Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) (13 page)

She remembered. It had been a small, obscure human interest story, a few column inches, the interview done over the phone by a female reporter.

“I put two and two together,” he said. Again the barest of smiles, almost self-deprecating.

Was it possible? Jase Bridges could actually not take himself seriously?

No way.

“So, okay. You must want something.”

One eyebrow lifted. “Direct, aren’t you?”

“I’m not big on beating around the bush. Besides, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.” And it had been. She felt as if she’d been spinning her wheels for hours, getting nowhere, slamming her head against a brick wall, making zero progress. And all the while there was so much at stake; the twins were missing. “Last night wasn’t much better,” she admitted, thinking of her dream and Tanisha’s phone call. Trouble sleeping. Again. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

“I’ve been doing some checking. I think you might be on to something.”

Finally, someone who believed her. Someone with intense hazel eyes that, she suspected, didn’t miss much.

“But I’m not sure you’ve got it all right,” he said as a horse-drawn carriage rounded the corner. “I don’t see that the twins who are missing in Phoenix and Dallas play into it.”

“You did eavesdrop.”

He didn’t deny it. “Yeah, and then I checked into the missing persons cases you described. Tell ya what, why don’t you let me buy you a drink and we’ll discuss?”

She was about to argue, but he said, “I know. I get it. You’re tired. Been through an emotional wringer with your friend, whom, I assume, is close to you.”

“Pretty close.” The carriage rolled by, the clop of steel hooves ringing as the dappled horse plodded past.

“So, this won’t take long,” he said, his eyes following the carriage’s progress. He turned his gaze to her again. “Promise. One drink. Let’s just go over your theory that Donovan Caldwell was wrongly convicted and that 21 has started up again.”

She shouldn’t. She knew it was a mistake. But, in truth, a drink sounded like heaven. And she still had a fascination with Jase Bridges, stupid as that was. Besides, she could use an ally, any ally, and one in the press, especially one with ties to the police department. Deciding to hear what he had to say, she gave a quick nod. “Fine.” She remotely locked her car again and heard it chirp a response. “You’re on, Bridges. But you’re buying.”

His lips found that same irreverent smile she’d remembered from high school. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He hitched his chin to indicate the other side of the street where a pub with a wide, paned window and glowing neon lights was wedged between a retro boutique and a sandwich shop offering tarot readings along with a soup of the day. “We can talk in there.”

C
HAPTER
13

A
slice of moon was barely visible from the clouds scudding across the night sky. Inside the Mustang, Bentz stared at the stream of northbound traffic, headlights bright, while Montoya drove steadily back toward New Orleans. Bentz undid the top button of his shirt. He was sweating, the interior of the car muggy, despite the efforts of the Mustang’s air-conditioning system.

Regardless of the heat and humidity, Montoya was still wearing his leather jacket, the diamond stud winking in the half-light. Montoya was always as cool, it seemed, as the proverbial cucumber. He had, though, ditched his shades. Sometimes one had to be practical.

“So, we’re battin’ a thousand,” Montoya said sarcastically as he pressed on the accelerator to pass a white Buick LeSabre whose driver, wearing a driving cap, kept his vehicle five miles under the speed limit.

“I guess.”

The trip to Baton Rouge had proved uneventful and brought back a slew of memories, not many of them good, to a time when Bentz’s daughter Kristi had attended school at All Saints. As the sun had lowered and shadows lengthened over the campus, Bentz had walked across the quad, past the library, and in front of Wagner House with its elegant façade and dark, hidden tunnels below. A feeling of déjà vu had chilled his soul and fear had slid down his spine when he’d remembered the terror of nearly losing his daughter a few years back, here at the small school still run by the Catholic Church.

At the time Kristi had left for college, Bentz had thought All Saints would be a haven for her. With its fine academic reputation, purported easy access to one-on-ones with teachers, and a small student body, the school had seemed perfect. The campus itself was bucolic in appearance. Red brick buildings, stately trees, lush grass and winding paths seemed serene, and in the brochures that Bentz had poured over, he’d seen pictures of students and teachers in state-of-the-art classrooms, kids in lounges with guitars or in the library studying or in the quad gathered on blankets. Some of the photos had shown off the stately and dominant cathedral, the center of the complex, or a chemistry lab with a serious student studying the contents of a test tube. Later he’d found out that the studious serenity had been a façade for a growing evil that had pulsed beneath the academic surface. But none of that had surfaced until after Kristi had enrolled.

His jaw tightened at the memory, and he absently rubbed his hip, where he still bore a scar from the horrifying experience. While desperately trying to save his daughter from a killer terrorizing the college, he’d almost lost his own life. The pain lingering in his leg reminded him how much he despised All Saints. It hadn’t helped that today the dean of students had been less than cooperative. Not that Father Crispin wasn’t concerned; he just appeared to be more interested in protocol and the reputation of the campus than in finding the Denning twins. Oh, his brow had furrowed and he’d taken a few notes, but his interest had seemed polite. The dean obviously thought Bentz was jumping the gun.

