Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” A bushy eyebrow was raised over the tops of tortoiseshell glasses. “Here ya are, looking for a place…”

  “And I came to you because you usually don’t ask a lot of questions.”

  The older man shrugged. “Okay. But this is a gem, let me tell you. I could rent it for a lot more, but you…”

  “You don’t have to sell me. I’ll take it.” He reached into his wallet and peeled off two months’ rent then waited until Ivan got the hint and left.

  The place wasn’t much, but it would have to do. He could set up the computer he’d purchased and pirate into someone else’s wireless connection so that he had Internet access. Along with purchasing the new laptop, he’d already copied everything he could from Renner’s briefcase. His next step was to download all the information he could from Renner’s computer onto discs then find a way to get the information to the police.

  But he wasn’t going to hand it over himself.

  No way.

  “I’m telling you he’s dirty,” Montoya said, resting a shoulder against the filing cabinet in Bentz’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack came the buzz of conversation, click of computer keys, ringing of phones, and every once in a while the protestation of innocence from some scumbag giving his statement. Montoya found a pack of nicotine gum in the pocket of his leather jacket. As he unwrapped a piece, he stared at the computer monitor, where gruesome pictures of the Terrence Renner crime scene were displayed. “Somehow Cole Dennis is involved.”

  Bentz leaned back in his chair until it creaked in protest. “Give me a for instance.”

  “I don’t know.” Montoya frowned darkly, popped the gum into his mouth. Under the fluorescent lights, his black hair gleamed almost blue, and his eyes glittered like obsidian. He was angry and not afraid to show it. “I’d like to say he’s our guy, but…” He chewed furiously. “You’re right. He’s not stupid, and I don’t make him for a psychopath. A killer maybe, and I can see him offing someone for messing with Eve, but…I don’t make him for a bloodthirsty psycho.”

  “So who is?”

  “The same guy who did Roy Kajak.”

  “Not Dennis.”

  Montoya wouldn’t answer. Just chewed his nicotine gum.

  “Back to square one,” Bentz muttered. The Kajak and Renner murders weren’t the only unsolved homicides in the department’s case file. There had been a stabbing on the waterfront two nights earlier, a drug deal gone bad from the looks of it, an assault in the French Quarter over a woman, and what appeared to be an accidental shooting: a kid had found his old man’s gun and hadn’t known it was loaded when he’d pointed it at his friend and pulled the trigger.

  Sometimes the job got to him. Bentz glanced at the computer screen and felt a little of the same queasiness that always attacked him when he first stepped into a murder scene. “When can we expect the preliminary autopsy report?”

  “I think they’re putting a rush on it, but it’ll be at least another day; the complete by the end of the week. And the lab? Trace evidence? Fingerprints?”

  Bentz sighed. “I made the mistake of asking Washington and about got my head snapped off.” Bonita Washington was in charge of the crime lab and a force to be reckoned with, a black woman with coffee-colored skin, green eyes, and, Bentz guessed, an IQ pushing the genius level. She also didn’t take any crap from anyone, so Bentz had learned to tread lightly. He’d even resorted to bringing her coffee upon occasion. The first time he’d showed up at her office door with a steaming cup in his hand, she, seated behind her desk, had looked over the tops of her reading glasses and nodded to herself. As if something she’d figured out long before had just been proven.

  “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Detective?”

  He’d nodded and handed her the cup. She gave the contents a cursory glance then took a sip. He thought he’d scored major points.

  “You know, if you’re gonna try to bribe me, I’m partial to diamonds. A caramel macchiato latte with whipped cream and drizzled in chocolate is damned nice, but, really, diamonds would work so much better. Hell, for a measly carat, your case might just miraculously work itself to the top of my in-box.” She grinned and took another swallow. “Think what two carats would get you.”

  “It’s just a coffee.”

  Those intense green eyes had narrowed. “I know your story, Bentz. Heard about what happened in LA, and I realize that you’re here because the DA stuck her neck out for you. Without Melinda Jaskiel going to bat for you, you could very well be out of a job. As for this?” She held up the paper cup he’d given her. “It just happens to be my favorite kind of coffee, which means you went to a lot of trouble and used those keen California surfer-dude detective skills to find out exactly what I like.”

  He felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten warily and an embarrassed heat crawl up his face. The woman was a barracuda.

  “You want something, Bentz, and we both know it. Trouble is, you’re just gonna have to wait in line. I’m understaffed and overworked. But you knew that, right? If not, you do now.”

  After her sharp-tongued tirade in front of her staff, he’d learned his lesson. As she’d turned back to the work on her cluttered desk, she’d muttered something under her breath about “smart-ass, know-it-all dicks” and then added, just loud enough so that he could overhear, “Good thing I like you.”

  Within three hours, the report he’d wanted had landed on his desk—a good two days before she’d promised it. Since that initial conversation, they’d had an understanding.

  Montoya’s cell phone beeped, and he took the call. With a nod to Bentz, he walked out of the office and was about to shut the door when Bentz’s daughter, Kristi, pushed it open. In a tight denim skirt and a fuchsia tank top, she said, “Hey, Reub” as he passed, then dropped onto a chair in front of her father’s desk.

