Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (156 page)

“Why?” he cut her off, skewering her with a gaze that had caused more than one would-be assailant to think twice.

“I told you.”

“I mean
why
, after what you’ve gone through, would you want to dwell on this crap?”

“Probably for the same reason you do.”

He scowled, pushed the basket aside, and leaned across the table. “What about that nutcase who called himself the Chosen One, huh? Remember him?” When he thought of it now, the black fear that had enveloped him during the hours Kristi and Olivia had been held captive, Bentz still felt chilled inside.

“It’s over, Dad,” she said, but he didn’t believe her. Such a harrowing, mind-twisting ordeal was never over, never completely forgotten.

They finished the basket, and he paid the check.

“This is something I want to do, for me,” she said as they headed outside. “I thought you’d be all for it.”

He glanced at her skeptically. As she started to step off the curb, distantly he heard the roar of an engine and caught the flash of chrome out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he grabbed her arm and jerked her back onto the sidewalk. A motorcycle, engine roaring, took the corner fast, skidded through the crosswalk, and nearly wiped out.

“Holy crap!” Kristi cried, her eyes wide.

Bentz glared after the disappearing bike but didn’t catch the plate. Every muscle in his body had flexed, taut as bowstrings. He realized he was still holding on to his daughter’s arm in a death grip and slowly uncoiled his fingers. “Sorry.”

“No…it’s…it’s okay,” she said, still shaken. “I saw him and I heard him, but I just thought he wasn’t turning.”

“Neither did I, but I couldn’t be certain.” He grabbed her arm again and gave it a squeeze. “I couldn’t take a chance.”

“Okay, Dad. I get it. You’ve made your point. But I am going to write a book about a real case, one that I find fascinating, and it will probably be one of yours, so”—she flashed him a blinding smile—“you’re going to have to find a way to deal with it.”

CHAPTER 14

E
ve stood on one side of the glass and watched as the sheet was pulled back. Her father, his skin pale, his eyes closed, lay on the slab. She thought of all the things she wanted to say to him, all the things she never could. They’d been close once, long ago when she’d been a little girl and her mother was still alive. After Melody Renner’s death, they’d grown more distant rather than closer. And then there was Tracy Aliota, a girl under her father’s care, a girl who, like Eve, had rebelled, but had gone further, a girl who had ultimately lost her battle with sanity and her life. Though no criminal charges had been filed against Dr. Terrence Renner or the hospital where Tracy had been treated, the girl’s family had taken him to court for wrongful death. Cole Dennis and the high-profile, high-priced law firm of O’Black, Sullivan and Kravitz had convinced the jury that Terrence Renner hadn’t failed his patient, that he’d done everything possible, that in no way whatsoever was Tracy Aliota’s condition mis-diagnosed, nor was Dr. Renner responsible in the least for her death.

The only person who hadn’t been convinced in the courtroom, other than Tracy’s grieving family, had been Eve.

I’m sorry, Dad,
she thought, her throat hot.
Oh God, I’m so sorry. If only I’d talked to you, if only I’d tried…. If only…

“Ms. Renner?” Montoya asked, his voice low.

“It’s him,” she said, nodding, her insides twisting as she stared past the glass. Her father’s body had been cleaned. She could see the gash around the base of his neck and the dark, garish tattoo embedded into his forehead.

She imagined the last seconds of his life. The pain. The terror.

What kind of monster would do such a thing?

Who?

Why?

Shaking, she sniffed and ran a finger under her eyes to wipe away her tears.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, cleared her throat, and stiffened her spine. The headache that was forever her companion threatened to rise again, but she ignored it, didn’t have time to deal with it. “Get the bastard who did this,” she told Montoya.

“Believe me, I’m trying. But I do have some questions.”

“Fire away.”

“Maybe we’d better do this at the department.”

“Wherever.” She didn’t care; she just wanted to get through the interview.

“Great.” Montoya called Bentz, and they met Bentz in his crammed office. His desk was littered with reports and old coffee cups, and a dying plant was withering in a pot on top of a filing cabinet. The room was stuffy and close despite an open window through which the sounds of the street filtered in. As she took a seat in one of the chairs near the desk, Eve watched two pigeons flutter near the window ledge and listened to the hum of tires and rumble of engines along with some impassioned street preacher begging passersby to “accept Jesus into your hearts.”

Montoya didn’t bother sitting, just stood near the filing cabinet.

“What is it you want to know?” Eve asked as Bentz pulled out a small pocket recorder, shuffled some papers out of the way, and set the machine on the cleared desk blotter that had seen better days. Rings from ancient coffee cups were visible as he pushed the record button then identified everyone in the room, noting the date, time, and place of the interview.

