Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

“Come on!” Angry, she threw all her weight against the old panels. The door suddenly flew inward to reveal a room that was nearly identical to her mother’s. There was nothing in it, of course, the furnishings missing, the walls drab where the wallpaper had long ago been stripped away. A closet was cut into the wall in the same position as the room above, and a similar fireplace, some of the decorative tiles around the grate having fallen to the floor, dominated the same wall as the room above. The only significant difference was the window. This one was tall and narrow, but it was different in that there was no circular, stained-glass window mounted over the tall panes. That decorative panel, sometimes called a rose window or compass window, was only on the top floor, set into a dormer that broke up the roof line directly over the front door.

  As a child in the backseat of her father’s Ford, Abby had easily picked out her mother’s room as Jacques had driven through the main gates of the hospital. That special arch in the roof and circle of colored glass below had been her beacon.

  “You’re certain you didn’t close these doors yourself,” Abby said as she reentered the hallway.

  Sister Maria appeared wounded. “Of course not. Listen, my memory might fail me at times, but not to that point, and I wouldn’t have lied about it or pulled some kind of prank on you. What is in question is your own perception! Come on. It’s time to go.”

  Abby followed the nun to the stairs, but as she glanced over her shoulder and looked down the corridor one last time, she experienced a cold feeling against her spine, like the sharpened talon of a demon scraping down her backbone.

  On the first floor, some of Sister Maria’s anger dissipated. She grabbed Abby’s hand and looked into her eyes. “You look tired.”

  And she was. After waking up refreshed from the dreamless sleep, she’d thought she would be able to set the world on fire today, but this place, this dreary, old asylum with its dingy walls and dark memories, had drained the energy from her, zapped her of her strength.

  Sister Maria walked her through the main door and locked it behind her. Together, hunched against the wind and rain, they started around the building, but as they reached the corner, Abby looked over her shoulder, for one last glimpse of her mother’s room.

  There, standing on the other side of the glass, was a man. A big man, his features hidden in shadow. Her heart almost stopped. She spun, squinting through the sheeting rain.

  “What?”

  “In the window,” she whispered, pointing.

  But the image was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

  Sister Maria scowled upward. “I don’t see anything. Now, come along,” she insisted in exasperation. “We’re both getting soaked.”

  Abby wanted to tell the nun what she’d seen, but it seemed impossible. Rain was plastering her hair to her head and it was so dark . . .

  “Is something wrong?” the older woman asked. “Come on!”

  Abby felt as if the devil himself had grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed. Her chin chattered though she wasn’t cold. Who was the man in the window? An apparition? Just a shifting shadow that her fertile mind had conjured up as an evil being?

  “Abby?”

  Sister Maria was several steps ahead of her.

  Turning quickly, Abby caught up with the nun.

  “What is it?” the nun asked, sliding her a glance. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “It . . . it’s nothing,” Abby replied. “I just had to take another look.” Quickly, her Nikes splashing through puddles, she hurried along the overgrown path, through the trees, startling a squirrel that dashed into the underbrush.

  Once they were through the forest, Sister Maria held open the unlocked gate, then the two moved rapidly along the fence line to the parking lot. “We don’t use that gate very often,” Maria explained. “Except when the gardener has work to do, or one of the people who are planning to tear the hospital down wants access, or when we need to chase down trespassers.”

  Abby flushed. “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll ask.”

  “Will there be a next time?”

  She thought about the figure she’d seen lurking in the window of her mother’s room. Her imagination? A trick in the play of light? Then what about all those suddenly closed doors on the second floor? “I hope so. As I said, I think I need to see Mom’s room one more time,” Abby said, pushing aside her fears. There was no one in the old hospital. No one.

  But the doors were shut!

  And you saw someone staring at you! You did, Abby! You’re not imagining things. You are not cracking up!

  “Who knows about this gate?” she asked.

