by Lisa Jackson
She had to remind herself of that fact as she walked through the doors to the station house the following afternoon and made her way to her desk. She’d spent the past four hours talking to witnesses in a domestic violence case, and she was cranky from the conflicting testimony. Half the people at the party where the alleged incident had taken place insisted the wife was at fault; she’d baited her husband by flirting with his brother, then really heated things up by punching him in the gut. The other half said the husband, a possessive jealous type, known to use a steroid or two, had overreacted: he’d grabbed his gun and shot his wife dead.
Overreacting…no shit. How could people be so stupid?
Portia had about two hours of paperwork, and then she was going to call it a day. Shifts were about to change and there was a lot of activity in the office: phones jangling, computers humming, suspects in cuffs and shackles seated at desks protesting their innocence and bad treatment by the cops.
She passed by one of the young secretaries’ desks. A burst of color in the form of carnations and roses indicated that someone was thinking of her. Portia peeled off her raincoat and hung it on a peg near her desk while laughter erupted from somewhere near the fax machine. Then she stared at what appeared to be a mountain of reports to be processed.
So much for the whole “paperless society thing.”
She plowed through some of the files. Reminding herself she did not want a cigarette, she sorted through the paperwork as well as a butt-load of her e-mails.
The phone rang sharply. She picked up the receiver, her eyes still on her computer monitor. “Homicide, Detective Laurent.”
“This is Jay McKnight from the crime lab. I got your name from Sonny Crawley. I think he made a request for me.”
“Oh, right. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” Her interest was immediately diverted from her paperwork and she started typing commands on her keyboard. “It just so happens I was gonna give you a buzz a little later. Just had some final loose ends to tie up…here we go.” She found the correct file and brought it up. “Let’s see. It’s taken a little time but I’ve got a list of potential vans, all domestic and dark, Louisiana plates, owned by people who work at the college. I’ll send them if you give me your e-mail address.”
“Great.” Jay rattled it off. Portia would verify it before sending, even though she recognized the URL as belonging to the state police.
“I’m driving up tonight,” McKnight added. “I could stop by the station, exchange information.”
“Good idea. Maybe by then I might have more info on the background checks you requested. Still working on those.” She pulled up Jay McKnight’s file on her computer. Though she’d never officially met him, she’d seen his name and observed him once at a crime scene. So far so good.
“It’ll be late. I work until seven. By the time I get there it could be close to nine. As long as things stay calm and I don’t have to pull any overtime.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll be here,” she assured him, grateful that someone in the department was starting to believe they had a problem at All Saints. A big problem.
“See you then.”
Portia hung up and not only sent the list of vehicles to McKnight but printed out another copy for herself. She was surprised at how many of the workers there owned a dark van. Along with a gardener and a security guard, the parish owned a black ’98 Chevrolet full-sized van; an assistant professor named Lucretia Stevens owned an ancient Ford Econoline that looked like it had once belonged to someone else in her family; another person named Stevens, Natalie Croft’s husband, owned a dark green van that he used in his construction business; and Dr. Dominic Grotto’s brother, too, owned a black van. Portia had widened the swath a little, just because she was suspicious of the guy. She’d interviewed him twice. He was too smooth for her. One of those who thought he was smarter than the rest. His conversation with her had brushed on supercilious, though he’d acted concerned, as if he wanted to help.
But Grotto wasn’t the only person on campus she thought was hiding something. The whole damned English Department was filled with secretive sorts. Even the woman in charge, Natalie Croft, was a lofty, self-important academic whom Portia didn’t trust for a second. The curriculum had been changed to add in the popular “hip” and “cutting edge” classes such as the vampire thing, a class on the history of rock and roll, and others to draw students to All Saints. Then there were the Wagner descendants. She could have a whole file on them alone. Georgia Clovis was a major pain in the backside, acted as if she were royalty. And her brother, Calvin Wagner, a rich bastard who didn’t hold a job as far as Portia could tell, was certainly an odd duck. The third child, poor frail Napoli, was only one short step away from a permanent breakdown.
