by Lisa Jackson
Now, because of the investigation, the guts of the computer had been taken away, cords left dangling where they had once been attached to the hard drive. File drawers had been left hanging open and had been stripped of a lot of the information inside, those files now, no doubt, piled upon Montoya’s desk at the station.
Brinkman was thorough, he thought, but still a prick.
Water dripped from the old pipes.
The smell of earth seeped in past tiles and bricks that had long ago lost their seals. Without care and resealing, the ancient mortar and grout had crumbled, letting in the dank, moist scent of dirt.
He didn’t care.
It didn’t matter.
Didn’t cloud his purpose.
If he stood very still and closed his eyes, he could remember the pungent odors of antiseptic and ammonia masking the acrid human scents of urine, sweat, and fear.
Above the smells were the sounds. If he listened very carefully, straining his ears, he could still hear the hushed whispers, the muted prayers, and the soft, unending moans. Metal carts rattled, the clock struck the hour, and everywhere there was the faint sense of depravity and decay, all washed over with a gloss of wellness and sunshine and false hope.
Now, standing in the labyrinthine corridors of the basement, he imagined how it had once been. So clearly he could see the lies…the shining eyes, the patient smiles, the concerned knit of eyebrows, but everything had been untrue.
He opened his eyes, and spurred by all those falsehoods, those dark, hidden sins, sins his mother had warned him about, sins for which he’d been brutally punished, he slipped through the shadowy corridors and felt again that he’d finally come home, had returned to make things right.
He moved noiselessly, leaving lanterns burning at critical junctures, golden light from tiny flames washing up against what had once been gleaming, pristine walls. Now black mold was evident, dark stains encroaching on dusty, dirty squares of the tile that had covered the walls of this area of the hospital basement. This was the part that had always been locked and kept secret, a place where the light of day never shone, where few knew what travesties had occurred down here. Those who had known had held their tongues and had expected the treachery and vile acts to have been forgotten.
Oh, how wrong they were.
Nothing was forgotten.
Nor was it forgiven.
His mother had taught him these valuable lessons.
He lit another lantern and turned a last corner. With his key, he unlocked a final door and stepped into the windowless room where his belongings were stashed. He lit candles and walked to the small secretary-desk with its peekaboo cabinets. It was unlocked. Pressing a small lever, he watched as the writing table unfolded, revealing hidden little niches, perfect cubicles for secreting his treasures. From his pocket, he withdrew the ring, a tiny gold band with a winking red stone. For a second he rubbed the metal circle between his forefinger and thumb, feeling its warmth, remembering the girl who had worn it. Heat thrummed through his bloodstream and he licked his lips. So perfect was she…so unaware. He noticed the blood on the perfect gold circle. Her blood. So much the better.
He relived the act of placing the pistol into her fingers, of squeezing the trigger, of feeling her smooth, supple back pressed into his abdomen, then fall away as death took her.
She had been so frightened and he knew he could have forced her into submission. It had been all he could do not to give into the urge. Her buttocks had fit so beautifully and intimately against his rock-hard cock. Mounting her would have been easy. Claiming her virginal body an act of pure indulgence. He’d imagined ramming himself into her tight little, untouched cunt, of breaking that thin barrier that separated woman from child.
But it would have been wrong.
Ruined all his carefully laid plans.
Now, thinking of her warm, trembling body, he felt the need for release, for the hot, urgent ache within him to be assuaged as he grew hard again.
But he knew his torment was part of his own atonement.
He let out his breath slowly, found that he’d gripped the ring so hard it had cut into his skin, and he mentally berated himself. It wasn’t time. Not yet.
Angry with himself for his weakness, he placed the gold band into a special cranny, then he removed the watch from his pocket and set the expensive timepiece next to the ring.
Perfect, he thought as the candles burned and water dripped in the hallway. This was the first step though he was far from finished. His work would take time; there were so many who had to pay. From an upper shelf, he withdrew a black bound photograph album and began flipping slowly through the pages of posed photographs, newspaper clippings, snapshots, and magazine articles.
