by Lisa Jackson
Taking the new evidence with him, he left the radio station and hoped to hell that whatever else that chicken-necked, dumb-ass radio jockey had done, he hadn’t fucked over the investigation.
Zoey strapped on her seat belt and silently cursed the fact that, with the exorbitant amount of money she was spending on this airline ticket, a red-eye with a four-hour layover in Dallas, she’d ended up in the middle seat with a woman and an infant next to her on the window side, and a guy over six feet and topping the scales near three hundred—on the aisle side. The big guy couldn’t get comfortable no matter how hard he tried. Every time he squirmed, his arm brushed Zoey’s, and even though she wasn’t a germophobe or anything, she just didn’t like strangers touching her. Period.
She was even suspect of the blanket and pillow she’d found wedged between seats 13 A and B on her way down the aisle. But she needed to sleep and she hoped to hell that whoever had used the cheap bedding before her wasn’t infected with lice, or cooties, or some major strain of flu or worse.
She had her iPod with her and figured she’d zone out for the trip. She needed to relax as much as possible, considering what she was going to face when she landed. All hell was gonna break loose. Able to read her sister like a book, Zoey knew Abby would flip out of control when she finally heard the truth.
Yep, this book was going to end bad, Zoey thought with a grimace. No two ways about it. From the phone call the other night Zoey had figured out right away that Abby wasn’t interested in having her come visit or show up at Luke’s funeral, but that was tough. It was time.
Zoey put stock in omens, curses, signs, and luck, and all the signs that she relied on had pointed to the fact that her secret had to be released. She felt that if not God, then the Fates were watching over her and would give her clues as to what she was supposed to do with her life. Other people often initiated the signs, just as Luke Gierman had all those years earlier, when he’d told her he couldn’t stop thinking about her, that he’d had some cosmic revelation that forced him to follow her to her car on that warm May afternoon.
Though Zoey prided herself in recognizing bull when she heard it, she’d let Luke ramble on and on—finding him incredibly fascinating all over again. They’d been lovers before. She knew his chart by heart and realized that the planets were aligned for their union. That had been the sign—that and her own nightly dreams of making love to him…or at least that’s how she’d rationalized it at the time. Even though she’d known he was engaged to her sister by then, that he’d promised himself to Abby, she’d been powerless to resist Luke.
Zoey had never felt good about herself since.
And now it was time to make it up to her baby sister.
Hadn’t her personal astrologer recently told her that the heavenly bodies were situated in the perfect order? That now was the time to right past wrongs? Hadn’t he hinted about the familial torment that had existed for two decades? Hadn’t he suggested that now, before the stars shifted, she make amends?
And if the astrological viewpoint wasn’t enough, there had been that other very strong sign: a recent anonymous letter. No return address. Block letters. Postmarked in New Orleans. It read:
COME HOME. HANNAH NEEDS YOU.
Now, that was a pretty clear sign. Had Abby sent it and was ashamed to sign her name? Had she referred to herself by her middle name, the one their mother sometimes called her? The name of their maternal grandmother? Or had someone else sent the letter, someone who knew Abby well enough to use her middle name?
The final sign, completing the triad, was Luke’s murder. How could she possibly ignore it?
Two things were certain.
It was time to return to New Orleans.
And it was time for the truth.
It had been twenty years since their mother had plunged to her death, and Zoey was sick to the back teeth of holding on to the secret she and her father had shared.
No more.
Abby was a big girl. She could handle the past. Hadn’t she been trying to sort it out by herself? Going to the hospital on her own, wasn’t that another sign that she was healing? And the insinuations Abby had made…
…we can talk about a lot of things before we have that drink, okay? Including Mom and the day she died. I think you know more about it than you’ve ever said…We’re going to discuss it…
But now, Zoey second-guessed herself, something she rarely did. There was a pretty good chance that she should have come clean on the phone the other night, but she’d really thought it would be best to see her sister face to face before unloading the truth about the past.