  Maria shrugged. “Except for the Sisters, not too many. As I said, there are a few who have access to the hospital now, but that’s about it. When the hospital was open, some of the staff used it, of course, but only a few of those people are still around.” She chuckled, swiping a drop of rain from her nose with the back of her hand. “You know, there was a time when we had trouble keeping people locked inside the gates, not the other way around.”

  “Why don’t the people who are buying the hospital just go through the main gate?”

  “Oh. That.” Sister Maria stopped as they reached the parking lot, seeking protection from the rain beneath the overhang from the garage. “They will. But the sale isn’t exactly a ‘done deal’ yet. Until all the snags are worked out through the parish and the archdiocese and the engineers and architects and the Mother Superior here, nothing will happen.”

  “The hospital’s not sold?” Abby asked.

  “Let’s just say ‘we’re in negotiations’ and leave it at that because I’ve probably said more than I should.” She looked at Abby again. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

  I’ll never be all right, Abby thought. My mother was a paranoid schizophrenic who committed suicide by throwing herself through a window, my father is slowly dying from disease, my sister slept with my fiancé who cheated on me with several women after we were married. Once Luke became my ex, he publicly humiliated me and now he and some coed are dead in a macabre, staged death scene. Oh, no, I will never be all right.

  “I’m fine.”

  Concern drew lines across Sister Maria’s forehead. “Maybe you should come inside.” She glanced up at the heavy clouds. “I think I could scare up a cup of tea.”

  “Not necessary. Really.” Now that she was out of the creepy old hospital, she was ready to make tracks and fast.

  Sister Maria’s gaze was skeptical.

  “Would you call me when the lock’s been fixed and I can get into my mother’s room again?”

  “You’re certain that’s what you want to do?”

  “Yes!” Abby said with renewed conviction, gazing over her shoulder to the fence and woods beyond. From here she couldn’t see the red bricks of the hospital, cosseted as it was by acres of forest, where, the idea had been, the gentle sounds, smells, and sights of nature would help soothe the tortured minds of the patients within.

  “Then of course I’ll call.” The rain began to pour even more heavily, slanting with the wind.

  “I’ll phone the convent later with my number.”

  At the nun’s nod, Abby waved a good-bye and dashed to her car, sliding behind the wheel. Through the foggy windshield she watched an amazingly spry Sister Maria sprint toward a doorway cut into the wall surrounding the convent.

  Abby twisted on the ignition of her little Honda and pulled a quick one-eighty, then nosed the car toward the main road.

  She didn’t bother taking the fork that jogged to the old hospital.

  She’d seen more than enough for one day.

  He waited as she drove away.

  From the third-floor window he could see over the gates, and at one point, where the trees parted, there was an eagle’s eye view of the road. Just a short glimpse, maybe two seconds, when her car would pass, turning the corner to the main road. But it was enough. For now. Taking up his vigil, he lifted his powerful binoculars so that he wa
s ready, would be able to catch her expression as she drove by.

  It took a little longer than he’d figured, probably because of that prattling nun, the one who had a few dark secrets of her own, secrets that were so close to his own. His lips twitched at that thought. The meek woman, draped in her black habit, might seem holy to some, but he knew better.

  Soon, her secret would be exposed.

  As would those of the others.

  He had to work fast and so he intended to step up his time schedule. Through the field glasses, he saw a flash of silver in the rain. His heart pounded and anticipation thrummed through his body. A hot rush slid through his veins as he caught a glimpse of her taking the corner too fast. In the driving rain, the Honda’s tires slid, the back of the hatchback fishtailing.

  He imagined her fear as she struggled with the steering wheel.

  He licked his lips as she managed to right the Honda and drive out of sight.

  His heart pumped wildly and he felt a bit of sweat upon his upper lip. She looked so much like Faith . . . his throat went dry and lust slid like a hot, determined snake through his veins.

  Faith . . . oh, beautiful . . .

  His head pounded and he remembered the sweet, welcoming warmth of her, the way she gasped as he entered her, the glimmer of fear beneath the hot, anxious look in her eyes. His body thrummed as he thought of her seduction, her ultimate surrender, the need that had caused her to pant beneath him and press her teeth into his shoulder.

