by Lisa Jackson
Jesus, would the guy ever get serious?
A couple of the other detectives thought it might well be a hoax, but Montoya wasn’t buying that. The single word, “repent,” seemed somehow connected.
There was something religious going on here, he thought, otherwise why bother with the stolen cross . . . but he didn’t take the Virgin Mary’s, did he?
Hell.
At least it seemed Maury Taylor hadn’t lied about no one touching the note but him; his were the only prints found on the single sheet of paper. There were others on the envelope, of course, and they were being checked against the letter carriers, but that was a time-consuming job. All the prints had been sent to AFIS and the glue under the flap of the envelope checked for DNA. If there was any, they would see if it matched the DNA of the black hair on the wedding dress.
Gina Jefferson and Asa Pomeroy’s next of kin had been notified. Wally Jefferson had collapsed. The fourth, Mrs. Pomeroy, had taken it all in good stride, as had each of Asa’s children. Not a particularly loving bunch, the Pomeroys, Montoya decided. All of the people interviewed had “no idea” who would want to harm the king of weaponry, the poster boy for the NRA; ditto for Gina Jefferson, who in comparison was a saint.
Black and white.
Yin and yang again . . .
But someone had wanted them dead. Some unknown enemy.
Someone inherently evil and incredibly dangerous.
Someone who killed people who were as different as night to day.
Someone far too close to Abby Chastain to make him feel comfortable. He scowled into the night, staring at the blurry taillights of the car in front of him. He’d been thinking about Abby a lot lately. Too much.
She was definitely starting to get under his skin. Smart, pretty, sexy—she was a woman who made others pale by comparison. He loved the deep throaty sound of her laughter, and the way her eyes rounded when he said something she didn’t expect. He found himself thinking of her not as a witness or potential suspect, or even the ex-wife of a victim, but as a woman. Which was just plain stupid. He couldn’t let her get to him. For all he knew, she could be involved in her ex-husband’s death. It was a long shot, yeah, and he didn’t believe it for a second, but he had to stay impartial, sharp, willing to look at all the angles and possibilities. So, too bad if she just happened to be hotter than hell.
Pushing thoughts of her from his head, he drove steadily toward his house, watching the wipers swish the rain from his windshield. He slowed as a traffic light glowed amber, then brilliant red, reflecting on the shiny, wet pavement. Two pedestrians, laughing and wearing cheap ponchos, jogged through puddles to the opposite side of the street.
His cell phone rang and he picked it up without looking at caller ID. “Montoya.”
“Where do you get off breaking all kinds of policy and going on a personal rampage at the radio station?” Melinda Jaskiel, the D.A., demanded. Before he could answer, she added, “It’s a damned good thing that Eleanor Cavalier is a personal friend of mine or your ass, as they say, would damned well be grass.”
The light turned green and he stepped on it.
“Montoya, do not, and I repeat, do not screw up my case! We’re going to nail this bastard and I don’t want any high-profile defense attorney looking for his personal shot at fame to have any excuse to have evidence tossed because some cocky, hot-tempered detective messed it up. Do I make myself clear?”
“Loud and,” he muttered, furious with himself, with the investigation, with the whole damned world.
“Good. Remember this.” She hung up and he could still feel her seething through the phone.
“Goddamned son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. He knew she was right, but it pissed him off just the same. Then again, everything about this case pissed him off. And he knew why. It all had to do with Abby Chastain. Each time he left her, he wanted to return. The other night with the bad pizza and so-so wine, it had been hard to peel himself away from her.
He’d found himself fantasizing about her, wanting her, thinking about wrapping his arms around her, saying to hell with the whole damned world, and kissing her so hard neither one of them would be able to think straight. He thought about stripping off her clothes, his thumbs skimming those breasts he’d only caught a glimpse of, kissing her throat, then tangling his fingers in that wild mass of red-blond hair as he ran his tongue downward.
