by Lisa Jackson
“You broke the terms of your bail,” Montoya pointed out, stuffing his fist into his pocket.
Deeds shook his head. “The charge was dropped. There is no bail to worry about.”
“But there’s still the matter of the marijuana found in his possession,” Bentz said.
Deeds looked over the tops of his reading glasses. Disappointment was written all over his face. “We all know what that was about,” he said, “and we’re dealing with it. Someone set him up.” Montoya opened his mouth to argue, and Deeds held up a hand. “Another time, another place, Detective. My client came in here voluntarily. He’s committed no crime, and so, if there aren’t any other questions, we’re leaving.”
“Theft is a crime,” Montoya said, taking a step forward, but the accusation was without teeth, considering the laptop was now in the authorities’ possession. Catching a glance from Bentz, Montoya checked himself but said tightly, “We may have more questions, Dennis. You’re not off the hook on this.”
Deeds got to his feet. “When you have enough to charge him, call me.”
Cole scraped back his chair. The metal legs screamed against the old tile floor. He’d answered all their questions, told his story, and it was all he could do. Being in the small, airless room, pent up with detectives who were looking to trip him up, knowing that his every word and movement were being taped and that other cops were standing on the other side of the two-way glass, waiting for him to mess up, had nearly been more than he could bear.
Kristi Bentz thought she might puke if she had to take another phone call from one more cretin-client for one more insurance claim. How many dented bumpers, broken windshields, bent axles, and smashed quarter panels was she supposed to hear about and pretend like she cared while the client raved on and on about the “idiot” who’d been “driving up my ass” and rear-ended them, or the “moron” who stupidly had backed into the client at his local grocery, or the “ass” who had been driving like a bat out of hell while the client decided to switch lanes?
Now, seated at the small desk in her cubicle, her computer monitor showing off all of the “products” Gulf Auto and Life had to offer, she was talking to the mother of a fifteen-year-old who, despite the fact he had no driver’s license, had taken the family’s minivan out for a spin and ended up in the ditch. Now the woman was wondering if Gulf Auto would pay for the damages on the near-totaled vehicle.
Kristi had referred the woman to her agent and told her that she’d call an adjuster, but that wasn’t good enough. Client/Mother-of-an-Imbecile wanted Kristi’s promise that she was covered.
Holy Mother of God.
“I’ll have Ms. Osgoode call you,” Kristi said and finally was able to hang up.
She had a few more hours of paperwork before she could go home.
Home.
A studio apartment in the University District that was furnished with hand-me-downs and pieces she’d picked up at the local thrift stores. It was cozy enough, she decided, but not exactly where she’d thought she’d be now that she’d graduated from college. Nor was this dead-end job the height of her aspirations.
No way.
Not when there were true-crime cases to write about and she had an insider’s view on some of the most interesting homicides in this town. And the most interesting one at the moment was right under her nose, the victim being Dr. Terrence Renner, the suspects all connected to that spooky old mental hospital located not too far out of town. What could be more perfect?
Who cared if her father didn’t want her involved?
She could do a little digging on her own, start her own file. From writing for crime magazines and being cheap, cheap, cheap with herself, she’d already managed to save enough money that she could quit this job. She could work nights as a waitress or bartender to survive while researching and writing her book during the day.
So her social life was a big fat zero.
Big deal.
She’d kind of struck out with the boyfriend thing long ago.
The dork she’d dated in high school, the guy who’d planned to be a farmer and had wanted to marry her, had ended up going to school, getting not only a BS but a damned PhD in criminology, and now worked in the state crime lab. Go figure. The guy she’d been nuts about in college had been a two-timing jerk who had ended up dead. Since that time she’d only dated casually and hung out with her friends some weekends.
The phone rang, and she groaned.
This just wasn’t working. The tiny cubicle was stifling. She had nothing in common with most of her coworkers. Her degree in English Literature wasn’t being used. At all. She could have gotten this job without stepping one foot over the threshold of All Saints College in Baton Rouge.
She was going to give it up.
Soon.
Like maybe this afternoon as soon as her boss decided to roll back in.
Terrence Renner’s murder had all the earmarks of a best seller. If she didn’t write about it, someone else was sure to, and Kristi decided that just wasn’t going to happen. The Renner homicide, especially if it was tied to the Kajak murder, was hers!
The phone blasted again, and she picked it up.
Forcing a smile in her voice that she didn’t feel, she answered, “Gulf Auto and Life. This is Kristi. How may I help you?”
“Hey, Diego, looks like you got company,” Brinkman said as he passed by Montoya’s desk on his way out. “Isn’t that the name you use whenever there’s a hot woman nearby?”
“Bite me, Brinkman,” he said as he looked up and spied Abby hurrying toward his office. Her jaw was set, her face paler than usual, her freckles more visible, her hair clipped away from her face as she zigzagged her way through desks, filing cabinets, and cubicles.
“I have something I thought you might want to see,” she said without preamble, fishing in her purse and pulling out an envelope.
Montoya took it carefully, opened the flap, and slid the contents into his palm. Inside was a black-and-white photograph and a negative of Our Lady of Virtues Hospital.