He smiled as he stared down at the lifeless pictures and read the stories he’d memorized long ago. But his smile fell away as he came to Faith Chastain’s photograph, a studio shot in black and white that caught her looking nearly lasciviously at the camera’s eye. He touched the photograph, outlining the curve of her jaw. His chest tightened as he remembered her in life. In death.
Angrily he snapped the album closed and stuffed it into its special slot of the desk. Then he slammed the top of the secretary closed. He didn’t have time for this. There was so much work to do.
The deaths of the other night were just the beginning.
CHAPTER 6
“We’re all in shock here at WSLJ,” the disk jockey was saying, “everyone’s going to miss Luke Gierman. I mean, the guy, was like a legend around here…”
Oh, save me, Abby thought.
“…as a tribute to Luke and the contribution he made to free speech, WSLJ has decided to replay some of his most popular shows and we’d like your opinion about which ones you’d like to hear again. You can either call in or log on to our website.” The DJ rattled off phone numbers and the website address with such enthusiasm that Abby felt sick. She clicked off the radio.
“So now they’re going to canonize him,” she said to Ansel, who was seated on the back of the couch and staring hungrily at a hummingbird hovering near the feeder. “Unbelievable. It gives a whole new meaning to St. Luke, don’t ya think?” But despite her flippant words, she felt more than a little regret about their last conversation and the fact she’d lied about his father’s gun.
“Don’t even think about it,” she chided herself just as she heard the sound of tires crunching on the drive. Ansel, no longer mesmerized by the hummingbird, hopped down from the couch and strolled to the door, only to stop dead in his tracks.
“What?” Abby asked as she looked out the window. Detective Montoya had arrived. With Hershey. Abby’s heart leapt. Damn, she’d missed that dog. Opening the front door, she let in a rush of warm October air as she stepped outside.
Hershey was straining at her leash, kicking up leaves. Detective Montoya, rather than yank the eager dog back, was jogging to keep up with her. He glanced up, caught sight of Abby on the front porch, and flashed a smile.
A sincere smile that was crookedly boyish and caught Abby off guard.
“I think she missed you,” he said as Hershey bounded up the steps. Leaping, jumping, wiggling, and wagging her tail, she demanded every bit of Abby’s attention.
“Yeah, you’re good. You’re so, so good,” Abby assured her, petting her sleek coat and bending down to have her face washed by Hershey’s tongue. “I missed you so much, Hersh.”
The Lab barked loudly and Abby laughed. Though she hated the circumstances by which she’d inherited Hershey, she was glad to have the dog back home. “Thanks for bringing her back,” she said to Montoya as she took the leash from him.
“No problem.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t exactly live around the corner from the police station. At least let me offer you a beer or a Coke, oh, I’ve only got Diet…”
“Nothing, really.”
She unsnapped the leash and Hershey, spying Ansel, shot inside. “Uh-oh. Watch out.” The cat puffed up to twice his
size, hissed, then took off, streaking out through the open door, across the porch, and up the trunk of a live oak. The dog was inches behind and stopped short at the tree, only to bark wildly as Ansel sat on a low branch and looked down.
Abby couldn’t help grinning. “It’s their favorite game.”
Hershey whined and barked until she caught wind of some other animal and started sniffing the bushes. “It never fails,” Abby said, shaking her head as she watched her pets. “Every time Luke brought the dog over, Hershey would go berserk and Ansel would hiss and run. The dog always gave chase and then, twenty minutes later, they’d both be lying in the living room, Ansel on the back of the couch, Hershey in her bed by the fire, both curled up and sleeping dead to the world, as if they didn’t know the other animal was in the room.” Abby shoved her hair from her eyes. “Sometimes it’s a regular three-ring circus around here.”
“Did your ex leave the dog here often?”
