Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  “Yeah, a couple of things. I’ll want a list of everyone you know. Family, friends, anyone you work with or see at school.”

  “You think my friends are involved.”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know who is, but if I take what you’re telling me at face value, then somehow you’re connected with the killer … right? There’s something between the two of you … I mean, I assume that’s the way it works. It’s not a lightning bolt from heaven, and you don’t see random murders being committed. You think what you view is the work of one man.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes …” She let her voice fade away and didn’t go on. The sounds of the restaurant seemed more intense. Waitresses calling out orders, conversation, the faint sound of Dixieland playing from concealed speakers, the rattle of trays of dishes.

  “Sometimes what?”

  “It sounds so crazy, but sometimes I get this feeling … it’s like crystals of ice drizzled over the back of my neck, and I feel that he’s close … that somehow I’ve trod in his footsteps …” She must’ve read the doubt in his eyes, because she reached for her beer and took a long swallow. “I told you it sounded whacked out.”

  “But it could help. Think about it. Who would be the connection? How the hell does this telepathy or whatever it is work?”

  “All I know is that it’s more intense since I came to New Orleans and the murders are happening here, so it has to be someone close by.”

  “Agreed,” he said, and though it took a lot to scare Bentz, he felt a frisson of dread; whoever the killer was, there was an element of the intangible at work and that made him all the more dangerous.

  Bentz paid the check and gave her a ride to her car parked near the charred ruins. The rain had stopped, but the crime scene was gloomy and dark. “You said you stopped by here in the hopes that you could sense what had happened, right?”

  She nodded as she climbed out of his Jeep. Bentz pocketed his keys and leaned a hip against the fender.

  “So … are you getting anything?”

  “It’s not quite the same as a radar signal,” she said, but walked closer to the tape, staring at what had been a cozy little duplex. “No … nothing.” She shook her head and frowned. “But if I ‘get anything,’ I’ll let you know. Thanks for dinner.”

  “My pleasure,” he said automatically and she looked up at him sharply, silently accusing him of the lie.

  “It was business for you, Detective Bentz, and I have a feeling that it always is with you.” She climbed into her truck, fired the engine, and tore off down the narrow streets, the taillights of her pickup winking bright red in the night.

  Bentz eased behind the wheel of his Jeep and switched on the ignition. He could follow her. Make sure she was going home. He thought he might just do that. Why not? Jaskiel had authorized it, and even though he was off duty, he could spare a few hours.

  He wheeled away from the curb. What bothered him about the tail wasn’t that he was following her, but that he was more than curious. More than interested because of the case. She was sexy as hell. And an oddball. A kook. A whacko.

  But she knew more than anyone else about the killing. Like it or not, he had to believe her.

  Chapter Eleven

  The phone rang. Once, twice, three times. Jangling through Kristi’s groggy brain. From beneath the covers of the bed in her dorm room she groaned; she didn’t want to wake up. She glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty. On a Saturday. What kind of idiot would be calling now. Dad, she thought, burrowing under the covers and letting the answering machine pick up. “Hi, this is Kristi. You know what to do,” her recorded voice intoned.

  After a beep, she heard a moment’s hesitation, then a deep voice. “Hi, I hope I’ve got Kristi Bentz. This is Brian Thomas. You might not remember me, but I’m T.A. for Dr. Zaroster and—”

  Kristi shot out of bed. Grabbed the phone. “Hi,” she said breathlessly. “I know who you are.” God, who on campus didn’t? Don’t get your hopes up, he’s probably calling to tell you that you flunked the quiz on the Buddha yesterday. “So you were screening your calls.” “No, um, I was … well, if you want to know the truth, I wasn’t up yet, but I am now.”

  “Out late?” he asked and she kicked herself.

  “Of course, but I was studying in the library.” She giggled and fell back on the bed. They both knew it was a lie, but she didn’t want to admit that she’d been to a frat party and had drunk more than she should have. As it was, her head ached and her mouth was cotton-dry. “What’s up?” Around the headache she tried to sound cheery.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to go out.”

