Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (61 page)

“I figured I’d show her pictures of this girl and some others—see if she can pick Stephanie out as the victim she claims to have seen. I’ll make copies on my way out. You got a better idea?”

Montoya’s grin grew. “Nope. I think it’s a damned good plan.” He crammed the cigarette into the side of his mouth. “Damned good.”

Chapter Eighteen

The bell over the shop door tinkled. Olivia was stocking shelves in the back room. She shoved a box of aromatic candles onto a stack, then swept through the beaded doorway to find Bentz making his way along a narrow aisle filled with baskets of incense, bath beads, and candles.

“Early Christmas shopping?” she asked.

He glanced at a five-inch crystal pyramid. Next to it was a tiny Japanese sand garden. On the next table was a tiny waterfall. “I think I’ll pass.”

“I can get you a deal on slightly used tarot cards,” she teased, unable to stop from baiting him as his shoulder brushed against a silver star that was part of a wind chime set. The chimes pealed softly over the background of sitar music piped in from the speakers mounted on the highest shelves.

“Another time.”

“I take it this isn’t a social call,” she said, reading the serious expression in the lines of his face. Suddenly she understood. “You caught the guy,” she guessed, crossing her fingers and hoping against hope.

“Nothing like that, but we did get a possible ID on the body.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say. Not until we know for certain and the family’s been notified.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked and stupidly, for a split second, she wondered if he’d come to see her, and her heartbeat increased. She remembered the kiss they’d shared in her house and she wondered if it had affected him as much as it had her.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a manila envelope. Within were color copies of snapshots of half a dozen women, all between twenty-five and thirty-five, some smiling, some not, all seemingly fit and all attractive. He handed the pictures to Olivia.

“Are all of these women missing?”
she asked, horrified. Oh, God, please say that the monster hasn’t killed them.

“No. I just wondered if any of them looked like someone you’ve ‘seen’ in your visions.”

“What?” she asked, then understood. “Oh, I get it. You’re testing me, right?” She was disappointed. “Always the skeptic, aren’t you?”

“Gotta be.”

“I suppose.” She flipped through the pictures, studying each face and stopping when she came to a tawny-skinned woman with a wide smile in a bikini. “I… I feel like I’ve seen her before,” she said, confused. “But she’s not the one … oh, God.” Her heart nearly stopped as she gazed at one of the snapshots of a girl holding a tennis racquet. Cold recognition swept over her. “This one,” she whispered, dropping the rest of the snapshots as if they burned her fingers. “This is the woman he called Cecilia. I’m sure of it.” In her mind’s eye, she again saw the brutal images of the woman kneeling, begging, desperately clutching the priest’s robe. Olivia’s knees turned to water and the contents of her stomach curdled. She took in a deep breath and sagged heavily against the counter.

Bentz was quick. He grabbed the crook of her arm. “Steady,” he said as the door opened and Tawilda, lugging a shopping bag, stepped inside.

“Hey! Livvie, are you okay?” she asked, bustling down the aisle, the bracelets circling her wrist jangling. “Who the hell are you?” Dark eyes flashed at Bentz.

“It’s okay. He’s—”

Bentz flashed his badge. “Rick Bentz. New Orleans Police.”

“Police? What happened? Did we get robbed or somethin'?” Tawilda asked.

“Ms. Benchet is helping us with a case.”

“What case?” Tawilda’s eyes were round. Then they narrowed on Olivia. “You didn’t tell me anything about a case. What’s goin’ on?”

“She’s not at liberty to discuss it now,” Bentz said. “In fact, it would really help out if you could tend to the store while I speak with Ms. Benchet for a few minutes alone.” He glanced at Olivia. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Olivia pulled her arm out of Bentz’s grasp.

“Is she bein’ arrested? Don’t you have to read her rights to her or somethin'?”

“She’s not being arrested,” Bentz said.

“It’s all right, Tawilda.” Olivia forced a smile. “But if you wouldn’t mind, I think I need to talk to him.”

“I do mind. I
mind
that you didn’t tell me about this,” Tawilda snapped. “I knew something was up with you, girl. You’ve been acting strange for the last couple of days and I thought it might have somethin’ to do with your mama comin’ to town, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?” She gave Bentz the once-over with her dark eyes. “Oh, go on.” With a shooing motion of her long fingers, she gestured for Bentz and Olivia to go out the door. “I’ll handle things here, it’s about time for you to be off anyway. Now, you do whatever it is you have to, just don’t you be holdin’ out on me, y’hear?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, “ Olivia drawled. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me a million, but who’s countin'?”

“You are. Every single one.”

“Well, maybe.” Tawilda rolled her eyes. “And I intend to collect.”

“You will,” Olivia insisted, then said to Bentz, “Give me a minute to get my things.” She ducked through the beaded archway and into the back rooms to the office, where she located her purse stuffed inside a closet. In one motion, she tugged her jacket from a brass hook and stuffed her arms down the sleeves. Finger-combing her hair, she made her way past boxes of inventory yet to be catalogued and stocked, then rattled the beads as she returned to the front of the store.

Bentz was waiting at a display of dried alligator heads sporting Santa caps. “The perfect gift for that hard-to-buy-for someone,” Olivia quipped as he held the door open for her. Along with a blast of cold air, two middle-aged women bustled into the shop.

“I’ll remember that on Christmas Eve when I go shopping. Aunt Edna’s a bitch to buy for. I’d been thinking along the lines of chocolates or a new pair of slippers but I bet what she’d really like is the gator head with the red hat.”

“Wouldn’t anyone?” Olivia stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket. The smell of the river was thick, the wind blowing across its muddy depths cold and raw. “So were you trying to lay a trap for me?” Olivia asked as they walked toward Decatur Street. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians bustling in and out of the shops and restaurants facing the streets. Cars, trucks, and carriages drawn by mules filled the streets. On one corner a street mime was standing motionless. In front of him an upturned hat, sprinkled with a few dollars and coins, was an open invitation for donations.