Beyond the Wagners was the clergy. Father Anthony “Tony” Mediera was a forceful priest with his vision of what the college should be, and Father Mathias Glanzer, the burdened priest in charge of the drama department, seemed riddled with secrets.
Portia would love to hear what each of them needed to confess.
There were others as well, new faces in the college. She was doing background checks on all of them, not that she had found anything even hinting of illegal activity. But then, she’d only gotten started and everyone had something they wished to hide. Everyone.
Besides, who was to say that the suspects were limited to the faculty of the college? What about other students? Or someone who wasn’t enrolled but used the campus as his personal hunting ground?
Slow down, you still have no bodies…just a single arm wearing nail polish that, according to the lab, was about as popular as grits for breakfast.
She looked again at the list of dark vans and wondered if any of the vehicles could be connected with the missing girls.
She was about ready to run to the employee lunch room in search of a diet soft drink when her phone rang. Sweeping the receiver to her ear, she balanced it between her chin and shoulder. “Homicide, Detective Laurent.”
“Yeah, this is Lacey, in Missing Persons.” With the fire-engine red hair and tight clothes. The one with the attitude. “I was hopin’ to catch y’all.”
“What is it?” Portia asked, but she felt that tingle, that little sensation telling her more bad news was on the horizon.
“I figured you’d want to know ’bout this. We have another missin’ person, over to the college. All Saints. A student. Ariel O’Toole. Her mother faxed over the report from Houston, that’s where they live, well she and the stepfather. They’re on their way. She hasn’t heard from her daughter in over a week and none of her friends, the ones she knows, have seen her. The daughter’s not returning her calls and that’s supposedly unusual,” Lacey said with a bit of sarcasm in her voice. “Imagine that.”
“Are you sending a uniform over?”
“A car’s already been dispatched. Thought you might want to tag along.”
“You got that right. I’ll pick up a copy of the report on my way.” She hung up. Another one. Damn it, another one.
Sliding on her shoulder holster, she strapped in her sidearm, then threw on her coat, and grabbed her purse. She was heading toward the hallway to Missing Persons when she ran into Del Vernon. She gave him the abbreviated version of what was happening as he fell into step beside her.
“I’ll come along,” he said, jaw set, dark eyes cold. “I hate to say it, Laurent, but there’s more to this than kids disappearing by choice,” he said, holstering his weapon and grabbing his overcoat.
“Glad you finally got there, Vernon,” she said as they walked toward the doors of the station together.
“We’ve got a floater.” Montoya, coffee cup in hand, strode through the doorway of Bentz’s office sometime after four. Wearing his trademark black leather jacket and diamond stud in one ear, he added, “A bit upriver from here. Still in the city limits. Female. African American. Been in the water awhile. They just fished her out.”
Bentz looked up from his pile of paperwork a
nd saw that his partner was holding back. He dropped his pen. “And?”
“And she had a tattoo on her back, just over her buttocks. The word ‘love’ along with hummingbirds and flowers.”
Bentz sat up straighter. “Dionne Harmon,” he said aloud, and that bad feeling that had been with him ever since he’d heard about the girls missing from All Saints just got worse. Lots worse.
“Looks like.” Montoya leaned a shoulder against Bentz’s filing cabinet, one rescued from the aftermath of Katrina. Repainted and now rust free, it served as a constant reminder of how bad things could get. “They’re sending divers, seeing if the victim was alone, or if she had company.”
“Shit,” Bentz muttered, already rounding the desk. He snagged his jacket off a hall tree. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
“No, I’ll…never mind, you drive. And there’s more.”
“More?”
“So you haven’t heard of the arm they found in the belly of a gator?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bentz’s gut twisted because he knew what was coming. The day took a nosedive.