“I took this a while back,” she said a little breathlessly. “When…well, when we were all trying to figure out what happened to my mother. I’d forgotten that this roll was in the camera, and today I developed it.”
He was staring at the photograph, trying to figure out what was important enough to spur her to the station.
“Look there,” she said, pointing to a window located on the third floor, the window that her mother had fallen through twenty years earlier. “See that shadow?”
He frowned, sliding the envelope under the shade of his desk lamp. Barely visible was a dark smudge.
“It’s a man.”
He looked up sharply. “You’re certain?”
“Yes. Look at it with a magnifying glass.” Again she rummaged in her purse and found an enlarging lens, which she handed to him. He walked around the desk, sat down and, like a jeweler checking for flaws in a diamond, went over the photograph.
“I’ll be damned.” Sure enough, there was an image of someone standing in the window.
“It’s not him,” she said, and they both knew she meant the killer who had terrorized New Orleans the previous fall, the murderer who had sought his victims in pairs and had been so closely associated with the hospital.
“Then who is it?”
“Exactly.”
“You think this guy might have something to do with what’s going on now?”
“I don’t know, but it’s something.” She jabbed at the picture with her finger. “No one was supposed to be in that old hospital. It’s nearly condemned, but there, big as life, is a man.”
“Maybe the caretaker.”
“Sure,” she said, mocking him because they both knew that the caretaker for Our Lady of Virtues at the time had been a man named Lawrence Du Loc, and despite the lack of clarity in the photo, when Montoya stared at the image with the magnifying glass, he had to agree. The man in the window was not Du Loc.
But Terre
nce Renner’s killer?
Maybe. Or someone who knew something.
Montoya grimaced, wondering if they were chasing shadows. But since they had no real leads in the case, he couldn’t afford to overlook anything, no matter now insignificant or far-fetched it might appear. “I’ll check it out. See if the guys in the lab can increase the clarity. Do you know the date you took this picture?”
“Not exactly, but a few days before you caught the guy.”
“Close enough. For now.”
She leaned her hip against his desk. “I talked with Zoey. About Eve.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d like to meet her. Actually, Zoey would too, but she’s stuck in Seattle a while. Can’t get away, and it’s really pissing her off. So it’s up to me.”
Montoya found it incredibly hard to say no to Abby, except when it was police business. “The woman in question’s involved in an ongoing investigation. It might be better if you waited until we know what’s going on and have a suspect in custody.”
She angled her head up at him, and, by the set of her chin, he knew he was in trouble. “Look, Detective, not that I don’t have faith in you, but it could be weeks or months or even years before you close this case. I’d like to meet ‘the woman in question’ now.”
He was about to protest, but she whipped her hand into the air to stop him from arguing.
“I know you could wrap things up in a matter of days. I do. But just on the off chance this takes a while, or, God forbid, the killer is never found and brought to justice, I think it’s only fair that I meet someone who could very well be my half sister.”
“You could wait until the DNA results are in.”
“And when will that be? This afternoon? Tomorrow? Or maybe weeks away. And it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not going to compromise your case. I just want to meet her.” She pushed herself away from the desk. “Instead of looking at this negatively, you might turn your thinking around. This could be a good thing. I’m guessing Eve could use a sister about now.”
“She’s got two brothers.”
“Sisters are different.”
He shook his head. He didn’t have a good feeling about Eve’s siblings. They were elusive, didn’t return calls, not even to the police. Red flags waving at full mast in Montoya’s head when he thought about Kyle and Van Renner, both of whom, it appeared at first glance, had money problems. Credit card records showed that the brothers Renner were both maxed out on several cards, and Kyle had three separate mortgages on his house. Van rented, but he’d skipped town a couple of times owing money to various creditors. Collection agents were on his ass.
So maybe Abby was right. It could be that Eve needed a sister to confide in. He sighed. “Okay. I’ll set it up.”
“I think it would be better if I did it myself. You know, ‘No cops.’”
“I’m not sure I like this. People around Eve Renner die.”
“I’ll be fine, Detective,” she said. “Besides, I have a big, macho fiancé whom I’ll call if I get into any kind of trouble.”
“You’d better.”
“Always.” She winked at him and wasn’t able to hide the sexy glimmer in her eyes. His pulse immediately elevated. Damn the woman, she knew what she did to him, and she used it.
“You owe me.”
“Mmm…I’ll try to think of some clever way to pay you back.” Then she pressed a warm kiss to his cheek, whispered a naughty invitation in his ear, and sashayed out the door as if she were pure as the driven snow. “Devil woman,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.
“That’s me, honey!” she called over her shoulder.
He settled back into his chair and stared at the picture of the hospital. Was it possible? Could the shadowy figure caught in the camera’s lens be Terrence Renner’s and Roy Kajak’s killer, the same person who had sent Eve the jagged-edged clippings?
No way.
Too coincidental.
Or was it?
Hadn’t Faith Chastain’s killer given him a warning?
Tonight is just the beginning.
Those words slid like ice through Montoya’s veins.
