Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (75 page)

“For now, you’re going to bed. It’s late. We’ll talk in the morning. Maybe things will be clearer.”

“I doubt it, but,” she said, her shoulders sagging, “I’m beginning to think you’re right. Somehow I’ve got to get over Leo. This … this emotional tornado we’re in is killin’ me.

“Then we’ll cook up a storm for Thanksgiving.”

Sarah managed a smile. “Turkey, stuffing, sweet-potato pie … comfort food.”

“And maybe I’ll whip up a surprise,” Olivia said with a wink as she snapped off the bathroom light. It was a long shot, considering Sarah’s current state of mind, but maybe Father James McClaren could help.

“You’re going to work on Thanksgiving?” Kristi groaned from beneath the covers.

“Someone has to keep the streets of this city safe for law-abiding citizens, ma’am.” Bentz was standing in the doorway of her room, staring at the lump in the middle of the bed that was his daughter.

“Save me,” she said.

“It’s just for a couple of hours.”

“Oh, yeah, right. I’ve heard that one before.”

“I’ll be back in time to get the turkey into the oven.”

“You’re actually cooking?” She lowered one edge of the coverlet and opened a bleary eye. Bentz drew in a swift breath. Sometimes, in the right light, Kristi looked enough like her mother to stop him short. “I thought we’d go out to a restaurant and a movie or somethin',” she said around a yawn.

“Didn’t you see the turkey in the refrigerator?” he asked.

“I figured it was just for show. Like the false face of a building. That you were trying to impress me.”

“It’s the real thing, kiddo. But did I?”

“Impress me? No!” Then she giggled the way she had when she was a little girl, and the sound brought back memories of a happier time. “Well, yeah, you did, okay. I’m superimpressed. Now go, leave me alone. What time is it anyway?” She lifted her head off the pillow. “Eight-fifteen? On Thanksgiving? Are you crazy, Dad?”

“Some people think so.”

“Well, they’re right!” She pulled the blankets over her head and rolled over. “You can wake me up around noon. Maybe.”

“Count on it. You’re on to mash the potatoes.”

She groaned again as he slid out of the room and closed the door behind him. It was nice to have her back, even if she was a little grumpy. He’d missed her. When she’d lived at home, they’d fought all the time, about her curfew, her grades, her boyfriend, her attitude. She’d been quick to point out that he was far from being fault-free. His being a cop “sucked,” her having to clean up the place was part of his “medieval thinking,” her lack of a car was “the worst,” and the fact that he suspected her of having sex was a violation of a basic trust issue. When he’d left some condoms on her dresser, she’d been “grossed out” and accused him of being jealous because he “wasn’t getting any.”

Living with her the last three months had been hell.

And he missed it. He drove to the station and joined the crew that had elected to work the holiday. The first thing he saw was a report that Olivia’s new security system had gone off the night before last. The officers indicated it had been a mistake, a friend had tripped the alarm and not been able to reset it at one-thirty in the morning.

Bentz dialed her number. She answered groggily. “Hello?”

His heart twisted a little. “It’s Rick. I heard you had trouble the other night.”

“Oh … no, Sarah’s visiting … my friend from Tucson. She was out late and the alarm system got the better of her.” Her voice sounded thick, still full of sleep, and he remembered how it had been to hold her and smell her scent all night long, to hear her soft breath as she cuddled up next to him.

“I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Fine … fine …” she said and explained what had happened. Her story gelled with the report and she promised that she’d get the door fixed permanently after the holidays, then later, as she sounded a little clearer, she thanked him for calling and wished him a “Happy Thanksgiving,” but he heard the change in her tone, the wariness. Somehow she’d found a way to deal with the fact that whatever they’d shared the other night couldn’t be repeated. And it bothered him. Not that he wanted her clinging to some belief that they actually could have something together, but the fact that he knew it would never work. The world seemed a little colder when he hung up and severed the connection.

Refusing to dwell on stupid romantic visions, he checked his e-mail and in-basket and made some calls, hoping to come up with an ID of either of the newly found victims.

So far, he didn’t have IDs or an autopsy report on either, but the cause of death was pretty evident and he was fairly certain that the times of death would coincide with the timing of Olivia’s visions. If they were lucky, the killer had slipped up and the crime scene team had found some evidence linking someone to the murder scene—a hair, a piece of fabric, skin under one of the victim’s fingernails, a fingerprint left carelessly, a tire track, a witness who’d seen a car or truck … anything.

