by Lisa Jackson
“Here comes trouble,” Montoya stage-whispered, “all gussied up in designer labels.”
“Detective,” the newswoman called, not bothering to smile. “I’m Barbara Linwood with WBOK. What’s going on here? Another murder?” He didn’t respond.
“I mean, I’ve heard some of the people here talking. The victim is rumored to be a prostitute and there’s been several women killed lately—all prostitutes. I’m starting to think we have a serial killer running rampant in New Orleans.” Her expression was expectant, eager. She wanted a serial killer to be stalking the streets of the Crescent City. She wanted the story. Again he held his tongue and his pager went off. “Come on, Detective. Give me a break here. Was another woman killed? A prostitute?” A breath of wind teased at her hair, but she didn’t notice as she stared at Bentz intently.
“We have a woman dead,” he said, “and we’re in the first stages of the investigation. I have no statement to make at this time.”
“Enough with the company line.” She was a quick woman, about five-three, with sharp features, heavy makeup, and a persistent streak. She wasn’t just zeroing in on Bentz but included Montoya in the conversation. “If there’s a serial murderer in our midst, lurking in the streets of New Orleans, the public has the right to know. For safety’s sake. Can’t you give me a quick interview?”
Bentz glanced at the camera hoisted on the cameraman’s shoulder. He hadn’t said a word, but the red indicator light was glowing brightly. “I think I just did.”
“Who was the victim?”
“I’m sure the department will issue a statement in the morning.”
“But—”
“There are rules to follow, Ms. Linwood. Next of kin need to be notified, that sort of thing. That’s all I can say right now.” He turned his back on her, but silently admitted she had a point. A monster was stalking the streets of the city, maybe more than one, and the public needed to be aware.
“What about you?” she asked Montoya, but got nowhere. Reuben might want to talk to the TV people and grab a little glory, hell the guy loved that part of the job. But he wouldn’t risk that kind of trouble from Melinda Jaskiel or the DA. Montoya was too savvy and ambitious to blow it.
From the corner of his eye, Bentz saw Montoya disentangle himself from the newswoman and jettison his cigarette onto the street.
Bentz walked past a couple of cruisers with their lights flashing to his own car, where he checked his pager and called in to the station. The message was simple. There had been more trouble over at WSLJ. Dr. Sam had received another threatening message—this time in the form of a birthday cake for Annie Seger planted in the kitchen at WSLJ. Someone was really trying to rattle the radio shrink’s cage.
“Hell.” Bentz threw his car into drive and tore off. He rolled the windows down, let the warm Louisiana breeze flow through the interior as he headed toward the business district, leaving the stately old homes behind. Whoever the hell this John was who was harassing Samantha Leeds, he had one perverted sense of humor. All in all, it was a damned nightmare. Was it a coincidence that the prostitute was killed on Annie Seger’s birthday? Was there a connection between the murders and the threats being aimed at Samantha Leeds? Or was he grasping at straws?
He blew through a yellow light near Canal Street and slowed down. Just because a murder was committed the same night Dr. Sam received an ugly prank didn’t mean squat. And there was no hundred-dollar bill with the eyes blackened, which seemed a very frail link to the mutilated publicity shot Samantha had received. All the references to sin and forgiveness didn’t have anything to do with the murders…there was no radio tuned into the Lights Out program…no, he was just tired…
And yet his mind wouldn’t let go of the possible link. He was missing something, he was sure of it. Something obvious. He wheeled around a corner when it hit him like a fist in the gut.
Not Lights Out. The program before it. His hands gripped the wheel. That was it. The time of deaths were earlier, before the bodies were discovered and he’d bet a month’s salary that the program that had been on when the women were killed was Midnight Confessions.
Why hadn’t he seen it before?