CHAPTER 18
“I’m sorry. I thought I told you,” the prim secretary for the convent said, “the Mother Superior is busy all day. I gave her your message, and I’m sure she’ll get back to you.” The woman, wearing a black skirt, crisp white blouse, wedding ring, and crucifix on a petite gold chain, rained a patient, beatific smile on Eve. Her nameplate identified her as Mrs. Miller, and her blue-tinged gray hair was permed tight above ears that supported tiny gold crosses.
“I thought she might squeeze me in,” Eve said. She felt awkward standing in the vestibule, out of place in her jeans and T-shirt, but she figured she’d try to get what she wanted through the normal, conventional way.
It was getting her nowhere.
Mrs. Miller, it seemed, considered herself a guard dog who appeared as small and mild as a toy poodle but, when backed into a corner, was more protective than an English Mastiff.
“Please tell her it’s very important,” Eve said, and left her name and phone number again.
She retraced her steps out of the darkened, serene hallway and into the parking lot, where her Camry sat in the late afternoon sun. Sliding behind the wheel, she noticed that someone was watching her from a window on the second floor. Sister Rebecca? Or just one of the nuns stopping at the window to stare out at the manicured grounds? With sunlight refracting on the old glass, it was difficult to make out the person’s facial features or even gender, for that matter. Eve assumed anyone in the convent would be a woman who had joined the order, but in the glare, she wasn’t sure.
Not that it mattered.
She knew what she had to do.
And it involved breaking into the old mental hospital.
“Great,” she muttered to herself. She didn’t think too highly of her skills as a cat burglar, and she sure as hell didn’t want to be discovered breaking and entering. She couldn’t imagine trying to explain her actions to the police.
Just don’t get caught.
Driving out of the compound, she headed her Toyota away from the convent. When the access road forked, Eve angled toward the hospital grounds, away from the country road that eventually fed into the freeway and New Orleans.
Though the convent and hospital abutted each other, they were separated by a tall fence that surrounded each separate campus. There were gates linking the two parcels, of course, and Eve, from years of growing up here, knew exactly where those portals were, but she had to be careful. She didn’t want anyone to see her flagrantly ignoring the No Trespassing signs that were posted around the property.
Slowing at the entrance to the hospital, she noted that the huge, wrought-iron gates were locked. Beyond those filigreed gates was the long drive leading to the asylum. No longer tended, the grounds were in shambles. The long concrete driveway was buckled and cracked, crumbling away.
A small shiver slid through her as she caught a glimpse of the hospital with its boarded windows and weed-infested lawn. How different it had been all those years ago.
She drove farther along the access road until she came to the cemetery. There was no gate here, just an archway of filigreed wrought iron that spelled out OUR LADY OF VIRTUES CEMETERY. On either side of the archway were statues, once white, now gray from grime and years of neglect. One was of St. Peter, the other of Jesus, and the arch itself was wide enough for a truck to pass beneath it.
Eve drove into the graveyard and parked her Camry in the gravel lot facing a field of headstones as well as several family tombs built above and below the ground. Here, as opposed to New Orleans, the land was stable enough, the water table low enough, to support in-ground burials. She parked beneath a tree then made her way unerringly through the graves, just as she had dozens of times as a kid. She and Roy had spent hours in the cemetery, looking at the old headstones and inscriptions, wondering about those who were interred. Roy had even sugge
sted they dig up one of the graves, just to see a dead, decomposing body, but of course they never had. She was certain he brought it up just to gross her out.
Around the perimeter of the cemetery was a forest of cypress and pine that had been, years before, intersected with deer trails. Who knew if they still existed?
“Time to find out,” she said as she grabbed her backpack and locked the car. She headed toward the stretch of fence line that separated the cemetery from the hospital grounds. At the edge of the woods, she ducked into a thicket of pine, still making her way toward the fence and scaring up a rabbit as she passed. Sunlight dappled the ground, but the air turned cooler in the shade, and the forest seemed hushed, oddly quiet, the slightest breeze moving through the trees. Eve didn’t pause to think about it. She was on a mission after months of recuperating, of lying idle and useless, a victim. Finally she was doing something, not waiting around for someone else to come up with answers. Brushing aside cobwebs, she found an overgrown path and wandered through thickets and open spaces, never more than three feet from the fence line.
A woodpecker drilled somewhere nearby, and she nearly jumped when she saw a black rat snake sunning itself on a pile of flat stones left near a fence post. The snake flicked its tongue in the air then slithered quickly through the crevices in the stones and disappeared.
Get a grip, she told herself. A rat snake wasn’t poisonous, and that one wasn’t all that big, yet her anxiety level notched up a bit, and when she found the spot where she and Roy had climbed the fence, she checked the ground and branches of trees for any snakes. Satisfied that she wouldn’t startle another serpent, she climbed up the chain link and then grabbed a limb of an overhanging tree to swing over the coiled razor wire atop the fence. As a child she’d been agile and strong; now the feat was more difficult, and she couldn’t help but hear the warning voice of Nita, her physical therapist: “Remember, you’re only at about eighty-five percent, and that’s good, but just keep working out and be careful not to strain anything.”