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

They had fast-talked and finagled their way into the twins’ rooms, appealing to a very annoyed-looking resident assistant who’d been taking advantage of the summer break to catch up with her shows on a laptop at the reception desk. Zoe’s room had been unremarkable, with clothes strewn over the twin beds, books scattered, posters of sunsets and pop stars pinned to the walls. Chloe’s room had been more of the same, though a bit tidier.

Distraught to find another empty room, Selma had collapsed on Chloe’s bed and buried her face in the pillow before Brianna had been able to stop her. “We can’t disturb anything,” she’d reminded the twins’ mother. “You know, just in case . . .”

“The police investigate.”

“Yes, I just thought we needed to check their rooms, but . . . let’s move on. ”

Selma had stiffened. “I told you they weren’t hiding from me or sleeping it off or whatever.”

“Right. I know. I’m sorry.” Though contrite, Brianna had known it was no time to deal with Selma’s overly raw emotions. “Come on.”

They’d stopped at a McDonald’s near campus for lunch, but Selma had picked at her Big Mac, barely touching it in favor of a Diet Coke and cigarette. Afterward, they had talked to a few of the girls’ friends who lived nearby and confirmed that their last contact with Zoe or Chloe had been around nine in the evening.

“I thought they were going to meet us at the Watering Hole,” Annie Rolands had told them. “I mean, it’s our place. All the students kick it there.” A petite brunette in frayed denim shorts and a tight sleeveless T-shirt, Annie had come out on the porch of her apartment, blingy cell phone in hand. “I was, like, ‘Come on, let’s go to the Watering Hole now,’ and they were, like, ‘No way, we want to party on Bourbon Street,’ and I was, like, ‘Whatever.’ I thought they’d show up at the Hole after a bit, but no.” She shrugged, checked the phone’s screen. “But they’re okay, right?”

“We hope so,” Brianna had said, and Annie had promised to text everyone she could think of to locate the girls.

“Social media, too,” Brianna had instructed. “Facebook, or whatever it is you guys connect on.”

“Sure.” Annie had bobbed her head. “I’m all over it.”

Once they were back in the car, Selma had confided: “I don’t think I can trust her to find the twins.”

“It’s a start,” Brianna had assured her. “It’s good to put the word out with someone tied in to their social network.”

Now, at last, the dean of students appeared in the reception area, his hands clamped to his chest, as if in prayer.

“I apologize,” he said with the barest hint of a brogue hinting at his Irish roots. “Summer is our season of retreats, and that keeps me busy. But come in, come in.” A fortysomething priest dressed in black slacks and shirt and a stark white clerical collar, Father Crispin was friendly, though harried, as he guided them up a curved staircase and into an office with tracery windows, coved ceiling, and a carved bookcase filled with well-worn tomes. Checking his watch, he waved Selma and Brianna into side chairs before taking his seat at the massive table serving as his desk.

“Now, then, what can I do for you?”

“It’s about my daughters. They’re students here. Zoe and Chloe Denning,” Selma said. As the priest listened, she explained about the twins’ disappearance, her worries for her girls, and her fears that a monster serial killer was at large in Louisiana.

As her story went on, the dean’s cocked head rose to alert, and his ruddy face clouded. “Murder?” Caution flared in his eyes. “Here?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Selma answered. “All I’m sure of is that my daughters are missing.”

“But a serial killer?” Father Crispin glanced at Brianna for verification. “We had a situation—” He caught himself. “There was a time when students were at risk here, but that was years ago. We’ve had no trouble since then. And your daughters, they probably are just late; you know how kids are when they turn twenty-one.”

It was time for Brianna to step in. “Father, we believe they may have been targeted by a killer.”

The priest’s dark brows drew together as he listened to Brianna’s account of 21 and her theory that the killer was still at large. His expression of concern was heartening, until he spoke again. “That’s a frightening account, but if this is true, you ladies need to speak with the police. This is a matter beyond our campus.”

Brianna’s heart sank in disappointment. This was a waste of time.