The perp offed the women while listening to Dr. Sam.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled, but felt that surge of adrenaline that always sped through his bloodstream when he was close to cracking a case. This was it. The link. And the red wig. Because Dr. Sam was a redhead. Holy shit, how had he missed that. He drove to the station, nosed his car into a parking spot and headed upstairs. He wasn’t officially on duty until later this afternoon, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. The questions and half-baked theories spinning through his brain would keep him awake for hours.
There was just enough sludge in the bottom of the coffeepot for one cup, so he poured himself a mug and carried it to his desk. He didn’t bother with the harsh fluorescent tubes overhead, but switched on his desk lamp, then settled into his old chair and flipped on his computer screen. With a few clicks of the mouse, the crime-scene photos of Rosa Gillette and Cherie Bellechamps were displayed side by side.
They had to have been killed by the same guy. Both women had been strangled with a strange noose, the cuts on their necks, identical. Both corpses had been left with the radio playing, the bodies posed as if they were praying, both sexually violated, both left with a mutilated hundreddollar bill.
None of which had occurred tonight with Cathy Adams.
And Cathy had been killed on Annie Seger’s birthday. Big deal. Lots of people were born on July 22. It meant nothing. Nothing. There was no link.
And yet…
He’d wait for the report on the latest victim. In the meantime, he flipped through his in-box. Lying on top were several neatly typed pages compliments of Reuben Montoya. Bentz scanned the notes on Annie Seger quickly, then read it over a second time. Montoya was right. Annie Seger wasn’t what he’d expected. Her parents Estelle and Oswald Seger had divorced when Annie was four and her older brother, Kent, was six. Estelle had remarried practically before the ink on the divorce papers had dried. Her new husband and Annie’s stepdaddy was Jason Faraday, a prominent Houston physician. Oswald, “Wally,” had all but disappeared from his children’s lives when he’d moved to the Northwest, somewhere outside of Seattle. According to the court records, Wally had forever been delinquent in his child-support payments, only coughing up when Estelle had sicced her lawyers after him.
So much for the Ozzie and Harriet type of family. Bentz took a swallow of his coffee and scowled at the burnt, bitter flavor.
Leaning back in his chair he propped his heel on a corner of the desk and flipped over the pages. Montoya had been thorough, piecing together info from the high school Annie had attended. If her report cards and the school yearbook were to be believed, Annie Seger had been an excellent student, a popular girl, a cheerleader and member of the debate team. According to a file the Houston police had composed from interviews of family and friends, Annie had gone through several boyfriends before linking up with Ryan Zimmerman, who had been captain of the lacrosse team before he’d run into trouble with drugs and the law and had dropped out of school.
A stellar choice for the father of her child. Bentz frowned as he read on.
Suddenly the popular teen was alone and pregnant. In apparent desperation she’d called Dr. Sam a few times and soon thereafter had ended her life in her plush bedroom over nine years ago. There were pictures of Annie—one in her cheerleading uniform in mid-jump, pom-poms clenched in her hands, another of her vacationing with her family, her, her mother, stepfather, and brother in hiking shorts and T-shirts, posed along the ridge of a forested hill, and of course, the crime scene, where she was slumped over her computer, wrists slashed, blood running down her bare arms and onto her keyboard, a tragic mess that was in stark contrast to what he saw of the rest of the room—the neatly made bed covered with stuffed animals, the plush white carpet, the bookcase where a stereo system was stacked betwee
n the paperbacks and CDs.
Bentz glanced up at his desk and stared at the bifold frame of the pictures of his own daughter. He couldn’t imagine losing Kristi. She was the single most important thing in his life; his reason for staying off the bottle and making something of himself.
Frowning, he turned the page and found a partial list of Dr. Sam’s patients. Only five were listed. The one that jumped out at him was Jason Faraday, the physician who just happened to be Annie Seger’s stepfather.
“Son of a bitch,” Bentz muttered, his mind racing. Samantha Leeds had never mentioned that Faraday had been her patient, but then she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. There were laws about that sort of thing. He swilled the end of the coffee and flipped to the final page.