“Just about every weekend,” she said, thinking of the absurdity of the situation. “As much as he fought for Hershey in the divorce, the responsibility of having a dog really cramped his style. He was gone a lot between his hours at the station and his other activities.” She slid Montoya a look. “Luke was an outdoor enthusiast, and when he couldn’t be fishing or hunting, or skiing or whatever, he spent hours in the gym. He was rarely home and so the dog was in his way. But I didn’t mind, as I said, I’ve missed Hershey.” She felt an unlikely tug on her heart. “I feel badly about Luke, really. We didn’t get along very well and our last conversation…it was really bad, awful, in fact…and then he really gave me some shots on his program the next day.”
“You listened?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. I guess I was curious, or deep down I have masochistic tendencies, I don’t know, but yes, I tuned in. It was a mistake.” She stared at the dog and absently rubbed a forearm with her opposing hand. “Luke really went for the jugular that day.”
“Did it make you angry?”
“Damned straight,” she admitted, then looked at him. “It would have made anyone angry, but no, not that you’re asking, but you’re hinting that I might have been mad enough to kill him. I didn’t.”
“What about Courtney LaBelle. Any luck remembering her?”
“No…But there’s something about her name that seems familiar.”
“Famous singer named LaBelle,” he offered. “And a disk jockey over at WNAB.”
“No…Something more.” She’d wondered about it all day, had felt uneasy ever since hearing the girl’s name. “But she’s too young, I wouldn’t have known her.”
“She went by Mary.”
“Mary LaBelle.” Abby rubbed the back of her neck and drew her lips into a knot as she tossed the name around in her head. She came up with nothing, just a vague uneasiness that she should remember something. Something important. “Sorry. It’s probably nothing.”
“Do you know if your ex wore any piece of jewelry that was important to him?”
“Like what? A nose ring?”
He snorted a laugh. “I don’t know, but let’s start with a ring, you know, for his finger.”
She crossed her arms. “He never even wore his wedding band after about six months into the marriage. He had an accident when he was sailing, the ring got caught on something, or so he claimed. Anyway, he quit wearing it. Later, I figured he just didn’t want to advertise the fact that he was married. I still have it, in my jewelry box,” she admitted, embarrassed. “I guess I was saving it for an anniversary or something so I could hurl it into the Mississippi, but I never got around to it.”
He was staring at her with those damned dark eyes that seemed to see more than she wanted him to. She felt foolish, as if she were sentimental for a marriage that had died a natural death long ago, long before the divorce proceedings had been started.
“So…no wedding ring or ring of any kind?”
“I never saw him wearing one.” She looked pointedly at the gold ring in Montoya’s ear. “No earrings, either, or…ID bracelets or gold chains…the only piece of jewelry, if you could call it that, was a watch. Never without it.” Her stomach curdled when she remembered the day she’d dashed outside, trying to avoid big drops of rain, to the spot where he’d parked the BMW. She’d been on a mission of mercy, to close the sun roof and to find his auto insurance documents as there was some question about coverage on the new car. What she’d discovered, locked in the glove box of the shiny black sports car, was an expensive watch, a card signed by initials she recognized as belonging to Connie Hastings, the owner of a rival radio station that was trying to lure Luke away from his job at WSLJ, and the singularly devastating knowledge that her husband had been cheating on her. Again. Her hands had shaken as she’d read the cute, overtly suggestive card. Her stomach had boiled with acid when she opened the padded box wherein lay the Rolex. The whole experience was tantamount to a blow to the solar plexus. She’d felt as if she couldn’t draw a breath and she’d been totally unaware that the passenger side door was still open, the warning bell dinging insistently, rain blowing into the interior, drenching her and the stupid proof of insurance.
God, she’d been such a fool. If she hadn’t been pregnant at the time, she would have divorced him on the spot. Instead she’d left the sun roof open, the card and gift on the passenger seat, the door open in hopes that the interior of the car would be ruined, the battery drained, and the precious new watch stolen. She’d vomited in the bushes, delighting Hershey, then gone inside and waited for Luke to step out of the shower.