“Of course, there will be full cooperation on our end,” he said, glancing pointedly at his watch. “We’ll do everything we can. I assure you, All Saints is a safe haven for all students.” Then he stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Please, try not to worry,” he suggested while opening the door and effectively ending their discourse. “LA’s a long way from here and, as you said, the police think they’ve got their man. These other. . .
incidents
are disturbing. Unfortunate. But your daughters are adults now, ma’am. It’s time to let them make their own choices and hope that they choose wisely. Now, come along, walk with me. The afternoon workshops are about to begin and they’re on the other side of campus. Can’t keep our guests waiting.”

Selma and Brianna kept up with his long strides as he crossed the grassy quad where a few students were sprawled, books open, iPhones in hand. The sky was a silky blue, not a breath of wind, the day filled with the warmth of summer. And yet Brianna felt a chill as cold as all of December. As each hour had passed without a word from Selma’s daughters, her own fears had increased.

At a juncture in the paths, Father Crispin stopped and touched Selma lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “God be with you.” He turned on his heel toward another cathedral-like building facing the manicured lawns. Taking the steps two at a time, he rose up the stone staircase and disappeared behind a massive door.

“He’s not going to do anything,” Selma said in a hollow voice. “He thinks I’m a nutcase. An overprotective mother.” Her skin was pale, her demeanor laden with weariness.

“He’s passing the buck.” Brianna slid an arm around the older woman’s waist and propelled her toward the student parking lot. “But he was right about one thing. It’s time to talk to the police.”

“I told you I called them.”

“I know,” she said, guiding Selma toward her beat-up Honda. “But it’s time to see them in person.”

At the station, they encountered the same lack of concern they had sifted through all day. They found their way to an officer in the Missing Persons Division, Crecia Brown. A fit, African American woman, Brown gave off waves of self-importance and bureaucratic weariness. In her midforties, with clipped hair and a no-nonsense attitude, she listened somewhat impatiently to Selma, who stood with Brianna on the opposite side of a glass-enclosed counter.

“You called earlier.” Her lips flexed a frown as she checked her computer.

“That’s right.”

“I just have a little paperwork for you to fill out.” Her chilly demeanor thawed slightly as she found some forms. “But we’ve already started checking with the necessary agencies. And we put out BOLOs on both girls.” Her dark eyes had given Brianna the impression that Officer Brown had seen it all and, right now, she was simply going through the motions.

Selma, though, seemed heartened. Maybe it felt good to know that the alerts were out, even if no one seemed to be taking them seriously. Selma filled out the forms, providing as much information as she could. By the time they returned to the car, the older woman was beat. She slid into the Honda’s warm interior and closed her eyes. “I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years, and yet I’m so keyed up and worried . . . oh hell.” She checked her phone for what had to be the hundredth time as Brianna started the engine. “We may as well go home.” There was sadness in the deep lines on her face as she cleared her throat and stared out the window. “Thanks for all you’ve done.”

Brianna eased her little car into traffic that was heavier now. She’d started out the morning trying to convince Selma the girls would return, but as the day had worn on with no news from the twins, Brianna had begun to believe the horrifying possibility. Her hope was waning, her anger at the people who had put the wrong man behind bars increasing. She knew Donovan Caldwell was imprisoned falsely, and that meant the real killer, the maniac who targeted twins, was still at large.

Worse yet, she suspected he was hunting again, his killing ground having expanded from Southern California, heading east, if her theory was correct. And then there was the fact that Rick Bentz was now a working detective in New Orleans, where Zoe and Chloe had gone missing.

Her stomach twisted and her fingers tightened over the wheel as she fought her fears.

Where the hell were Zoe and Chloe?

C
HAPTER
8

“I
don’t have any comment,” Bentz said. He finished the last swallow of cold coffee and glanced at the clock mounted on the wall of his office: 4:57. Time to be thinking about heading home, and here he was cornered by Jase Bridges, a reporter pounding the crime beat for a local paper.

