Shiver

by Lisa Jackson

  “No, no…I’ll take care of it.” Virginia offered up a tremulous smile, then walked to a desk where she picked up a phone and pushed a speed-dial number. She spoke into the phone for a few minutes and then hung up, her hand resting on the receiver a second longer than necessary, as if she was hesitant to break the connection.

  “You mentioned that Courtney, er, Mary had decided to become a nun,” Montoya said as the girl’s mother returned to her spot on the settee, found her purse, and retrieved a tissue from within. “When did she decide to join an order?”

  Clyde frowned. “Six, maybe eight months ago, I think.” He glanced at his wife for confirmation.

  “Last Christmas.” Virginia twisted the tissue and looked out the window as if she could will her daughter to appear on the front walk. “She visited the order at Our Lady of Virtues.”

  Montoya felt something inside him click.

  “At least it was close by,” the mother said again and Montoya’s gut tightened. “And I guess, we have some affinity for the order. Clyde was a doctor on staff of the hospital and I was a social worker. We met there.” Her smile was quick, tremulous, and dissolved instantly. “They’re tearing down that old hospital, but the sisters are still going to live in the convent. I hear they’re going to build new apartments and an assisted-living facility, and as the nuns age, they’re guaranteed living and care expenses free-of-charge. This is after they can no longer care for themselves, or the order can’t care for them any longer.” She closed her eyes and sighed, still winding and unwinding the tissue in her hands.

  Montoya had heard about the renovations to the old hospital. His own aunt had joined the order years earlier. Was still there.

  Clyde said, “We just asked that she spend a year at college before she actually took her vows, but…she’d already made up her mind.”

  “Do you know why?”

  He hesitated. Tugged at his silver beard and cast a glance in his wife’s direction. “She felt as if God had spoken to her.”

  “Personally?”

  “Yes.” He nodded and looked away.

  So would-be Sister Mary, aka Courtney, might not have been so normal after all.

  “I know how it sounds, Detective. I work with people who hear voices all the time—”

  “This wasn’t the same!” Virginia intervened. “Mary…she just thought God was answering her prayers, that’s all. She wasn’t schizophrenic, for God’s sake!” Her lips pulled into a tiny knot of disapproval. “She is a normal, sane, lovable girl.”

  Right. Like Joan of Arc.

  Clyde slipped his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  Montoya asked, “Did she have any boyfriends?”

  “Nothing serious.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.” The wife answered but both parents nodded.

  “Could there have been someone who might have been interested in her, but she wasn’t returning the favor?”

  “Mary gets along with everyone, Officer,” Virginia said. “Though she could have dated a lot of boys, a lot, she hasn’t. She’s already promised herself to God. That’s what the ring is for.”

  “The ring?”

  “The one she wears on her left hand,” Clyde offered and Montoya’s mind flashed to the battered and bruised ring finger of the victim.

  Virginia added, “Where other girls wear their boyfriend’s class ring, or an engagement or wedding ring, Mary wears a promise ring. It’s something she picked out herself on her eighteenth birthday, the day she promised herself to the Father.”

  “As in God.”

  “Of course.” Virginia’s shoulders stiffened as if she were girding herself to defend her child.

  Montoya didn’t know what to say. Things were getting weirder by the minute. He glanced up at the portrait again. It was a posed shot where the girl’s hands were folded over the back of a couch. Sure enough, on the ring finger of her left hand, she wore a filigreed gold band with a single square-cut red stone.

  “So she wasn’t getting married?”

  “What? No! Of course not.” Virginia let out a disgusted sigh.

  “Did she own a bridal gown?”

  “No…why would she? I told you, she didn’t even date!”

  “Did she pick All Saints for a reason?”

  Clyde said, “We did. We wanted her to be close enough to reach her, but far enough away that she would experience college life. She could have gone to Loyola, of course, the Jesuits there do a wonderful job. It’s an institution around here, I know. I even spent a few years on the staff there.”