Then again, hadn’t Bentz believed the same of Brianna Hayward when she’d pled her case in his office earlier in the day?

Drumming his fingers on the passenger door, he replayed the scene with the missing persons officer at the Baton Rouge Police Department. Bentz had certainly held more sway there than he had with Father Crispin, but really, things hadn’t been all that much better. The officer had pointed out that so far no known crime had been committed, which, of course, Bentz already knew. But the officer had insisted the wheels were in motion. Baton Rouge detectives had gained access to the dorm where the girls lived and, it seemed, from the state of things, had intended to return. No cell phones were found, nor iPads or other electronic tablets. No purses or keys.

Still, he was bothered. Big-time.

“You think it’s 21?” Montoya eased up on the speed a bit.

“Hope not.”

“You and me both. What’re the chances that 21 would show up around the same time Father John reappears?”

“Coincidence.”

Montoya sent him a look. “Thought you were the dude who didn’t believe in coincidences.”

“Yeah, I know. This time . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck and thought about a beer, then quickly shut his mind to the idea. Booze and he had separated years ago, and except for an occasional slippage, he kept it that way. Last night had been a mistake; one he wasn’t going to make again. At least not today. He cracked his window, let the warm summer air rush into the Mustang’s interior.

Truth to tell, Bentz was worried. At least about the Denning twins. The others who Brianna Hayward had mentioned were indeed missing, but the fact that they weren’t twin females wasn’t consistent with 21’s MO. His phone buzzed, and he saw that the caller was Jonas Hayes.

“Hey,” he said, putting his cell on speaker so that Montoya could hear. “How are ya?”

“Okay,” Hayes said, “I got your message about the woman who thinks Caldwell isn’t 21. She was in LA and I did talk to her on the phone, but never met with her. I figure she’s another nut, a relative no less, who thinks justice wasn’t served. But the killings stopped.”

“I know, but we got a new situation,” Bentz said as Montoya closed in on a pair of red taillights. “A couple of college girls. Twins who disappeared.”

His ex-partner waited.

“On the night before they were about to turn twenty-one. Last night, as a matter of fact.”

“Where?”

“New Orleans.”

“What? New Orleans?” Jonas said, and Bentz pictured him, a tall black man with serious eyes and perpetual lines of worry etching his forehead. “You think this is 21? Nah, that’s impossible. Donovan Caldwell’s still locked up, and 21 stayed in LA.”

“Still claiming to be innocent,” Bentz pointed out. “Not to ruffle any feathers there, but this case has all the earmarks of 21.”

Hayes gave a frustrated growl. “Okay. So why don’t you tell me what you’ve got and . . . hell, I’ll pull the case file and see if there’s anything that we missed.”

“Send it to me. You’ve got my e-mail,” Bentz suggested as the lights of New Orleans appeared on the horizon. And then he brought Hayes up to speed.

 

 

The interior of the pub was ten degrees cooler than it had been on the street. The walls were exposed brick, with a glossy wood bar that looked as if it was over a hundred years old. It stretched in front of a mirror that rose to high ceilings, where paddle fans churned lazily. Most of the stools at the bar were occupied. While conversation buzzed over the clink of glasses, two bartenders were busily mixing drinks in front of a display of bottles backlit by hidden lights.

Brianna slid onto the bench of a booth near the back of the establishment, a quieter spot. On the table, menus were propped between salt and pepper shakers and a small candle burned near a dish of peanuts. Here, the distinctive click of billiard balls could be heard. Bridges took the seat opposite her just as a waitress in a short skirt, white shirt, tennis shoes, and bow tie appeared.

“Something to drink?” asked the young woman whose name tag read T
AMI
. She wore her red hair pulled to the top of her head in a tight band that allowed a spray of curls to escape. Her skin was clear, her smile infectious. Brianna pegged her for twenty-two or twenty-three, not much older than the Denning twins. Her heart twisted a bit.

Bridges ordered a beer and Brianna, forcing her thoughts from the missing girls, opted for a glass of merlot.

“You got it!” Tami said, and hurried off, nearly bouncing. She was so full of life.

As it should be for Zoe and Chloe.

Dragging her gaze away from the waitress, Brianna found Bridges staring at her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah . . . no. God, I don’t know. What’s ‘okay’ when a friend’s kids are missing?” She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, but that didn’t help. Zoe and Chloe’s images kept coming to mind. What had happened to them? Where were they? Dear God, she hoped beyond hope that she was wrong about the 21 Killer.

When she opened her eyes again, Jase was still watching her intently. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s a nightmare. Sometimes . . . sometimes I lose focus.”

“I get it.”

For a second she believed he did. There was a sudden tenderness to him, a concern in his hazel eyes that she’d never expected to witness, and that glimpse of compassion touched her far too deeply.

