Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (31 page)

It was Ty’s turn to lean forward. Looking over the two untouched glasses of iced tea, he asked, “You can threaten me all you want, Estelle. You can use all kinds of legal mumbo jumbo and spend thousands of dollars on the best lawyers in the country, but it’s all just thick smoke and mirrors. I’m not backing down, no matter what skeletons come dancing out of your closet. Something’s not right about your daughter’s death, and we both know it.” He stood and looked down on her, watching as her spine stiffened. “The difference is that I want to know what happened to Annie, and you don’t. Because you’re frightened of the truth. Why is that? What is it that scares you so badly?”

“Get out,” she said weakly.

“I’m going to find out, one way or another, you know.”

“Get out, or I’ll call the police,” she said. “I don’t think so, Estelle. I’m willing to bet that the police are the last people you want poking around in this. But it’s too late, because, whether you like it or not, the truth about Annie’s death is going to come out.”

“Go to hell,” she said, standing.

He flashed her a humorless smile. “Something tells me I’m on my way.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

“Does this guy look like the guy who grabbed you in the park last night?” Bentz asked.

He slid the computer-enhanced artist’s sketch across his desk to the girl, Sonja Tucker, seated on the other side. She’d filed a report early this morning that she’d been attacked late at night by a “guy in sunglasses,” and when Bentz had learned about it upon his return from the St. Pierre, he’d called and asked her to come back to the station, so here she was, looking nervous, a nineteen-year-old sophomore at Tulane University who was going to summer school and probably was lucky to be alive today.

“It could be,” she said, picking up the composite and studying it closely. She’d told the officer downstairs that she’d been on her way to a masquerade party last night. Dressed to look like a prostitute, she was waiting for the streetcar when a man had accosted her, propositioned her and hadn’t wanted to take “no” for an answer. He’d gotten pushy, tried to grab her and she’d responded by scratching him down the side of his face, then kicking off her high heels and running like hell through Audubon Park, hiding in some bushes near the zoo and learning the valuable lesson of life in the city.

Right now she looked scared as hell.

“It was dark,” she said, chewing on her lower lip.

“But—you got a look at him?”

“Kinda. There was a streetlamp, but he was wearing dark glasses and needed a shave and…” She stared long and hard at the composite and her fingers shook enough to cause the paper to tremble in her hands. Her skin was pale as death. “This looks kinda like him, “Sonja finally said, seeming to draw strength in her convictions as she stared at the computer-generated image.

“And he was a stranger to you?”

“Yes, oh, yes. I, uh, I never saw him before. I think I would have remembered him.” “Why?”

Again Sonja stared at the picture. “This sounds funny, I know. But he was handsome, kind of…in a dark, well, dangerous way. But then…well…then he started forcing me to go with him and he didn’t look so good.”

“Would you recognize his voice?”

“Uh—maybe. I don’t know.” Her confidence escaped her again.

Bentz was undeterred and pushed the play button on the recorder he’d positioned on his in box. Several tapes of “John” calling into
Midnight Confessions
had been spliced together and his low voice filled the room.

The girl shook her head, her ponytail wagging behind her, her eyebrows pulling downward. “I—I don’t know. It could be…Play it again.”

He rewound and pushed the play button.

Sonja worried her lower lip, and her features drew together as she concentrated. “It sounds a lot like him. I—I’m just not sure.”

The same response he’d gotten from Lucretia, the desk clerk at the St. Pierre. Bentz was more frustrated than ever. The picture that the artist had come up with was too generic, could be just about any white, dark-haired guy who kept himself in shape.

“Is there anything else you could tell me about him?”

“No, it was dark and over quickly. I reached for his glasses and he freaked. Like maybe he has weird eyes or something…I don’t know.” Sonja lifted a shoulder. “He tried to pull me down the street and I kicked his shin and scratched him and got away. I, um, guess I was lucky, huh?”

“Very,” Bentz said solemnly.

She cleared her throat. “He killed some other girl, didn’t he?”

“We think so, yes.”

“And he was threatening Dr. Sam, the radio psychologist on that tape.”

“Yes.”

“God, I wish I could help.”

“You already have,” he said, standing. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She gathered up her backpack, but took one last look at his desk. “Is that, is that your daughter?” she asked, motioning toward the bifold picture of Kristi.

“Yeah.” Bentz smiled. “One was taken a long time ago, when she was just going off to school, and the other one is her graduation picture. Taken just last year.”

“She’s very pretty,” Sonja offered.

“Takes after her mother.”