They just needed a break—one tiny break. Something more concrete than Olivia’s revelations

Olivia.
Even though he’d called her earlier he’d tried not to think too much about her and had attempted to close his mind to all thoughts of the night he’d shared with her. Nonetheless he was worried about her and had checked to make sure that her place was being kept under police watch. He only prayed the killer wouldn’t strike again soon.

Oh, yeah, and why not?

Sipping bitter coffee, he glanced down the list he’d put together on a legal pad, a list of martyred women saints whose feast days were coming up. It wasn’t good news. In the next few weeks the calendar was ass-deep in feast days and Bentz had written down the ones that he expected would appeal to the killer.

December second, St. Vivian or Bibiana, flogged and left for the dogs; December ninth, St. Gorgonia, trampled by a team of mules, her bones crushed, her internal organs mashed to a pulp. She supposedly survived not only the trampling—oh, yeah, right—but some other form of paralysis, to end up dying of “natural causes.” Then there was December thirteenth, the feast day of St. Lucy. Lucy had been hitched to a team of oxen who couldn’t budge her. When the oxen failed to drag her to death or pull her apart, she was tortured by having her eyes ripped out before she was set afire. Apparently she survived the blaze because she ended up being stabbed to death.

Brutal. Ugly. Twisted.

A priest?

He didn’t think so.

He shoved his notes aside. The feast days he’d pulled were only a few, those celebrating the deaths of martyrs before the middle of the December. There were more … lots more. With each day that passed.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Bentz stood and looked out the window to the gray, wet day. Pigeons fluttered and cooed, perching beneath the eaves.

In New York there was the traditional parade, while all around the country, people were hosting their families, gorging themselves, and sitting around the television to watch football.

But here, in New Orleans, there was a killer. And he was waiting, ready to strike again.

Chapter Thirty

“I told you I know nothin’ about any of these murders and I don’t ‘precíate my ass being dragged down here on Thanksgivin'.” Reggie Benchet’s eyes glittered angrily as he sat under the harsh fluorescent glare in the interrogation room. His scrawny butt was balanced on the edge of a battered chair, his elbows propped on the table. Thin to the point of being gaunt, appearing older than his sixty-eight years, he spat a stream of tobacco juice into a tin can on the floor. “Now, do I need a lawyer? You gonna charge me with somethin’ or you gonna let me walk out of here?” Pointing a gnarled finger at Bentz, he added, “I know my rights. You cain’t hold me without chargin’ me, so unless you boys come up with somethin', I got me a Thanksgivin’ dinner to go to.”

“Where?”

“It don’t matter none, but at my girlfriend’s place.”

Bentz checked his notes. “Claudette DuFresne?”

“Yeah, but don’t you be botherin’ her now, not on the holiday. She’s got herself a bad heart and she don’t need any trouble.”

“She was arrested for selling crack,” Bentz said, flipping through a two-page rap sheet that included everything from soliciting to dealing. “Yeah, she’s a real sweetheart.”

“That was a few years back. She’s cleaned herself up and taken Jesus into her heart. She’s a good Christian woman, takes care of her sick ma and works down ta the senior center in Lafayette.” He scrabbled in a pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of Camel straights. “Mind if I smoke?” He didn’t wait for an answer and lit up, chewing and smoking all at once. A tobacco company exec’s dream consumer.

“You found God yourself, didn’t ya?”

“That I did and you all can rest easy that I’ll be sendin’ up prayers for your souls.”

“You’re not a priest,” Montoya interjected from his spot near the door. His arms were folded over his chest, his usually neat goatee a little ratty, and he was wearing an I’m-not-buying-it expression.

“Nah. ‘Course not. I’m born again. Found Christ in stir … hell, that sounds like a great country song, now, don’t it?” he asked, coughing as he laughed at his own joke.

“But you were Catholic?”

“Me? Hell, no. That was my wife. ‘Scuse me, my
ex
-wife. Bernadette.” He shook his head violently, as if he were trying to dislodge water from inside his ear. “Now there’s a woman I should never have gotten myself hitched to.”

“Let’s talk about that.”

“Ancient history.”

“You had three children with her.”

His smile faded. He spat again.

“We know that one daughter survived and another drowned as a toddler, but you had a son as well.”

