Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  Once in his office, Bentz yanked off his tie and took the time to check the files of open cases. It didn’t take long to come up with the folder and computer information on Cherie Bellechamps, the prostitute who had been found a few weeks earlier. She, too, had been strangled with something causing a peculiar ligature around her neck. Cherie had been posed as well, in mock prayer in her seedy apartment. Left with a marred C-note on the bedside table, a loaded gun in the drawer, all the lights blazing and the radio playing. The crime-scene team had collected dirt, hair, semen and fingerprints. Whoever had offed Cherie hadn’t been careful not to leave other evidence.

  The ex-husband, Henry Bellechamps, who lived on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain, had been the primary suspect, but with an ironclad alibi and no evidence linking him to the crime, he’d been questioned and let go. The local PD in Covington was supposed to be keeping an eye on him, but so far, nothing. Henry Bellechamps had suddenly become a model citizen.

  Bentz rubbed the stubble on his chin and twisted a kink from his neck. He’d have to check the guy out, see what old Hank had been doing earlier this evening, but it was his guess that the truck driver was clean. At least as far as the murders were concerned. And the third roommate—Cindy Sweet—he wanted to hear what she had to say, know where she’d been.

  In the Bellechamps case, the crime team had collected dozens of fingerprints that had turned up some other suspects, all of whom said the last time they’d seen Cherie Bellechamps she’d been very much alive. Their alibis confirmed that they hadn’t been in the apartment at the time of death. The hair samples and blood types hadn’t matched those of the perp.

  So much for a break in the case.

  He glared at the computer monitor where a picture of Cherie’s dead body was displayed and posed. So similar to the dead woman tonight. The murders had to be linked. Had to. They were too eerily the same.

  Wonderful, he thought sarcastically, as the fan blew hot air against the back of his neck, just what this city needs: a serial killer.

  Chapter Six

  “Have you met the new neighbor?” Mrs. Killingsworth asked as her dog, a tiny pug with a pushed-in snout and bulging eyes snorted and dug in one of her flower beds. “Hannibal, you stop that!” The pug ignored her and tore into a freshly turned mound of earth. “He never listens!”

  A matronly woman forever working in the yard in her husband’s overalls, Mrs. Killingsworth had been pushing a load of peat moss in her wheelbarrow. She’d been headed toward the back of the house but had stopped when she’d noticed Samantha struggling to get her trash can to the curb for the next day’s pickup.

  “What new neighbor?” Sam asked.

  “A man around thirty-five or forty, I’d say. He moved in about a quarter of a mile down from you in the old Swanson place.” Edie Killingsworth motioned a gloved hand, indicating a spot farther down the oak-lined street. “I heard he’s leased the house for the next six months.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Oh, yes, and he’s quite something, if you get my drift.” Gray eyebrows rose over the tops of wire-rimmed glasses held in place by a chain.

  The sun was intense. Bright. Edie Killingsworth’s photo gray lenses were nearly black. Hannibal gave up digging and trotted over to plop down at her feet, where he panted, showing off his long tongue.

  “Something? Like what?” Sam asked, realizing what was to come as she wiped her hands on her jeans. Ever since Sam had moved in three months earlier, Edie Killingsworth had taken it as her personal mission to see Sam hooked up with a suitable candidate for marriage.

  “I’d say he’s something like Harrison Ford, Tom Cruise and Clark Gable all rolled into one.”

  “And Hollywood hasn’t discovered him yet?” Sam said with a grin, as Charon ducked into the thick privacy hedge that ran on either side of her property.

  “Oh, he’s not an actor,” Edie was quick to correct. “He’s a writer who just happens to be handsome as the devil. And that east Texas drawl of his, my stars,” she fanned herself emphatically, as if the mere thought of this hunk caused her to melt inside.

  “If you say so.”

  “I know a good-looking man when I see one. And I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts the new tenant has money, as well. Milo Swanson’s tight with a dollar, he wouldn’t rent to just anyone. You and I both know he’d charge an arm and a leg.” She nodded, the brim of her floppy hat waggling and shading her face as she reached down for the handles of her wheelbarrow. “Anyway, the man just moved in last week. You might want to go down and welcome him to the neighborhood.”