  Her mouth fell open. She sat bolt upright. He wanted a date? A date? Her heart was about to leap out of her chest, but she told herself to sound cool. If that was possible. She’d told herself he’d call, but she hadn’t expected it so soon. Her silly heart began to pound wildly.

  “Look, I really shouldn’t because you’re a student in Zaroster’s class, but I figure what could it hurt?”

  Exactly!

  “But if this makes you uncomfortable, you know, because I’m the T.A.—”

  “No! I mean that’s not it. I’d love to go out with you.”

  “Good.” He sounded relieved.

  “So where? When?”

  “Tonight. Around seven. Dinner and a late movie. Whatever you want. If you’re not busy.”

  She couldn’t believe her good luck. A date with Brian Thomas! She’d had a major crush on him since the beginning of the term. “That would be great.”

  “I’ll pick you up … You’re at Cramer Hall, right?”

  “How did you know—?”

  “We at the Theology Department are all-knowing,” he said, joking. “It comes with the whole God-like territory.”

  “Right,” she mocked.

  “Actually I have authority. I looked it up in your records. You’re a DG.”

  “Yeah, I pledged Delta Gamma,” she admitted, but he knew more than he should and it bugged her. Maybe she should have been flattered by him nosing around in her records, but she wasn’t. “I, um, thought all that stuff was pretty secure.”

  “It is, but some of us, the privileged, know the codes.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He wasn’t even a professor. It didn’t seem right somehow. “You’re one of the privileged?” Man, he sounded kinda stuck on himself. And she thought he was shy. It occurred to her that it might not even be Brian on the other end of the phone, but some creep who’d figured out that she had a crush on him. Brian had always seemed cooler than this.

  So who would it be and why would he have access to your student records?

  “I’ll see you at seven.” He was so sure of himself.

  “Okay—”

  He clicked off and she fell back onto the bed with a huge smile on her face. She couldn’t believe that he’d actually called. He’d seemed so reserved in class. Serious. And yet on the phone …

  She glanced over to the bulletin board tacked onto the wall above her desk. In one corner was a picture of Jay and her, just last year, at their high school senior prom. She was wearing a long black dress, he was dressed in a tuxedo. He was bending her backward, one of her legs was kicked out and a long-stemmed rose was clutched between her teeth as they mugged for the camera. She’d sworn that night that she loved him. And she did. Or she had … but he’d stayed in New Orleans where he planned to eventually take over his father’s roofing business. For now, he was on the crew, tarring roofs, nailing asphalt shingles, starting at the bottom. He wanted her to quit college and marry him, but she’d begged off, knew she was too young for that kind of commitment.

  Since then, their relationship wasn’t what it had been.

  She’d considered breaking up with him, just hadn’t gotten around to it, wasn’t sure it was the right move.

  But this morning’s phone call changed everything.

  She threw off the bedclothes and noticed that her roommate Lucretia was already gone, the top bunk eva
cuated. As usual. Lucretia was a bookworm of the highest order, always freaked out about this test or that. The hours she wasn’t in the library studying, she was here, cracking the books. She never went out. Never. It was like she was in jail or something.

  Stretching, Kristi considered working out in the pool before she had to do her duties at the sorority house, then she really did have to hit the books; she had a paper due in Sutter’s class, and she didn’t dare turn it in late—that guy was way too intense; sometimes she caught him staring at her as if she were a puzzle, a psychological enigma. It was almost as bad as Dr. Northrup. Now that guy was just plain weird. He watched her, too. As if he expected to catch her cheating or something. It made her skin crawl. She groaned because there was probably going to be a quiz in Northrup’s class today. But after that… She glanced at the clock again and grinned. Nine hours from now she’d be in heaven.

