Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (48 page)

“You’re not buying the ESP-voodoo thing.” Montoya swallowed a smirk.

“Not yet.” They started walking to their Crown Victoria. “We’ve got to figure out what makes her tick. You talk to Brinkman. Pull out anything he’s got on her, no matter how insignificant. He must have notes or a file or something. And see if she talked to anyone else, here in the city or in the surrounding parishes. She acts like there are other murders, so check around and I’ll contact the FBI. They can put it through their computer.”

“They’ll want another task force, if this is linked.”

“Fine.”

“I didn’t think you liked working with the Feds.” They dodged a few remaining firemen and thick hoses.

“Nah. That’s not it. Long as they don’t get in my way.”

They reached the cruiser and Bentz slid into the passenger side. He wasn’t going to leave any stone unturned when it came to the psychic—just what the hell was her angle?

“So, maybe we should check out the local priests,” Montoya suggested as he climbed behind the steering wheel.

“Maybe. And while we’re at it, maybe we can find one with a rap sheet for arson and murder,” Bentz joked.

Montoya snorted a laugh as he started the car. “The nutcase’s vision was right on the money, wasn’t it?”

“Either that or she was involved.”

“Ya think?”

Bentz shook his head as he conjured up the desperation in Olivia’s eyes, the genuine fear in her expression, the way her teeth sank into her lower lip and worried it when she was telling her story. “I don’t know what to think.”

Montoya backed up and jockeyed the Crown Vic between the other rigs. “If she was involved, why come to us? Nah, that doesn’t wash.”

Bentz didn’t think so either, but weirder things had happened. He wasn’t leaving anything to chance. “We’ll see.”

“Yeah, I’ll check with DMV, Vital statistics, the SSA.”

“Once I get the preliminary information on her and the ME’s report, I’m going to have another chat with her.”

“Man, she really nailed this one. I mean
nailed
it. Ten to one we find a burned-out radio and some necklace on the shower head, just like she said.” Montoya’s dark eyes held his for a second. “Somethin’s up with that woman.”

#x201C;It sure is,
Diego.”

“Hey, that’s what I go by these days,” Montoya shot back as he turned off the side street.

“Why?”

“My heritage.” He patted the video sticking out of his jacket pocket.

“My ass.” Bentz stared out the window. “Diego,” he snorted.

“It just sounds good, don’t ya think?”

“Whatever.” Bentz didn’t care. Chewing his tasteless gum, Bentz glanced at the video cassette and wondered what it would show. Probably nothing. Unless the tape caught the image of a fleeing suspect, or someone in the crowd of curious onlookers at the scene whom none of the neighbors recognized, and who might be the killer watching the aftermath of his destruction. Or possibly one of the neighbors himself. Either way, Olivia Benchet was the best lead they had.

Chapter Six

The phone was jangling as Olivia opened the front door. Dropping her bag on the kitchen table, she swept up the receiver while Hairy S streaked into the living room. “Hello?” she said, cradling the receiver between her shoulder and ear as she unwrapped the cover to the bird’s cage. Green feathers ruffled as Chia, the parrot, gave off a sharp whistle.

“Livvie?” Sarah’s usually upbeat voice was soft. Sober. That could mean only one thing. Trouble with her husband. Again. Leo Restin had a problem with fidelity. A major problem. Monogamy wasn’t in the man’s vocabulary. He just couldn’t seem to keep his hands off other women. He’d even had the nerve to come on to Olivia, his wife’s business partner, a few months back. Leo’s unwanted attention was one of the reasons that had propelled her from Tucson. She’d told him to back off, threatened to confide in Sarah, but he just pressed on. Insufferable jerk.

“What’s up?” Olivia asked with a wink at Chia.

“It’s Leo.”

Big surprise.

“He’s disappeared again.”

That usually meant he was with a woman. Olivia wrapped the cord of the phone around her hand and stared out the window to the mists rising off the bayou.

“He just doesn’t give up, does he?” She didn’t respond. “You know what you should do, Sarah.”

Sarah sighed. “I don’t believe in divorce, Olivia. I know it’s crazy, but I still love him.”

“He’s using you.”

“I just have to wait until Leo grows up.”

That could well be forever. “He’s thirty-five,” Olivia pointed out. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“I don’t know, but I really love him,” she said. Her voice wobbled a bit. “I know, I sound pathetic, like one of those loser women who puts up with everything because she loves the jerk. But I really do care about him and … and you don’t know what he’s like when there’s no one else around. He can be so sweet.”

“That’s why so many women fall for him.”

Sarah sucked in her breath.

“Sorry—I couldn’t help it,” Olivia said quickly. “I hate to see you keep getting hurt. If you keep letting him, he’ll keep doing it.”

“I know, I know, but
nobody
in my family gets divorced. I’d be the first one in my direct lineage.”

“Did all the others put up with this kind of garbage?”

“I guess. I don’t know. I grew up believing that everyone got married and lived happily ever after. Oh, they might fight and yell and even break up for a while, but in the end, it all worked out.”

“Fairy tales.”

“Divorce isn’t easy.”

“It shouldn’t be. Getting married should be harder.”

Sarah chuckled. “Yeah, maybe. So how’s it going there?”

“Not great,” Olivia said, but didn’t explain about her vision. Sarah, despite her flirting with New Age religion, had solid roots in Catholicism. Another lapsed believer, but one, Olivia sensed, ready to return to the fold. Wasn’t she one herself? “It’s not going to be as easy as I thought to sell this place.” She glanced around her grandmother’s cabin with its gleaming wood walls and floors shining with over a hundred years’ worth of patina. Tall windows with narrow panes offered a spectacular view of the bayou. The insulation was practically nil, the plumbing and electricity added decades after the original construction and now were outdated and probably dangerous. “I have a lot of work to do before I put it on the market and then I’m not sure I want to. It’s been in my family forever.”

