by Lisa Jackson
“You through here?”
“That’s right.”
“Find anything?”
“Some fingerprints, but who knows who they belong to. We’ll check them with the Automated Fingerprint Identification System and see what we come up with. Brinkman took some personal stuff, files and the computer, the trash, and the answering machine. I think we got everything we could. You can poke around all you want. Just don’t mess up anything until I get the final word from Washington.” Santiago’s smile flashed again.
Fingerprint powder was everywhere and a few drawers still hung open, but underlying what the police crime department had done while investigating, the place was neat. Tidy. Clean. “I’m here for the dog.”
“Does the dog know that? She might not approve.”
“Oooh, where do you get off today?”
With a naughty wink, she said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She clicked her kit closed and nodded toward the kitchen. “The dog’s in there. I tried to pawn her off on Brinkman, but he said ‘no way’; seems to be paranoid around most animals.”
“He leave?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. Said to meet him at the station and you could ride up to Baton Rouge together to check out the girl’s dorm room.”
Montoya didn’t comment. He could only stand so many hours in the car cooped up with Brinkman. Today he had no choice but to put up with the irritating detective, but he couldn’t wait until Bentz returned to duty. Rick Bentz was his regular partner, and though Montoya had kidded around that Bentz was old for his years, he beat the hell out of Brinkman, the Know-It-All.
Santiago walked through the kitchen to a small laundry area, where dog dishes were placed by the dryer and a large crate was wedged beneath a closet with one of those pull-down ironing boards. Through the mesh of the crate, a brown Lab peered intently. “She’s been waiting,” Santiago said.
“I’ll bet.” Montoya squatted. “How are ya, girl?” he asked and the Lab gave up a quick yip. “Guess she wants out.” He opened the door and the dog shot from its kennel in a bounding rush of warm brown fur. Wiggling crazily, Hershey knocked over her water dish and panted expectantly, hoping for attention.
“Good thing I already processed this room,” Santiago muttered.
“You’re done, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what more Washington might want. Better get her”—she motioned to the dog—“outside quick and not just in the courtyard.”
“Got it,” Montoya agreed and then, when the dog began jumping up on him, said, “Hey, hey, slow down.” Montoya grabbed a leash hanging from a hook in the wall and snapped the lead onto the rambunctious dog’s collar. “Chill!” he ordered but the anxious Lab pulled at the tether, nearly choking herself in the process. “I think I’ll take her outside.”
“Good idea,” Santiago said with a little, mocking nod of her head. “Yep, damned brilliant, Montoya. And for the record, the command isn’t ‘chill’ or ‘calm down’ or ‘freeze.” I think you’d better stick with ‘sit’ or ‘stay,’ you know, your basic commands from Puppy 101.”
“Funny.”
“I thought so.”
“You’re just full of yourself, aren’t you? Good night, last night?”
“As a matter of fact it was,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “But not what you think. I went out on the town. With a friend. Dancing. Didn’t get home until one A.M. Innocent fun and games.” Again the smile. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Montoya. Don’t be such a guy.” They walked outside, and after the dog had relieved herself near the curb, Montoya managed to get her into the back of the cruiser.
“Better crack a window.”
“I was just about to do that,” he muttered, already opening the driver’s side, turning on the ignition, and letting the front windows down several inches. He’d parked in the shade, but the heat was still oppressive. After climbing out of the car, he rested his hips against a fender.
“Find anything interesting inside?” he asked, hiking his chin toward the courtyard.
“Not much. You were here earlier. No signs of a struggle.”
“And his car is still missing.” It was a statement, not a question. The single-car garage had been empty. Montoya had checked.
“Yep.”>
“What about his personal things? Clothes. Jewelry.”
“Nothing looked disturbed. In fact, the place was . . . kind of classy . . . or tasteful. You know, I’ve listened to Gierman’s show a few times and figured him for some kind of obscene slob. All his talk radio pushes the envelope. I figured he was a racist, a homophobe, a misogynist, and a card-carrying member of the NRA, but as far as I can tell from what I found, I’m probably only right about the guns.”