At least she hoped she was making the right decision.
Zoey crossed her fingers, sent up a quick prayer to God, then asked the Fates to keep pointing her in the right direction, to help her be certain that she was making the right choice on this one.
The door to the plane closed and the flight attendants asked everyone to turn off his or her electronic devices before the jet pushed out of the gate. The big man next to her clicked off his cell phone and struggled to place it in his bag under the seat.
“Sorry,” he muttered as he shoved things around and continued to brush against her.
She flashed him a smile that she didn’t feel but her mind was on what she would face when she landed.
She couldn’t believe Luke was really dead. Murdered, no less. A college coed had been killed with him. How sick.
Zoey had been keeping up with the reports and had called friends at a sister station in New Orleans who were convinced that the police didn’t have any leads yet. Then there was this business with Asa Pomeroy, Abby’s neighbor. What the hell was that all about? This morning she’d heard another woman was missing: an African-American community leader had seemed to have vanished. Though she wasn’t certain, Zoey thought she’d heard the name before, a long time ago.
Gina Jefferson. Why did that name sound so familiar?
From the amount of information Zoey had gleaned on the Internet this morning, Gina Jefferson was a big deal in New Orleans, a woman who worked behind the scenes rather than in front, but who had gained recognition for her efforts supporting the mentally ill.
Was that it? Zoey wondered as the jet lumbered toward the runway. She thought hard, digging her teeth into her lower lip. Had Gina Jefferson somehow worked at Our Lady of Virtues or in private practice with her mother? Could that be? A social worker maybe?
A headache began to pound behind her eyes as the plane eased into position, then began to pick up speed, its engines roaring. Faster and faster, the jet tore down the runway and Zoey was pressed hard into her seat as the 737 lifted off, cutting into the darkness of the heavens and leaving Sea-Tac with its blaze of lights far below.
It would be worth it, she thought, a relief to finally put the past to rest. That was what Abby had wanted, wasn’t it? Hadn’t her sister said she needed to learn the truth and deal with it once and for all?
Jesus H. Christ, if Abby only knew what she was asking!
She will, Zoey, and soon. Steel yourself.
This ain’t gonna be pretty.
Montoya drove through the pouring rain. His jaw was clenched. It had been hours since he’d dealt with that lowlife worm Maury Taylor, but he was still seething. He’d dropped the note off at the lab, then reviewed everything with Bentz and Zaroster that they knew about the four murders. Which hadn’t added up to squat.
No news on the bridal dress yet.
No prints at the first scene, or on Luke Gierman’s BMW, or Gina Jefferson’s Buick, that could be identified outside family members or friends.
Asa Pomeroy’s car hadn’t yet been located.
No trace evidence that would help in locating the suspect…at least not yet.
Size twelve boot prints at both scenes. The manufacturer had been contacted and was preparing a list of retailers who carried the common hiking boot.
Cell phones and personal phone records were being checked but so far had given up nothing
.
The pictures he’d taken at the candlelight vigil were being pored over by the task force.
The black hair on the wedding gown was male and was now with the DNA lab. However, until they had something to match the markers against, it wouldn’t mean much. Unless they got lucky.
Montoya sighed, turning over in his mind what he knew so far.
Each set of victims had been killed with the female victim’s gun, then the scene was staged to approximate a murder-suicide. “Approximate” was the right word because it wasn’t done well enough to fool the police. The killer probably knew that. He was toying with them, giving them a clue to his twisted game; Montoya just didn’t understand it yet.
Then there was the note. If it proved valid, it suggested that Luke Gierman, to whom the envelope was addressed, was being instructed to “repent.” One single word. And then the signature: AL. Who the hell was that? The department was searching databases and going over the notes from every interview taken on the two cases. Was it someone named Al, or Allen, or Aldren, or Alfred, or Alice…or was it initials? Everyone in the department had tossed out ideas, Bentz pointing out that two of the victims were Asa and Luke, and their first name initials could spell AL. Then there was the thought that it might mean Alabama. Maybe the killer had resided or had been born there. Turn the initials around and the other state abbreviation would be for Louisiana, their home state. Or how about LA, Brinkman had offered up, Los Angeles. “Tons of freakoids out there, let me tell ya. All that smog. Fries their brains.”