“For all the good it did me. No one ever told me ‘bout the boy, y’know. I suspected, though, found some old doctor bills when I was married to Bernadette, but she always got real quiet and claimed she had a miscarriage. Years later, when I was locked up, she came clean. I guess her conscience got the better of her and she wrote me a letter, told me the boy was out there, she just didn’t know where. I did what I could from prison, which wasn’t much. Once I tried to get more information from her, then from her mother, and even from the doc. But he was dead. I didn’t get squat.”

“And that’s where you left it?”

He paused, took a long drag, then blew a smoke ring to the ceiling. “Not me. That there’s my only boy and he was took from me. Thirty damned years ago. I ain’t done lookin’ for him.”

“Maybe we can help,” Bentz offered.

“And why would you do that?”

“We’re looking for him, too.”

Reggie was instantly wary. “Why?”

“We just need to talk to him, like we’re talking to you,” Montoya explained.

Reggie’s eyebrows drew togther. “I don’t see how. If you don’t know who he is, why do you need to talk to him?”

“We think he can help us.”

Reggie wasn’t buying it. “No way—”

“I thought you wanted to see your boy. Tell us what you know.”

Hesitating, stalling for time, Reggie mashed out his Camel, leaving a piece of it to smolder. “You’ll quit hasslin’ me then?”

“If you’ve kept your nose clean.”

“Shit, yes, I have. You talk to my parole officer. He’ll tell ya so hisself.”

“So what’ve you got?”

He snorted and finally lifted a thin shoulder. “Not much. I told you that already. All I know is that Virginia told me it was a private adoption, and by that I’m sure she meant illegal, and no one would ever find out. A priest had handled the whole damned thing and he was sworn to secrecy. But while I was doin’ time, I remembered another inmate who told me about a Father Harris or Henry, who got himself in a passel of trouble. Not only was he sellin’ babies and pocketin’ the money, but he got caught with his pants down. With a fifteen-year-old boy.”

“He was charged?” Bentz asked. Now they were getting somewhere.

Montoya’s eyes glittered in interest.

“I don’t think so. According to the inmate—Victor Spitz—the boy was paid off, the charges dropped, and the priest was moved out of state.”

“You say his name was Henry or Harris?”

“That’s what I was told.”

“First name? Or last?”

“That I don’t know.” Reggie shook his head. “That’s all I can tell ya,” he said and checked his watch again. “Now… I expect a ride back ta Lafayette before my damned dinner gets cold and I find myself in the doghouse.”

“You didn’t! You didn’t invite a priest to dinner,” Sarah said, horrified. She was folding bread cubes into sautéed vegetables, turkey giblets, and oysters, all of which she claimed were part of her mother’s “famous” stuffing. “Why?”

Peeling parboiled sweet potatoes, Olivia said, “I could lie to you and say that he seemed lonely and that I like him and that I wanted him to feel included in some kind of Thanksgiving tradition and it wouldn’t really be a lie, but the real reason is that I did it because of you, because you seem depressed and I thought—”

“That what? I needed to confess something? Jesus H. Christ, Livvie, that’s nervy of you!”

“You don’t have to say a word to him, okay?”

“Good, ‘cuz I won’t.” Sarah was livid. She stirred the giblets with a vengeance.

“I was just trying to help.”

Sarah set her mixing spoon aside and let out a long, calming breath. “Yeah, I know and I appreciate it, really, but … I just need to talk to Leo.”

Olivia wasn’t about to argue.

Two hours later when the doorbell rang and Hairy S ran howling to the front door, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. “Great, the priest’s here,” Sarah said, still keeping her distance from the dog. “Just what we need.”

“You’ll like him.”

“Oh, come on …”

“Just … relax. Have a good time.” Olivia threw open the door and found Father James dressed in slacks, casual sweater, and a bomber jacket. Bent on one knee, he eyed the damage to her lock. Beside him on the porch mat was a bottle of wine.

“Have a little trouble?” he asked, looking up at her, and she was reminded that he was too good-looking to be a priest. Square jaw, thick hair, wide shoulders, and a killer smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes.

“A little. Alarm system malfunction.”

“And the door blew up?”

“Was kicked in by the police,” she said and realized he probably thought the security company had sent the cops. No reason to explain. “Come in,” she invited as, while still crouched, he extended his hand, allowing the dog to sniff it cautiously. “That’s Hairy S, he came with the house.”