  True to his word, Bentz showed up around two in the afternoon. Olivia was trying to sweep up bird feathers and seed, when she heard Hairy S suddenly going berserk and yapping his fool head off. Leaving the broom and dustpan propped against the back door, she walked through the kitchen and peered through the windows. Bentz’s Jeep rolled down the lane. Leaves scattered in the afternoon sunlight and clouds shifted above the trees. The dog wouldn’t let up for a second.

  “Hush!” she ordered, but Hairy S jumped at the front door and barked wildly as Bentz cut the engine and unfolded himself from the rig. Olivia barely recognized him. Gone were the slacks, crisp white shirt, tie and jacket. Instead he wore beat-up jeans, a sweater and athletic shoes. His hair ruffled in the wind and he looked more like a dad going to his kid’s soccer game than a world-weary cop.

  As Bentz climbed the two steps to the front porch, Olivia scooped up a yapping and snarling Hairy S, then opened the door.

  “Doesn’t he ever calm down?” Bentz asked.

  “Not until he gets to know you.” Hairy’s eyes were trained on Bentz and he was wiggling like crazy, yapping and growling as if he were about to tear the detective limb from limb.

  “And how long does that take?”

  “Longer than a couple of days. Same with Chia, so I wouldn’t be putting your nose too close to her cage.” Hairy S was still barking. “Knock it off!” she ordered, and the dog, chastised a bit, satisfied himself with a growl of disapproval. Olivia put him on the floor and he started sniffing the hem of Bentz’s jeans. “He’s all bark and no bite.”

  “But not the bird.”

  Olivia smiled. “You can test her if you want.”

  “I think I’ll take your word for it.”

  “That’s probably a wise choice. So, is your laundry all done?” she asked, unable not to needle him.

  “Yep.” He flashed a smile—one of those rare, genuine ones that lit up his eyes. “I even managed to unload the dishwasher, too. But damn, I just didn’t have time for the vacuum.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I thought so.”

  She couldn’t help but return his grin. “I’m surprised you didn’t bag out, that you didn’t find something better to do.”

  “I think I just ran through my list of options.”

  “What about fishing or hunting or golfing … You said you were going to watch football—”

  “I listened to the game on the way over. LSU needs help.”

  “Don’t they always?”

  “Uh-uh-uh. You’re talkin’ to a die-hard fan here.”

  “I’ll remember that. Come on in.” They walked to the kitchen and she felt a little more at ease with him in her house. Maybe it was because he was dressed-down, or because the visit wasn’t official, or maybe she was just getting used to him. It was hard to imagine that less than forty-eight hours ago, he was just a name on a piece of newsprint. Now he was this … presence in her life.

  Oh, get over yourself. He’s a cop. Doing his job. End of subject.

  “So—the inscription?” he asked, leaning a jean-clad hip against the counter.

  “Oh, right. Up in my room. Just a sec.” She sprinted up the stairs to her bedroom. Hairy S, ever faithful, galloped ahead. In the drawer of her night table she withdrew two sheets of paper, one with a list she’d compiled last night of everyone she knew who lived within fifty miles and the other she’d taken from her computer’s printer the last night of the dreams when she awoke to find Grannie Gin had died. On another page, she’d written the strange markings that she’d seen in the vision. Now, her good mood evaporated as she glanced down at the meaningless symbols and letters and she felt that same chill she always did upon reliving the vision.

  “Don’t even go there,” she told herself as she hastened out of the room and down the stairs with an excited mutt leading the way.

  “Loyal, isn’t he?” Bentz observed.

  “Very.” Unlike the men I’ve known. “Here’s the symbols and a list of my friends and family.” She handed him the sheets and he was instantly absorbed, scrutinizing the hieroglyphics as he dropped into a chair at the table.

  “So this is what was written in the crypt when you had the dreams?” he asked.

  “What I could remember when I woke up, yes.” She walked to a spot behind him where she could look over his shoulder, and as she stared at the symbols and letters, she shivered, remembering all too clearly the victim’s plight. “Go over it again, would you?”