  “Maybe I could whip up some Jell-O,” Sam suggested.

  The older woman chuckled and waved Sam’s sarcasm away with one gloved hand. “A bottle of wine would be better.” She extracted a checkered handkerchief from one frayed pocket. “There’s a wonderful Pinot Noir from Oregon down at Zehlers—Molalla Vineyards makes it, and I guarantee it would be lots better than any flavor of Jell-O.”

  “Duly noted,” Sam said, as the dog sniffed at her shoes.

  “I hope so.” Edie mopped the sweat from her forehead, then picked up the handgrips of the wheelbarrow again and made her way to the back of her property. Hannibal, tail curled, trotted after her. Sam smiled. Edie Killingsworth was the one person who had welcomed her to the neighborhood only days after she’d moved in. The older woman had brought over a casserole, fruit salad and yes, a bottle of Pinot Noir in a well-used picnic basket and invited Sam to visit anytime.

  Now, Sam glanced down the street to the old Swanson place, a quaint cottage in sad need of updating. A beat-up Volvo wagon sat in the drive, and boxes, broken down and flattened, had been left at the curb with a trash basket. Curious, her ankle aching, she walked past the neighboring houses, all on lots shaded by live oaks and shrubs. When she was close enough to the Swanson place, she looked past the rambling cottage to the dock and there, rising on the swells, was a sailboat, a large sloop, its sails down. For a second she thought it looked just like the one she’d imagined she’d seen a couple of nights earlier—the one with the man at the helm in the middle of the storm.

  But it had been a dark night.

  Her nerves had been stretched thin.

  There were lots of sailboats—thousands of them around these parts.

  Even if she had seen one that night, there was absolutely no reason to think it was this one. She shaded her eyes with her hand and stared at the sleek craft as it swayed on the water. Its name, Bright Angel, had been painted near the stern, but even from a distance she noticed that some of the paint had chipped. There was a box of tools lying open on the dock as if the owner was working on the boat. So the guy drove an aging Volvo and spent his time sailing or working on his boat when he wasn’t writing whatever it was he wrote.

  Maybe Mrs. Killingsworth was right.

  Maybe a bottle of wine…and a Jell-O mold were in order.

  “I don’t care what you say, I don’t like it.” Eleanor was reading George Hannah the riot act when Sam limped into the station the next afternoon. Soft jazz emanated from hidden speakers tucked into the neon-lit displays of Louisiana artifacts separating the reception area from the business offices and studios, but the music did nothing to soothe Eleanor. Not today. Sweeping a glance in Sam’s direction, she paused long enough in her tirade to comment. “You got the cast off! Good. Feelin’ better?”

  “Like I lost ten pounds.” Her ankle was still swollen and hurt like crazy, but at least she was cast free and only used the crutch when she really needed it. She’d had to forgo heels or even flats for running shoes, but anything was an improvement.

  Eleanor, despite her foul mood, cracked a smile as the phone lines jangled. “Well, you got here just in the nick of time. I was telling George that no matter what the ratings are, I’m not interested in any kind of scandal. This guy who keeps calling you—your personal nutcase—has got to stop.”

  “You heard about last night,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, I heard. Tin
y’s got it all on tape.” Eleanor, dressed in black, looked like the proverbial avenging angel as she paced in front of Melba’s desk. “The way I see it, we still got us a problem, here, a major one.”

  In her usual unruffled manner, Melba was taking call after call while George Hannah, dressed in a natty, expensive suit, was taking his tongue-lashing like a man, hands clasped in front of him, expression respectfully solemn, head nodding slightly as if he agreed with every word spewing from Eleanor’s lips.

  Melanie breezed in from outside, bringing with her the scents of expensive perfume and coffee steaming from a paper cup she’d grabbed on the way in.

  “What’s weird about this is that no one else heard the conversation, none of the listeners, as he called after the show was off the air.” Melanie took a tentative sip and licked her lips. “It didn’t affect the ratings.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Eleanor took them all in with one sweeping, argue-with-me-and-you’ll-die glare. “There’s enough interest from the program the night before.”