  Virginia started shredding the tissue. “Clyde felt it would be good for her to get away from under our wing, meet new people, even if she were going to join an order.” She blinked rapidly and sniffed. Her chin trembled. “Clyde wanted her to experience a bit of the world.”

  Courtney’s father’s face drew together in anguish. “I just wanted what was best for her.”

  “We both did.” Virginia sniffed, then dabbed at her nose.

  “I understand,” Montoya said, lying because he didn’t understand it at all. These days eighteen-year-old girls didn’t run off to nunneries. Beautiful, supposedly popular girls dated boys. Unless they were gay. Then they dated girls, and if Courtney “Mary” Labelle was into girls, then what the hell had she been doing with Luke Gierman?

  By all accounts the two victims couldn’t have been more unalike.

  Montoya talked to the LaBelles until he spied a bronze-colored sedan pull up to the curb outside the house. It was Montoya’s cue to leave. To let the grieving parents have some time alone with a priest. A tall man, maybe six-two or six-three, wearing a black suit, black shirt, and stark white clerical collar, stretched out of the car. Thick white hair, rimless eyeglasses, and a few lines on a weather-beaten face suggested he was near seventy, yet he stood straight and with a quick, sure stride he walked to the door.

  The doorbell pealed in soft, dulcet tones.

  Mrs. LaBelle was on her feet, and once the priest entered, her tenuous facade fell completely away in a wash of tears and sobs.

  Montoya was glad to get away from the perfect house, a near shrine to a daughter who wasn’t returning. He strode to his cruiser, climbed inside, and fired the engine. Before he backed into the street, he called the station on his cell phone and was connected to Lynn Zaroster, a junior detective who happened to be manning the phones.

  “Hey. It’s Montoya. Can you check with the crime lab, see if there was any jewelry found on Courtney LaBelle, the female vic who was found with Luke Gierman this morning? Also, find out if Gierman was wearing any jewelry.”

  “I think he was au natural. Weren’t you there?”

  “Yeah, and that’s the way it looked to me, too.” Montoya did a quick U-turn, then hit the gas. “I didn’t see that he was wearing anything, but double-check and get back to me, would ya? The girl, she supposedly never went without her promise ring.”

  “Got it.”

  “Is anyone still at Gierman’s town house?”

  “Brinkman and an investigator from the crime-scene team.”

  “Call and tell them to crate the dog. I’ll be by to pick her up.”

  “The dog?”

  “Yeah. Gierman’s ex wants the dog back. Seems as if she lost her in the divorce.”

  “The dog?” Zaroster repeated.

  “That’s what I said.”

  She said something about lunatic, fanatic dog lovers under her breath, then more loudly added, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard about the calls into the radio station the other day?”

  Montoya wheeled around a corner and cut through two lanes of traffic. “No. What?”

  “It was the day they aired a show on vindictive exes.”

  Montoya’s hands tightened over the wheel. “What about it?”

  “The station keeps a log of anyone who phones in. The telephone numbers flash onto the computer display.”

  “Who called?”

  “Lots of peopl
e. Irate. Or ones who had stories to share with old Luke. The thing is, one of the people who phoned in hung up before she said anything.”

  Montoya felt it coming.

  “That caller just happened to be his ex. Abby Chastain. She didn’t bother saying anything, probably thought better of talking to her ex-husband on the air. If it were me, I would have held my tongue, too. But she had definitely been listening and I just heard a replay of the program. He reamed her, but good. If I would have heard that and it had been my ex, I’m thinkin’ I might have killed him.”

  “You’re saying Abby Chastain might have offed her husband and Courtney LaBelle?” No, that didn’t seem quite right. Not with the bridal gown and the size twelve shoes.

  “Don’t know about the girl, but man, oh, man, that Gierman, what a piece of work. He gave his ex-wife a powerful motive. That’s all I’m suggesting.”

  “Save the tape. I want to hear it.”

  “Got it right here,” she said and he heard a couple of raps, as if she were patting something for emphasis.