“So that rules out the gays and members of the NAACP as suspects,” he said, but the joke fell flat.
“He had lots of enemies.”
“So I keep hearing.”
“He incited people. Loved to feed the fire, y’know?” Her forehead wrinkled. “But maybe it was all for the show. For ratings. For the almighty buck.”
“Maybe we’ll find out.”
“Too late for Gierman. Hey, do you want me to drop the dog off?” she offered.
“I think I can handle it.”
“Oh?” Santiago looked confused for a second before her chin came up and she looked at Montoya with a slow nod. “Don’t tell me, Gierman’s ex is single and a looker? Jesus, Montoya, when will you learn?”
“Learn what?” he asked and she just laughed.
“Fine. Take the dog!” Santiago was already unlocking her own vehicle, parked at the corner just in front of Montoya’s cruiser.
Montoya ignored her comments and made his way into the town house one more time for a final quick look around the place Gierman had called home for more than a year.
Santiago was right; the place was neat, or had been before the fingerprint and trace crew had been through. Polished wooden floors, modern furniture in muted tones, and abstract art in splashes of bold color were the mainstays of Gierman’s furnishings.
Upstairs in the master bedroom, his clothes were all pressed, folded, or hung, his jewelry in one box that was filled with tie clips, cuff links, and several rings. Pictures of himself in sailing or ski gear were arranged on his dresser. Montoya recognized Puget Sound, the Space Needle on one end, a downtown skyline farther away, and a big mother of a mountain—was it Mt. Rainier?—in the background as Gierman tacked his craft into what appeared to be a bracing wind.
Because of the location and Gierman’s apparent age, Montoya figured the picture must’ve been taken in the time Gierman was either married to or courting Abby Chastain. They seemed an unlikely couple, Montoya thought, remembering Abby Chastain’s fresh face and, despite the shock of her ex-husband’s death, her wry sense of humor. She seemed to have a genteel facade while Gierman’s was crude and crass.
But then they both could be fakes.
Montoya hadn’t dug deep enough to rely on his first impressions.
Yet.
The upstairs bathroom was clean, Gierman’s shaving gear neat despite the investigative team’s search. The shower stall, tub, even the toilet, had been scrubbed, either by a girlfriend, cleaning service, or Gierman did the dirty jobs himself.
Seemed unlikely.
Montoya opened a cabinet. No kinky sex magazines. Not even a single issue of Playboy. Instead Montoya found copies of catalogs from upscale furniture shops and art galleries, even the most recent issues of a skiing magazine, Golf Digest, and Men’s Health. As it appeared that Gierman lived alone, it looked like his loud-mouthed, boorish public persona was a fraud. Or more likely, he was a complex guy.
Down a short hallway of gleaming hardwood, Montoya made his way to the second bedroom, which was used exclusively as a den and workout room. No daybed or foldout couch, just a desk, computer, file cabinet, and television with a DVD and VCR and Bose music system. As Gierman had in the bedroom and the living area. A media fr
eak. Against one wall was a set of weights and bench; in a bookcase a CD library of classical, jazz, and old rock ’n’ roll.
Any guests had to sleep with Gierman or on the olive green couch in the living room.
Now, because of the investigation, the guts of the computer had been taken away, cords left dangling where they had once been attached to the hard drive. File drawers had been left hanging open and had been stripped of a lot of the information inside, those files now, no doubt, piled upon Montoya’s desk at the station.
Brinkman was thorough, he thought, but still a prick.
Water dripped from the old pipes.
The smell of earth seeped in past tiles and bricks that had long ago lost their seals. Without care and resealing, the ancient mortar and grout had crumbled, letting in the dank, moist scent of dirt.
He didn’t care.
It didn’t matter.
Didn’t cloud his purpose.
If he stood very still and closed his eyes, he could remember the pungent odors of antiseptic and ammonia masking the acrid human scents of urine, sweat, and fear.