  “So we should capitalize on it,” George said, glancing at Samantha. He offered her a thousand-watt smile. George Hannah, for all his faults, was charming in his own self-aggrandizing way. And always interested in the bottom line.

  Eleanor was having none of it. “Look, George, we’ve all been down that road before. You, me and Samantha. Now, I don’t want a repeat of what happened in Houston.”

  Samantha froze, feeling as if every pair of eyes in the room had turned on her. For the first time the station owner looked uncomfortable.

  “That is ancient history,” George said quietly, his smile fading as he, too, remembered the tragedy that had nearly destroyed Samantha’s career nine years earlier. “No reason to dredge it up now.”

  Thank God, Sam thought, sensing the color had drained from her face.

  “What’re y’all talkin’ about?” Melba asked as the phone jangled. “Oh, damn.” With a pissy look, she took the call. “I mean it, George,” Eleanor said, touching him on the elbow of his pin-striped suit. “We need to tread lightly. This guy sounds like a major wacko—one right out of Play Misty for Me, or Scream. It’s no joke.”

  “I didn’t say it was one.” The station owner held up a hand. “I think it’s serious. Very serious.”

  Eleanor’s expression said it all: she didn’t believe George for one minute. Lips pursed, she turned toward Samantha. “Okay, so what happened with the police? You called them…right? What did they say?”

  “That they were busy, that I should come in and fill out a report, that after that they’d send someone out to the house tomorrow—”

  “Tomorrow?” Eleanor tossed up her hands.

  “There’s something about a problem with jurisdictions because I live in Cambrai, where I received the threatening letter and a call, but I’ve also gotten calls, here, within the city limits of New Orleans. Maybe the Sheriff’s Department will have to get involved.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter which branch handles it, just make damned sure someone does! Jesus H. Christ. Tomorrow! Fine. Just…fine.” Eleanor forced herself to calm down as she moved her gaze to each and every one standing in the reception area. “In the interim we’re all gonna be real careful, you-all got me?”

  “You know it,” Melanie said, smothering a smile.

  “And you, don’t you get fresh with me, girl. I want you to keep track of all the calls that come in here. Make sure the computer’s got their number. Isn’t that what damned caller ID is for?”

  “Yes, Mom,” Melanie said sarcastically, just as she’d done to Sam the other day. “But the call came up as an anonymous number, probably from some system that couldn’t be identified. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

  “That’s the problem, you know,” Eleanor said under her breath. “I get no respect around here.”

  Melba pressed the hold button. “The advertising director’s on line one, for you.” She caught Eleanor’s eye. “A Mr. Seely called, wants you to call him back.” She handed a pink slip of paper to George. “I would have directed him to your voice mail, if we had it, but since we don’t…” George lifted a dark eyebrow as Melba twisted in her chair. “And here”—she slapped a couple of notes into Samantha’s palm—“your dad phoned again.”

  “We keep missing each other,” Samantha explained, noting that the second caller had been David. So he didn’t think it was over. David was like a terrier with a bone; he wouldn’t give it up for anything. And Sam was the prize. She should have been flattered, she supposed, but wasn’t.

  The impromptu meeting broke up, and as Sam headed down the aorta, Melanie fell into step with her.

  “What happened in Houston?” she asked in a whisper.

  “It was a bad scene and a long story.” Sam didn’t want to go into it, didn’t want to remember what had happened to the scared teenager who had called in to her show asking for advice—seeking help. Dear God, the girl’s voice still haunted her dreams at night. Dark memories skated through her mind, but she wouldn’t dwell on them. Couldn’t yet face the pain, nor the guilt. “I’ll tell you about it later,” she said, knowing she was lying.

  “And I’ll hold you to it.”

  “Good,” she said, but knew she’d never discuss what had happened in Houston.

  She made her way to her computer and read her e-mail. She sifted through the usual stuff until she came to a note from Leanne Jaquillard, reminding Sam that they had “group” at the Boucher Center the next afternoon and the center was a madhouse getting ready for the benefit. Sam typed a quick reply, saying she’d be there.

