by Lisa Jackson
“I’ve got to tell Abby.” Montoya was already out the door. He spun on the other side of the threshold. “Be sure that I get copies of those.”
Bentz nodded. “You got it.” Through the open door, he watched as Montoya cut through the desks to the stairway then disappeared from sight. Bentz was left with the strange newspaper articles.
What was the connection?
He made a note to find out about Eve’s brothers, her dead mother, and, if possible, her birth parents. Like it or not, he knew he’d have to make a visit to the convent at Our Lady of Virtues and talk to the Mother Superior.
Bentz turned to his computer, clicked open an old file, and found a clear photograph of Faith Chastain, noting her haunted beauty, the high cheekbones, straight nose, gold eyes, and wild mass of un-tamed dark curls. Abby Chastain was nearly a carbon copy of her mother, but Eve Renner? There could be a slight resemblance, but certainly not enough to make that kind of call.
He tapped his pencil on the desk again, then, using gloves, placed the clippings back into their envelope to take them to the lab. He didn’t understand what was going on yet, but he knew, whatever it was, he didn’t like it.
CHAPTER 15
Deeds was late.
He was also pissed as hell.
“Tell me you’re not screwing up,” he insisted as he ordered a beer from the bartender. O’Callahan’s was dark and cool, filled with timeworn mahogany and leather, smelling of cigars, aged whiskey, and Cajun spices.
“I’m not screwing up.”
Deeds didn’t accuse him of the lie, just accepted the frosty mug of beer and took a long sip, then glanced toward a couple of guys hanging out at the bar, where they watched a television mounted near the ceiling. Only a few patrons were seated around the scattered tables. Smooth jazz filtered from hidden speakers. One guy was shooting darts near the back by the restrooms. All in all, the place was quiet. Low-key.
“So you’re minding your p’s and q’s?” Deeds was skeptical as he reached for some of the mixed nuts the bartender had placed between them.
“Yep.”
“Then tell me Eve Renner’s not back in town and you haven’t seen her.” He popped a couple of peanuts into his mouth.
“Can’t do it.”
“I knew it! Cole, are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Probably.”
“This is no time for jokes,” Deeds said furiously. He took a long pull from his glass, glanced at his reflection over the mirror, and said tightly, “So tell me what’s going on.”
Cole did.
For the most part anyway. He explained about Terrence Renner calling him and about visiting the farm, finishing with, “Renner was dead when I got there, but he hadn’t been for long. I checked for a pulse. None. Nor was he breathing.” Cole’s voice lowered as he remembered the crime scene. “There were numbers written in blood on the wall and tattooed on his forehead.”
“Like Kajak.” Deeds tossed another couple of nuts into his mouth.
“Except instead of 212, the number was 101.”
“You think it was the same killer?”
“Had to be.”
“Then why change the numbers?”
“I don’t know.” Cole shook his head then took a long swallow from his draft. “Maybe the guy messed up, or maybe they were meant to be different. Who knows?”
“Just our killer.”
“I’ve been wracking my brain, but I can’t come up with a thing.”
“You have to make a statement to the police.”
“They’ll try to pin this on me.”
“Why would you kill Renner? And on the first day you’re free? It doesn’t make any sense.” Deeds dusted his hands then drained his beer. “So, you haven’t exactly been keeping your nose clean since you got out.”
“Renner called me. Or at least some guy claiming to be him.”
“Okay, and what about Eve? You’ve seen her. And I suppose you’re planning to see her again.”
Cole stared at his beer, didn’t answer.
Deeds shook his head woefully. “You’re making a big mistake there. You know, I’ve already warned you about her, so I’ll shut up. But use your head, Cole. The big one. You’d better tread very carefully. Someone’s trying to frame you, my friend. Someone made certain you were at Renner’s house last night.” He set his empty mug on the table. “Just like before.”
Cole didn’t respond. Decided there was no reason to. He’d never admitted to a soul that he had been at Royal Kajak’s cabin on the night Roy was killed, that Eve’s memory wasn’t completely faulty.
He figured he wouldn’t start spilling his guts now.
“…So you see, Ms. Renner, if you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to check your DNA, just a mouth swab to begin with,” said Detective Bentz through her cell phone as she pulled into her driveway. She rammed the car into park and let it idle as she digested what Detective Bentz had just told her about Faith Chastain’s mysterious C-section, a birth that had most likely occurred when she was a patient at Our Lady of Virtues, a birth that Eve’s father no doubt knew about. Bentz was still making his pitch. “We should have asked you about this when you were in, but we hadn’t really quite connected the dots at that point.”
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You think I could be Faith Chastain’s daughter, one no one knew about?”
“That’s right.”
“And you think that somehow whoever put the clippings in my car knows this.”
“Could be.”
“So why not just call me up and tell me?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for that yet. We’re still investigating.”
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, looking through her windshield, where the old wipers had streaked the glass.
“We’ll subpoena the hospital records, of course, but that will take time; the hospital has been closed for years. Fortunately we already have samples of Faith Chastain’s DNA on file. We’d like to compare it to yours.”