  “Sure. What I can remember. But those dreams, if you want to call them that, weren’t as vivid, at least not at first.” Yet she recalled them clearly. With the same bone-chilling intensity as the last. “It was basically the same dream over and over, with just slightly different variations.” She rubbed her arms and glanced through the window. Winter sunlight pierced through the filigree of naked branches, to spangle the dark water, but the day seemed suddenly frigid and lifeless, filled with shadows that shifted and distorted, always changing. How many times had she thought of the terrified woman trapped in a living tomb? How many nights had the image become a nightmare that she saw over and over again? “The most awful dream was when I think he actually killed her. It was the same night my grandmother died. August eleventh.

  “I reported this all to Detective Brinkman for all the good it did.” Her eyes held his for an instant, then she glanced away. “Same old story. No body, no missing persons, no witnesses … just me. The lunatic.”

  “Is that what you are?” he asked.

  A small smile lifted one side of her mouth. This time when her gaze found his, she wouldn’t let it falter. “What do you think?”

  When he didn’t answer, her smile twisted into a self-deprecating smirk. “Let me guess. That I’m not playing with a full deck? I’m a bottle short of a six-pack? That the gates are closed, the lights flashing, but a train ain’t coming? I’ve heard ‘em all. You have to believe, Detective Bentz, I’m not one of those idiots who tries to make a scene with the police just to get some attention. And you know it. Because that girl in the house the other night was murdered just the way I told you she would be. And there was at least another one. Maybe more. Someone was left in the dark with those”—she pointed to the paper spread in front of him—“those damned markings!”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s start over. Calm down, okay. I’m sorry. I’m here, aren’t I? Listening to you. Trying to make some sense of it.”

  Her blood was still boiling, but she nodded, tried to rein in her temper.

  “Okay … so what do you make of these?” he asked, picking up the sheet and indicating her sketches. “I saw this in Brinkman’s report, but they didn’t mean anything to me. Chicken scratches. What do you think?”

  She leaned over his shoulder and silently cursed herself for catching a waft of his aftershave. Pointing a finger at the symbols, she said, “I’m not sure what they mean. Remember, I caught only glimpses of these things as a light—probably the beam of a flashlight—swept the room.” She stared at the images she’d memorized. “I think the first one is an anchor and those”—she moved her finger to indicate a gro
up of pointed lines—“those three are probably arrows—one with an arc over it, like it’s supposed to be a bow or something or on fire. At least that was the impression I got.” She touched the next image. “This is some kind of flower, I think, but the rest … I don’t know. This”—she indicated a group of letters with her fingertip—“is the inscription, but I only caught quick looks at the letters and I tried to write them down in the order they were scratched onto the walls of the tomb but they were just flashes, glimpses, all that I could remember.”

  She read the strange message she’d tried to decipher a hundred times before: LUM … NA … PA … E … CU …FI

  “Lum-na-pa-e-cu-fi,” he pronounced.

  “Some of the letters are missing,” she said, “and I’ve tried a million times to fill in the blanks. Luminary, luminous … Napa—like Napa Valley in California … I don’t know. It could be a foreign language or part of an acronym or … anything. Maybe even gibberish. Maybe it was written on the wall before the woman was held captive, maybe it has nothing to do with her. I don’t know.” She gazed over his shoulder at the partial words and they made no more sense to her than they did the first time she’d seen them. Squinting, she leaned forward for a closer look, her breasts brushing the back of his sweater until she felt the muscles of his back tense. Realizing just how close she’d gotten, she quickly stepped back, breaking contact.

  Embarrassed, she pulled out a chair and dropped into it. She motioned toward the sheet of computer paper. “It’s like one of those word-jumble puzzles in the Sunday paper. Except you can’t go to page fifty-one and find the answer.”

  His eyes narrowed a fraction. Not a hint of a smile. All business again. “Mind if I take this? It’s clearer than Brinkman’s copy.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Any other visions?” He was staring at her as if trying to sort out the lies from the truth, the smooth sanity from any shards of craziness.

  “Off and on.”