  She volunteered at the center once a week, but because of her trip to Mexico, she hadn’t seen the teenage girls she counseled for the better part of a month. They were an interesting group, all in some kind of trouble, all from highly dysfunctional families, all attempting to get their lives back on track. They were some of the sweetest, most troubled and devious girls she’d ever met. Leanne was no exception. If anything she was probably the most troubled of the lot, a ringleader by nature. Street smart, undereducated, with a hard exterior that belied the frightened girl inside, Leanne Jaquillard had become the unelected leader of the group and the only member who kept in touch with Sam between sessions.

  The girl was just plain needy and reminded Sam of herself at that age—the difference being, of course, that Sam had grown up in a loving, well-to-do family in Los Angeles. At any sign of trouble, Samantha’s parents had reined her in, talked with her, dealt with her rebellion and anxieties. Leanne wasn’t so lucky. Nor were the other girls in the group. Sam considered them “her girls” as she didn’t have any children of her own.

  Yet, she reminded herself. Someday she would have a baby. With or without a man. She didn’t want to think that time was running out. She was only thirty-six and these days women had babies well into their forties, but the truth of the matter was her biological clock was ticking so loudly that at times she couldn’t hear anything else.

  Her ex-husband hadn’t wanted children, but David Ross had. That had been one of his most attractive attributes, one of the reasons she’d continued to see him, to try and force herself to fall in love with him.

  But it hadn’t happened.

  And it never would.

  David Ross wasn’t the man for her, and the disheartening thought was she was beginning to feel no man was.

  Oh, for God’s sake, Sam, quit wallowing and don’t give up hope. You should take some of that advice you hand out so readily every night on the airwaves. She gave herself a swift mental kick and told herself she was lucky she hadn’t made the mistake of marrying David. Damned lucky.

  Ty Wheeler leaned back in his chair, the heel of one boot propped on the expansive desk, ice melting in his short glass. A bottle of Irish whiskey was uncapped nearby and his old dog was lying on the rug, close enough that Ty could reach down and scratch the shepherd behind his ears. A single banker’s lamp offered dim illumination through its green shade in the shadowy cot
tage.

  Listening to the radio, Ty sipped his drink and heard Dr. Samantha Leeds’s voice as she talked with the lonely people who called her in the middle of the night. His lips twisted. Poor sods. They all hoped she could solve some of their problems, or, failing that, allow them a connection to her.

  Such as it was.

  He stared through the open French doors to the lake beyond. Insects buzzed through the night, and the water lapped softly. A breeze lifted the curtains and offered some relief from the heat, but Ty didn’t much notice. His concentration was centered on the woman’s low, sexy voice wafting through the speakers of his radio.

  She was talking about commitment and fidelity—favorite topics with the late-night crowd, and he considered calling the number she kept reeling off, asking her a question or two that was on his mind.

  “Hello…who’s this?” she asked, and he glanced down to the desk where a publicity shot of the woman stared up at him. Dark, near-auburn, red hair, bright green eyes, perfect porcelain skin stretched over cheekbones most women would kill for. Her mouth was wide and sensual, her smile fresh, not seeming posed…but then for all he knew the shot could have been computer enhanced, airbrushed and whatever the hell else professional photographers did to make their subjects appear more good-looking than God had intended.

  “Linda,” a voice raspy from years of cigarettes identified the caller.

  “Hi, Linda, did you have a comment or a question?” Samantha’s voice. Sultry as a hot Delta night.

  “An observation.”

  “Observe away.”

  Ty imagined her smiling, white teeth flashing behind full lips. In his mind’s eye he saw her eyes, bright with an intellect and depth that she often hid, preferring to disguise that side of her. But it was there. He could feel it. Hear it in the undertones of her words, sense it in her throaty chuckle, knew that it lurked just beneath the surface. There were incidents where she’d exposed herself, of course. It was her profession to probe deeply and therefore give up a little of herself, but those moments were rare in this medium of radio, and what she offered to her listeners was a kind voice, keen intelligence and startling wit, but only rarely did she bare her soul.