“Of course,” she said. “When?”
“As soon as possible. Unlike the labs you see on television, our testing will take weeks, even though I can put a rush on it.”
“Can I come in now?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
To find out my biological parents? Are you kidding? She was already backing up. “I’m on my way.” He gave her instructions and promised to meet her at the lab. She turned onto the road and headed into the heart of the city again.
Eve’s head was spinning. Was it possible? Could she really be Faith Chastain’s long-lost daughter? Sister, or at least half sister, to Abby Chastain, who was now involved with Detective Montoya? How was that for a bolt of lightning? The whole six-degrees-of-separation thing seemed to be working double-or triple-time.
“Weirder and weirder,” she muttered as she worked her way through traffic.
A few drops of rain began to pepper her windshield as she found a parking spot and met Bentz in the lab. Her mouth was swabbed by an efficient tech who smiled at her, took her information, then assured Bentz he’d explain that the tests needed to be done ASAP so that Bentz could get the information he required.
It was all over in minutes.
And soon she’d find out if she was, indeed, Faith Chastain’s missing child.
“You think that Eve Renner might be my half sister?” Abby said, thunderstruck. She had just finished her last photography session; her clients had walked out of her studio at the same moment that Montoya had walked in. He’d locked the door behind them, grabbed her, and twirled her off her feet before kissing her as if he’d never stop.
“Hey! What’s gotten into you?” she’d asked, breathless, as he’d set her back on her feet.
Then he’d dropped the bombshell. “I think Eve Renner might be your long-lost half sister.”
She stared at him. “What? Back up. Explain what’s going on.” Abby couldn’t help feeling a little thrill of excitement to think t
hat finally, after learning her mother had most likely had another child, she would finally get to meet the mysterious sibling…if it all panned out. But Eve Renner? How was it all connected?
Montoya sketched out the story as quickly and concisely as he could. Abby listened, frowning as he finished with the unsettling news that Eve thought someone was following her. “But who knows?” he added. “The woman’s got trauma-induced amnesia and God knows what else. She’s not exactly reliable.”
Abby tamped down her own expectations as she turned off the lights and set the security alarm. “But you seriously think she could be my half sister? Because she was adopted and her father worked at the hospital? That’s kinda slim, isn’t it?”
“I’m just saying it’s possible.”
“Hmmm.” They walked outside, where dusk was stretching in long, lavender fingers through the city streets and alleys and the air was thick with the threat of rain. Montoya slung his arm around her shoulders and guided her toward his car, a gleaming black Mustang parked illegally in a tow-away zone. “Someday you’re going to come out here and your car’s going to be gone,” she predicted.
“Nah. Not with my luck.” His teeth flashed white, and his hair, longer than he usually kept it, gleamed blue-black in the watery glow from the streetlamps. The scent of cologne mixed with cigarette smoke reached her nostrils, and she figured the case was getting to him, and, against all sound advice, he’d broken down and started smoking again. She decided not to call him on it as she settled into the passenger seat even though she noticed the open pack of Marlboros on the dash.
“We have your mother’s DNA. We’re hoping Eve will give us a sample for comparison, but even if she does, getting the results will take time.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” she said as he flicked on the ignition, rammed the Mustang into reverse, then swung the car around. He skimmed through the city streets as if he were a NASCAR driver, and, as always, Abby clung to the passenger door’s armrest for dear life.
“I’m still going to contact the convent and find out what they know,” she said as Montoya turned onto Chatres. “Are we going somewhere?”
“How about out to dinner?”
“Don’t tell me, a quick bite and then you’re back on the job?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinkin’.”
“Then it better be takeout,” she said, checking her watch. “Hershey hasn’t been out since this morning, and neither has Ansel.”
“Worse than kids,” Montoya grumbled.
“You think?” She laughed as he negotiated the next turn, heading toward their house with its half-done renovations. “Wanna put some money where your mouth is?” she asked and glanced down at the diamond ring she wore, his gift to her last Christmas when he’d proposed. She’d said “Yes” and moved most of her things to his shotgun house in the city before New Year’s Eve.
“A wager on whether kids are worse than pets?” he suggested.
“Hmm. Payoff after you have two kids.”
“You’re not trying to tell me something, are you?”
She caught his drift and laughed. “I’m not pregnant. But once I am and you’re the father of a couple little hellion Montoyas, then we’ll compare notes and see if you think being up all night with bottles and diapers is as tough as a litter box for the cat and Hershey’s two walks a day.”
“You’re on,” he said. Then one dark eyebrow raised in invitation. “Let’s get the research going.”
“What? You mean have a baby?” She smiled as he shifted down. “You’re out of your mind, Montoya.”
“Well, I’m thinking, you know, it might not be such a bad idea if we…you know…” His voice lowered suggestively.
“You want to go to bed when we get home?”
He slowed for a light and flashed her another heart-stopping grin.
“I thought you were going back to work tonight.”
His dark eyes sparkled devilishly. “I am, but I might be able to be persuaded to stay an extra fifteen minutes.”