Montoya’s notes said that Estelle and Jason Faraday had divorced sixteen months after Annie’s death. Estelle still resided in Houston, in the very house where her only daughter had taken her life. Jason, however, had left Texas and moved to Cleveland, where he’d remarried and had two young children. Phone numbers and addresses were listed.
Montoya had done a helluva job. True to his word Montoya had listed all of the officers of the Houston PD who’d been involved in the case. The first officer to arrive at the scene had been Detective Tyler Wheeler.
“Well, I’ll be goddamned.”
Bentz read Montoya’s final note.
Detective Wheeler’s involvement in the Annie Seger suicide hadn’t lasted long. He’d been removed from the case immediately as he’d admitted that he was related to the victim. Annie Seger had been Tyler Wheeler’s third cousin on her father’s side.
Bentz’s gut tightened.
Detective Wheeler had resigned his post.
His current address was Cambrai, Louisiana.
Just down the road from Dr. Samantha Leeds.
The neighbor who was always hanging around.
Coincidence?
No way in hell.
How did a cop with over ten years’ experience under his belt give it all up and end up here with a pansy-assed job of being a writer? And why the hell had he ended up down here, in Louisiana, cozying up to Samantha Leeds?
Bentz figured it was time for a stakeout.
Chapter Twenty-three
“I’m taking you to my place,” Ty said, as they drove out of the city, leaving WSLJ, the police, the damned cake and all the craziness behind. It was late, and Sam was bone-weary. She hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before as she’d been with Ty on the boat and after the shock of the birthday cake and the interrogations by the police, her nerves were strung tight as bowstrings.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, too tired to really get into an argument. “I’ve got an alarm system and a watch cat.”
“Seriously, Sam. Just for tonight, since it’s Annie Seger’s birthday.”
“Yesterday was,” she corrected, rolling down the window and letting in the night air. They were driving around the black expanse of Lake Pontchartrain, and the breeze was gratefully cool, the night finally calm.
“Humor me. For one night. Stay with me.” He touched the back of her hand and her stupid skin tingled.
“Fine, fine,” she agreed, rubbing her neck where the hornet had left his mark. It was beginning to itch like crazy. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything for a headache?”
“At the house.” He glanced in her direction. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, and she was too damned sleepy to remind him she could take care of herself. What was the point? Besides, she was certain whoever was terrorizing her was connected to the station. Someone had unlocked the door to the kitchen to leave the cake and whoever was calling in, trying to freak her out, knew the number for line two. A number not listed in any phone book nor available through directory assistance.
No, it had to be an inside job, and that thought chilled her to the marrow of her bones.
Shivering inwardly she wondered which one of her coworkers would go to such lengths and for what purpose? Certainly not Gator; he was worried enough about losing some airtime if her show was expanded. Though he might want to scare her out of a job, he wouldn’t want her program to become too popular. Nor would any of the other DJs, though Ramblin’ Rob was devious enough to do this just for the hell of it. For a few laughs at everyone’s expense. The crusty DJ could have learned about Annie Seger easily enough, the story was common-enough knowledge because George and Eleanor had been in Houston. Maybe that was what had triggered it, someone like Rob finding out about the problems in Houston and exploiting them.
To what end? To drive you crazy? To get you to quit? To make you look like a lunatic? Or to lure in a bigger audience.
Then why the mutilated picture and calls to her house? Why the note left in her car? Or John’s calls after the program was over. How would those actions promote more listeners?
They wouldn’t, Sam. You’re running down a blind alley. There’s something more, a link you’re missing. So what was it? What?
Her headache growing worse by the second, Sam closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. She couldn’t think about John, the calls or Annie Seger any longer. Not tonight. But tomorrow, when her head was clear and she’d caught up on her sleep…then she’d figure it out. She had to.