Jesus, would the guy ever get serious?
A couple of the other detectives thought it might well be a hoax, but Montoya wasn’t buying that. The single word, “repent,” seemed somehow connected.
There was something religious going on here, he thought, otherwise why bother with the stolen cross…but he didn’t take the Virgin Mary’s, did he?
Hell.
At least it seemed Maury Taylor hadn’t lied about no one touching the note but him; his were the only prints found on the single sheet of paper. There were others on the envelope, of course, and they were being checked against the letter carriers, but that was a time-consuming job. All the prints had been sent to AFIS and the glue under the flap of the envelope checked for DNA. If there was any, they would see if it matched the DNA of the black hair on the wedding dress.
Gina Jefferson and Asa Pomeroy’s next of kin had been notified. Wally Jefferson had collapsed. The fourth, Mrs. Pomeroy, had taken it all in good stride, as had each of Asa’s children. Not a particularly loving bunch, the Pomeroys, Montoya decided. All of the people interviewed had “no idea” who would want to harm the king of weaponry, the poster boy for the NRA; ditto for Gina Jefferson, who in comparison was a saint.
Black and white.
Yin and yang again…
But someone had wanted them dead. Some unknown enemy.
Someone inherently evil and incredibly dangerous.
Someone who killed people who were as different as night to day.
Someone far too close to Abby Chastain to make him feel comfortable. He scowled into the night, staring at the blurry taillights of the car in front of him. He’d been thinking about Abby a lot lately. Too much.
She was definitely starting to get under his skin. Smart, pretty, sexy—she was a woman who made others pale by comparison. He loved the deep throaty sound of her laughter, and the way her eyes rounded when he said something she didn’t expect. He found himself thinking of her not as a witness or potential suspect, or even the ex-wife of a victim, but as a woman. Which was just plain stupid. He couldn’t let her get to him. For all he knew, she could be involved in her ex-husband’s death. It was a long shot, yeah, and he didn’t believe it for a second, but he had to stay impartial, sharp, willing to look at all the angles and possibilities. So, too bad if she just happened to be hotter than hell.
Pushing thoughts of her from his head, he drove steadily toward his house, watching the wipers swish the rain from his windshield. He slowed as a traffic light glowed amber, then brilliant red, reflecting on the shiny, wet pavement. Two pedestrians, laughing and wearing cheap ponchos, jogged through puddles to the opposite side of the street.
His cell phone rang and he picked it up without looking at caller ID. “Montoya.”
“Where do you get off breaking all kinds of policy and going on a personal rampage at the radio station?” Melinda Jaskiel, the D.A., demanded. Before he could answer, she added, “It’s a damned good thing that Eleanor Cavalier is a personal friend of mine or your ass, as they say, would damned well be grass.”
The light turned green and he stepped on it.
“Montoya, do not, and I repeat, do not screw up my case! We’re going to nail this bastard and I don’t want any high-profile defense attorney looking for his personal shot at fame to have any excuse to have evidence tossed because some cocky, hot-tempered detective messed it up. Do I make myself clear?”
“Loud and,” he muttered, furious with himself, with the investigation, with the whole damned world.
“Good. Remember this.” She hung up and he could still feel her seething through the phone.
“Goddamned son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. He knew she was right, but it pissed him off just the same. Then again, everything about this case pissed him off. And he knew why. It all had to do with Abby Chastain. Each time he left her, he wanted to return. The other night with the bad pizza and so-so wine, it had been hard to peel himself away from her.
