak murder for months, trying to put the pieces together, always coming up with the same answer: Cole Dennis was the killer. Cut and dried. Now his partner was waffling. Shit! Montoya was tired and cranky and didn’t need Bentz pulling a one-eighty on him now.

They drove through a podunk town with a single stoplight blinking red at the main intersection. No one stirred. It was so quiet, it gave Montoya a case of the creeps. He liked the city with its bright lights, open-twenty-four-hours atmosphere, and action. This was way too quiet.

“Just doesn’t feel right,” Bentz said, his gum popping. “Something’s off.”

“Everything’s off.” Montoya stepped on it, heading deep into the Louisiana farmland. While Bentz stewed about the case, silently turning it over in his mind, Montoya tried to fit the pieces together as well. He’d been called by a deputy from this parish, a guy who had worked in the city and recognized the connection between this case and Kajak’s. Montoya and Bentz would have to tread gently in case the sheriff decided he didn’t want any New Orleans cops messing inside his jurisdiction. But if it turned out this kill matched Roy Kajak’s enough that a serial killer was suspected, then the Feds would join the manhunt…unless Montoya could collar Dennis and throw his ass in jail first.

He saw the flashing lights before they’d reached the turnoff to Renner’s house. A car from the sheriff’s department was already parked at the end of the lane, nearly blocking traffic, while two uniformed officers discouraged anyone—from the curious, to neighbors, to the press—from turning in. Other official vehicles were parked nearby, along with a van from a New Orleans television station, two pickups, and a sedan, all of whose passengers stood outside, staring at the farmhouse. Montoya nosed into a spot across the road then climbed outside into the night that smelled of recent rain and turned earth. Frogs were croaking loudly, and he heard a police officer’s radio crackle.

The two New Orleans detectives approached the two officers standing guard. Montoya and Bentz introduced themselves and flashed their badges while Montoya explained that they’d been called to the scene.

“You still need to log in,” the tall, skinny deputy said. His hat was a size too big, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his teeth slightly bucked. His nametag read Deputy Blair Mott.

Both Montoya and Bentz signed the crime-scene logbook.

“Anyone keeping track of these people?” Bentz asked, motioning with his pen to the ragtag group of bystanders who had collected beside their cars.

“Yep. Checked their IDs. Even wrote ’em down.”

“Good. Anyone else stop by?”

“Nah. A couple of lookie-loos slowed down then took off, including the paper guy. It’s early yet. In an hour or two we’ll get more action. People gettin’ up and go in’ to work or makin’ deliveries.”

“Thanks.”

Careful to disturb as little as possible, Bentz and Montoya walked along the tracks leading to the house. The scene was already crawling with crime-scene investigators, detectives from the sheriff’s department, and someone from the coroner’s staff. A videographer panned the rooms of the house, where bright lights had been set up. Bonita Washington from the crime lab was giving orders to Inez Santiago, who was measuring blood spatter, and A. J. Tennet, who dusted for prints. Measurements were being taken, the rooms dusted for fingerprints or shoe prints, a vacuum used to suck up any unseen trace evidence. Bags of evidence had already been collected.

They walked into the kitchen where a bottle of booze was being examined and a tray that had once held ice was half filled with water.

Down a hallway and through open French doors they found the crime scene—a den where embers in the fireplace glowed red under white ash. Renner’s body lay on the floor in a pool of blood, his forehead marked with a tattoo. A newspaper was on the floor, an overturned glass beside it.

“Jesus,” Montoya said and noticed that his partner’s complexion had blanched, jaw muscles working as if he were trying to keep whatever was in his stomach down.

On the wall near the top of Renner’s head, the number
101
had been scrawled in blood. Probably Renner’s. Just like Kajak.

“The number is wrong,” Bentz said.

Montoya sniffed loudly. “We don’t know that. We only know that it doesn’t match the other killing.”

“Copycat?” Bentz offered up. A few facts from the Kajak homicide had never been given to the press. The actual number written on the wall of the cabin had been withheld. Just in case some nutcase tried to claim he was the murderer. With a few facts secret, the police were able to sort out the looney tunes from the real players. “Someone with a grudge against Renner who read about Renner’s association with Kajak and thought they could pin this on the other doer.”

“My money’s on Cole Dennis.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bentz’s gaze swept the interior, landing on the officer in charge, Detective Louis Brounier, a burly African-American man with silver hair, fleshy face, and intense eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

“Look familiar?” Brounier asked, and Montoya nodded.

“Who called this in?” Bentz asked.

“The caller didn’t ID himself, but the call came from Renner’s land-line, and it wasn’t Renner.” Brounier pulled out a small notebook and flipped back a few pages, his big face creasing as he scanned his notes. “A male phoned 911 at one forty-seven
A
.
M
. today. He said, ‘There’s been a murder. Dr. Terrence Renner. Someone killed him. At his house.’ Then there’s a two-second pause while he comes up with the address.”