“I just wanted to see if we were on the right track.”

“That girl, the one with the tennis racquet, is the one.”

“And the other one? How do you know her?”

“I don’t. Not really,” she said, thinking hard. Tiny pictures of the woman, cracked shards, cut through her brain. “The image I got of her wasn’t as intense, but I feel like I’ve seen her before. And yes, in my dreams. Last summer, when I was here taking care of Grannie, I think. I had several nightmares. About her. It was in bits and pieces, but… I’m sure she’s the woman. Someone was shaving her head … and positioning her … and choking her.”

Bentz guided her into a café that boasted strong coffee and even stronger drinks. They took a table near the window where the street was visible through the glass and a candle was flickering in a small hurricane lantern. “Was the same guy you saw the other night, the priest, was he choking her?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “As I said, I only saw bits and pieces.”

“And the guy in the cave with the woman who was left to starve?”

“I already told you, I’m not sure.” She shook her head as a waitress took their orders for coffee then moved to the next table. “It must be. But I don’t remember a priest … just … there was something the same about it … besides the terrified woman, there was… a necklace or chain. Like the one I saw the other night, the one the priest left over the showerhead.” She shuddered at the intense memory, the scent of fear and smoke. She glanced at Bentz across the table, his features shadowed in the dark room, warm candlelight playing upon his skin. His eyes were a dark gray. Intense. Suspicious and yet … there was another emotion in their steely depths. She hadn’t remembered the connection of the chain at the time, but now it seemed important. “You have to believe me, Bentz. I’m not making this up. I couldn’t.”

“I know.” He nodded as the coffee was deposited.

“Anything else?” the waitress, a gum-chewing girl of about eighteen, asked. Bentz looked at Olivia.

“You want something?”

“No … this is fine.” She wrapped her fingers around the cup and the waitress, popping the gum, sauntered off. “So. Did I pass?” she asked as Bentz leaned back in the booth. “The pictures. Did I pick out the right ones?”

He nodded over the clink of spoons swirling in cups and soft conversation. “Right on the money.”

“So now you’re wondering,
What’s her connection? It can’t be that she actually has ESP or whatever you want to call it, so she must have some other way of knowing what happened at the murder scene.
Right?”

“It’s crossed my mind,” he admitted and her temper snapped.

She shot to her feet, banging the table and sloshing coffee from her cup. “Well, when you figure it out, would you let me know? It would help me out, too. I wouldn’t feel like I was going out of my mind.”

“You’re not,” he said. “Please. Sit down.” He motioned toward the other side of the booth and reluctantly she took a seat again. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

“What?” she asked and sensed she wasn’t going to like the subject matter. She dabbed at the spilled coffee with a napkin.

“Your mother.”

“What about her?”

“She was married to Oscar Cantrell.”

Husband number three. “She was married to a lot of people,” Olivia said, then immediately regretted her flippant tone. “Okay, right, she was married to Cantrell for a while.”

“You ever meet him?”

“At the wedding, but that was it. My mother and I aren’t particularly close. I thought I told you all this.” She dropped the wet napkin onto the table.

“Bear with me,” he said and she got the impression he was leading up to something; something she wouldn’t like. “It turns out that the house where the last Jane Doe was killed the other night is owned by some people who live out of state. They rent it through a management company, Benchmark Realty.”

She waited but he didn’t elaborate. “So?”

“Benchmark Realty is owned by Oscar Cantrell.”

“What?” she whispered, disbelieving. “Do you think he’s involved?”

“We’re checking,” Bentz said, not elaborating.

“As I said, I met Oscar at the wedding. He was short, maybe five-six or -seven, and he wasn’t built like the man I saw.”

“He could’ve lost weight.”

This sounded all wrong. She remembered Oscar. A teddy bear of a man with a big nose, red cheeks, and a quick, wide smile—the salesman’s salesman. A far cry from the intense, reined-in anger she felt in the murderer. “Why would Oscar use a place that could be so easily traced to him? That would be stupid.” She was certain Oscar Cantrell wasn’t the suspect. “Doesn’t he have an alibi?” She looked at Bentz, who was sipping his coffee and studying her over the rim.

“We’re checking that out.”

“My mother wasn’t married to him but about two years, I think. Maybe two and a half on the outside, so if you think that there’s a connection to me through Oscar, you’re barking up the wrong tree. As I said, I only met him once.”

“You ever meet any of his family? A brother? Father?”

“No. During the time that Bernadette was married to Oscar, I lived with my grandmother.”

“Did they have any children?”

“No! I don’t have any half-siblings. I only had my sister and she died years ago.”

He nodded, as if he understood, but Olivia saw the shadows in his gaze. “What is it?” she asked. “You don’t believe me?”

“Just trying to piece this all together.”

“Don’t you trust anyone?” she demanded. “What is it with you, Bentz? Are you so jaded from your job that you can’t believe anyone or is it more than that? Did something happen to you personally?”

His lips twitched. “Why don’t you tell me? You’re the psychic.”

That did it. He’d been hard-nosed from the minute he’d stepped into the shop. Suspicious all over again. “I’m outta here.” She snagged her purse from beneath the table.

“Wait a minute,” he said as several heads swiveled from the nearby booths.

“Forget it. I’m sick to death of being second-guessed. I know this doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, okay? It doesn’t make any sense to me, either. But there it is. I thought … I mean … don’t you believe me? Didn’t you say that… Oh, hell, it doesn’t matter!” She huffed off and wondered why she bothered trying to explain anything to the bull-headed cop. She heard him slapping bills onto the table and felt his arm on her as she reached the front door.