Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (51 page)

“Well, yeah, of course, but it’ll be kinda crazy up here with everyone leaving for Thanksgiving and all. And I’ve got some stuff I’ve got to do at the house that might hold me up. I figured coming up here might not be your thing.”

“Or
your
thing,” he said, recognizing a touch of resentment in her voice. He’d insisted she rush and pledge a sorority house. He wanted to know that she’d have a built-in support system at All Saints College, that she wouldn’t be pressuring him to let her lease an apartment at the age of eighteen. He wanted her to grow up, he was trying to let go, but he wanted her to be safe. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the latest grisly crime scene with a mutilated woman. He knew as well as anyone how dangerous the world could be. That’s why he’d spent an arm and a leg on tae kwon do and firearm lessons.

“Yeah … well, I just thought I’d check in.”

“I’ll see you next week.” He offered her an olive branch. “If it works better for you to ride down with friends, just let me know.”

“Okay, but …” She sighed loudly and he imagined she was shoving a tangle of red-brown hair from her eyes. “… here’s the thing. There’s this girl Mindy and she got all excited. Her mom’s single, and oh, guess what? She just happens to be a cop and she’s coming to pick up Mindy. They’re going out to dinner before driving back to Shreveport. So, of course, Mindy thinks it would be
waaaay coooool
if you two hooked up.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“Mindy’s a dweeb. And her mom’s a detective. God, can you imagine? The two of you?”

Bentz laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll come up and it’ll be just you and me. Tell Mindy that I have to get back right away or that I’m already involved with someone … or something.”

“You? Involved? You mean like with a woman? In a relationship?”

“Yeah.”

“But …. you’re not.”

“How do you know?”

There was silence on the line, then a little nervous laughter. “Oh, yeah? Right. And when would you have time for a relationship? Give me a break, Dad, you are like
married
to your job.” She chuckled and the sound reminded him of her mother’s laugh—deep-throated, kind of naughty.

Jennifer Nichols’s laugh had caught his attention when he was little more than a kid himself, barely out of high school, and it had never let go. He’d thought she was beautiful with her long, dark hair, mischievous eyes and sassy tongue. They’d been attracted to each other immediately, their affair torridly passionate. She’d had a temper, but he was a man who could handle her moods and when he’d proposed barely five months after meeting her, she’d accepted. She’d expressed a few doubts about marrying a cop and imagined she could convince him to go to law school; he’d thought he could tame her reckless spirit. They’d both been wrong. He’d sensed it at the wedding, seeing her walk down the cathedral aisle in her lacy white dress barely nine months from the day he’d first seen her. Her veil hadn’t been able to hide the imperious lift of her chin and as awed as he’d been by her, he’d sensed theirs wouldn’t be an easy path. But he hadn’t cared. He’d loved her too damned much. Even through the bad times. Even when she’d betrayed him….

“What woman would want to get ‘involved’ with a homicide dick?” Kristi demanded.

“You don’t think your old man has a social life?”

“I
know
he doesn’t.”

“Then maybe I
should
meet your friend’s mother.”

“Yeah,” she tossed back at him. “That would be good, Dad, real good.” She snorted. “Save me,” she muttered, then caught her breath. “Damn it all.”

“What?”

“I forgot my stupid term paper! It’s back in my room on the other side of campus. Shit. I gotta go, Dad.” The line went dead and Bentz didn’t hang up for a second. He glanced at her graduation picture smiling at him from the desk frame. She’d grown up fast. Faster than most. Kristi had seen far too much in her eighteen years, been robbed of some of her innocence at a tender age. And it was his fault. His and Jennifer’s.

What kid wouldn’t have a chip on her shoulder after going through what Kristi did? Not only had she buried a mother and watched her old man pull himself out of a bottle, she had to deal with the fact that both her parents had lied to her from the get-go.

Not exactly
Ozzie and Harriet
, Montoya had remarked. Didn’t he know that there was no such thing?

Chapter Ten

Melinda Jaskiel, his immediate superior and the reason he had this job with the department, breezed in. Melinda was usually all business. He’d never seen her in anything but a suit. With her hair cropped short, rimless glasses, and a no-nonsense attitude, she was professional to the letter. Middle-aged, divorced, and physically fit, she handled the men she oversaw with an iron fist hidden within a kid glove.

“Tell me about the murder off Esplanade.” She folded her arms over her chest and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “I read the preliminary report on this one and heard a rumor that you have an ‘eye’ witness who wasn’t there.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“So—what do you think? Does this woman really have visions? ESP?”

“She seems to have firsthand knowledge of what came down. I think it was more than a lucky guess.”

One side of Melinda’s lips pulled upward. “Always the master of understatement, aren’t you, Bentz?”

“You know it’s my personal mission to serve, protect, and filter out the crap.”

“And you’re doing a fine job of it,” Jaskiel assured him.

“I don’t put much stock in psychic mumbo jumbo. ESP usually means Easy Sucker Punch or Exceptional Shit Pile.”

“Maybe you should try to keep an open mind, okay? There are cases on record where psychics did actually help the police.”