“So you haven’t decided if you’re going to stay in New Orleans?”

“I know I’ll stick it out until I finish my master’s. Then, who knows?”

“Still working for that little store in the square?”

“Part-time. Around school.” She leaned a hip against the counter and thought of the eclectic clientele of the Third Eye. Located in a cubbyhole across from Jackson Square, the store boasted an inventory of everything from dried alligator heads to religious artifacts. New Age to voodoo with a smattering of Christianity in between. “How’s business in Tucson?”

“Great,” Sarah said as if she meant it. “I met with a new artist who’s going to display her things in the back nook. Consignment, and I’ve got a couple new lines of crystal pendants that are selling like crazy. But I miss you. It’s not the same.”

“Didn’t you hire someone?”

“Oh, yeah. I hired a
girl
, not a partner. A girl with tattoos on her arms and not just rings in her nose and eyebrows, and wherever else she can find a tiny fold of skin, but safety pins! Can you imagine? She looks like she should be working for a tailor, not a New Age shop.”

Olivia laughed. For the first time that morning. “Careful, Sarah, your parochial school roots are beginning to show.”

“Forbid the thought.”

“Next thing I know, you’ll be wearing a plaid skirt, blazer, and knee socks to work.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.” Olivia glanced at her grandmother’s tattered cane rocker at rest near a pot overflowing with the shiny leaves of an ever-growing jade plant.

“Oh, I’ve got a beep, I’d better go….”

“Talk to you later,” Olivia said, knowing that Sarah was eager to get off the phone and check the other line. Sarah, the eternal optimist, probably thought the caller would be a recalcitrant Leo, tired of the new woman and ready to crawl back on his hands and knees, to beg forgiveness from his loving saint of a wife.

Hairy S gave off a bark and twirled in tight little circles at the back door. “Wanna go out?” Olivia asked as she swung the door open and the dog scurried outside. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and the air was sticky with the threat of rain. The dog ran the length of the porch to disappear into a thatch of tall grass and cypress, sniffing the ground searching for squirrels or possum or whatever marsh bird he could scare up.

Olivia’s stomach rumbled. It was ten in the morning and she’d been up for seven hours, existing only on coffee and adrenalin. She opened the refrigerator and scowled at the lack of groceries—two eggs, a chunk of cheese, a half-loaf of bread, and a bottle of catsup. “Omelette time,” she remarked, as she heard Hairy S pad inside. “How about you?” She opened the pantry, where a half-full bag of dog chow was tucked beneath three shelves of canned peaches, apricots, and pears that her grandmother had preserved. At the thought of the old woman, Olivia felt a pang of sadness. It was just damned hard to lose someone who loved you so unconditionally.

After measuring a cup of dry food into Hairy S’s dish, she added parrot seed to Chia’s cage and stroked the parrot’s smooth green feathers. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Grannie had asked when she’d first brought the bird home. “They’re messy as all get-out, I know it, but Wanda owed me some money and offered me Chia. I couldn’t resist.” Grannie’s eyes had twinkled and Chia had been a member of the family ever since.

“Grannie was right, you know. You are beautiful,” Olivia told the bird, who stretched her brilliant wings and picked up some of the seeds in her dish.

Olivia turned on the radio and stuffed two slices of bread into the toaster. As the dog made short work of his breakfast, she fired up the stove and whisked the eggs together. Patsy Cline sang about love lost.
Great. Just what I need to hear. What an upper,
she thought as the eggs began to bubble and she grated the wedge of cheese. The final notes of the song began to fade, and “Ramblin’ Rob,” the deejay, cut in to give some story about the old country classic recorded shortly before the star’s death. His deep, baritone voice slid easily out of the speakers and he spoke as if he knew all of his listeners personally. Which Olivia liked.

In the few short months she’d been back in Louisiana, Olivia had come to recognize some of the local newscasters and deejays. The radio station she listened to more often than not was WSLJ, the same station where Samantha Leeds aka “Dr. Sam” dispensed her nightly advice to her callers, the same station she’d “heard” last night during the vision.

The damned vision.

She felt that same icy presence rush through her soul each time she thought about that horrifying murder.
So don’t. Don’t think about it.
But even as she was mentally reprimanding herself, a jagged memory of the victim begging for forgiveness skittered through Olivia’s brain. Distracted, she slid her knuckles along the side of the grater. “Ouch. Damn.” Blood oozed up from her skin and quickly she sucked on her fingers, then turned on the faucet and let cold water run over her hand. “I’m an idiot,” she muttered at Hairy S. “Truly an idiot.”

The truth of the matter was Olivia was troubled because she couldn’t put the nightmare behind her. She’d hoped talking to the police would help. But Bentz’s blatant doubts had stopped her cold. She’d thought, from reading the article in the paper, that he might be different, more receptive, but he’d been nearly as bad as Brinkman. “Jerk,” she muttered.

Maybe Bentz’s doubts are well founded. Maybe it was all just a dream, a really horrible, bad dream.

“Yeah, and maybe I’m the Queen of England,” she growled as she wrapped a paper towel around her fingers and managed to sprinkle a handful of mozzarella onto the eggs.

The toast popped.

Olivia slid the slices onto a plate and was reaching for the tub of margarine when she heard the newscast. “… a three-alarm fire last night took the life of one woman who has yet to be identified. The blaze broke out near three this morning near Bayou St. John …”

Olivia sank against the counter and listened to the short bit of information. The press had only the basics. A fire. A woman dead. Suspected arson. Nothing about homicide. Nothing about a murderer escaping into the night.

But Rick Bentz knew.

And he’d be calling.

She didn’t have to be a psychic to know that much.