“You think it was the murderer?”

“Maybe. Whoever it was didn’t stick around. By the time the first officer arrived, the place was empty, back door unlocked.” Bushy eyebrows rose in speculation. “By the way, no forced entry.”

“Anything missing?”

“Not that we can tell. Yet. We’re still looking. But if robbery were the motive, the killer missed out on some expensive art, and Renner’s wallet was in his back pocket. All his ID, credit cards, and nearly a hundred bucks. His stereo is here, his television, and he’s got one of the new expensive ones, as well as his computer, a desktop in a bedroom upstairs.”

“Laptop? Cell phone?”

“Haven’t found either.”

“Anyone see anything? Any phone messages?”

“Not that we know of. Two phone messages came in just after the first officer arrived. One from Eve Renner, the victim’s daughter. Another from Renner’s daughter-in-law, Anna Maria Renner. Deputy Mott didn’t answer either call. He wanted to hear what kind of messages they would leave.” Brounier walked to the answering machine in the kitchen and hit the play button. The breathless, worried voice of Eve Renner filled the room.

“Dad? This is Eve. I’m sorry to call you so late, but I thought you’d want to know that…that I’m back in town…. I, um, should have called earlier. Call me back.”

Brounier clicked off the machine. “That call came in at two fifty-one, according to this machine.”

“She knows,” Montoya said, his heartbeat quickening, the synapses in his brain moving so quickly he felt agitated, nervous, already ahead of the game. “How could she know unless whoever had done it had called her?”

“You don’t know—”

“No one calls their parent at three in the morning unless you want to give them a heart attack. She was worried about him, otherwise she would have waited until the morning.”

“Maybe something happened to her, and she needed to talk to him. Maybe she hurt herself, fell, or—”

“Oh shut the hell up, Bentz. You don’t need to play fucking devil’s advocate. Eve Renner knows because someone told her, and that person is the killer.”

Bentz turned to Brounier. “Maybe,” he conceded. “So, where did the call originate? Eve Renner’s been in Atlanta.”

“Caller ID says the call came in from a New Orleans number. I checked already. It’s her house. The second one, that’s the call from Atlanta.” He hit the play button again.

“Dad? This is Anna Maria. Could you call me back? I just want to make sure you’re okay. I’ve, uh, I’ve got this friend who works for the paper. He called and said there might be some trouble at your place, so I kinda got worried. Kyle’s not home right now, but you can probably reach him on his cell. But you can call here. Okay? Please. Just let me know that everything’s fine. Love ya.”

Click.

“Stupid reporters,” Brounier said. “Listening in on our bands. I know they’re just doing their jobs, but hell, they’re such a pain.”

“So Eve Renner’s back in New Orleans,” Montoya whispered. “Same day that Cole Dennis is released. Same damned day that her father gets himself offed. How much of a coincidence is all that?”

“You know how I feel about coincidences,” Bentz muttered.

“Don’t believe in ’em.” Brounier took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with the tail of his shirt.

Montoya said, “Someone from the department should go and give Eve the bad news.”

“A unit’s already been dispatched,” Brounier said. He checked his watch and scowled. “They should have reported back to me by now.” His mouth pursed in aggravation, and Montoya guessed Louis Brounier suffered no fools, especially if they were underlings.

“Anything else you can tell us?” Bentz asked.

“Not until we gather more evidence and sift through what we’ve got. It looks like the victim was surprised, attacked, his throat slashed, and then, as he was bleeding out, the killer wrote the number on the wall with a finger.”

“The vic’s finger,” Montoya said, adding, “If it’s the same killer.”

“Then there’s the number tattooed on his forehead. One hundred one, same as on the wall.”

“Same MO as the Kajak homicide,” Montoya said, “but a different number.”

Bentz stared at the body then glanced up at Montoya. “Got to be the same guy.”

“Now you’re talkin’.”

Brounier’s cell phone jangled. “Brounier. What? Oh for Christ’s sake! Now? No…no, I’ll be right there.” He clicked off and looked at Montoya. “The daughter’s here.”

Eve saw the police cars, flashing lights, officers, and news crews parked haphazardly on the road running past her father’s small farm and felt ill all over again. She found a spot near the neighbor’s fence, nosed her Camry into the weeds, and pulled to a stop. Saying a quick prayer, she climbed out of the car and half ran toward the end of the lane, where a skinny officer was standing guard. The night was bone cold, or so it suddenly seemed. She pulled her hastily donned jacket more tightly around her.

“I’m Eve Renner,” she said as she reached the deputy. “I need to see my father.”

“Sorry, ma’am, no one’s allowed. Crime scene.”

“But I’m family. Terrence Renner is my father. I lived part of my life in this house,” she said as if the man hadn’t heard her correctly.