  His lips curled back as he sucked in his breath. God, how he wanted her now, ached to feel the hot, urgent suppleness of her body clinging to his.

  All in good time, he reminded himself as he squeezed his eyes closed. Faith’s face came to him . . . her hot eyes, her throaty laugh, the naughty invitation of her slick lips. And as he imagined her, almost smelled her, her features altered slightly and the memory of the mother became a vision of the daughter.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Look, I’m telling ya, it was the last time I saw him,” Maury Taylor insisted as they stood in the reception area of the radio station. Bentz, having called in advance, had shown up about the time that Maury, spending extra hours in Luke Gierman’s chair, was free. The Gierman show was being played at various times in the afternoon and evening and apparently, from the latest poll, skyrocketing in the ratings.

  That’s what being killed did for a person. Instant fame. Or infamy. In Gierman’s case, it was probably the latter.

  “I explained this all to that other detective. What was his name?” Maury asked, then snapped his fingers. “Brinkman, the big guy with the gut.”

  Bentz nodded. “I know, but I was out of town and I’m just double-checking a few details,” he said, which was pure garbage. Brinkman had done a decent enough job talking to everyone at the station, but Bentz just wanted his own “hit” about how things were going down here.

  Besides, this was familiar territory. He’d been here often enough a few years back when Father John, a psycho of the worst order, was haunting the streets of the city. The killer’s fascination with Dr. Sam, a late-night radio psychologist, had been a grisly nightmare.

  The radio station, a block off Decatur Street and close to Jackson Square, looked pretty much the same as it had then, the reception area with its padded benches, one wall covered by a glass case filled with awards and news items, pictures of celebrities, and even an authentic voodoo doll. Melba, the receptionist, seemed forever on the phone.

  “I don’t know anything else except Luke was really pissed, and I mean really pissed at his ex-wife,” Maury explained. “She’d thrown away some of his stuff and he let her have it on the show that day.” He pulled a face. “I know we do some pretty off-the-wall things here, but usually Luke didn’t overdo the personal shit, you know, he wasn’t into bringing up his own personal dirty laundry. He had kind of an . . . unwritten rule or code of ethics about that.”

  “Code of ethics?” Bentz didn’t buy it. He figured Gierman would have done anything including moon his own grandmother if he thought it would boost the ratings for his show as well as his own inflated ego.

  “It was, I don’t know, and he’d deny it to the death but . . . oh, hell,” Maury said when he heard himself.

  “But what?”

  Taylor glanced away, toward a colorful neon display that reflected pink and blue on his face, then returned his gaze to the policeman’s. “But I think he was still in love with her.” At the quirk of Bentz’s eyebrow, he quickly added. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I know. He liked the young ones. Hell, don’t we all? The way he told it, he couldn’t get enough . . . was a regular man-slut. I don’t know all the women he banged, but he told me about a few and I gave that information to the other cop. The only one I remember, and Luke only mentioned it once, when he’d had a few too many, was his wife’s sister.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah . . . it didn’t sit too well with the wife, if ya know what I mean. The minute Luke confided in me, even though he was drunk, he clammed up about it, laughed it off, like he was joking, but I don’t think so.”

  Bentz made a mental note and felt an old pang of anger. He’d been there. Man, oh, man had he been there. He didn’t know what it meant to Abby Chastain to know that her husband had cheated with her sister, but it couldn’t be good.

  “It really didn’t matter if the fling with his sister-in-law was true or not.”

  Like hell. It mattered a lot.

  “I just always had this feeling that he really never got over his ex-wife.”

  “Did he say so?”

  “Luke? Admit to being hung up on a woman who would have nothing to do with him? Nah. Not his style.” Maury raised his slim shoulders and shook his head. “But then who knows, maybe I got it all wrong.”

  “The ex-wife couldn’t have liked the attraction to her sister.”

  “Ooh, no. Ouch! You know what they say about love and hate.”

  Bentz didn’t disagree, but he knew from personal experience that the line between love and hate was so thin as to be invisible at times. Passion was a hair-trigger emotion.