Ty flipped on the radio and they listened to the end of the prerecorded Lights Out program, instrumental renditions of familiar songs, guaranteed to put you to sleep, all engineered by Tiny, the nerd who knew the station inside and out. He’d worked at WSLJ longer than anyone else, parttime from the time he was in high school. While Tiny attended Tulane, Eleanor had offered him a full-time position.
So what about him, she wondered as the Volvo’s tires sang against the pavement and the engine hummed. Maybe Tiny wasn’t as innocent as he appeared. Or what about Melanie? Lord knew she was ambitious enough and sometimes she seemed secretive, then there was Melba, over-educated and underpaid…or someone in league with Trish LaBelle over at WNAB? It was no secret that Trish wanted Sam’s job…Stop it, Sam, you’re not getting anywhere, she thought, turn off the noise. As an instrumental version of “Bridge Over Trouble Water,” played, Sam was vaguely aware that they were entering the Cambrai city limits. It was good to be with Ty, to relax, to be able to trust someone. She opened her eyes just a crack, enough to see his strong profile, bladed cheekbones, dark expression as they passed beneath streetlamps or the headlights of a few oncoming cars illuminated the Volvo’s interior.
It was odd to think that she’d known him only a few weeks and smiled to herself to think how pleased Mrs. Killingsworth would be that her matchmaking had come to fruition. He slowed and cranked the wheel as they turned down the street rimming the lake.
They passed her house, the windows dark, no sign of life within. She nearly changed her mind, and invited him to stay with her and Charon and the hornets, then smiled to herself. Soon enough it would be dawn, but tonight she’d stay with Ty and exhausted as she was, she felt a little tingle of anticipation at being alone with him. She’d thought about their lovemaking often during the day, too often. It seemed so natural to be with Ty. So right. And yet she warned herself that she had made bad decisions in the past, poor choices when it came to men. And he was a virtual stranger to her—what did she really know about him except that he’d shown up at about the same time someone had started terrifying her? And her emotions for him were way out of line.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t fall in love again. Not with Ty. Not with any man. She’d learned her lesson. Or so she told herself as he parked the car and walked her into his cottage—a little house with few furnishings other than a desk, sectional and television. Sasquatch stretched and sauntered up, tail wagging and Ty let the shepherd out through the back door.
“Hungry?” Ty asked Sam.
“Dead would be a better description.”
He whistled to the dog, then helped Sam up a short flight of stairs to the loft, where a king-size bed was pushed beneath windows overlooking the back of the house. Moonlight glint
ed on the lake and the smell of water drifted in on a warm, Louisiana breeze.
“You know, I don’t really think my being here is a great idea,” she said.
“Why not?” He’d already kicked off his shoes.
“I might do something I shouldn’t.”
His grin was wicked as he lifted her chin and stared into her eyes. “A guy can only hope.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I try,” he admitted, drawing her into his arms and kissing her until she couldn’t think of anything but making love to him.
Don’t do this again, Sam! Think. Use your head. How do you know you can trust him?
She couldn’t. She knew that much, but she couldn’t fight the need to lose herself, to close out all the fear and pain, to trust someone—if only for a night. What could it hurt? She closed her eyes and they tumbled onto his bed, into his world, not knowing what that world was made of. Truth? Lies? Deceit?
What does he want from you?
She didn’t know, didn’t want to question anything as she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. His lips were hot, his tongue insistent and she eagerly parted her lips and kissed him open mouthed as his arms lifted her up, pulling her so close that her breasts were crushed. One hand pulled, pressing her rump ever closer, so that beneath her skirt her mound was pushed against the hard length of his erection.
She ached deep inside and had trouble catching her breath. Her heart pounded and her blood raced as his fingers bunched the fabric, strong fingertips molding around a buttock and probing in her cleft, forcing her closer still, creating a heat and electricity that sparked through her.
She wanted him; God knew she wanted him and the moan that escaped her was just the beginning. One of her legs curled around his and he lifted his head to stare deep into her eyes.