Bridges was all over the Father John case.

“You know the identity of the killer,” Bridges pointed out. Seated in a chair at Bentz’s desk, the reporter stared at Bentz as if watching for weakness, looking for a crack in Bentz’s responses.

Bentz nodded. “It’s just a matter of finding him. That’s all I have. Hopefully that will change soon. The public information officer will release a statement with any new developments.” He held the younger man’s gaze. They both knew the current PIO was stepping down. Jase Bridges was one of the few candidates for the job.

The reporter hesitated, then appeared to realize that he wasn’t going to get anything more from Bentz. “Good. Keep me posted.” Bridges placed a business card on Bentz’s desk, nodded, then ducked out the door.

Bentz swept the card into the trash. He knew Bridges by reputation—a wild, tough-ass kid who had somehow turned himself around and landed the crime beat for the
Observer,
a local paper still hanging on despite the downturn in the print newspaper industry.

Bentz had never had much use for the press. Sure, fine, the public needed to be informed or when the department needed the public’s awareness and assistance. But as for the reporters who made something out of nothing, creating a story when there was none, Bentz wasn’t interested. Was Jase Bridges one of those, so hungry for drama that he blended truth and fiction, or a real hard-nosed, truth-seeking reporter?

The jury was still out.

And the thought that Bridges might end up working for the department didn’t sit well with Bentz. His innate distrust of reporters had been honed years ago when he’d been working for the LAPD. Bentz had made the tragic mistake of shooting a kid who had a gun aimed at his partner. Turned out the gun had been a toy, and the press had ripped into Bentz.

“I’m looking for Detective Rick Bentz.” A woman’s voice out in the hall caught Bentz’s attention.

“Just a minute. Do you have an appointment?” demanded the higher-pitched voice of Nellie Vaccarro, a recent hire in the department. “Hey! Wait! What do you think you’re doing?” Petite and bristly, Nellie was the secretary and receptionist for the department, and she took her duty of guarding the gates to the inner sanctum to heart. “Did you hear me? Detective Bentz is—”

“In?” the other woman guessed, footsteps now rapidly approaching.

Bentz rolled his chair away from the desk and stood just as a thirtyish brunette stepped into his office.

“You’re Bentz,” she guessed without any preamble. “Right?” She wore faded jeans and a gray T-shirt, the strap of an oversized bag slung over one shoulder. The woman was slim, around five eight or nine, and serious as hell. No humor sparked in her eyes, no smile tugged the corners of her mouth.

“That’s right.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Nellie, barely visible in the doorway behind the newcomer, lifted her hands, then dropped them in frustration before wedging her body past the visitor. “I’m sorry, Detective,” she said, glossy lips pursed into a frown. In a short dress, heels, her straight, blond hair framing her heart-shaped face, Nellie always appeared ready for a surprise photo shoot. “I tried to stop her, but—”

“You checked my bag and practically frisked me,” the woman cut in, sending Nellie a withering glare. “I just need to talk to Detective Bentz.”

Spine stiffening, Nellie wasn’t about to be dismissed. “But—”

“It’s fine, Nellie,” Bentz said, raising a hand. “I’ve got this.”

She hesitated.

“Really,” Bentz nodded.

Her suspicious gaze skated from Bentz to the intruder, then back. Obviously unhappy, she said, “If you say so, Detective.” Not pleased in the least, she let out her breath and walked away, high heels clicking curtly down the hallway.

“I think you ticked her off,” Bentz said.

“Probably.” The woman stared at him. Her hair was piled loosely on her head, and if she was wearing makeup, it was invisible. “But I need to talk to you.”

“Okay. What about, Ms.—?”

“I’m Brianna Hayward.”

He turned her name over in his mind. It rang distant bells.