“Nah.” Sonja wrinkled her pert, freckled nose. “She looks a lot like you.” And then she was gone. With one of those coiled plastic key rings wrapped around her wrist and her backpack slung over one shoulder, she clomped out of his office in platform sandals. She was right about being lucky, Bentz thought. Sonja Tucker had been just minutes short of death the night before. One girl’s luck had been another girl’s doom. Losing Sonja Tucker had forced the monster to hunt someone else. His prey had turned out to be Leanne Jaquillard. Was it a coincidence that Leanne was connected to Samantha Leeds? Sonja Tucker had sworn not to know Dr. Sam, and though she’d listened to the
Midnight Confessions
program a couple of times, had never called in.

Not so the victim.

Leanne and Dr. Sam knew each other well.

He rubbed the kinks from his neck and plotted his next move. First they’d make the public aware there was a killer, second they’d put a trace on any call that came into the station. Now that there was a viable link from the killer to Dr. Sam, they had to protect her. They’d watch her house night and day and go through the damned list of people who knew Dr. Sam and Annie Seger.

He gazed down at the composite picture of John Fathers, whoever he really was. Square jaw, cleft chin, high cheekbones, thick hair with a prominent widow’s peak and dark glasses covering his eyes.

And scratches running down his left cheek where Sonja’s nails had scraped off his skin. “Who are you, you bastard?” he asked, glaring at the composite they would distribute to the media. He thought of the men in Samantha’s life—David Ross, Ty Wheeler, George Hannah—all tall, in good shape, with dark hair and sharp features. The computer operator had taken off John’s three-days’ growth of beard, had removed the glasses and substituted potential eyes, had even changed the hairstyle and cut…yet it was all just a crap-shoot. “And who’s the woman who called in and pretended to be Annie?” Bentz muttered.

The picture with its hidden eyes seemed to mock him. What was with the dark glasses and the blacked-out eyes on the hundred-dollar bills? And the strange ligature around the victims’ necks? What was all this garbage about sin and redemption?

Bentz made a note to go over the whereabouts of any man associated with Samantha Leeds who had been in the area since she’d returned from that trip to Mexico…the trip where she’d lost her ID, her purse, her keys. The trip where she’d decided to call it off for good with David Ross.

He was missing something, he knew it. Something obvious.
Think, Bentz, think!
Who was in Houston nine years ago? Who was here now? Why did anyone want the Annie Seger suicide dredged up again?

He considered Ty Wheeler, who had inserted himself into Samantha Leeds’s life after the Mexico trip. From all reports, he and Samantha were now lovers. That stuck in Bentz’s craw. He didn’t like the guy. Didn’t trust him. Wheeler had admitted to writing a tell-all book about Annie Seger’s death, had even come up with a theory that she’d been murdered rather than committed suicide, but in Bentz’s estimation, it was all hype. The Houston PD had ruled suicide and that was good enough for him. Wheeler was just out to make a quick buck.

He took a couple of calls, received a fax of crime-scene evidence and wasn’t surprised the hairs from a red wig had been found in the hotel room. A few minutes later Melinda Jaskiel appeared in his doorway.

“Tell me what you think about the murders,” she suggested, folding her arms over her chest and leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. From the outer office the sound of voices, phones and clicking of computer keys could be heard.

“I think we’ve got one sick sumbitch on our hands, possibly two.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Bentz expanded on his theory and brought up Norm Stowell’s report, which Melinda had already perused. They talked in generalities for a while, then came back to the murder of Leanne Jaquillard.

“So the girl’s mother has been notified?” Bentz asked as he glanced at pictures of the latest victim strewn upon his desk.

Melinda Jaskiel nodded, picked up one of the shots, and scowled at the death scene. “I’m talking to the press in an hour. It’ll be short and sweet, but I’m going to confirm that we have a serial killer on our hands, warn women to lock their doors and stay inside or only go out at night in large groups. We’ll distribute the composite drawing and tell the public that they need to be wary, that the killer is escalating and that anyone close to him, a girlfriend or a wife, could be in danger. You know, the same old drill. We’ll hold back key evidence, information that only the killer knows so that any nutcase who comes in and confesses will have to prove that he’s legit. Otherwise, we’ll get any idiot who wants a chance to claim a little infamy in here spilling his guts. I’ve talked to the FBI. Everyone on the task force agrees.”

“You’re not going to mention the link to Dr. Sam and
Midnight Confessions?”

“Not yet. Have you spoken to her?”