“Okay, for the record, tell us what you know about the night your father died.”

She did, explaining about driving to New Orleans from Atlanta, the panicked calls from Anna Maria, and her own attempt to reach her father. For now she left out any mention of Cole or the fact that she thought she was being followed. Montoya leaned against the file cabinet and didn’t say a word, content, it seemed, to let Bentz ask the questions. It took nearly an hour, and finally, just when she thought they were about finished, Montoya pushed himself away from the cabinet and took up a spot in front of Bentz’s desk. “Okay, Ms. Renner, so here’s the thing. Your story hangs together except for one thing. We’ve listened to your father’s answering machine and are in the process of getting his phone records. Your call came into his house
before
the call from your sister-in-law. I’ve made a duplicate from the answering machine we found at the scene.” He pulled a small tape recorder/player from his pocket and hit the play button.

Eve tried to remain calm, but her fingers curled of their own accord as she heard her panicked voice.

“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.”

“That call, the one you just heard, came in at two fifty-one. Then later, at three oh-two, we get this…”

“
Dad? This is Anna Maria…. 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.…Kyle’s not home right now, but you can probably reach him on his cell….. Just let me know that everything’s fine.”

“See the problem?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You knew something was wrong before your sister-in-law called.”

The detectives were silent, still staring at her. “I just wanted to talk to him.” She wasn’t going to tell them she’d learned about her father’s death from Cole. Not yet.

“The other problem we have is that someone, a man, called in the murder.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know, but we’re going to compare the 911 tape to other voices we’ve got on record. We thought maybe you might know.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t know. But…do you think the man who called was the person who killed my father?”

“Could be. Or a witness.” Montoya folded his arms over his chest, his black leather jacket creaking with the movement. “We just have a lot of leads to follow.”

“Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?” Bentz asked.

“Maybe.”

The cops waited.

“I think I’m being stalked. Someone’s following me, calling me at all kinds of weird hours, and leaving me the same message.”

“Which is?”

“‘He’s free.’ The voice is male, I think, low and rough, as if he’s whispering to disguise it, and I have no idea who it could be.”

“He’s referring to Cole Dennis? Or someone else?”

“Cole, I think. The calls started about the time he was released.”

Bentz’s expression darkened.

Montoya shot him a look that Eve couldn’t decipher.

She reached for her purse and pulled out the manila envelope she’d tucked inside. “I don’t know if this is connected or what it means, but there have been some strange things happening to me too. I think I was followed from Atlanta, and someone put these in my car.”

Using a handkerchief, Montoya picked up the envelope then slowly spilled its contents onto the desk near Bentz’s recorder. The jagged-edged clippings, looking like snowflakes from a kindergartener’s art project, scattered over the ink blotter. “What is this all about?”

“I don’t know. My dad was the chief psychiatrist at Our Lady of Virtues Hospital for some time, and that woman, Faith Chastain, was one of his patients, I think.”

Montoya’s head snapped up. “Faith Chastain?”

“All of the articles are about her, not just the hospital. I’m sure there have been dozens of stories written about the hospital itself, or the staff, or its closing, or whatever, but these stories are all about Faith Chastain. You two are mentioned too, in a couple of them…. Oh, there’s one.” She pointed to one of the clippings in which both detectives were quoted.

“You don’t know where these came from or why?” Montoya demanded tersely.

Eve shook her head. “Someone broke into my car and left them in the glove box, but as to why, I don’t have a clue.”

If possible, Montoya grew even more serious. Patiently he asked her to go over her story a couple of times. She explained about the dark pickup but could provide them no concrete information, no license number, not even the make or model of the truck, just that it was full-sized, very dark blue or black, and that the windows were tinted. “If I were to guess, I’d say it was a domestic pickup, but I really can’t be sure.”

“But you think it’s in New Orleans.”

“I think, but I can’t be certain. I thought someone was following me earlier today, but I could be wrong.”

“Can we keep these?” Bentz asked, motioning toward but not touching the clippings.

“Sure.”

“Has anyone else touched them?”

She thought of Cole and how he’d read the articles, nearly picked one up, but hadn’t when she’d told him not to. “Not since I received them.”

“Have you shown them to anyone else?”

“No, Detective. I just received them yesterday.” Oh, how easy it would be for them to catch her in another lie. All they had to do was talk to Mrs. Endicott, who no doubt had heard enough of her conversation with Cole while he’d been on the porch to point the police in the right direction.

“Can you tell me about your relationship with your father?” Montoya asked as the tape continued to record and Bentz took a few notes on a small spiral pad.