“No doubt a selling feature.” Blue eyes flashed humor.

“Depends upon your point of view.”

He straightened and dusted off his hands. “I can fix that for you,” he said, motioning toward the doorjamb.

“That’s right, you’re the handyman priest. That would be great. But maybe later. Right now, come on in. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Sarah stood by the bookcase inside the front door.

Olivia motioned to her friend. “Sarah Restin, Father James McClaren.”

“You’re a priest?” Sarah was obviously skeptical as she eyed his casual attire.

“That’s right, but I left my alb in the car,” he joked and took her hand in his. “Nice to meet you.”

“You … you, too.” Stunned, she looked him up and down as Olivia ushered them into the kitchen.

Father James offered the bottle of wine. “My contribution to dinner.”

“Thanks. We’ll eat in about half an hour. In the meantime, you can do the honors.” Olivia handed him a corkscrew. He poured wine and they each had a glass. Any reservations Sarah had seemed to melt away as they talked and got to know each other. Father James carved the turkey as Olivia placed dishes on the table and Sarah lit candles. Hairy S settled into his spot near the back door, Chia chortled, and once he’d held chairs out for each of the women, Father James sat at the table, bowed his head, and said a short grace. They talked about everything and nothing and Olivia thought again what a waste it was that he’d accepted a calling with the Church. He would have made someone a great husband and, she assumed, would have been a fabulous father.

He joked, was effusive about the meal, and helped clear the table. After the dishes were stacked near the sink, he insisted that Olivia bring out her grandfather’s tool box, then went to work on the door.

“He’s not like any priest I’ve ever met,” Sarah said as she whipped cream for the pie while Olivia wrapped the leftovers in plastic wrap. “I mean … he looks like he should be on a soap opera, for God’s sake. He brings wine and then fixes things … and, if I didn’t know better, I think he’s got the hots for you.”

“The ‘hots'? Come on. He’s married to the Church.” Olivia felt heat crawl up her neck.

“Church-smurch, he’s still a man.” Sarah sneaked a peak past the archway and bit her lip. Over the whir of the mixer she said, “I know he was trying to hide it, but I’ll bet you the deed to the store that he would be great in bed!”

“Don’t even say it! Sarah!”

“Come on, admit it. Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to do it with a priest?”

“No!”

“Why? Because you’re in love with the cop?” She pulled a face.

“I’m not in love with anyone,” Olivia insisted as Chia whistled and the mixer whined. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and started to pour coffee. “So hush.”

But Sarah’s smile was positively naughty. “I’m just telling you if I was single and that man looked at me the way he looked at you over dinner, I don’t know if I could contain myself.”

“Enough!” She glared at her guest, and Sarah, rolling her eyes, turned her attention to the cream again.

“I think we’re about there … See, it’s the stiff peak stage.”

“The stiff peak stage … ?”

Sarah burst out laughing as she switched off the mixer and disconnected one of the beaters.

“You’re bad, Sarah Restin.”

“Don’t I know it?” Licking whipped cream off the beater and winking, she proved her point.

“Save me!” But Olivia laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Father James asked as he appeared in the doorway. He was wiping his hands on a handkerchief.

Both women laughed even harder.

“I think I missed the joke,” Father James said.

“It’s nothing. We were just being silly.” Olivia shot Sarah a warning glare. “My houseguest has a vivid imagination.” To change the subject, she walked through the archway and looked toward the front of the house. “So, is my door fixed?”

“Good as new.” He showed her his handiwork and explained how he’d managed to fix the lock. “A little paint and no one will be the wiser.”

“How can I repay you?” she asked and from the corner of her eye saw Sarah lift a suggestive eyebrow.

“Dinner was a start,” he said, and one side of his mouth curved upward. “Maybe I could convince you to attend mass once in a while.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” she teased, “but sure. Maybe. Now, come on, we can have dessert in the living room. Why don’t you see if you can find something decent to listen to on the radio and I’ll light a fire?”

“Leave that to me,” he said. “Just point me in the direction of the woodshed. I was an Eagle Scout, you know.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

For the next hour, while a fire crackled in the old grate and smooth jazz compliments of WSLJ played through Grannie Gin’s ancient radio, they made small talk. Father James was as charming as ever but Olivia noticed that beneath his veneer of affability and calm, there was a hint of tension, a disturbance that was visible only upon occasion, something dark in his blue eyes.