  “Hi!” she said a little breathlessly, and he was reminded of her mother, Jennifer, his first wife. Though Jennifer was long dead, she wasn’t forgotten. Kristi had recently cut her hair, her coppery curls now in unkempt layers to frame a face that was as intelligent as it was beautiful. Curiosity filled her green eyes, and, at least in his opinion, she was so full of energy and life, she seemed to light up a room when she walked in. Then again, he might not be objective, as she was his kid.

  “Hi, yourself.”

  “I thought you might want to go to lunch or coffee or something.” She was grinning at him widely, again reminding him of her mother. Bentz was a little wary of all this enthusiasm.

  “Lunch?” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost three.”

  “Okay, make that a late lunch, or, like I said, coffee. We could even indulge in a beignet at Café Du Monde.”

  He made a point of checking his watch again. The last thing he wanted in the middle of the afternoon was something sweet, like fried dough dusted with powdered sugar. “Kristi, what’s up?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked so innocently, he couldn’t fight the smile that threatened his lips.

  “How long have I worked here at this station?” Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “That was a rhetorical question. Okay? But the point is, I’ve been here, at this desk for years, and this is the first time you’ve just popped in and suggested lunch. So as I asked before, ‘What’s up?’”

  “Your detecting skills are amazing,” she said as if she meant it.

  He knew when she wanted something. “You didn’t come down here to flatter me.”

  “Well…no…” she admitted. She wasn’t quite looking at him. Her gaze had strayed to his computer screen, where the pictures of the Renner homicide were still visible. “Oh wow. That’s Dr. Renner, right?”

  “Yep.” With his mouse, he clicked the file closed, and instead of gruesome shots of Terrence Renner, a rotating screen of his favorite spots in New Orleans came to view. “Level with me. Why’re you here?”

 
At least she didn’t throw the can’t-a-daughter-come-down-for-lunch-with-her-father line at him. She exhaled a disgusted breath and looked out the window for a second. When her gaze found his again, she was decidedly more serious. “I want to work a case with you.”

  He shook his head. “You’re not a detective. Not even a cop. And you’re my kid.”

  “I don’t mean that kind of work,” she said, making air quotes around the last word.

  “What other kind is there?”

  “I want to write about it.”

  Now she had his full attention. She’d mentioned writing before. English had been her best subject in high school and at All Saints College in Baton Rouge. One of her English professors, a Dr. Northrup, had called her essays “brilliant,” and though Kristi had admitted that she thought the guy was a weirdo, she’d basked in his praise nonetheless. So she’d toyed with writing, had inquired to several magazines, even mentioned a book before, but this?

  “I’d love to write true crime, and I figure that I’ve kinda got an inside track, what with you being a detective and all.”

  “Whoa. I can’t let you be a part of an ongoing investigation. You know that. It would be unethical and potentially compromise the case.”

  “Even if I promised to keep everything confidential until it was solved?”

  He stared at her long and hard, this bull-headed, smart-as-a-whip, athletic daughter of his. “No.”

  “I’ll talk to Montoya.”

  “He won’t buy into it either.”

  “Then Brinkman,” she countered, her chin thrusting just a bit, the way it had when she was a child and was determined to get what she wanted, no matter what. “Or Noon.”

  “You wouldn’t last two seconds with Brinkman,” Bentz said, thinking of the irritating detective. Though good at his job, Brinkman was misogynist, bigoted, and had a foul mouth. The thought of his daughter being anywhere near the man caused bile to climb up Bentz’s throat. “And Noon’s a prick. Somethin’ not quite right with that guy.” Noon was a younger detective and on his own kind of authority trip. “You know, you’re right. Let’s go to lunch.”

  “You’re trying to change the subject.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, it’s not working. I mean it, Dad,” she insisted, climbing to her feet and letting him hold the door for her. “I want to do this. Working for Gulf Auto and Life isn’t my idea of a career.”

  “You just started with the insurance company.”

  “Nine months ago!” They were wending through the cubicles and desks where detectives and clerks were typing, answering phones, taking statements, or finishing up paperwork.

  “Not exactly a lifetime.”

  “But why not do what I really want?” she countered as they started down the stairs. “Why waste any more time?”

  “There’s the matter of bills. You know, gas, rent, cable, you name it.”

  “I’m not quitting,” she insisted, “at least not right away. Not until I write the book and it sells.”

  “If it sells.”

  They were on the first floor, and she shot him a harsh glare. “Way to be supportive, Dad.”

  “I am supportive. Just being realistic. Come on, cross here,” he suggested. He yanked at his collar. Only May, and already the temperature was over eighty. “There’s a restaurant up about three blocks, open all afternoon, has great gumbo.”

  She wrinkled her nose, and again he was reminded of Jennifer, so beautiful but so different from Olivia.

  At the thought of his new wife, he couldn’t help but shake his head. She was an enigma, that was for sure. Olivia Benchet Bentz was a beautiful woman who was as smart as she was mystical. He still didn’t understand the little bit of ESP that seemed to flow through her blood, but she was the best thing that had happened to him. Even if she had brought a feisty mutt named Hairy S and a parrot into the marriage.