Above the smells were the sounds. If he listened very carefully, straining his ears, he could still hear the hushed whispers, the muted prayers, and the soft, unending moans. Metal carts rattled, the clock struck the hour, and everywhere there was the faint sense of depravity and decay, all washed over with a gloss of wellness and sunshine and false hope.
Now, standing in the labyrinthine corridors of the basement, he imagined how it had once been. So clearly he could see the lies . . . the shining eyes, the patient smiles, the concerned knit of eyebrows, but everything had been untrue.
He opened his eyes, and spurred by all those falsehoods, those dark, hidden sins, sins his mother had warned him about, sins for which he’d been brutally punished, he slipped through the shadowy corridors and felt again that he’d finally come home, had returned to make things right.
He moved noiselessly, leaving lanterns burning at critical junctures, golden light from tiny flames washing up against what had once been gleaming, pristine walls. Now black mold was evident, dark stains encroaching on dusty, dirty squares of the tile that had covered the walls of this area of the hospital basement. This was the part that had always been locked and kept secret, a place where the light of day never shone, where few knew what travesties had occurred down here. Those who had known had held their tongues and had expected the treachery and vile acts to have been forgotten.
Oh, how wrong they were.
Nothing was forgotten.
Nor was it forgiven.
His mother had taught him these valuable lessons.
He lit another lantern and turned a last corner. With his key, he unlocked a final door and stepped into the window-less room where his belongings were stashed. He lit candles and walked to the small secretary-desk with its peekaboo cabinets. It was unlocked. Pressing a small lever, he watched as the writing table unfolded, revealing hidden little niches, perfect cubicles for secreting his treasures. From his pocket, he withdrew the ring, a tiny gold band with a winking red stone. For a second he rubbed the metal circle between his forefinger and thumb, feeling its warmth, remembering the girl who had worn it. Heat thrummed through his bloodstream and he licked his lips. So perfect was she . . . so unaware. He noticed the blood on the perfect gold circle. Her blood. So much the better.
He relived the act of placing the pistol into her fingers, of squeezing the trigger, of feeling her smooth, supple back pressed into his abdomen, then fall away as death took her.
She had been so frightened and he knew he could have forced her into submission. It had been all he could do not to give into the urge. Her buttocks had fit so beautifully and intimately against his rock-hard cock. Mounting her would have been easy. Claiming her virginal body an act of pure indulgence. He’d imagined ramming himself into her tight little, untouched cunt, of breaking that thin barrier that separated woman from child.
But it would have been wrong.
Ruined all his carefully laid plans.
Now, thinking of her warm, trembling body, he felt the need for release, for the hot, urgent ache within him to be assuaged as he grew hard again.
But he knew his torment was part of his own atonement.
He let out his breath slowly, found that he’d gripped the ring so hard it had cut into his skin, and he mentally berated himself. It wasn’t time. Not yet.
Angry with himself for his weakness, he placed the gold band into a special cranny, then he removed the watch from his pocket and set the expensive timepiece next to the ring.
Perfect, he thought as the candles burned and water dripped in the hallway. This was the first step though he was far from finished. His work would take time; there were so many who had to pay. From an upper shelf, he withdrew a black bound photograph album and began flipping slowly through the pages of posed photographs, newspaper clippings, snapshots, and magazine articles.
He smiled as he stared down at the lifeless pictures and read the stories he’d memorized long ago. But his smile fell away as he came to Faith Chastain’s photograph, a studio shot in black and white that caught her looking nearly lasciviously at the camera’s eye. He touched the photograph, outlining the curve of her jaw. His chest tightened as he remembered her in life. In death.
Angrily he snapped the album closed and stuffed it into its special slot of the desk. Then he slammed the top of the secretary closed. He didn’t have time for this. There was so much work to do.
The deaths of the other night were just the beginning.
CHAPTER 6
“We’re all in shock here at WSLJ,” the disk jockey was saying, “everyone’s going to miss Luke Gierman. I mean, the guy, was like a legend around here . . .”