“I’m on my way out there. Just waiting for Montoya. I thought it would be better if we do it in person, at her place. From what I understand she was pretty close to Leanne Jaquillard. The kid was part of a weekly group session for troubled teens that Samantha Leeds holds at the Boucher Center.” Bentz rolled back in his chair, and it creaked in protest. “I guess she had some family trouble. No dad and a mom who’s a real piece of work.”

“I talked to Marletta Vaughn,” Melinda said flatly. “Not exactly June Cleaver.”

Bentz smiled grimly at the comparison. “You know, the last time the creep called Samantha Leeds at the station, he threatened her. He told her…wait a minute I want to get this right.” He rolled back to the desk and held up the finger of one hand while he flipped through pages in his notebook. “Oh, here we go…he said, and I quote, “All you need to know is that what happens tonight is because of you. Because of your sins. You need to repent, Sam. Beg forgiveness.’

He pushed the notebook aside. “Even though we found the other victim—Cathy Adams—on the night of Annie Seger’s birthday, it seemed to be coincidence, not related. Another perp altogether, so I was hoping the birthday cake left at the station was all that would happen. But I was wrong. Turns out this girl”—he thumped a finger on the picture of the latest victim—“Leanne Jaquillard was murdered by the guy who registered as John Fathers, who, I believe is the ‘John’ who calls Dr. Sam at the station. It all fits, Melinda.”

“Okay, so if you’re right, and this is all tied together, that ‘John’ and our killer are one and the same,” Melinda said, “how do you explain the call from the woman who claimed she was ‘Annie’?”

“I’m still workin’ on that, “Bentz admitted.

“Do you think it’s someone so devoted to this ‘John’ that she would do his bidding?”

“Or it could be someone who hates Samantha Leeds. Someone who’s jealous of her, either personally or professionally, or someone who thinks she was wronged by her, as if she took away an old boyfriend, say the first Mrs. Jeremy Leeds or maybe the current one who doesn’t like her husband’s ex’s getting so much attention, a coworker she’s stepped on while climbing to the top, or a rival like Trish LaBelle over at WNAB, the rival…I’m not sure.”

“Or ‘John’ could have paid someone,” Melinda thought aloud. “You think the call from Annie was recorded, right? So he could have hired a woman off the street to make the tape and say she was Annie.”

“Now you’re sounding like Montoya. With him every crime is about money.”

Jaskiel curved an eyebrow upward. “It usually is you know, Rick. Not all of us are noble idealists.”

“None of us are,” he corrected her. “Not around here.”

“No?” She laughed and seemed suddenly more feminine, less imposing. “Maybe you’re right, but it seems to me I’ve heard the hoofbeats of Rocinante echoing through the halls, and they usually stop right about here.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Montoya asked as he breezed in, looking cool as ever despite the heat.

“Never mind,” Bentz said.

Jaskiel threw Montoya a look. “Don Quixote’s steed.” “Jesus, how do you know this shit?” Montoya asked. “I read,” she replied. “And this is something you should remember, it’s part of your Spanish heritage.” “Yeah, like I care.”

Bentz explained, “And she does crossword puzzles and watches
Jeopardy.”

“When I have the time. Speaking of which”—she checked her watch—“I’d better get ready for the fourth estate.” She flashed them her most-practiced smile. “Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Better you than me,” Bentz said, as she disappeared.

“You ready to rock’n’roll?” Montoya asked.

“Just about.” He handed Montoya the composite.

“This our man?”

“In theory.”

“Shit, he could be anyone.”

“I’m having the computer tech take some photos of the men in Samantha’s life and Annie Seger’s life, those with type A blood, which, unfortunately is most of them, then I’m going to have the computer compare them. It should narrow the field.”

“Let’s hope,” Montoya said without a lot of enthusiasm.

“Let’s go.” Bentz snagged the paper from Montoya’s hand, then reached for his sidearm and his jacket. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Samantha Leeds about the dead girl, but it was better she hear it from him rather than on the five o’clock news.

Priscilla McQueen Caldwell wasn’t happy to see him, not one little bit.

Ty didn’t care. He figured that as long as he was in Houston, he should check out everyone associated with Annie Seger. Many of her friends had moved away, but Prissy was still in town, living less than a half hour from the airport, and Ty was standing on her front porch while the late-afternoon sun beat against his back. “I don’t know why I should talk to you,” she told him, blocking the doorway to the interior of the small bungalow littered with toys. Over her shoulder he caught a peek of a playpen and infant swing, but no baby. Probably napping.

“I’m just trying to find out about Annie. You were her best friend. You knew that she was pregnant, and you probably knew that the baby wasn’t Ryan Zimmerman’s.”