Shiver

by Lisa Jackson

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I realize you and he had some unresolved issues.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I caught his program the other day.”

  Abby tensed, her fingers holding the phone in a death grip.

  “So this is probably harder for you than most, but I still would like to ask you some questions.”

  “Maybe another time,” she hedged and Beth Ann didn’t miss a beat.

  “Anytime you’d like. You’re a native Louisianan, aren’t you?” Abby’s neck muscles tightened. “Born and raised, but you met Luke in Seattle when he was working for a radio station…what’s the call sign, I know I’ve got it somewhere.”

  “KCTY.” It was a matter of public record.

  “Oh, that’s right. Country in the City. But you grew up here and went to local schools, right? Your mother and father are from around here?”

  Warning bells clanged in Abby’s head. She felt a headache forming in the base of her skull.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Jacques and Faith Chastain.”

  “Luke was their son-in-law for a few years, nothing more,” Abby said tightly.

  “Wait a minute…” Beth Ann muttered, as if searching through some notes, though Abby suspected she had all the information at her fingertips. “Your mother probably never met him, right? Wasn’t your mother, Faith Chastain, the woman who died at Our Lady of Virtues Hospital, the one they’re planning to tear down?”

  The woman had certainly done her homework.

  “So, she never really knew Luke as a son-in-law?”

  Abby hung up. Slammed the receiver down and vowed if it rang again, she’d just let the answering machine pick up. She would screen her calls. Anyone who wanted an appointment to see the house or for a photography session would leave a message.

  She stared at the phone for a second, half expecting it to ring again, then she let out a long breath. Get used to it, her mind warned her, this is just the beginning. Until they find Luke’s killer and even afterward, the press, police, and the just-plain-curious will be calling.

  There was just no getting around it.

  The drive to Baton Rouge was fairly tolerable, Montoya thought. Brinkman wasn’t as irritating as usual and he kept the conversation on the crime. So far the lab had come up with nothing, but Gierman’s car had been found in an alley near his athletic club, the ATM where he’d gotten money only a block away. The trouble was, according to Brinkman, no one at the club had seen Gierman at the facility working out. He hadn’t shown up for his personal training session nor the rock climbing he liked to do on the fake stone wall that was built into the place.

  At first glance Gierman’s BMW seemed clean, but the techs at the police garage were still going over it.

  “I also had a chat with the ex-girlfriend, Nia Penne,” Brinkman said, cracking his window as Montoya drove northwest on Highway 10. It was twilight, headlights punctuating the gathering darkness, the air thick with the promise of more rain.

  “What did she say?”

  “Mainly that Gierman was a ladies’ man. Had the old wandering eye, but she thinks he was still in love with his ex-wife all the same.” He shot Montoya a look across the darkened front seat of the Crown Victoria.

  “This is the same guy who bad-mouthed her on his program.”

  “Yep. That’s what she claims. I asked about it but she said his show was all an act, if you can believe it.”

  Montoya didn’t.

  “Anyway, if you ask me, airing all your dirty laundry ain’t exactly a way back into a lady’s good graces, or the sack.” He cackled as he fished in his inside jacket pocket and came up with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Go figure.” He shook out a filter tip, rammed it into the corner of his mouth, and searched his pockets for his lighter.

  Montoya didn’t have too much trouble figuring at all. He eased the car around a broad corner and decided it might be tough to get over a woman like Abby Chastain.

  “I’m lookin’ into the money.” The cigarette wobbled in his mouth as he spoke. “Who gets what, assuming Gierman still has some after his divorce. Usually the wife, she makes out like a bandit.”

  Montoya wasn’t buying it. However, he hadn’t gone through three divorces like Brinkman had. And he had a sense that Abby Chastain wasn’t about the money. But then, he could be wrong. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made mistakes of character in the past. “Back to Gierman. So he was a player. We already knew that. What about the girlfriend’s alibi?”

