Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) (22 page)

“Yeah, I think you even suggested I look her up.”

“Well, that was a mistake. A weak moment. Crap, what was I thinking? That it was over?” He met his brother’s eyes. “It’ll never be over,” he added grimly, and Jase felt a river of cold guilt run through his soul. “The smartest thing to do is to avoid her.”

His brother was right, of course. But . . . “Too late for that. I might have a business thing going with her.”

“Damn!” Prescott let out a long breath. “Just remember that she’s a complication we don’t need. Especially now that Dad’s here. He’s a loose cannon, Jase. You never know what he might say, what he could do.” His jaw worked as he thought. “Use your head if you see her again. I thought everything was long past us, but I was wrong. The old man? He could mess up everything. Everything.” And then he was off, hurrying down the front veranda to the staircase.

“Great,” Jase said under his breath. “Perfect.”

He locked the door behind his brother and walked back into the living room, stopping at a cupboard to pull out an old blanket and pillow. Dropping both onto the couch where his father was already snoring, he said, “Come on, Dad. Here ya go,” and tucked his old man in for the night, even pulling off Ed’s dusty cowboy boots, remnants of a more vital life lived long ago.

“Thanks, son,” the old man said without opening his eyes.

Jase clicked off the lights and heard, “I knew you was the one to keep. Seen it in your eyes.”

What? Jase turned and was about to say something when he heard Ed sawing logs again, his snoring ripping through the apartment. Whatever the old man had muttered, it was probably all muddled anyway. Nothing but the rantings of a wasted drunk. But still, it bothered him.

As Jase lay on his bed, hands stacked under his head, he stared up at the ceiling and wondered about the secrets the old man kept. There was the big one, of course, the one that bound the Bridges men together forever, but were there others?

Of course.

Everyone had secrets; he had only to look inward, at his own skeletons, to know how dark and vile they could be.

So what were Ed Bridges’s secrets?

Meaning what?

C
HAPTER
22

B
rianna awoke to the pressure of cat paws on her chest and the sound of her cell phone ringing as it skittered across the top of her nightstand. Opening a bleary eye, she found St. Ives standing over her, his nose inches from hers, his green eyes staring.

“Morning,” she whispered groggily as she reached for the phone. Of course, it was Tanisha. “Hold on a sec,” she said to the cat. “I’m sure there’s some major drama that needs to be straightened out.” She yanked the phone from its charger and placed it against her ear. The digital readout on her clock read 7:15. Her first client of the day, the only one this morning, was scheduled for nine. Plenty of time to get ready.

But she could have used a little more sleep.

“Hello?” she said.

“Morning. Sorry to call so early.”

“It’s later than the last time.” As St. Ives hopped off the bed, Brianna threw off the covers, then crossed the room and drew back the curtain on the French door. She pushed it open a sliver in order to let the cat out. “What’s up?” She hoped it was more important than a nightmare.

“Have you heard from Enrique?”

St. Ives trotted through the open doorway to the sun-dappled garden. Shadows shifted across the flagstones and a squirrel in a high branch scolded.

“Enrique?” Brianna said around a yawn. “No, why?”

“He called me last night and you know he’s got a temper.”

That much was true. “And he called you, why?” Slowly the cobwebs in her mind were disappearing. She made her way to the kitchen.

“He was really upset about Selma’s daughters. Well, everyone was, I think, except maybe Desmond or Milo. Geez, those guys are made of stone. And if Roger had been there, he’d be the same. Trust me, that guy’s a piece of work. But then they all are, aren’t they? Men!”

Even in her blurry state, Brianna could envision Tanisha pursing her lips and shaking her head.

“So you were talking about Enrique?” In the kitchen, Brianna opened a cupboard, saw that the canister of ground coffee was about empty, and found a half-full bag of beans.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m tellin’ you, this really got to him, y’ know. Probably because of not ever really knowing what happened to Juan. The disappearance thing really bothers him.”

“I think it’s getting to all of us.”

“Good point. I
know
that’s what my dream was all about the night before. Anyway,” Tanisha continued as Brianna filled the coffee grinder with fragrant French Roast beans, “Enrique, he called me last night, after I got Selma home, and the guy’s all like
Dog the Bounty Hunter
rogue, wanting to get together some of the group and do the vigilante thing. You know, find this guy himself.”

“With guns drawn, I suppose.”

“He’s into that.”