His imagination ran wild: he saw himself tumbling into bed with her, both of them half-dressed, both so hot they were sweating and eager. He wanted to feel her anxious fingers on his skin as he thrust into her, not giving one good goddamn what anyone thought.
“Shit,” he muttered, so caught in the fantasy that he almost missed his street. He gave himself a quick mental shake, forcing thoughts of the woman out of his mind as he parked in front of his house, a camelback shotgun that sat amid others that were identical. He’d bought the narrow house this last year and flat-out loved the shoe box design. He’d even taken to tinkering around it, fixing the porch, painting, adding some wrought iron, all that domestic crap he’d eschewed in his earlier years.
His home was painted pale blue, nestled into a pod of pastel colors that suited him just fine. He walked inside, tossed his keys onto a side table, picked up the remote, and turned on his television. Stripping out of his jacket, he walked through the connecting living room, den, and eating area to the kitchen, near the back of the house. He’d poured a lot of energy, elbow grease, and money into the rundown unit but it had been worth it, giving him an outlet, a way to work off energy from the stress of his job as well as give him a project to fill the few hours he had off with something constructive.
It had helped him get over Marta.
Throwing his heart and soul into the century-old boards, lathe, and plaster of this railroad car of a home he had managed to firmly put the past behind him.
Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, he twisted off the top while kicking the fridge’s door closed. Now, his thoughts were about Abby Chastain. Abby and the case that had brought them together. A case that had taken the lives of four people, all from different walks of life.
Montoya rubbed his face, then took a swallow.
The suspect list was growing, but most of them were discounted the minute their names came up. He was still leaning toward Nia Penne’s current live-in. Roy North was the right size and had black hair. His feet were size twelves, but his alibis were ironclad, unless Nia was covering up for her lover. So far, the police had no proof that Roy had been anywhere near Luke Gierman or All Saints College. And what would Roy or Nia have to do with Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson? Nonetheless, Montoya wanted DNA from the guy. If a judge couldn’t be convinced to issue a warrant, then maybe he’d have someone follow North, try to pick up a tossed cigarette butt or coffee cup or something with the guy’s DNA on it, enough to compare it to the black hair found at the first scene and the saliva, if there was some, that would be collected from the envelope sent to WSLJ.
He took a pull from his bottle, then walked into the living room, where the news of Asa Pomeroy’s and Gina Jefferson’s murders was on every channel. The stations were talking about a serial killer stalking the streets of New Orleans again, and not only the public information officer for the police department, but also someone from the FBI, gave statements and took a few quick questions, all the while holding back information that only the killer would know about the murders, hoping to weed out the invariable nut jobs who pretended to be the sick-o called the station to “confess” and got off on the fame.
Sipping his beer as he watched, he knew that somewhere the killer, too, was glued to a television screen, reveling in the havoc he’d wreaked and the media and police department’s attention. That’s what it was all about: stroking a killer’s damned twisted ego.
And the bastard would do it over and over again for the high, the rush of feeling superior, of dominating, and killing, then dancing away from it all.
“I’ll get you
, you sick son of a bitch,” Montoya vowed. He drained his long-necked bottle. It might be far-fetched but he still believed the old hospital was somehow connected to what was going on. It was too late to call his aunt tonight. She didn’t even have a phone in her room. First thing tomorrow morning, he’d dial her up and find out if she knew of any connection between Asa Pomeroy, Gina Jefferson, and Our Lady of Virtues.
In the meantime, despite his promises to himself, he snagged up his car keys again, threw on his jacket, and headed out the door into the wet night. Someone had to tell Abby Chastain that her neighbor had been murdered.
He decided he was the best man for the job.
CHAPTER 20
Abby couldn’t believe what she was seeing and hearing on her television.
Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson were dead? Killed in the same manner as Luke and Courtney LaBelle?
Sitting on the edge of her couch, staring at the screen, she felt sick inside. How could this be happening? What kind of lunatic was stalking the streets of New Orleans and making his way clear out here, far from the city?