  “Iron tight. Like a damned locked chastity belt.” Brinkman found the lighter and fired up his cigarette. “She’s been in Toronto with friends, a couple with a ten-month-old baby.” He shot a stream of smoke toward the passenger window. “When Gierman was killed, she was with her friends, drinking wine and playing cards at their house until one-thirty in the morning. Noise woke up the neighbors, who called the police. Took everyone’s names.”

  “Maybe she hired someone.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.” Brinkman shook his head and wrinkled his nose. “She was a little pissed off at him. Seems he had a fling with some waitress at a restaurant hotel on Bourbon Street and Nia found out about it. Threw a hissy fit and quit seeing him. They hadn’t been cohabiting, so she just broke it off. If anything, she seemed relieved.”

  “And the waitress?”

  He took another deep drag. “Haven’t got that far yet. Hey, ain’t this the exit?”

  Montoya was already braking. He flipped on his turn signal and drove through the rain-washed streets of Baton Rouge. Though it wasn’t quite yet night, the street lamps, guided by the thickening twilight, had begun to glow, casting a shimmering light on the wet asphalt. Pedestrians scurried under awnings or beneath umbrellas, and a few bicyclists sped through the puddles. Neon lights offered sizzling splashes of color from windows of bars and restaurants lining the streets.

  “What about the radio station? Anyone there who would like to put Gierman off the air permanently?”

  “Still lookin’ into it. Spoke with a couple of coworkers, so far everyone’s talkin’ nicey-nice about the dead. To hear them tell it, Gierman was a helluva guy. A goddamned prince.” He snorted, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Nice guy, my ass. Still got a few more people to talk to. Last to see him, so far, was his sidekick, Maury Taylor, who seems genuinely upset. Could be an act.” He tossed the butt of his cigarette out the window. “Radio guys,” he said derisively. “Bunch of whack jobs.”

  Montoya eased the cruiser through a residential district where the houses became larger and grander as they approached the university. Landscaped lawns, wide verandahs, gingerbread accents, fresh paint, and the look of affluence surrounded the gated entrance to All Saints College.

  “You know where you’re going?” Brinkman asked as they passed the unguarded gate.

  “Cramer Hall.”

  “You’ve been there before?”

  Montoya nodded. “Bentz’s kid, Kristi, lived in that dorm when she went to school here.” He didn’t go into the reasons he’d been here, the terror that Kristi and her father had lived through, but Brinkman had been around at that time. Knew the score.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said now, nodding. “That case with that serial killer who called himself the Chosen One or some such shit. Jesus, there was a nut job.”

  Aren’t they all? Montoya found a parking spot designated for visitors, then he and Brinkman piled out of the car. Ducking their heads, they made their way inside the dorm to where the Dean of Students, Dr. Sharon Usher, who had been called earlier, waited. The dean was a small-shouldered, nervous woman with short brown hair shot with silver, no makeup, and thin, pinched lips. She looked about forty-five, but the gray hair could have added some extra years. She was every bit a part of clichéd academia with her owlish glasses, long tweed skirt, and brown sweater.

  They shook hands all around and she, clutching a large key ring as if it held the keys to the kingdom, led them
up the old stairs of the brick building—a building that smelled of perfume, sweaty running gear, and enthusiasm. Girls in groups of three or four, chatting wildly, wearing headsets or clutching cell phones, passed by, barely noticing the older men.

  But the third floor was quiet. Any students still around were either locked behind their doors or out. Crime-scene tape barred the door to Room 534.

  “I hope you clear this up quickly,” Dr. Usher said, as if the police department would intentionally drag its heels.

  “That’s the general plan,” Brinkman acknowledged with a conspiring glance at Montoya.

  “Good. Good. As you asked, I’ve got Courtney’s class schedule, a list of the students in those classes as well as everyone here in the dorm, by room number. I also think you should know that Mr. Gierman was here, just three weeks ago. He was a guest speaker in Dr. Starr’s Personal Communications 101. Courtney was in that class.”

  Montoya stopped and his focus sharpened. Finally a connection between the two victims.

  “Luke Gierman was here?” he clarified.