“Yeah, I know,” he admitted grudgingly. He’d had a partner in L.A. who worked with a psychic. The woman had helped him with a couple of cases but hadn’t been able to predict that a kid would point a toy pistol at him one night and Bentz, thinking the twelve-year-old intended to shoot, had taken him out. Nope, the damned psychic hadn’t said a peep before the tragedy. Bentz had ended up on probation, then promptly decided Jack Daniels was his best friend. His job in the City of Angels ended. He’d been lucky Melinda Jaskiel had seen something in a broken-down cop and hired him when every other department in the country had decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. “You know what they say is the problem with having an open mind?”

“That your brains will fall out? I’ve heard that one, Rick.”

Bentz smiled. “I was going to say people might accuse you of being a pansy ass and not having an opinion.”

“I doubt if that’ll be your problem.” She shook her head. “And since when do you care what people think?”

His grin widened and he winked. “Not people, Jaskiel. Just you.”

“Save that for someone who’ll believe it. So how’re you handling this?”

He gave her the rundown, everything from the vision, to the videotape, to the information from Benchmark Realty and Brinkman’s reports on Olivia’s previous visits to the Department. “Olivia Benchet knows more than she should. It makes me wonder why”—he held up a hand—“except that, of course, she’s a psychic and just happens to ‘see’ murders.”

Melinda sent him a withering smile. “So does the lady have an alibi?”

“Just her dog and he’s not talkin'.”

“Seriously.”

“She was home in bed. Asleep. The vision woke her up.”

Melinda thought a second. Couldn’t seem to put her mind around it. “I assume you’re checking her out.”

“Done deal.”

“Okay, so keep me posted on the case. When you see the evidence report and the ME’s report, let me know.” She started out the door, but thought better of it. “And, Bentz, don’t pull any of that rogue-cop crap on me, okay? We need to play this by the book.”

“Wouldn’t
dream
of it.”

“My ass.”

“And it’s a nice one,” Bentz said.

“Careful. There is such a thing as sexual harassment these days.”

“You love it and you know it,” he said. “Besides you’re the boss.”

“Keep that in mind. Now, let’s give the witness in this case, Ms. Benchet, some credibility. Okay? It’s odd and she could be jerking our collective chains, but just maybe she does have some kind of visions. Look into it.” Jaskiel patted the door frame, then left.

“You got it,” Bentz muttered under his breath. So he was supposed to believe whatever Olivia Benchet peddled his way? He was supposed to buy that she had some psychic experience. How? Was she connected to the killer? The victim? The house where it happened? Why did she “see” this particular murder? Why not others? Did she confess to the priest? Or maybe he confessed to her. What the hell was the connection? Bentz stretched out of his chair and scratched his chin. Keep an open mind. Shit. He didn’t know if he could. Believe that a woman actually “saw” a murder miles away?

That would be a trick.

So Bentz doesn’t believe you. So what?

Not exactly a surprise, is it?

Olivia’s grip tightened on the steering wheel of her truck as she wound her way into the Garden District on her way to the University. She’d hoped that Detective Bentz would trust her, that he would sense she was desperate, but of course, he was just like all the others.
Men
, she thought disgustedly as she stopped, waiting to turn into the University while the streetcar clacked past. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d run into her share of women skeptics as well. Starting with her mother.

It was late afternoon, shadows lengthening over the nearby colleges of Tulane and Loyola. She parked in a designated spot, then jogged to the psychology department. Images of Detective Bentz chased after her, but she was determined to push his handsome, craggy face, and all thoughts of the murder aside. At least for the moment. She made her way up a flight of stairs to the office of Dr. Jeremy Leeds, her professor and, she thought, noting the irony, the ex-husband of Dr. Sam, the radio psychologist at WSLJ. Olivia didn’t much like the guy; he seemed pretty stuck on himself, but as he was her assigned counselor, she had to put up with him for a year or so.

No one was seated at the secretary’s desk, so she wended her way through a labyrinthine hallway and knocked on the door to Leeds’s private office. No answer. She tried again, her knuckles, where she’d scraped them earlier on the cheese grater, aching a little. “Dr. Leeds?” she said just as she heard footsteps rounding a corner.

“Olivia! Sorry I’m late.” His smile was wide. Apologetic. In his mid-forties, with strong features, a long, straight nose and a neatly trimmed beard, he shoved open the door and held it for her. His shoes were polished to a gloss, his casual jacket looking as if it had cost a small fortune. Natty was the word that came to mind whenever she thought of Dr. Leeds. Well, ‘natty’ and ‘fake'; there was just something about him that didn’t ring true. Nothing she could put her finger on, but something. “I had to run down the hall to catch a colleague, Dr. Sutter, before he left for the day. He’s only here part time and it’s the weekend, you know, so I was fortunate to grab him.” Leeds was patting down his pockets for his keys and rattling on, as if he were nervous. “Dr. Sutter and I are offering a two-day seminar in the spring you might be interested in. You’ve heard of him? Ah!” Leeds found his key ring as Olivia lifted a shoulder. All she knew about Sutter was by reputation, that he was a difficult taskmaster. Leeds inserted his key into the lock. “Anyway, he and I started talking, and well, I guess I’m playing the part of the absentminded professor.”