“So the deal is I’ve spent the last couple hours going over the case against Caldwell. It was thin, but enough to convict him.” He squinted at the small candle, suddenly cautious. “I know he’s your cousin, but the murdered girls were your cousins, too.”

“All the more reason to make sure that their real killer is behind bars. Look, I didn’t really know Delta and Diana. But when the news of their murders broke, it was horrible. We were all beside ourselves even though Mom and her sister, Cathy, were never all that tight. I only met the twins a couple of times. We didn’t live close and were caught up in our own lives. In the beginning, I read about the case in the newspapers and online, just like everyone else. I didn’t have an inside connection.”

“But now you do, as the new advocate of Donovan Caldwell. That surprises me. Even you have to admit he’s off. A loner. The guy has issues. Serious issues.”

“You’re describing a good percentage of the American population, Bridges,” she pointed out, “not a serial killer.” That warm connection she’d felt with him swiftly faded. “You know, people can be odd or ‘off,’ as you put it. They can even hate their siblings or other family members. That doesn’t make them killers.”

“Donovan Caldwell had assaulted a woman before.”

“A woman who dropped the charges. A domestic abuse case that was never proven, never went to court.” Her back was up now. “I don’t condone any kind of conduct where one party hits another, man or woman, but in this country, it’s still ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ At least it’s supposed to be.”

“Right. Okay. Got it.” His hands lifted in a gesture of surrender, and he quickly changed his tack. “You’re a psychologist.”

“Right.”

“That’s what this support group is about. The one you were at tonight.”

“It’s part of my work, yes. But it’s a nonprofit group, and I volunteer my time. Members come and spend time together, hang out, talk.” She was still a little agitated but tried to let her anger go. He now knew where she stood. “I organized the group, and I facilitate the meetings. All participants are twinless twins, people who have lost a twin sibling.”

“Like you.” Something skittered through his eyes, an emotion that she couldn’t name. The expression unsettled her, but it vanished a moment later.

“Yeah, like me.” She rarely discussed Arianna’s death with anyone outside the group. Even though she’d known Jase for much of her life, she wasn’t comfortable talking about the loss that still haunted her.

He began to say something else, but at that moment the waitress returned, placed their drinks on the table, and asked if they’d like to look at a menu. “The manager’s extending happy hour, and we’ve got incredible shrimp poppers and sliders that are to die for! No kidding!” She held up both hands in a motion of trust-me-I-know-of-what-I-speak. When they declined, she shrugged with body language meant to convey “your loss” before she was off again, making her way to a booth where two women were trying to get her attention.

“We were talking about your sister,” he said, getting right back to the subject.

Pinching the stem of her wineglass, she wondered why she’d ever agreed to this meeting. What good could come of it?

 

 

Chloe found a piece of glass. Small and jagged, it was probably part of the light fixture that had shattered in the struggle when Zoe had escaped. Unnoticed by the brute, the bit of glass had skittered to a dark corner and wedged into a crack in the wall where water seeped through, the very spot where he’d left the bucket that he expected her to use to pee. She had used the plastic pail, of course, because her bladder could only hold so much, but it was gross. Messy. Smelly. And so wrong. She had to escape. Had to.

The entire situation was dire, but she’d bolstered herself, silently prayed that Zoe had gotten away and found civilization, that she’d alerted the police who, any second now, would burst through the door upstairs and find the trapdoor. She waited, hoping to hear the wail of a siren, the whir of helicopter blades, the rumble of an engine. And then the awesome sound of a locked door being forced open, wood splintering and boots pounding overhead.

Instead she heard nothing but her own breathing, the drip from a leak somewhere and the god-awful ticking of the clock, counting off the remaining seconds of her life. She shuddered knowing it all might end here in this dank underground cell. Unless somehow, she found a way to make this little shard a weapon. Zoe had already sliced the prick’s throat. Somehow he’d survived, so obviously she hadn’t cut the jugular or carotid or whatever it was that needed to be severed. An artery would be best. The femoral would do.

Only a week ago Chloe had watched a YouTube video about a guy who was killed when his femoral artery was sliced by a beaver that he was filming. The beaver had been lumbering down the roadside; the photographer had seen it, gotten out of his car, and started videoing the beast, never expecting it to attack. But it had. The beaver had gotten spooked or irritated or scared or whatever and had lunged at the photographer with long teeth that were meant to chew through wood. Those teeth had ripped skin, muscle, and the artery in the guy’s thigh and he’d bled out. His footage was found by a friend and posted on the Internet with an “RIP Brian” footnoted at the end.

Chloe had been sickened, grossed out by the footage, but the information stuck with her, and now it might come in handy. Well, maybe. Actually severing the femoral artery was a long shot. The guy’s thighs were thick pillars of muscle. How deep would she have to plunge the glass? Even then, would she hit the right spot?