  “I’m not really into gumbo,” Kristi said as they crossed the street against the light.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll have something you’ll like.”

  “You don’t even know what I like.”

  “Last I heard it was tofu and beans.”

  “Very funny.”

  He laughed and held the door open for her. The rich smells of hot Cajun cooking wafted from the kitchen and invaded his nostrils. The booths were dark wood with stiff backs and thin cushions.

  They split a fried-shrimp-and-crawfish basket complete with curly fries. Over cups of sweet tea, Kristi tried to convince Bentz what a great idea it would be for her to be privy to information on the Renner investigation. He wasn’t buying it and told her so.

  “Not gonna happen,” he said.

  “Then how about one that’s already been solved?” He dredged a french fry through a pool of catsup as she championed her cause. “What would it hurt? I’d make sure all the facts were correct and that everyone who needed to got credit and—”

  “Why?” he cut her off, skewering her with a gaze that had caused more than one would-be assailant to think twice.

  “I told you.”

  “I mean why, after what you’ve gone through, would you want to dwell on this crap?”

  “Probably for the same reason you do.”

  He scowled, pushed the basket aside, and leaned across the table. “What about that nutcase who called himself the Chosen One, huh? Remember him?” When he thought of it now, the black fear that had enveloped him during the hours Kristi and Olivia had been held captive, Bentz still felt chilled inside.

  “It’s over, Dad,” she said, but he didn’t believe her. Such a harrowing, mind-twisting ordeal was never over, never completely forgotten.

  They finished the basket, and he paid the check.

  “This is something I want to do, for me,” she said as they headed outside. “I thought you’d be all for it.”

  He glanced at her skeptically. As she started to step off the curb, distantly he heard the roar of an engine and caught the flash of chrome out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he grabbed her arm and jerked her back onto the sidewalk. A motorcycle, engine roaring, took the corner fast, skidded through the crosswalk, and nearly wiped out.

  “Holy crap!” Kristi cried, her eyes wide.

  Bentz glared after the disappearing bike but didn’t catch the plate. Every muscle in his body had flexed, taut as bowstrings. He realized he was still holding on to his daughter’s arm in a death grip and slowly uncoiled his fingers. “Sorry.”

  “No…it’s…it’s okay,” she said, still shaken. “I saw him and I heard him, but I just thought he wasn’t turning.”

  “Neither did I, but I couldn’t be certain.” He grabbed her arm again and gave it a squeeze. “I couldn’t take a chance.”

  “Okay, Dad. I get it. You’ve made your point. But I am going to write a book about a real case, one that I find fascinating, and it will probably be one of yours, so”—she flashed him a blinding smile—“you’re going to have to find a way to deal with it.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Eve stood on one side of the glass and watched as the sheet was pulled back. Her father, his skin pale, his eyes closed, lay on the slab. She thought of all the things she wanted to say to him, all the things she never could. They’d been close once, long ago when she’d been a little girl and her mother was still alive. After Melody Renner’s death, they’d grown more distant rather than closer. And then there was Tracy Aliota, a girl under her father’s care, a girl who, like Eve, had rebelled, but had gone further, a girl who had ultimately lost her battle with sanity and her life. Though no criminal charges had been filed against Dr. Terrence Renner or the hospital where Tracy had been treated, the girl’s family had taken him to court for wrongful death. Cole Dennis and the high-profile, high-priced law firm of O’Black, Sullivan and Kravitz had convinced the jury that Terrence Renner hadn’t failed his patient, that he’d done everything possible, that in no way whatsoever was Tracy Aliota’s condition mis-diagnosed, nor was Dr. Renner responsible
in the least for her death.

  The only person who hadn’t been convinced in the courtroom, other than Tracy’s grieving family, had been Eve.

  I’m sorry, Dad, she thought, her throat hot. Oh God, I’m so sorry. If only I’d talked to you, if only I’d tried…. If only…

  “Ms. Renner?” Montoya asked, his voice low.

  “It’s him,” she said, nodding, her insides twisting as she stared past the glass. Her father’s body had been cleaned. She could see the gash around the base of his neck and the dark, garish tattoo embedded into his forehead.

  She imagined the last seconds of his life. The pain. The terror.

  What kind of monster would do such a thing?

  Who?

  Why?

  Shaking, she sniffed and ran a finger under her eyes to wipe away her tears.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, cleared her throat, and stiffened her spine. The headache that was forever her companion threatened to rise again, but she ignored it, didn’t have time to deal with it. “Get the bastard who did this,” she told Montoya.

  “Believe me, I’m trying. But I do have some questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Maybe we’d better do this at the department.”

  “Wherever.” She didn’t care; she just wanted to get through the interview.

  “Great.” Montoya called Bentz, and they met Bentz in his crammed office. His desk was littered with reports and old coffee cups, and a dying plant was withering in a pot on top of a filing cabinet. The room was stuffy and close despite an open window through which the sounds of the street filtered in. As she took a seat in one of the chairs near the desk, Eve watched two pigeons flutter near the window ledge and listened to the hum of tires and rumble of engines along with some impassioned street preacher begging passersby to “accept Jesus into your hearts.”