by Lisa Jackson
“Y–yes, Mama,” he’d said, shamed.
“Good.” She pushed him in the opposite direction, toward the whitewashed towering walls of St. Louis Cathedral. The girl turned away. Bells were tolling, people bustling and talking, a saxophone wailing from a street corner two blocks down. The August sun was high in the sky, shining down in hot, blistering rays that bounced against the pavement.
“Don’t ever forget.” Mama straightened then adjusted her hat with one hand, making certain the partial veil covered her eyes before shepherding him through the yawning doors of the cathedral.
Now, years later, he felt that same hot shame burning through him. Because of Eve. Always Eve.
He itched to call her again, to warn her…to remind her…to let her feel that icy drip of terror that would chill her wanton soul.
All in good time, he told himself as he headed back to the nondescript silver sedan he’d parked three blocks away. All in good time.
Everything had to go according to plan.
Eve was forbidden. A sick sin and yet he couldn’t help his lust. Yet, as much as he wanted to feel her writhing beneath him, hot for him, her legs strapped over his ribs, it might never happen. But, he thought, biting off the tip of another fingernail and spitting it out into the street drain, he knew with infinite certainty, he and Eve would die together.
He would make it so.
It was their destiny.
Montoya lit up, took a long drag, then crumpled the pack of Marlboros in his fist and tossed it into the trash can on his way into the station. He’d bought the pack at a convenience store the night before and smoked three cigarettes, counting this one. His last.
At least for a while.
But the Renner case had gotten under his skin in a way that only nicotine could salve.
He paused at the steps and inhaled again.
“Hey, I thought you quit.” Brinkman, the biggest dick alive, was lumbering toward the station from a nearby parking lot. A smart enough detective, Brinkman was a royal pain in the ass, always pointing out flaws or making crude remarks or being a general social mis-fit. Now he motioned to the filter tip smoldering between Montoya’s fingers.
“I did.” Montoya flipped the rest of his cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it with his boot as he started up the stairs.
Brinkman was right on his heels. He wore his hair long on the sides, just brushing his ears, to make up for the fact that there was nothing on top, just a freckled pate. He was always fighting his weight and was wheezing as they reached the top step.
“I heard there was a bomb scare at your place.”
Montoya didn’t respond as he yanked open the door.
“But it turned out to be nothin’, huh?”
“It was evidence from the Renner case. His laptop computer.”
“Just dropped it off on your porch?”
“The guy called me and told me what he’d left, but I didn’t trust him.” Montoya figured he didn’t owe Brinkman more of an explanation as he headed toward the stairs.
“Who was he?”
“Don’t know. Probably the same prick who called in the murder.”
“The doer?”
“Maybe.”
Brinkman paused at the elevator, but Montoya kept walking, taking the steps two at a time, glad to be rid of the other detective. On the second floor, he headed toward the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and watched as Lynn Zaroster, a smart, cute junior detective, slapped a packet of artificial sweetener against the counter. She’d been with the division a little over two years, and already some of her idealism was starting to wash away. She ripped open the packet and dumped a minuscule amount of fake sugar into her cup, where coffee steamed.
“That stuff’ll kill ya,” Montoya said.
“Oh yeah?” She cocked a dark eyebrow and seemed amused as she blew across her cup. “Is that before or after you die of lung cancer?”
“He quit smoking,” Brinkman said as he angled into the room and tried to hide a smirk.
Bastard. Jesus, would the guy never transfer? Why not Kansas City or Sacramento or effing New York City, anywhere but here?
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Zaroster headed back toward her desk.
Muttering under his breath, Brinkman lifted the glass pot from its warming tray. Only a swill of black gunk swam around the bottom of the carafe. “You know how to work this thing?” Brinkman asked Montoya, though his gaze followed after Zaroster and her tight little ass, which, Montoya suspected, she swung a little more sexily just to bug Brinkman.
“Yeah, but so do you,” Montoya said. The I’m-incapable-of-doing-this-woman’s-job act didn’t wash with him. He opened a cupboard where the premeasured packs of coffee were kept and tossed one to the other detective. “Knock yourself out.”
Quicker than he looked, Brinkman caught the packet. “Great.”
Before the balding detective could grumble, complain, or whine any further, Montoya headed down a short hallway toward Bentz’s office.
He found his partner poring over an open file that was labeled Royal Kajak. Pictures of the crime scene were scattered over his desk, along with notes and lab reports. His computer monitor, too, displayed pictures of the deceased along with interior and exterior shots of the cabin and woods.
Bentz looked up as Montoya arrived. “Heard you thought a bomb was left on your porch.”
“Good news travels fast.”
“Renner’s laptop?”
“Yep. I didn’t get a chance to look at it. Once the crime techs have done their thing, I’ll see what I can find.” He kicked out one of the chairs in front of Bentz’s desk and sat.
“Who left it?”
“The guy who called me and told me that the briefcase and laptop were on the porch didn’t ID himself, but I’m thinking the items were at Renner’s house, and whoever called in the murder lifted them then got the hell out.”
“Why?” Bentz raked fingers through hair that was still damp from his morning shower.