He’d found himself fantasizing about her, wanting her, thinking about wrapping his arms around her, saying to hell with the whole damned world, and kissing her so hard neither one of them would be able to think straight. He thought about stripping off her clothes, his thumbs skimming those breasts he’d only caught a glimpse of, kissing her throat, then tangling his fingers in that wild mass of red-blond hair as he ran his tongue downward.
His imagination ran wild: he saw himself tumbling into bed with her, both of them half-dressed, both so hot they were sweating and eager. He wanted to feel her anxious fingers on his skin as he thrust into her, not giving one good goddamn what anyone thought.
“Shit,” he muttered, so caught in the fantasy that he almost missed his street. He gave himself a quick mental shake, forcing thoughts of the woman out of his mind as he parked in front of his house, a camelback shotgun that sat amid others that were identical. He’d bought the narrow house this last year and flat-out loved the shoe box design. He’d even taken to tinkering around it, fixing the porch, painting, adding some wrought iron, all that domestic crap he’d eschewed in his earlier years.
His home was painted pale blue, nestled into a pod of pastel colors that suited him just fine. He walked inside, tossed his keys onto a side table, picked up the remote, and turned on his television. Stripping out of his jacket, he walked through the connecting living room, den, and eating area to the kitchen, near the back of the house. He’d poured a lot of energy, elbow grease, and money into the rundown unit but it had been worth it, giving him an outlet, a way to work off energy from the stress of his job as well as give him a project to fill the few hours he had off with something constructive.
It had helped him get over Marta.
Throwing his heart and soul into the century-old boards, lathe, and plaster of this railroad car of a home he had managed to firmly put the past behind him.
Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, he twisted off the top while kicking the fridge’s door closed. Now, his thoughts were about Abby Chastain. Abby and the case that had brought them together. A case that had taken the lives of four people, all from different walks of life.
Montoya rubbed his face, then took a swallow.
The suspect list was growing, but most of them were discounted the minute their names came up. He was still leaning toward Nia Penne’s current live-in. Roy North was the right size and had black hair. His feet were size twelves, but his alibis were ironclad, unless Nia was covering up for he
r lover. So far, the police had no proof that Roy had been anywhere near Luke Gierman or All Saints College. And what would Roy or Nia have to do with Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson? Nonetheless, Montoya wanted DNA from the guy. If a judge couldn’t be convinced to issue a warrant, then maybe he’d have someone follow North, try to pick up a tossed cigarette butt or coffee cup or something with the guy’s DNA on it, enough to compare it to the black hair found at the first scene and the saliva, if there was some, that would be collected from the envelope sent to WSLJ.
He took a pull from his bottle, then walked into the living room, where the news of Asa Pomeroy’s and Gina Jefferson’s murders was on every channel. The stations were talking about a serial killer stalking the streets of New Orleans again, and not only the public information officer for the police department, but also someone from the FBI, gave statements and took a few quick questions, all the while holding back information that only the killer would know about the murders, hoping to weed out the invariable nut jobs who pretended to be the sick-o called the station to “confess” and got off on the fame.
Sipping his beer as he watched, he knew that somewhere the killer, too, was glued to a television screen, reveling in the havoc he’d wreaked and the media and police department’s attention. That’s what it was all about: stroking a killer’s damned twisted ego.
And the bastard would do it over and over again for the high, the rush of feeling superior, of dominating, and killing, then dancing away from it all.
“I’ll get you, you sick son of a bitch,” Montoya vowed. He drained his long-necked bottle. It might be far-fetched but he still believed the old hospital was somehow connected to what was going on. It was too late to call his aunt tonight. She didn’t even have a phone in her room. First thing tomorrow morning, he’d dial her up and find out if she knew of any connection between Asa Pomeroy, Gina Jefferson, and Our Lady of Virtues.
In the meantime, despite his promises to himself, he snagged up his car keys again, threw on his jacket, and headed out the door into the wet night. Someone had to tell Abby Chastain that her neighbor had been murdered.