Now, she looked up and found Montoya waiting. “Oh, well. The watch. It’s a Rolex, one that he could use scuba diving, if you can believe that. It still ran under so many pounds of pressure and could withstand decompression…and it was cool enough looking that he never took it off. At least he didn’t while we were married.”
“Did he have it insured?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But since you’re asking, I assume it’s missing.”
“Just taking an inventory of all of his stuff.”
“But if he had been wearing the watch, you’d know about it, right?” she asked. “You wouldn’t have to ask me.”
“We can never rule out robbery as a motive.”
“If Courtney killed him, she didn’t rob him. If it was someone else, why go to all the trouble to take them both out to the middle of nowhere?” Abby asked, angry that the detective was holding out on her. “Thieves usually rob people on the street, in a car, at work, at home. They don’t go to the trouble and time of getting two victims together to stage some bizarre murder-suicide.”
“Unless they were into it,” Montoya said.
“Is there a reason you’ve not told me more about what happened the other night?” she asked, deciding to air her worst fears. “Am I under suspicion or something?”
“Everyone is.”
“Especially ex-wives who are publically humiliated on the day of the murder, right?”
Something in Montoya’s expression changed. Hardened. “I’ll be back,” he promised, “and I’ll bring another detective with me, then we’ll interview you and you can ask all the questions you like.”
“And you’ll answer them?”
He offered a hint of a smile. “That I can’t promise. Just that I won’t lie to you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to, Detective.”
He gave a quick nod. “In the meantime if you suddenly remember, or think of anything, give me a call.”
“I will,” she promised, irritated, watching as he hurried down the two steps of the porch to his car. He was younger than she was by a couple of years, she guessed, though she couldn’t be certain, and there was something about him that exuded a natural brooding sexuality, as if he knew he was attractive to women, almost expected it to be so.
Great. Just what she needed, a sexy-as-hell cop who probably had her pinned to the top of his murder suspect list. She whistled for the dog and Hershey bounded inside,
dragging some mud and leaves with her. “Sit!” Abby commanded and the Lab dropped her rear end onto the floor just inside the door. Abby opened the door to the closet and found a towel hanging on a peg she kept for just such occasions, then, while Hershey whined in protest, she cleaned all four of her damp paws. “You’re gonna be a problem, aren’t you?” she teased, then dropped the towel over the dog’s head.
Hershey shook herself, tossed off the towel, then bit at it, snagging one end in her mouth and pulling backward in a quick game of tug of war. Abby laughed as she played with the dog, the first real joy she’d felt since hearing the news about her ex-husband. The phone rang and she left the dog growling and shaking the tattered piece of terry cloth.
“Hello?” she said, still chuckling at Hershey’s antics as she lifted the phone to her hear.
“Abby Chastain?”
“Yes.”
“Beth Ann Wright with the New Orleans Sentinel.”
Abby’s heart plummeted. The press. Just what she needed.
“You were Luke Gierman’s wife, right?”
“What’s this about?” Abby asked warily as Hershey padded into the kitchen and looked expectantly at the back door leading to her studio. “In a second,” she mouthed to the Lab. Hershey slowly wagged her tail.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Beth Ann said, sounding sincerely rueful. “I should have explained. The paper’s running a series of articles on Luke, as he was a local celebrity, and I’d like to interview you for the piece. I was thinking we could meet tomorrow morning?”
“Luke and I were divorced.”
“Yes, I know, but I would like to give some insight to the man behind the mike, you know. He had a certain public persona, but I’m sure my readers would like to know more about him, his history, his hopes, his dreams, you know, the human-interest angle.”
“It’s kind of late for that,” Abby said, not bothering to keep the ice out of her voice.
“But you knew him intimately. I thought you could come up with some anecdotes, let people see the real Luke Gierman.”