“Don’t know.”
“A witness?”
“Maybe, but why not come forward?”
“Could be this guy’s the doer.”
“The number on the screen said pay phone, and I’m pretty sure we’ll get nothing when we figure out which pay phone it was.”
“But it could have been the doer.”
They banged that theory around awhile, but neither one of them bought it. Why would the killer bother to return evidence?
“Take a look at this.” Bentz picked up a couple of sheets of paper that had been lying on his desk then handed them to Montoya.
“Tox report. On Renner. Not complete, but interesting.”
“His blood alcohol level is high,” Montoya said, his gaze scanning the document. “Drugs? Alprazolam? A sedative?”
“Hmm. Brand name Xanax.”
“He took it with booze?”
“Not a good combo.”
“He was a psychiatrist, could have prescribed it himself.”
Bentz nodded. “But we didn’t find any bottles of the med at the house. I double-checked. No samples either.”
“Could’ve used ’em all.”
“Packets should have been found in the trash. Again, no dice.”
Montoya scratched at his chin thoughtfully, scraping the bristles of his goatee. “So the doctor was out of it when he was attacked?”
“Uh-huh. The lab is all over it. They tested the bottle and, sure enough, plenty of Xanax mixed in with the Jack Daniels.”
“So you’re thinking the killer did this to him on purpose to sedate him, make him more malleable, easier to attack?”
“Looks like it to me.”
“And no forced entry.”
“Yes.”
“He was visiting?”
“Only one glass at the scene. No evidence that Renner was entertaining.”
Montoya pointed to the older file. “Kajak’s tox screen came back clean, right? No booze. No drugs.”
Bentz tossed the file to the younger detective. “Not even a trace of an antidepressant, and the guy had been under a psychiatrist’s care for years.”
“So you think our killer is evolving?”
Bentz shook his head. “Maybe.” He stared at the grisly pictures of Roy Kajak. “I don’t know.” Frowning, he added, “I’ve already got a call from the Feds. They think there might be a link, a serial killer on the loose.”
“So now we get to deal with the FBI.”
“Looks like,” Bentz nodded.
“Task force?”
“Probably. I’ve already got a partial list of everyone who knew Renner. Of course the neighbors heard nothing.”
“The nearest one’s pretty far away.”
“Yeah, I know, but you’d think someone might notice a car parked in the drive, hear an argument, something, but no. I’m trying to chase down his sons. So far no one’s returning my phone calls.”
“Really?” Montoya said, surprised. “I did reach Kyle Renner’s wife, Anna Maria. She’s upset but couldn’t tell me where her husband was. ‘At work on a job out of town,’ was her explanation.”
“Thin.”
“Very. As for the last person to see Renner alive, it might be the clerk at the liquor store where he bought a bottle of Jack Daniels.”
“New bottle?”
Bentz nodded. “That’s right. Purchased around four-thirty in the afternoon. Doctored after that.”
“And no fingerprints?”
“None that shouldn’t be there.”
“Just like Royal Kajak’s cabin.”
“Yeah.”
Montoya frowned. “You know, Eve Renner’s right in the middle of this.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Bentz stretched his arms over his head and rotated the kinks from his neck.
“Wish I could.” Drinking from his cup, eyeing the bloody numbers smeared onto the walls and tattooed on the victims at both crime scenes, Montoya tried to figure out what the damned numbers meant. 212. 101.
Significant?
Or just a nutcase’s idea of a joke, something to throw them off?
Time, he figured, would tell.
CHAPTER 17
Eve locked the door then watched through the window as Cole walked across the overgrown yard to his Jeep. She couldn’t help but notice the way his shirt pulled across his shoulders and the casual manner in which his ragged, faded jeans hung low on his hips. In her mind’s eye she remembered his body, naked and hard, firm butt muscles, legs so strong the skin stretched taut over his thighs and calves. And then there was his back…. Oh Lord, how she’d loved to trace a finger down his spine and experience his reaction. One slow, twisting movement of her index finger and his eyes would darken, his pupils wide. Eagerly his mouth would find hers, and he’d wrap those sinewy arms around her and pin her to the mattress, pushing her knees apart in one smooth motion…unless he rolled her onto her stomach first and, cupping her breasts, pushed into her from behind. She touched her lips and quivered inside at the memory.
What that man could do to her!
She watched as he opened the Jeep’s door and found his sunglasses, sliding them onto the bridge of his nose.
She thought of the kiss here in the kitchen and how easily it could have turned into more. Her mouth turned to sand at the thought of the sex they could have had and might be having still.
Watching him slide into his rig, she called herself seven kinds of fool. What was she thinking, letting him kiss her?
Not smart, Eve, she thought, though she’d convinced herself that her memory of the night that Roy had died wasn’t just faulty, it was flat-out wrong.
Cole wouldn’t have tried to kill her. Of course not. She was missing something. The image in her mind was off somehow; that had to be it.