She didn’t think so. Jeremy Leeds was sharp as a straight-edged razor. There was something too smooth about him. Cold. She felt it now, just being near him.

“Come on in.”

She took a chair near a small window and flipped open her folder of notes, all of which she’d taken before last night. Before, she was certain, her life had changed forever. Dr. Leeds slid into his chair on the other side of the desk—as tidy as Detective Bentz’s had been cluttered. A calendar sat on one corner, a humidor of cigars on the other. The room was small and compact, with a smattering of degrees and artwork hung on the walls. “So, what have you got there?” he asked, indicating her work. “A premise for your thesis?” He slid a pair of wire-rimmed glasses up his nose.

“Just the germ of an idea.”

“Oh?” He was interested. His eyebrows lifted. “Did you want me to go over it?”

“Actually I just wanted to run some thoughts by you. It’s not on paper yet.”

“Of course.” He leaned back in his chair, tented his fingers, and waited.

“I’d like to do my thesis on aberrant psychology as it applies to religion.”

“Really?” His smile faded.

“I’m thinking of the psychology of prayer and penitence as it applies to Judeo-Christian theology.”

“That’s quite a mouthful. Don’t you think it would be better suited if your area of expertise was theology or philosophy?”

“I think I could make it work. And it’s what interests me,” she added, not inclined to explain any further. “You offer undergrad classes on aberrant psychology and criminal psychology and I thought I’d sit in, if that was okay.”

“Yes, yes, that’s not a problem.” He nodded, turning the idea over in his mind. “Tell you what. Go ahead and run with this, but bring me a written proposal, an outline of your thesis, and we’ll go from there. How does that sound?”

Just peachy
, she thought, but said, “Great. I’ll call and we’ll set up an appointment.”

“Good, good.” He stood—ever the gentleman—and she left feeling that at least one small detail of her life was back in place. She’d been struggling with a concept for her thesis. If nothing else, the murder last night had sharpened her focus.

She hurried downstairs and outside, where the shadows had turned to dead-on night. Though it wasn’t quite five, darkness had blanketed the city and street lamps were glowing, giving the grounds an eerie feel. Olivia had always thought the massive limestone facade of Gibson Hall looked as if it belonged to part of a medieval castle, and now, in the darkness with the first few drops of rain beginning to fall, it seemed more imposing than ever.

Crossing the thick grass, she headed for the parking lot, found her truck, and slid behind the wheel. She wasn’t alone. Other students hurried by, but somehow tonight, after the events early this morning, she felt isolated. Detached. She plunged the key into the ignition and pulled out of the parking space. Knowing she was probably making a huge mistake, she drove deeper into the city. For a macabre reason she didn’t understand, she felt compelled to drive by the scene of the crime.

Just like the killers are supposed to do.

Traffic was messy. It had begun to rain in earnest and huge drops fell from the sky, pelting the streets and running down the windshield so fast that the wipers could barely slap them away. Taillights glowed red, seeming to smear through the glass as she wound her way to the other side of Canal Street and through the French Quarter, where umbrella-wielding pedestrians filled the sidewalks and sometimes spilled into the streets. She turned on the radio. WSLJ was playing jazz and it grated on her nerves. Maybe it was just from being overly tired and wrung out, but she couldn’t stand the thought of vocal interpretations and riffs. She found a country station and cranked up the volume.

Better to listen to pining and heartache.

Yeah, right.
She clicked off the radio.

On the east side of City Park she squinted at the street signs until she found one she recognized, then rolled down the narrow street until she came to the charred, burned-out building. Not much was left, she thought as she pulled close to the curb and climbed out of her little truck.

Crime scene tape roped off part of the yard and all of the debris and ash. Her shoes were no match for the water rushing through the street, and the jacket she kept in the cab had no hood. Nonetheless, she threw it over her shoulders and waded across the street to stare at the soggy, blackened rubble. Rain peppered her face and ran through her hair as she remembered the vivid scene from her vision. The victim—that horrified blond woman—had died horribly here, somewhere in the burned shell of a house. At the hands of a priest.

Shivering, she whispered, “Who
are
you, you bastard?” She’d thought if she came here, actually stepped onto the soil where the horrid event took place, she might get a glimmer, a flash of him, might
feel
him again and gain some clue to his identity. Traffic crawled behind her but the rain muffled much of the city’s noise as it poured from the sky and dripped off the surrounding trees.

She closed her eyes. Listened to her own heartbeat. Felt something. A prickle that brought a slight chill, as if the killer had passed her on the street. “Come on, come on,” she said, her eyes still closed as she turned her face skyward, felt the harsh wash of rain and strained to see something, to hear something, to smell—

“See anything?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. Fists clenched, she whirled.

In the sheeting rain, Detective Bentz was standing less than a foot away from her.

“Oh, God, you scared me,” she said, her heart pounding in her ears, adrenalin rushing through her bloodstream. “But … no … I don’t see anything but rubble.”