Oh, save me, Abby thought.
“. . . as a tribute to Luke and the contribution he made to free speech, WSLJ has decided to replay some of his most popular shows and we’d like your opinion about which ones you’d like to hear again. You can either call in or log on to our website.” The DJ rattled off phone numbers and the website address with such enthusiasm that Abby felt sick. She clicked off the radio.
“So now they’re going to canonize him,” she said to Ansel, who was seated on the back of the couch and staring hungrily at a hummingbird hovering near the feeder. “Unbelievable. It gives a whole new meaning to St. Luke, don’t ya think?” But despite her flippant words, she felt more than a little regret about their last conversation and the fact she’d lied about his father’s gun.
“Don’t even think about it,” she chided herself just as she heard the sound of tires crunching on the drive. Ansel, no longer mesmerized by the hummingbird, hopped down from the couch and strolled to the door, only to stop dead in his tracks.
“What?” Abby asked as she looked out the window. Detective Montoya had arrived. With Hershey. Abby’s heart leapt. Damn, she’d missed that dog. Opening the front door, she let in a rush of warm October air as she stepped outside.
Hershey was straining at her leash, kicking up leaves. Detective Montoya, rather than yank the eager dog back, was jogging to keep up with her. He glanced up, caught sight of Abby on the front porch, and flashed a smile.
A sincere smile that was crookedly boyish and caught Abby off guard.
“I think she missed you,” he said as Hershey bounded up the steps. Leaping, jumping, wiggling, and wagging her tail, she demanded every bit of Abby’s attention.
“Yeah, you’re good. You’re so, so good,” Abby assured her, petting her sleek coat and bending down to have her face washed by Hershey’s tongue. “I missed you so much, Hersh.”
The Lab barked loudly and Abby laughed. Though she hated the circumstances by which she’d inherited Hershey, she was glad to have the dog back home. “Thanks for bringing her back,” she said to Montoya as she took the leash from him.
“No problem.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t exactly live around the corner from the police station. At least
let me offer you a beer or a Coke, oh, I’ve only got Diet . . .”
“Nothing, really.”
She unsnapped the leash and Hershey, spying Ansel, shot inside. “Uh-oh. Watch out.” The cat puffed up to twice his size, hissed, then took off, streaking out through the open door, across the porch, and up the trunk of a live oak. The dog was inches behind and stopped short at the tree, only to bark wildly as Ansel sat on a low branch and looked down.
Abby couldn’t help grinning. “It’s their favorite game.”
Hershey whined and barked until she caught wind of some other animal and started sniffing the bushes. “It never fails,” Abby said, shaking her head as she watched her pets. “Every time Luke brought the dog over, Hershey would go berserk and Ansel would hiss and run. The dog always gave chase and then, twenty minutes later, they’d both be lying in the living room, Ansel on the back of the couch, Hershey in her bed by the fire, both curled up and sleeping dead to the world, as if they didn’t know the other animal was in the room.” Abby shoved her hair from her eyes. “Sometimes it’s a regular three-ring circus around here.”
“Did your ex leave the dog here often?”
“Just about every weekend,” she said, thinking of the absurdity of the situation. “As much as he fought for Hershey in the divorce, the responsibility of having a dog really cramped his style. He was gone a lot between his hours at the station and his other activities.” She slid Montoya a look. “Luke was an outdoor enthusiast, and when he couldn’t be fishing or hunting, or skiing or whatever, he spent hours in the gym. He was rarely home and so the dog was in his way. But I didn’t mind, as I said, I’ve missed Hershey.” She felt an unlikely tug on her heart. “I feel badly about Luke, really. We didn’t get along very well and our last conversation . . . it was really bad, awful, in fact . . . and then he really gave me some shots on his program the next day.”
“You listened?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. I guess I was curious, or deep down I have masochistic tendencies, I don’t know, but yes, I tuned in. It was a mistake.” She stared at the dog and absently rubbed a forearm with her opposing hand. “Luke really went for the jugular that day.”