“I’ll explain on the way.” Montoya finished his coffee and dropped the paper cup into a trash can in Bentz’s office. They walked amid the cubicles and desks and Bentz caught sight of a TV monitor, where, sure enough, the local news was showing shots of a search and rescue boat on the Mississippi. It was getting dark, but the crew had set up lights and cameras.
“Son of a bitch,” Bentz muttered. He reached into his pocket for a pack of Juicy Fruit, unwrapping a stick as they headed downstairs and outside to the parking lot, where rays of a fast-dying winter sun were struggling to pierce the clouds. A few managed to reflect in a myriad of puddles strewn across the asphalt, but darkness was coming fast.
Bentz took the wheel of the Crown Vic. As Montoya, over the crackle of the radio and thrum of the engine, explained about the arm discovered in the swamp north of New Orleans, Bentz drove to a spot in their jurisdiction where crews had taped off an area of the levee.
Camera crews had already gotten wind of the discovery and had set up shop. Overhead two news helicopters, blades whirring loudly, spotlights illuminating the gloaming, vied for a better view of the scene. Uniformed cops held back an ever-growing crowd.
Bentz almost wished for worse weather to keep the lookie-loos at bay. The water was thick and muddy, the dank scent of the Mississippi filling his nostrils, a cool breath of wind starting to pick up.
“Detective Bentz!” He turned to see a pretty woman reporter brandishing her microphone and making a beeline for him.
“Can you verify that a woman was found in the river?”
“I just got here.”
“But it appears as if a body had been pulled from the Mississippi and there’s speculation that it might be one of the girls who went missing from All Saints College in Baton Rouge.”
“That’s a mighty big leap,” he said, trying not to snap.
“And isn’t it true that a body part was recovered in the swamp closer to Baton Rouge?”
Son of a bitch, he thought, but turned briefly and said, “I’m not at liberty to say, but I’m certain the public information officer will give some kind of press briefing.” He offered the woman an all-business smile, then ducked under the crime scene tape.
“Detective Montoya!” the woman called.
“No comment.” He, too, slid beneath the tape and together they approached the water’s edge, where members of the crime scene and the coroner had already gathered. Bonita Washington nodded at them, her face a stern mask.
“Dionne Harmon?” Bentz asked.
“Tattoo’s the same. African American. About the right age, size, and shape.” Washington walked over to a body bag, unzipped it, shielding the contents from view overhead with her own body.
Bentz stared at the partially decomposed face of what had once been a pretty black woman. Someone’s daughter. Sister. Friend. Though no one, especially not her jerk of a brother, seemed to care. Got herself involved with a snake of a boyfriend, too, from what he’d heard. Naked, her hands bagged by the criminologists in the hope that she’d fought her assailant and there was still a trace of DNA under her fingernails, she lay eyes open, lifeless inside the heavy bag.
Above them the copters hovered, disturbing the thick water.
Bentz held out little expectation of getting enough of the killer’s DNA that wasn’t degraded to do any good.
His stomach roiled. He looked away.
“Son of a bitch,” Montoya muttered.
“Dionne Harmon went missing around a year ago,” Bentz said, mentally calculating the state of decomp.
“Yeah, I know.” Washington was way ahead of him. “This body, it only looks like it’s been in the water a few days, and before that…” She shrugged.
“She was alive,” Bentz said, his mind spinning ahead. “So he keeps her alive, locked away for a year, then decides to kill her?”
“Maybe.” Washington was obviously as puzzled as he.
“Do you know the cause of death?”
“Not yet, but I did notice some puncture wounds on the body.”
“From what”
“Don’t know yet, but she’s got what appears to be a bite mark on her neck.” Washington pointed to two holes beneath the dead woman’s ear. “And then another, larger and single, here, over the jugular. And another at the carotid.” She glanced up at him, then rezipped the bag.
Bentz straightened. “What’s that mean?”
“Nothin’ good,” she said, her face a knot of worry. “Nothin’ good.”
“Hey!” A shout from the boat.