“It was pretty good when I was a child, but then, as I hit adolescence, we grew apart. We, uh, we weren’t that close in the last few months. Not quite estranged, but…but just not as close as we once were.”

“Because of the Kajak murder?”

“No—it was before that.”

“Because of your relationship with Cole Dennis?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“Dad and I really drifted apart after he was accused of being responsible for the suicide of one of his patients.”

She didn’t elaborate, and Montoya asked suddenly, “Your mother’s deceased?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Heart failure. When I was sixteen, about fifteen years ago. Why? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just filling in case history. You have a brother living in Atlanta and one in…?”

“Phoenix…well, Mesa, really. But I think they’re currently both in New Orleans. Van, he’s…well, the middle child, the younger of the two. He just called me and said he’s here for a convention of spa dealers, and he told me Kyle was on his way here, though I haven’t talked to him.”

“Will they be staying with you?”

“I doubt it. Van didn’t say anything about it, and Kyle doesn’t like to spend the night at other people’s homes. He’d rather live in a hotel. He doesn’t like to play by anyone else’s house rules.”

“Is that so?” Bentz asked.

Eve shrugged. “It’s not like we were all one big happy family, okay? My dad adopted Kyle and Van when he married my mom. The boys were half grown when my parents adopted me.”

Montoya’s eyes turned dark as night. “So Terrence Renner isn’t your biological father?”

“Right.”

“Who is?” Bentz asked, leaning forward, his pencil unmoving.

“I don’t know either of my biological parents. I asked a few times, got no answers, was told mine was a closed adoption, which I guess means my birth parents don’t want to hear from me.” Eve’s mouth twisted. “It was a private thing, arranged by an attorney, and, well, Mom died before I got any real information from her, and Dad was always so vague. I always figured I’d try to locate my biological parents someday. What’s the worst that could happen? I’d get a door slammed in my face?” She sighed. “I never got around to it.”

Montoya scratched at his goatee as Bentz said, “We’ll need the phone numbers of your brothers.”

She gave them Kyle’s house number in Atlanta, then said, “Just a sec” as she found her cell phone in her purse. Scrolling down the menu on the phone, she found the cell numbers for Kyle, Anna Maria, and Van. “I don’t have Van’s home number anymore. He moved to Mesa not long before I was injured, and I always just call his cell and leave messages.”

“That’s all right.” Bentz was writing on his notepad. “What about enemies? Did your father have anyone who would want to harm him?”

In her mind’s eye she saw Tracy Aliota’s grieving parents and brother as they’d sat in the courtroom, hearing the verdict of “not guilty” ringing to the rafters. They’d fallen apart, Tracy’s mother, Leona, nearly crumpling. If not for her husband’s strong arm, she might have fallen to the floor. Tracy’s older brother, J. D., had been red faced and seething, his eyes burning with the certainty that a dark injustice had been done. “I suppose,” she said, giving the detectives a quick review of the Aliotas’ grievances. “They were probably not the only patients who were unhappy, though none that I know of had gone so far as to sue him. But he did deal with people who were mentally ill.”

“Psychotics?”

She nodded.

“What about personally?” Montoya asked.

She thought hard. “My brothers’ father—their biological father, Ed Stern—didn’t like him much. Blamed him for the divorce, as I understand it, but he ducked out of the picture early. When the boys were very young, he gave up all parental rights. I’ve never met him, and as far as I know, my brothers haven’t seen him since he took off.”

Bentz was still taking notes.

“Anyone else?”

She shook her head. “I think my father got into some legal thing about use of an access road that cut across the farm…with the neighbor, Hugh Something-or-other…. Hugh…Hugh Capp, I think, but I only heard Dad say something about it a couple of times, and that was five or six years ago. As far as I know they resolved whatever it was.”

“What about professionally? Any enemies?” Bentz asked.

“I really don’t know.”

“Or patients or staff at Our Lady of Virtues—that’s the last hospital where he was on staff. Afterward, while he was in private practice, he worked alone, right? And was just associated with a small, private hospital”—Bentz flipped back a few pages in his notebook—“St. Andrews, not far from Slidell.”

“That’s right,” she said, remembering the small hospital across Lake Pontchartrain.

“Do you know anyone who held a grudge against your father at either of the hospitals?”

“No. You’d have to ask someone who worked there,” she said, feeling her headache toying with the edges of her brain again. “There must be records.”

The detectives asked a few more questions before the interview wound down, and by that time Eve’s headache was back in full force. Montoya escorted her through the department and down the stairs. When she was outside again, she finally felt like she could breathe.