  “Has his car been found yet?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Let me know when it’s located,” Montoya said before hanging up and driving to Luke Gierman’s town house, located in the French Quarter. Gierman’s end unit was a full two stories of old, painted brick and decorated with tall, paned windows, hurricane shutters, and fancy wrought-iron balconies. The private entrance, a small courtyard, was cordoned off with crime-scene tape.

  Eyeing the place, Montoya pushed open the door. One of Bonita’s investigators, Inez Santiago, was closing up her evidence collection kit. She looked up at Montoya as he stepped into the foyer.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she teased, her teeth flashing white against golden skin. Santiago was a looker, blessed with a dancer’s body and long, coffee-colored hair that she highlighted with streaks of red, and when she was working, scraped away from her face in a crisp, professional knot. Her eyes were green, intelligent, and didn’t miss a damned thing.

  “You through here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Some fingerprints, but who knows who they belong to. We’ll check them with AFIS and see what we come up with. Brinkman took some personal stuff, files and the computer, the trash, and the answering machine. I think we got everything we could. You can poke around all you want. Just don’t mess up anything until I get the final word from Washington.” Santiago’s smile flashed again.

  Fingerprint powder was everywhere and a few drawers still hung open, but underlying what the police crime department had done while investigating, the place was neat. Tidy. Clean. “I’m here for the dog.”

  “Does the dog know that? She might not approve.”

  “Oooh, where do you get off today?”

  With a naughty wink, she said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She clicked her kit closed and nodded toward the kitchen. “The dog’s in there. I tried to pawn her off on Brinkman, but he said ‘no way’; seems to be paranoid around most animals.”

  “He leave?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago. Said to meet him at the station and you could ride up to Baton Rouge together to check out the girl’s dorm room.”

  Montoya didn’t comment. He could only stand so many hours in the car cooped up with Brinkman. Today he had no choice but to put up with the irritating detective, but he couldn’t wait until Bentz returned to duty. Rick Bentz was his regular partner, and though Montoya had kidded around that Bentz was old for his years, he beat the hell out of Brinkman, the Know-It-All.

  Santiago walked through the kitchen to a small laundry area, where dog dishes were placed by the dryer and a large crate was wedged beneath a closet with one of those pull-down ironing boards. Through the mesh of the crate, a brown Lab peered intently. “She’s been waiting,” Santiago said.

  “I’ll bet.” Montoya squatted. “How are ya, girl?” he asked and the Lab gave up a quick yip. “Guess she wants out.” He opened the door and the dog shot from its kennel in a bounding rush of warm brown fur. Wiggling crazily, Hershey knocked over her water dish and panted expectantly, hoping for attention.

  “Good thing I already processed this room,” Santiago muttered.

  “You’re done, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know what more Washington might want. Better get her”—she motioned to the dog—“outside quick and not just in the courtyard.”

  “Got it,” Montoya agreed and then, when the dog began jumping up on him, said, “Hey, hey, slow down.” Montoya grabbed a leash hanging from a hook in the wall and snapped the lead onto the rambunctious dog’s collar. “Chill!” he ordered but the anxious Lab pulled at the tether, nearly choking herself in the process. “I think I’ll take her outside.”

  “Good idea,” Santiago said with a little, mocking nod of her head. “Yep, damned brilliant, Montoya. And for the record, the command isn’t ‘chill’ or ‘calm down’ or ‘freeze.” I think you’d better stick with ‘sit’ or ‘stay,’ you know, your basic commands from Puppy 101.”

  “Funny.”

  “I thought so.”

  “You’re just full of yourself, aren’t you? Good night, last night?”

  “As a matter of fact it was,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “But not what you think. I went out on the town. With a friend. Dancing. Didn’t get home until one A.M. Innocent fun and games.” Again the smile. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Montoya. Don’t be such a guy.” They walked outside, and after the dog had relieved herself near the curb, Montoya managed to get her into the back of the cruiser.

  “Better crack a window.”

  “I was just about to do that,” he muttered, already opening the driver’s side, turning on the ignition, and letting the front windows down several inches. He’d parked in the shade, but the heat was still oppressive. After climbing out of the car, he rested his hips against a fender.