  “Anyone mind if I look through his desk and his closet?”

  “Knock yourself out, but that other cop—”

  “Brinkman?”

  “Yeah! Geez, why can’t I remember that guy’s name?” Taylor snorted. “Not a good sign. I need my memory man, need to think fast on my feet or in my seat.” He offered up a proud, toothy smile. The high school geek who’d just made a touchdown. “The station manager’s talking about making me the next Gierman. How ’bout that?”

  Bentz figured the station manager wasn’t doing the listening public of New Orleans any great favors. “What about Brinkman?”

  “Oh. Right. He already looked through Luke’s stuff. Took what he wanted. Luke’s desk is this way.” Maury guided Bentz down the main hallway, known as “the aorta,” through the labyrinthine corridors of the old building. They passed other employees as well as glassed-in sound booths and editing rooms. “What about Gierman’s girlfriend?”

  “Nia?” Taylor snorted. “Nice ass. But not much upstairs, if ya get my drift.” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Not exactly a brainiac, and Luke, he’d get bored quickly if the woman couldn’t keep up with him. The physical chemistry was nice, always got him goin’, but that only lasts awhile, y’know.”

  As if this guy were Casanova or Dr. Phil. The trouble was, in Bentz’s opinion, this time Maury Taylor was right. Wasn’t Bentz, himself, a prime example? He’d never planned to remarry after his first wife, but in Olivia Benchet he’d found a woman who was, he’d discovered, his mental match as well as drop-dead gorgeous. What combination was sexier than that?

  Taylor, passing by a showcase of vintage LPs, was still rambling on, “Nia and Luke broke up—I guess you know that. From what I heard, she’d already found some new guy, a jock . . . even more of a workout nut than Luke, if ya can believe that. ‘Tall, dark, and handsome,’ she told Luke, then really stuck it to him. Cla
imed this guy was the best lover she’d ever had. Can you beat that? Ouch!” He looked over his shoulder at Bentz and gave him the we’ve-all-been-there look. “Turns out, little Nia had been seein’ this guy on the sly for weeks. How’s that for a turn of events? The cheater got cheated on. Some kind of cosmic justice.”

  “Except that the cheater ended up dead.”

  “Yeah,” Maury said, grimacing. “Except for that. Double ouch! Sucks, ya know?”

  “Big time.” They reached the back of the building, where a rack of built-in desks vied for wall space with lockers. “What about Gierman? Did he have any other girlfriends, or exes that he might have teed off ?”

  “Don’t think so. On the air he always acted like he had a girlfriend whether he did or not. That was part of the routine,” Maury said as he pointed out Gierman’s desk, where Sharpie pens were kept in one of those personalized cups with a picture of a chocolate Lab on it. On the bulletin board over the desk were snapshots of Gierman sailing, skiing, playing tennis, leaning against the fender of a sporty BMW, or romping with the same brown dog that was on the coffee mug—a virtual shrine to himself and his hobbies. An ego-maniac if Bentz had ever seen one. The only other photo was a small one of a woman Bentz recognized as Abby Chastain. In the picture she was staring out to sea, her curly red-gold hair was tangled in the wind, her lips parted into a sexy smile that showed a hint of dimple. She had the kind of eyes that seemed to delve straight into a man’s soul.

  Yep, he figured, Maury Taylor was right. No one would keep a picture like this unless he was seriously hung up on the woman.

  Bentz glanced back at Taylor. The smaller man, too, was staring at the snapshot.

  “What did I tell you?” Taylor said, his jaw sliding to one side. “The only woman Luke Gierman ever really gave a damn about was his ex-wife.”

  Montoya eyed the crowd, mentally checking off each of the mourners who had come to stand around the chapel door at All Saints College. A young priest, Father Anthony, stood straight-backed on the steps in front of the lancet-arched doorway. Flanking the fresh-faced priest was the old relic, Father Stephen, his bare head bent in prayer. Beside him was Dean Usher, the brim of her hat dripping in the rain.