“Oh wow,” she said laughing. “A quickie. Be still, my heart.”
He wheeled the Mustang around a final corner and onto the street they’d called home together for over four months. At their house, he eased his car into the short driveway. “We’ll order pizza.”
“So much for romance.”
He parked the Mustang and winked at her in the soft light from the dash. “We can make it as romantic as you like.”
“Promises, promises, Detective,” she said, reaching for the door handle. His cell phone jangled, and he, as ever, took the call. Obviously the pizza would have to wait.
He answered as she climbed out of the car. Fingers scrabbling through her purse as she searched for her keys, she stepped around a discarded sink and cabinet the contractor had ripped out of Mrs. Alexander’s side of the building and had yet to take away.
Pulling out her key ring, she started walking up the broken cement walk toward the front door, where through the glass panes and backlit by a single lamp, Hershey was going nuts. Jumping wildly, tail thumping, letting out sharp, excited barks.
“I’m coming! I’m coming! Hold your horses!”
“Stop!” Montoya’s voice was raw with panic. “Abby! No!”
She froze.
Turning, she saw him vault over the hood of the Mustang, touch down, then leap over the sink as he dashed across the small patch of grass that was their yard. His expression was as hard as she’d ever seen it. “Move away from the house! Get the hell away!” He didn’t waste time, just grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the cottage, propelling her backward, toward the street. She dropped her keys and nearly tripped at the curb.
“Are you crazy?” she shouted.
Montoya just moved faster, urging her across the street. Abby lost her purse. “Wait!”
He twisted his head to view the house. His dark eyes focused on the door. “Some son of a bitch just called. Said he left me some ‘evidence’ on my front porch, and goddamn it, there it is.”
“What?”
“Next to the damned door!”
Abby followed his gaze. Her heart nearly stopped. Propped against the siding, next to the old porch swing, were two small cases.
“Shit!” Montoya swivelled his head, his eyes searching the street.
“I don’t understand,” she said, an unspoken terror scraping down her spine.
Montoya didn’t usually give in to fear. Right now he was frantic.
“It could be a bomb, Abby. Some nutcase with a grudge who has my cell number and my address. Maybe someone I sent away who is on parole. Who knows?”
“But Hershey—”
He held her tight with one arm while pulling his phone from his pocket and punching out 911.
“No one put a bomb on our porch,” she said, trying to convince herself. She had to get the dog and cat out! Now!
But Montoya didn’t release her. “The animals will be okay,” he insisted, holding on to her for dear life.
Abby heard the operator answer.
Montoya identified himself and demanded officers from the bomb squad be sent to his house immediately.
Once the operator took the information, he hung up, his gaze searching the neighborhood.
“Ansel and Hershey are inside,” Abby whispered, her nerves shredding one by one. So this was what it was like to be involved with a cop.
“They’ll be okay,” he said, but his voice was sober, and Abby wondered if her life would ever be the same.
Eve slept like the dead.
No phone calls interrupted her dreams.
No one pounded on her back door in the dead of the night.
She woke up refreshed, the headache that had been plaguing her for months having retreated. At least for the time being. She made the bed, showered, messed with a bit of makeup, added a touch of gel to her short hair, then called it good.
Who cared?
She and Samson had even eaten breakfast, kitty bits for him and
a bagel with cream cheese and coffee for her. Not exactly gourmet, but not half bad.
She was beginning to feel almost like a normal person when she spied Cole Dennis big as life walking through the back gate and up the steps. “Now what?” she said but couldn’t help the tiny rush of adrenaline that sped through her bloodstream whenever she saw him. “Masochist,” she muttered under her breath.
This time she opened the door before he knocked.
“What? No revolver?” he asked, one dark eyebrow lifting.
“It’s early, Cole. You could still get lucky.”
A sexy grin stole over his lips, and she regretted her words. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Tease.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said, rolling her eyes, then realized that his cocky grin had faded. “There is, I assume, a reason you’re here?”
He walked into the kitchen, and, as he passed, she closed the door, trying to ignore the scent of aftershave that lingered in the air. Though she couldn’t remember the details of the night Roy was killed, she could recall in an instant the electricity she felt whenever Cole’s lips brushed across her cheekbones, or touched the underside of her chin, or pressed against the back of her neck. Oh yes, those intimate, sizzling memories still found their way back to her consciousness.
“I thought you’d like to know that your father’s belongings are safely with the police.”
“You turned them in?” she asked suspiciously.
“I made sure they got into the right hands.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Evasive, Counselor.” Walking to the counter where the coffeepot sat warming, she watched as he made himself comfortable in a chair at the table. “Coffee? Or what’s left of it?” She lifted the glass pot, where the dregs of the morning’s brew sloshed darkly.
“That would be great. Thanks.”
“So you talked to the detectives?” she asked, reaching for a cup, checking it, then rinsing it with hot water before dumping in the coffee and sticking the cup into the microwave.
“Not yet, but I will. Deeds is paving the way.”
She set the microwave for a minute. “I don’t trust Sam Deeds.”