“Two girls are missing,” she said, her face etched in worry. “Zoe and Chloe Denning. They just turned twenty-one today, and no one’s heard from them since before midnight.” Before he could ask, she said, “We filed a Missing Persons Report in Baton Rouge, where they live, but they were last seen celebrating in New Orleans.” She slid a page across his desk. On it were three pictures. Two were head shots of nearly identical women, each with a big smile and streaked blond hair. One was marked Zoe, the other Chloe.

“Twins?” He felt his stomach tighten. “Just turning twenty-one?” Memories of other cases came to mind, double homicide cases of twin sisters who had been ritualistically murdered the moment each became a legal adult.

“Yeah.” She didn’t mince words, but met his gaze and he felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his gut. Not that there was any connection. There couldn’t be. He turned his attention to the photographs.

The third photo showed the two young women dressed in short dresses and tall high heels. It was a glamour shot, their streaked hair pulled away from their identical faces to fall in loose curls down their backs as they hugged each other.

“Where’d you get these?” he asked, pointing at the images.

“Internet. The photo of the girls together is the last picture they posted, taken last evening. From the daylight in the shot, I’m guessing it was probably taken around eight last night, an hour before all communication was lost. And from the landmarks, it looks like they were on Bourbon Street, near Toulouse.”

He agreed. “I guess I don’t understand why you wanted to talk to me.”

“Because I’m . . . I’m afraid this isn’t just a matter of girls going missing,” she admitted and again her gaze held his. “I think it’s probably worse.”

“You think they met with foul play? Were abducted?”

The fear in her eyes said it all and that knot in his stomach twisted painfully.

“You worked on a couple of cases years ago, where twins were abducted and killed on their twenty-first birthdays.”

Bingo. No reason to beat around the bush.

“You think the 21 Killer is behind this?”

“God, I hope not,” she said fervently. She bit her lip before adding, “But, yeah. I think so.”

“He’s in prison.”

“Donovan Caldwell isn’t the 21 Killer,” she said, shaking her head. “The LAPD sent the wrong man to prison.”

“Really?” Bentz squinted at her and told himself not to leap to conclusions. “Why don’t you slow down and start over?” he suggested.

After a moment’s hesitation, she dropped into one of the side chairs and launched into a tale that only caused the knot in his gut to twist. As if she’d been practicing her spiel, she delivered an explanation of Caldwell’s innocence, claiming that charges against him had been trumped up. The case was circumstantial. Caldwell was snagged in a bad sting operation, but since the LAPD needed to make an arrest on the high-profile case, the charges stuck. “And it didn’t help that Bledsoe was the one making the arrest.”

Bledsoe, now retired from the police department, had been the arresting officer who had put Donovan Caldwell behind bars for the murders of his twin sisters. A thorn in Bentz’s side while he’d been with the department, Bledsoe was adequate at best in Bentz’s opinion.

“I even went to LA to talk to the police there,” she went on, “but no one was interested. Bledsoe’s retired.”

“So I heard,” Bentz admitted.

“So I ended up with Detective Hayes, your old partner. He worked the case with you, before you left, then with Bledsoe, so I figured he’d want to hear what I had to say.” She held Bentz’s gaze. “Turned out he didn’t. No one in the department, including Hayes, was interested. I was told that the case was closed and was politely but firmly given the brush-off.” Her jaw tightened visibly, bone showing through her skin.

“They’ve got their convicted killer,” Bentz pointed out. “The murders of twins stopped when they locked up Caldwell.”

“For a while.”

“You think 21 is killing again?”

“I know he is, but I hope to God that he’s not behind the Denning twins’ disappearance. Oh, dear God . . .” Some of the starch seemed to leave her.

Was it possible? Was the wrong man imprisoned, leaving 21 still at large? Bentz was skeptical, despite his own gut fears, the similarities to long-ago crimes. He looked back at the photos of the girls. “Tell me what you know about these young women.”

Brianna gave him a rundown on the Denning twins’ disappearance, how she was involved, what she and the girls’ mother, Selma Denning, had learned this morning in Baton Rouge before returning to New Orleans, where Brianna only stopped to print out photos of the missing girls. She explained how unlikely it was that they wouldn’t show up for work or respond to phone calls and texts. She told of the lack of concern they’d encountered in Baton Rouge, and why she felt the twin girls were at risk.