  “Find anything interesting inside?” he asked, hiking his chin toward the courtyard.

  “Not much. You were here earlier. No signs of a struggle.”

  “And his car is still missing.” It was a statement, not a question. The single-car garage had been empty. Montoya had checked.

  “Yep.”

  “What about his personal things? Clothes. Jewelry.”

  “Nothing looked disturbed. In fact, the place was…kind of classy…or tasteful. You know, I’ve listened to Gierman’s show a few times and figured him for some kind of obscene slob. All his talk radio pushes the envelope. I figured he was a racist, a homophobe, a misogynist, and a card-carrying member of the NRA, but as far as I can tell from what I found, I’m probably only right about the guns.”

  “So that rules out the gays and members of the NAACP as suspects,” he said, but the joke fell flat.

  “He had lots of enemies.”

  “So I keep hearing.”

  “He incited people. Loved to feed the fire, y’know?” Her forehead wrinkled. “But maybe it was all for the show. For ratings. For the almighty buck.”

  “Maybe we’ll find out.”

  “Too late for Gierman. Hey, do you want me to drop the dog off?” she offered.

  “I think I can handle it.”

  “Oh?” Santiago looked confused for a second before her chin came up and she looked at Montoya with a slow nod. “Don’t tell me, Gierman’s ex is single and a looker? Jesus, Montoya, when will you learn?”

  “Learn what?” he asked and she just laughed.

  “Fine. Take the dog!” Santiago was already unlocking her own vehicle, parked at the corner just in front of Montoya’s cruiser.

  Montoya ignored her comments and made his way into the town house one more time for a final quick look around the place Gierman had called home for more than a year.

  Santiago was right; the place was neat, or had been before the fingerprint and trace crew had been through. Polished wooden floors, modern furniture in muted tones, and abstract
art in splashes of bold color were the mainstays of Gierman’s furnishings.

  Upstairs in the master bedroom, his clothes were all pressed, folded, or hung, his jewelry in one box that was filled with tie clips, cuff links, and several rings. Pictures of himself in sailing or ski gear were arranged on his dresser. Montoya recognized Puget Sound, the Space Needle on one end, a downtown skyline farther away, and a big mother of a mountain—was it Mt. Rainier?—in the background as Gierman tacked his craft into what appeared to be a bracing wind.

  Because of the location and Gierman’s apparent age, Montoya figured the picture must’ve been taken in the time Gierman was either married to or courting Abby Chastain. They seemed an unlikely couple, Montoya thought, remembering Abby Chastain’s fresh face and, despite the shock of her ex-husband’s death, her wry sense of humor. She seemed to have a genteel facade while Gierman’s was crude and crass.

  But then they both could be fakes.

  Montoya hadn’t dug deep enough to rely on his first impressions.

  Yet.

  The upstairs bathroom was clean, Gierman’s shaving gear neat despite the investigative team’s search. The shower stall, tub, even the toilet, had been scrubbed, either by a girlfriend, cleaning service, or Gierman did the dirty jobs himself.

  Seemed unlikely.

  Montoya opened a cabinet. No kinky sex magazines. Not even a single issue of Playboy. Instead Montoya found copies of catalogs from upscale furniture shops and art galleries, even the most recent issues of a skiing magazine, Golf Digest, and Men’s Health. As it appeared that Gierman lived alone, it looked like his loud-mouthed, boorish public persona was a fraud. Or more likely, he was a complex guy.

  Down a short hallway of gleaming hardwood, Montoya made his way to the second bedroom, which was used exclusively as a den and workout room. No daybed or foldout couch, just a desk, computer, file cabinet, and television with a DVD and VCR and Bose music system. As Gierman had in the bedroom and the living area. A media freak. Against one wall was a set of weights and bench; in a bookcase a CD library of classical, jazz, and old rock ’n’ roll.

  Any guests had to sleep with Gierman or on the olive green couch in the living room.