Several of the group were. Desmond had admitted he possessed a concealed weapons permit, Roger was big into the NRA, and Milo dressed in camouflage from head to toe. They all were quiet types, who listened more than shared, and Brianna had suspected that, if they didn’t open up to the group one of these days, they would probably drop out. More than once she had wondered about those three. She had caught Milo looking at her when he didn’t think she could see him. She had seen Roger grow red in the face at something Tanisha had said about women not needing a man. She thought that, if prodded, Roger might explode like a pimple under the skin. As for Desmond, she suspected that he’d been in or was currently in some kind of emotionally abusive relationship. Similar to Elise, who seemed to cower at the mention of her ghost of a domineering boyfriend, Ashton. The signs of victimization were there.

“Give me a sec,” she said to Tanisha, then pushed the button on the coffee grinder. It screamed for half a minute as the blades whirled and chewed up the whole beans.

“Holy shit! What’s that?”

“My next pot of coffee. I grind my own, you know.”

“And wake the whole damned neighborhood in the process. You about blew out my eardrum, girl!”

“Never the one for melodrama,” Brianna teased.

Tanisha chuckled.

“How was Selma after she left the restaurant?”

“The same, but kind of disappointed, you know. I think she half-expected the girls to be there at the house. But they weren’t, and their car was still parked where they’d left it.”

Brianna was not surprised by that.

“I figured Enrique would have phoned you.”

“He knows how I feel about any kind of violence.”

“Yeah, but he knows how you feel about finding Selma’s twins. Huh. And get this, I got another call, too. From Elise. Can you believe that?”

“It is a support group.”

“I know, but I haven’t exactly been quiet about what I think about that loser of a boyfriend she has. Ashton. Humph.”

Tanisha was rarely quiet about anything; she put her opinions out there. And when it came to men who lacked respect for women, she did not hold back. A result of her horrid track record with boyfriends. “But she called,” Brianna prodded, filling the coffeepot from the tap, then pouring water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir.

“Yeah, yeah. Worried, you know. Wanted to help.”

“Why didn’t she call me or Selma?”

“I don’t think she wanted to be too nosy or have Selma think she was intruding. You know, give Selma her space.”

“Okay. And me?”

“I think she finds you intimidating.”

“Me?” Brianna turned on the coffeemaker as St. Ives returned and threaded his way in figure eights between her legs. “What about you?”

“Hey! I’m a friend to all women! Besides, I think she wanted to tell me how sweet Ashton was being, which made my bullshit meter soar into the red zone. But I let it pass. Bigger fish to fry, y’know. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Selma yet?”

“Today?” As the coffeepot filled and gurgled, Brianna glanced at the clock on the microwave. Not even eight. “Not yet. It’s still early. She e-mailed me late last night. I’ll give her a couple of hours, in case she’s sleeping.”

“Trust me, she ain’t gonna sleep. Look, I gotta run if I’m going to get to work on time. I’ll talk to ya later!” Tanisha clicked off before Brianna could say good-bye.

 

 

Bentz’s eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and, so far, no amount of coffee could shake the headache that was beginning to pound behind his eyes. He’d been at his desk in the department since seven and had been vaguely aware of the change of shift, the voices, occasional bursts of laughter and footsteps over the ever-present hum of the air conditioner that, this time of year, worked overtime.

He rubbed his jaw and noticed it wasn’t quite ten. In the three hours he’d been at work, he’d already popped four ibuprofen, a handful of Tums, and even downed a bottle of water. Breakfast had been a Snickers bar from a vending machine. He guessed he wouldn’t tell Olivia, as she was always getting on him about his eating habits, exercise, and, oh, yeah, the job. That was beginning to be a serious topic of discussion, one he couldn’t argue with her; he barely saw Baby Ginny and she was growing fast. Their baby would be one before he knew it, and the years would start flying by. He’d seen that happen with Kristi, his grown daughter, whom he’d raised, for the most part, as a single parent.

He stretched in his desk chair and stifled a yawn. Last night, he hadn’t slept much, the argument with Olivia simmering along with his worries about work. Fear that two of the worst criminals he’d ever had to chase down, Father John, the murdering wannabe priest, and 21, the psycho who killed women on their twenty-first birthdays, had bothered him. Women, he reminded himself. The 21 Killer targeted women. Not men.

Or at least so he’d thought.

Yesterday, he’d left messages with the Phoenix and Dallas police, hoping to get further information about the missing twins whom Brianna Hayward had mentioned. He’d spent nearly forty minutes on the phone discussing the case with Detective Crenshaw from Dallas, who didn’t buy into his missing twins as being victims of the 21 Killer. As ever, the response had been, “LA got that son of a bitch and he’s serving time. And even a copycat wouldn’t be interested in a male. Right?” Crenshaw had asked in a heavy Texas drawl. “What I’ve got here is fraternal twins, one female, the other male, and that’s not 21’s gig.”

“Until now.”