Bentz braced himself as the helicopters swooped in for a better look. He knew what was coming. The officer on deck yelled over the whomp-whomp-whomp of the copter’s rotors: “Looks like we got another one!”
CHAPTER 26
Kristi cut through the water, swimming hard, her strokes even and quick as she tried to figure out a way to break into the inner circle of students she was certain were involved in the vampire cult. She’d even gone online and posted a plea: Searching For Lost Souls. Then, in want-ad fashion on the Internet, she made a request as ABneg1984 to link up with other believers in the reign of the vampire. She didn’t know if she’d have any takers, didn’t even know if her request would make any sense, but she was fishing and she would be interested to find out what she might catch.
Probably nothing but weirdo losers, likely all of them under the age of thirteen.
But the good news was that, so far, she hadn’t seen any video of her apartment on the Internet. She’d searched through MySpace and YouTube and a few other Internet sites and hadn’t found any grainy, dark movies of her and Jay making love. Hopefully that’s the way it would stay. So who had put the camera there? She’d tossed it around in her mind hundreds of times and always came back to Hiram Calloway. Who else could it be? Someone posing as a repairman? She didn’t know but it made her nervous as hell, a fact she kept from Jay as she didn’t want him insisting she should move out.
At the far end of the pool she submerged, pushed off, and started her last lap. All the while she was thinking about her next move and how she was sick and tired of the waiting game she’d been playing. It was time for action, and she planned to start it at the final production of Everyman. Then she intended to have a face to face discussion with Father Mathias. He seemed to be on the fringes of all this somehow. She’d spotted him at Wagner House, coming up from the basement. And he was close with Georgia Clovis, as well as Ariel O’Toole, who had been missing all week.
When Kristi had spied Ariel’s friends at the student union yesterday afternoon, she’d purposely stopped by Trudie and Grace’s table to ask about her. Chomping on chicken strips and ranch dressing, they’d insisted Ariel’s vanishing act wasn’t in the least bit strange. Ariel liked her space and sometimes, especially when studying for a major test, she would disappear, only coming out for a needed Starbucks run. That piece of wis
dom had been dispensed by Grace, the near-anorexic with braces and electric-shock red hair.
Trudie had nodded, agreeing with Grace’s assessment. “Everybody needs some downtime,” she’d said, dipping a fried piece of chicken into a small plastic cup of dressing. “Ariel just needs more than most of us.” She’d bobbed her head, as if agreeing with herself.
Kristi had tried to strike up more of a conversation without turning the girls off, but they seemed more interested in their food than worrying about Ariel the Studious. But they’d been a little friendlier than usual, making room for her to pull up a hard plastic chair, so Kristi considered it progress. As she sat down they gabbled on about how they couldn’t wait for the second performance of “hot” Father Mathias’s play, offering up a few wishful, sighing comments about it being a “shame” the priest had taken his vows of celibacy. Then they mentioned meeting for drinks before the show. They always had a drink or two at the Watering Hole, just off campus, before they watched the play.
“You should join us sometime,” Grace said, obviously trying to be polite. Trudie shot her a look and Kristi lifted a shoulder as if the invitation wasn’t a big deal.
“Maybe I will. Someday,” Kristi agreed, ignoring the increased look of wariness on Trudie’s olive-toned face.
“Good.” Grace had been pleased, or so it had seemed.
Not so her friend. Trudie, obviously agitated, had yanked on her sagging ponytail with both hands, forcing the rubber band higher on her head, so that the thick black shank of hair hung higher and brushed her shoulders. All the while she fiddled with her hair, she glowered at Grace.
Kristi had acted as if she didn’t care one way or the other. She wasn’t sure how to take this thin olive branch of friendship, but Ariel’s “friends” knew something; she was sure of it. She just had to gain their confidence, pretend to be like them. That would be a trick because the more she knew about the girls who seemed prime candidates for the vampire cult, the less she liked them.