The reporters kept speculating and talking, showing exterior shots of a hunting lodge owned by Asa Pomeroy, the latest crime scene. From there they flashed to the Pomeroy estate, just down the road from her, before panning on the Crescent City Center, a small mental health clinic that helped the poor and the homeless.
Something inside Abby pricked and prodded at her brain . . . Gina Jefferson worked for a mental health clinic. Had she once been a member of the staff at Our Lady of Virtues? Was that why the black woman with the even features seemed familiar? Or was it because, like Asa Pomeroy’s, Gina’s face and deeds had been a part of the local news for years?
Nervously she plucked at the arm of the couch, playing with the gold chenille pile without realizing what she was doing. What was it about the mental health worker she should remember?
As if a window were open, a sudden chill swept through Abby, cutting to the marrow of her bones. Something tugged at her memory, something important, but she couldn’t quite latch on to it. The thought was just out of reach.
Yet she knew instinctively that it had to do with her mother and Our Lady of Virtues . . . What was it?
She glanced outside to the dark night and tamped down the sensation that someone was watching her, that deep in the thicket of oak, swamp berry, and buckthorn were hidden eyes, that something or someone malicious was peering into her house and studying her every move. “Stop it,” she admonished. Still, she climbed to her bare feet and snapped every blind shut so tightly no light escaped. Now, no one would be able to see more than her silhouette on the blinds.
For once the dog was sleeping on her favorite spot on a rug near the cold, blackened fireplace. Ansel lay curled on the back of the couch. The cat’s eyes were closed and he was purring softly, unaware of the turmoil Abby couldn’t shake as she returned to the living room and flipped through the channels. She saw more of the same scenes: a helicopter shot from the air of the hunting lodge, taken before night had fallen, and another image of the old cabin where Luke and Courtney LaBelle had been found. Pictures of all the victims alive and smiling were shown and short bios reported, including the fact that Gina Jefferson had publicly harangued Pomeroy Industries, and Asa Pomeroy personally, for not giving enough to the needy, especially those with mental problems.
The two, according to the media, had often been at odds over Pomeroy’s stingy nature.
Vanessa Pomeroy, a petite, perky woman, not a hair out of place, nor a tear in her eye, chatted easily about “the tragedy” of her husband’s death. On the other hand, Walter Jefferson, so distraught and grief-stricken that he had to be propped up by a relative, was clearly undone, his face awash in tears.
“The poor man,” Abby whispered and clicked to another channel, where the Reverend Billy Ray Furlough was standing in the middle of a crowd on the steps of his church. It was still daylight on the tape, so this scene, too, had been shot earlier in the day. The tape rolled and Abby, curled into a corner of the couch, watched in utter fascination as the charismatic preacher turned the horror of the day into his own personal revival meeting. He ranted and raved, gesticulated wildly, and prayed with a pious sincerity that could melt even the most stubborn atheist’s icy heart. A natural-born public speaker, the Reverend Billy Ray had literally found his calling.
“Why is this happening?” he asked rhetorically as he faced the camera. “Why is God striking down some of our finest citizens?” A tall, good-looking man, with broad shoulders and a firm physique, he was somewhere in his late thirties, Abby guessed. Charisma practically oozed from him, with his clear skin, brown eyes, gleaming straight black hair, and white teeth that flashed disarmingly when he found the camera’s eye. He wore his clerical collar with pride rather than humility and there was something about him that also seemed familiar, something she couldn’t name, something that caused the hairs on the back of her arms to prickle.
“Perhaps we should not question God’s wisdom. Let us not forget that God helps those who help themselves, and in our hour of grief, our time of tragedy, let us reach out to the Lord and tell him, ‘Yes, Father, I will trust in you.’”
She flipped the channel, bothered by the display. It was almost as if the preacher were capitalizing on the tragedies, hoping that through his downplayed showmanship he could entice more people into his fold, more dollars into his church’s coffers.