“Yeah, well, I talked to someone about this, a concerned citizen or some such crap, and she . . . let’s see, where’s the note . . . ?” A pause as he either shuffled papers or checked his computer. “Yeah, all right. Here it is. A Ms. Hayward, from your neck of the bayou.” Crenshaw had chuckled at his own joke. “She was tryin’ like hell to string some kind of theory together that ol’ 21, he was at it again, and that the guy in prison, who’s her cousin, by the way—I checked—is innocent.” He snorted. “That what this is all about? She knockin’ on your door now?”

“I’ve met her.”

“Ye-ep, I imagine if you’ve got a set of twenty-one-year-old twins missin’ that you have. Yours are female, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’m not inclined to believe that the January twins are victims of 21. Hell, I believe the LAPD got their man. But yeah, we’re doin’ some checkin’, just in case.”

After further discussion, Crenshaw had promised to share the info his department had collected about the missing twins, Belle and Beau January, as well as keep Bentz updated on any new developments in the case. Bentz had hung up and stared at the phone a second or two. A nagging, uncomfortable feeling had crawled through his gut. He was torn.

Crenshaw made sense, he thought.

Yet the Denning twins had disappeared.

As for the missing men in Arizona, the Reeves brothers, the Phoenix PD hadn’t yet weighed in. But Bentz doubted that the twins missing in Arizona were the work of 21. As Crenshaw had said, the 21 Killer had stalked only women.

So far.

Bentz wasn’t really buying that 21 would take the lives of men as well as women, but then he would never have believed Father John would attack a prisoner in jail, a nun no less. His MO had been prostitutes and, of course, his ultimate target had been Dr. Sam, aka Samantha Wheeler. But he’d changed.

Could 21 have altered his actions, too?

If so, then the wrong man was serving time.

It was still too early to hear from Phoenix, with the time difference. Although he expected a call soon, he didn’t think that case would give him new inroads on the Denning case. He’d already checked with the Missing Persons Department here and in the Baton Rouge PD, just to make sure the ball was rolling on the missing Denning girls.

Though Brianna Hayward had already called the local hospitals, the department had reached out to emergency rooms in New Orleans as well as Baton Rouge, verifying that neither twin had been admitted. Credit card companies and cell phone providers were supplying records, and anyone who had contact with the twins was being questioned. A team was going back to the dorm room to go over them with a fine-tooth comb and search for clues leading to the sisters’ whereabouts. The friends whom the girls were supposed to meet up with on the night of their birthdays were being interviewed, and social media platforms were being scrutinized.

Bentz had sent officers to the Bourbon Street bars in the area where that last photograph posted on the Internet had been taken.

Now, staring at his computer, he was looking at that photograph on Zoe’s Facebook page, where it had been posted about fifteen minutes before their phones had gone dark.

Was the 21 Killer responsible?

Maybe. Most likely not.

But something had happened to those girls, and he was determined to find out what it was. With the information Selma Denning and Brianna Hayward had provided, he was retracing some of the girls’ steps, yes, but they would have to dig deeper into their personal lives. One of the next steps would be to collect samples of their DNA, possibly hair from the girls’ brushes, follicles intact, or cigarette butts if they smoked, anything that could positively ID them. He would also pull dental records, in the event they were dealing with a worst-case scenario.

His phone rang. When he saw the caller was his older daughter, he felt warmth invade his chest. He always had a minute or two to talk to her. “What’s up?” he asked, and glanced at the picture on his desk. With bright green eyes, auburn hair, and a sizzling smile, Kristi reminded him far too much of his first wife, Jennifer.

“Hey! Look, I just got off the phone with Olivia, and she tried to convince me to talk to you about retiring.”

“The female forces unite.”

“Not exactly,” she said, and he was certain he heard traffic noise in the background.

“Are you driving?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got an earbud, Dad. Hands free. So I’m safe, but don’t duck the question. Are you really quitting? Seriously?”

If nothing else, his eldest had always been forthright.

“Livvie and I, we’re discussing it. You know that.”

“Well, for the record, I think it would be a mistake. Make that an epic mistake. And the fact that she called me tells me you’re not all that keen on the idea.”

Not a surprise that Olivia and Kristi were at odds. Kristi hadn’t exactly been overjoyed at the thought of a stepmother waltzing into her life a few years back. But the two had been through some rough times together, and more recently they’d bonded a bit. Now that Kristi was grown, married, and had a career as a true crime writer, things between the two women seemed copacetic.

Then again . . .

“I’ve got to retire someday,” he said. “We had this discussion.”

“But you didn’t get it.”

“So, okay, kid, I’ll bite. Why an ‘epic mistake’?”

“Oh, Dad, get real! Like you would be happy changing diapers all day or arranging playdates for Ginny or worrying about picking out preschools.”