  “That’s right.” She sifted through the keys.

  “Did Courtney speak with him?”

  “I don’t think so, but I really don’t know. I’ve talked to Dr. Starr. The administration wasn’t pleased at his choice of speakers.” She slipped one of the keys into the lock of the dorm room. “As much as we preach diversity and freedom of speech and everything else, this is still a pretty conservative school.”

  “We’ll need to talk to Starr, too.”

  “I know. He’ll meet with you later, when we’re finished,” she said with the efficiency with which, he guessed, Dean Usher tackled any assignment. “I’ve included his cell phone number along with everything else in a file in my office. You can pick the file up when you’re through here.”

  Montoya glanced at Brinkman. Maybe they’d caught a break. Usher unlocked the door and, without another word, let it swing open.

  Montoya stepped inside and, for a second, felt as if he’d been propelled into another world. “What the hell is all this?” he asked, flipping on the light and staring at the walls. One side of the room was painted stark white and covered with crucifixes, pictures of the Holy Mother, Mary, and portraits of Jesus upon the cross. The other side was painted black as night and was starkly bare. No wall hangings, no pictures, nothing to reveal anything about the occupant. The desk on the white side of the room was littered with Lucite cubes and framed pictures of Courtney Mary LaBelle along with an open Bible and a rosary that hung from the knob of her closet door. The other side of the room was nearly empty aside from a small printer and several books on a bookcase, novels by Anne Rice and others about vampires, werewolves, and the paranormal.

  “I don’t get it,” Brinkman said, and for once, Montoya agreed.

  “This room belongs to Courtney LaBelle”—Dr. Usher motioned toward the cluttered side of the room—“as well as Ophelia Ketterling.” The dean’s hand waved toward the stark black walls.

  “Roommates?” Brinkman said.

  “We encourage our students to be individuals and some of them, well, they take it to the max.” To prove her point more clearly, Dr. Usher snapped down the window shade, allowing no fading light into the room, flipped on a single lamp that sat on the desk in the dark side of the room, then turned off the overhead light.

  “Holy shit,” Brinkman said as the dark room transformed instantly. Instead of flat black, the wall was suddenly crawling with designs that were only apparent when the black lightbulb glowed with its eerie purple light. Weird, nearly abstract pictures of gargoyles, vampires, and creatures with long teeth, tails, and tongues appeared as if they’d erupted from the very bowels of hell. “Jesus H. Christ,” Brinkman muttered. “Would you look at this.”

  “Ophelia is an art student. A talented one, though some question her subject matter.” Usher snapped on the overhead again and the grotesque images disappeared.

  “How did Courtney get along with her roommate?”

  “They didn’t.”

  Big surprise, Montoya thought.

  “She, uh, complain about the weirdo decorations?” Brinkman asked.

  “Not to me, nor the R.A.,” the dean said, biting her lower lip. “It’s fall term, actually the year has barely started. I only heard about this”—she motioned toward the black walls—“after word of the tragedy hit.” She sighed and wrapped her arms around her slim waist, the key ring jingling in her fingers. “It’s all so horrible.”

  Amen to that, Montoya thought. “Did the two girls know each other before they came to All Saints?” Montoya asked.

  “Courtney and Ophelia? Oh, no.” She shook her head.

  Montoya believed it. “Then how did they get together?”

  “Computer random pairing,” the dean said.

  “As different as they are?” Montoya asked.

  “Maybe not so different. Both into art, both nonsmokers, both come from religious families, Courtney from New Orleans, Ophelia from Lafayette. Both their mothers went to college here, both from the upper middle class. Both went to private Catholic high schools. Yes, they’re very different, but they had a lot in common.” Her smile was wan. “Obviously, it didn’t work out.”

  “Can we talk to Ms. Ketterling?” Montoya asked.

  “She’s downstairs in the office.”

  Brinkman was already poking around. Montoya said, “We’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be there as well.” The dean clipped off in hard-soled shoes that echoed through the tile floors of the hallway and down the stairs.