Her gaze was still on him as he yanked the door closed, then rolled down the driver’s side window of the battered Jeep and, as if sensing her stare, looked up suddenly, catching her. Damn the man, if one side of his mouth didn’t lift into a knowing, amused grin. Her silly heart fluttered, and she couldn’t believe her reaction to him. “He’s just a man,” she told Samson as he hopped from a chair to the counter, then sat, tail twitching, defying her to scold him and shoo him off his perch.
However, she knew she was lying to herself.
Cole Dennis was not just another man. Which was just plain bad news.
Disgusted with herself, she tried to pluck Samson from his spot by the sink and only succeeded in brushing his back as he leapt from the counter. After landing softly on the battered linoleum, he slunk, ears backward, belly nearly sweeping the floor, down the hallway. Eve looked back to see the taillights of Cole’s Jeep as he braked at the corner. She was a damned fool where he was concerned. Her feelings for him were, and always had been, a problem.
“One among many,” she said as she hurried to the stairs and raced upward, not bothering to stop on the second floor. Tennis shoes pounding the steps, she climbed to the turret and headed straight for the old secretary desk her grandmother had used eons before.
Her grandmother had given the secretary to her, and Eve, delighted, had promptly stored all her precious nothings in the locked section. After all these years, she still had the key, and now she fished it off her key ring.
With a click, the lock sprang and the top of the secretary folded downward to become a writing desk. Inside were tiny drawers and cubbyholes meant for stamps and writing paper, sealing wax and pens. Behind the slots for envelopes was a false back and a small drawer that, if you pressed just right, sprang open. As a girl, Eve had hidden her most secret treasures in the tiny cache, but now the space was empty save for a small leather key holder and the three keys inside, keys her father had given her long ago. Keys, she now hoped, that would open some very old doors.
What were the chances?
She palmed the smooth, worn leather and slipped the keys into her pocket. She couldn’t sit around and do nothing.
When Sister Rebecca hadn’t returned her call by early afternoon, Eve decided to seek the Reverend Mother out. Of course she was busy, of course she had a schedule, but damn it, two people close to Eve were dead, two people who had connections to Our Lady of Virtues. Then there was the matter of Faith Chastain’s pregnancy. If she gave birth at Our Lady of Virtues, wouldn’t there be a record of it? Eve had already called the state offices and gotten nowhere, so she’d tried the Internet. Again to no end. If Faith Chastain had borne a third child, there seemed to be no record of it.
As for her own birth certificate, her biological mother and father were listed as “unknown.” The story she’d heard was that she, as a newborn, had been left at an orphanage associated with the order of nuns at Our Lady of Virtues. Word had gotten back to the mental hospital, and Dr. Renner had examined the baby. Since he and his wife had been thinking seriously of adoption, they’d made the necessary arrangements through a local lawyer, who, when Eve had checked, had died nearly twenty years earlier, the records of his business locked away in some storage unit that his only heir, a nephew living out of state, saw no reason to disturb. Short of a court order, those records were lost to her.
So it was time to do some digging on her own.
No telling what she’d find, she thought as she pocketed the small leather key case and returned downstairs to the kitchen, where, digging through a drawer next to the mudroom, she found a heavy flashlight. She clicked it on and, surprisingly, the beam, though weak, was visible. “Good enough.”
Lastly she found an ancient, dusty backpack and loaded it with a few of her grandfather’s forgotten tools: the flashlight, a roll of duct tape, a pair of gloves, and a small hand towel.
Half a second later, she was out the door.
The interview with the police was going to hell in short order.
Deeds had set it up, and Cole had done his part. He’d admitted that he’d been at Terrence Renner’s house on the night of his murder, had discovered the body and ca
lled in the homicide. He believed phone records would bear out his story and admitted he was wrong in not waiting for the police to arrive or in identifying himself. He also admitted to taking the briefcase with the laptop inside. The cops wanted to cuff him right then and there, but Deeds calmed them down, pointing out that Cole had come clean when it might have served his purposes to keep his mouth shut.
Montoya had been incensed, blistering in his condemnation that Cole had tampered with evidence. Deeds had suggested the department’s computer techies check it out. He assured them that if the techs were any good, they would see nothing had been changed or deleted.
In the end, though deeply suspicious of his motives, the cops apparently believed that Cole hadn’t killed Renner. Either that, or they didn’t have enough to hold him. More than likely, they didn’t want to arrest the wrong guy again and end up looking like idiots in the press.
Cole was nervous throughout the ordeal but tried not to show it. He sat in the straight-backed chair in the small, stuffy room with Montoya’s near-black eyes glittering with suspicion and Rick Bentz pencil-tapping as he asked questions. Montoya, that prick with his signature leather jacket and ridiculous diamond stud, was itching for a fight; it was written all over him. His expression was tense, his skin stretched tight over his face, his lips flat against his teeth as he spat out question after question around a wad of gum that he chewed furiously, as if his life depended on it. Cords showed on the sides of his neck above his collar, and one of his hands kept curling into a fist.
Cool, he was not.
As for Bentz, the older cop was methodical, slower, more even keeled, but, Cole sensed, as eager to pin the murder on Cole Dennis as his hothead of a partner. There was no game playing, none of the good-cop/bad-cop crap you saw on TV, just two damned determined detectives.