Don’t go there, Abby. Who are you to judge?
Hershey’s head lifted. She gave out a “woof ” and Abby heard the sound of a car’s engine as it approached. “Now what?” she wondered and again felt the uneasy sensation that had been with her for most of the evening. Padding to the front windows, she tilted one slat of the thin blinds and peeked through. Montoya’s black Mustang slowed to a stop in front of her garage.
Good, she thought, relieved to see him slide from behind the wheel and slam the car door shut. Her heart did a quick little flip, which she completely ignored, but she couldn’t stop a smile from curving across her face. Watching him, she noted again how his jacket stretched over his shoulders, the way his hips nearly rolled with his long, athletic stride, and how his jeans fit snugly but hung low on his hips. For once, his black hair was mussed and he shoved it out of his face as he climbed the two short steps and into the illumination of the porch light. Lines of strain were visible on his face, and his jaw was set in steely determination. Deep in his goatee, the razor-sharp line of his lips, drawn downward, gave him a stern, don’t-mess-with-me expression that didn’t bode well.
The minute he rang her bell, Hershey went nuts. Abby threw open the door and folded her arms over her chest. “Surprise, surprise,” she said. “If it isn’t Detective Montoya.”
“I know.” His mouth lost some of its hard edge. “I’m making a habit of this. Sorry.” Was it her imagination or did his brown eyes grow even darker with the night?
“I don’t remember complaining,” she said, then mentally kicked herself for sounding so eager.
One of his black eyebrows cocked.
And she couldn’t help herself as she gestured him into the house. “I figure you’re just out here hoping for more of my fantastic home cooking.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Some of the tension eased out of his face, and he looked past her to the living room, where the television was still blaring the news of Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson’s murders. He stepped inside and Abby shut the door behind him. “So you do know about Pomeroy.”
“It’s awful.”
“Amen.” He walked to the set, standing not five inches from it, and stared at the screen. “Bastard.”
“You’ll catch him.” She flipped the dead bolt. “Right?”
Montoya glanced up at her, his dark eyes deadly serious. “Damned straight.”
“Well, do it soon, okay?”
“That’s the plan.”
From the couch, Ansel opened an eye, saw the stranger, and was instantly on his feet, back arch
ed and looking as if he’d just stuck his tail into an electric socket. The tabby hissed, then sprang to the floor. With his tail drooping behind him, he slunk swiftly out of the room. “Not a fan of mine,” Montoya observed.
“Of anyone else, save myself.”
Montoya actually cracked a smile. “Have you tried Prozac? I’m serious. One of the beat cops was going crazy with her cat spraying and refusing to use the litter box, and she put the stupid thing on some kind of antidepressant.”
“You’re kidding.”
He held up a palm. “God’s honest truth.”
“So, now you want me to get a fiercer dog and a sweeter-tempered, mellower cat?”
“I think any cat would fill the bill.”
“Hear that, Ansel? The cop thinks you need to be replaced,” she said, turning her head toward the hallway, where Ansel had disappeared. She smiled. “I think I’ll stick with the pets I have, all the same.” To reinforce her stand, she bent over and scratched Hershey behind her ears. “Yeah, baby, you have nothing to worry about.” Glancing up at the detective, she added, “Loyalty. It’s my thing.” She saw something change in his eyes, a sobering, and she knew in an instant what he was thinking.
“Uh-oh,” she warned. “Don’t go there. The answer to the question cutting through your brain is yes, I was loyal to my ex. Disgustingly so. I said ‘I do’ and I meant forever, but in all those vows, you know, sickness, health, good times and bad, never once did I say, ‘No matter how many affairs you have, I’ll stick it out. It’s okay. I forgive you.’” The minute she said the last three words, she felt a slight change in the atmosphere, and she remembered her recurring dream, the one where her mother, before she died, always whispered, “I forgive you.” All Abby’s lightheartedness fled into the darkest corners of the room.