“What’s your personal interest in the 21 Killer?” he prodded.

She explained that she was a twin herself, as well as a cousin of the Caldwell twins and their brother, Donovan. She’d begun studying the case because of the family connection, and then sort of fell into it. And therein lay the kicker. Not only had she studied the crimes of record; she thought she’d found two more recent incidences of the 21’s macabre activity.

Reaching into her beat-up leather bag, she found a sheaf of papers and slid them across his desk. “Zoe and Chloe Denning are . . . or might be the latest of his victims, but they’re not the only ones. I couldn’t prove that he was still working when I went to LA.”

“But you can now?”

Her gaze drilled into his and silently assured him that she was dead right. At least in her mind. He glanced down at the pages, most of them articles taken from the Internet. Two sets of twins who had gone missing in the past six months, twin brothers in Phoenix, a sister and a brother in Dallas.

“These kids all disappeared not long before their twenty-first birthdays. To my knowledge none of them has been located.”

“They’re still considered missing, right?” He narrowed his eyes, the knot of dread in his stomach tightening as he scanned the pages of information. “No bodies?”

“Not yet.”

He glanced up.

“They’re out there, somewhere.” She was nodding, as if agreeing with herself. “He’s hidden them.”

“Just because they can’t be located—”

“Twins. Every one of them. Twenty years old. Went missing only weeks or days before they turned twenty-one. Don’t you find that strange?”

“Could be unrelated.”

“But not necessarily.” Her eyes darkened a bit. “Look, Detective,” she said. “I wish to God that I believed for even a second that they were still alive. But I don’t. And my guess is, when you dig a little deeper into this, you won’t either.” Her anger washed away into worry. “And now, Zoe and Chloe . . . Jesus, I hope I’m wrong.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. Bentz had never been completely convinced that Caldwell had been the killer, but he’d been off the case since he’d moved to New Orleans, long before Donovan was collared.

“LA was his killing ground.”

“Was,” she repeated. “He’s on the move. Heading east.”

She held his gaze for a second as he scanned the news articles again.

“Now, he’s here because of you.”

“Me?” He lifted his head to stare at her. “Why?”

“Because you were one of the first detectives on the case. There was a big gap when he killed, twelve years, right?” When he nodded, she went on. “The first time when you were the lead detective on the case, and then a dozen years later when you went to LA on a different case, something more personal,” she said.

The muscles in his back tightened when he remembered that trip and the reasons he’d ended up in LA, a place he’d left years before and a place he’d vowed to never return. He met this serious woman’s gaze. So far, she had her facts straight. “That’s right.”

“And I bet there was some speculation at the time that the reason he’d quit was that he’d moved on, or had been imprisoned or was somehow out of commission. Did anyone suggest that your appearance in Southern California might have spurred the new killings?”

“There was discussion, yeah. Never any real proof.”

“So what if that’s right? What if you are the impetus for him to start killing again?”

“I’ve never worked in Phoenix or Dallas.”

She waved away the argument. “He was on his way east and opportunity struck.”

“21 doesn’t leave much to chance.”

“Whatever,” she said, her gaze level. “My guess is he’s taunting you, but really, who knows?”

He wanted to dismiss her, to believe that she was dead wrong and the killer was locked away forever, but he saw desperation in her eyes. “Okay, so just for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right, so 21 does what? Drives to Phoenix to find his next victims?”

“Maybe he didn’t choose Phoenix. Maybe he found out via the Internet or mutual acquaintances that there were twins about to turn twenty-one, so he drove there.”

Bentz sifted through the papers and found the Missing Persons Report for Garrett and Gavin Reeves, who had disappeared in early February, three days before their twenty-first birthday. “Men?” he said, staring at the photos from the driver’s licenses of the two brothers. They appeared identical.

“I know that 21 usually targeted women.”

“Only women.”