  “What a freak fest,” Brinkman muttered. “The weird art…the vampire books, the black walls. This chick is disturbed. Extremely disturbed. We might want to find out where she was on the night her roommate bit it.”

  “Lots of people read vampire books. It’s cool these days.”

  “Just cuz it’s considered cool, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

  Painstakingly they searched the small room, barely speaking to each other, finding nothing of interest. Courtney Mary’s side of the room held textbooks, a few pairs of jeans, T-shirts and sweaters, one dress, and a drawer for her bras and underwear. Crammed onto the desk was typical college stuff: iPod, notebook computer, cell phone, makeup, and toiletries. It was odd she hadn’t taken her cell phone with her, Montoya thought, and bagged it. He eyed the religious symbols. Pictures of angels, reprints of religious paintings—some Montoya recognized—crucifixes and statues of the Madonna. One rosary was looped over the handle of her closet door, another draped over her bedpost. Saints cards and medals were kept in a special box.

  He wondered about her obsession. Had being forced to live with a girl who seemed more interested in the dark arts than getting into heaven cause Courtney to take an even deeper interest in her religion? She’d already thought she’d been called, had heard God’s voice. What had being with this roommate done to her?

  “Weirder and weirder…” Brinkman finally said. “Isn’t that from an old book?”

  “I think it’s ‘curiouser and curiouser.’ From Alice in Wonderland.”

  “Close enough.” Brinkman hooked a thumb to the dark side of the room. “And speaking of Wonderland. This chick is off.” Then he glanced at Courtney Mary’s side. “Well, they both are.”

  “Maybe that’s why the computer connected them,” Montoya said. “Yin and yang.”

  “Whatever. I need a smoke.” He was already scrounging into the inside pocket of his jacket. “How about we finish here, I go outside, and I meet you in the office?”

  “Works for me.”

  The dog would be a problem.

  They always were.

  He mentally berated himself as he stood in the woods, darkness closing in, the smell of the swamp thick and dank in his nostrils. Through the dripping Spanish moss and swamp oak and sycamore trees, he stared at the cottage with its broad bank of windows.

  Rain gurgled and ran in the gutters as the wind gusted away fr
om the house, carrying his scent in the opposite direction. From these ever-darkening shadows he could, as he had before, follow her movements as she walked through her home. He knew where she kept her hand cream, in the small bathroom near the stairs. He’d seen her coming out of that doorway, rubbing her hands together. He’d watched as she stretched upward to a top shelf in the hallway where her holiday decorations were stashed and seen a flash of smooth hard abdomen as her knit shirt had risen upward, away from the waistband of her jeans. And he knew that in a drawer near the bed, the side of the bed where she didn’t sleep, there was a gun in the drawer; he’d seen her pull it out, study it, then replace it and shut the drawer quickly.

  Her husband’s father’s service weapon, he’d learned from Luke Gierman’s last radio broadcast.

  Now, she was inside. He caught her image as he stared through her windows, where the warm patches of light were like beacons in the gathering twilight. She’d made herself a pot of coffee and was sipping from a cup as she moved from one room to the next, talking to her animals, turning on the television, working at the table where she’d laid out negatives and pictures. Though he’d barely heard the ringing of her phone, he’d watched as she’d picked up the kitchen extension and talked without a hint of a smile.

  The conversation was probably about her dead husband.

  Studying her, he wondered how she could have married a man as base as Gierman, a man who had publicly cheated on her and had belittled her on the air.

  Mary did you a favor, he thought, remembering the feel of the gun blast in the girl’s hand as she’d killed Gierman, who had been frantic, his eyes bulging in fear, his head shaking wildly as if in so doing he could stop the inevitable.

  Gierman’s body had jerked when the gun had gone off. Instantly blood had begun to pump the life from him. Yes, Mary, the virgin, had done the world a favor in taking Gierman’s life. And then she’d made the ultimate sacrifice herself.

  He felt a little buzz in his blood as he remembered the feeling of power, of justice, that had swept over him.