by Lisa Jackson
"I'll check it out," he said, and shoved the Rosa Gillette file aside. He'd spent the last few hours going over the autopsy report and evidence on the prostitute's murder. She glanced down at his notes.
"Don't give up on the murders," she said, "but do check out Samantha Leeds. It looks like she's got herself a bona fide nutcase. I just want to make sure he's not dangerous."
"You got it," he said, ignoring the computer screen where pictures of the two dead women, Rosa Gillette and Cherie Bellechamps, flickered side by side.
"I know you'd rather work on this," she said, motioning to the autopsy reports. "And I don't blame you. But we've got other things to worry about as well, and the Homicide team can handle it."
He lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. He had more experience than the other men, but didn't say it. He couldn't. Because once before he'd given it all up.
"Brinkman will be back soon." Melinda peered at him through rimless glasses. Smart, savvy, forever dressed in a suit, her makeup and short hair always perfect, she was his direct superior, but never threw her weight around. She didn't mention that without her he wouldn't have gotten the job here in New Orleans; they both knew it. "Look, Rick, I know you're overworked, overwrought and underpaid, but we're short-staffed with vacations and officers out sick. I understand that you don't like being shuffled from one area to the other, but until your next review, that's just the way it is." She offered him one of her infrequent smiles. "Besides, once upon a time you told me you didn't want to work murder investigations any longer."
"Maybe I changed my mind."
"I hope so. In the meantime, I'd like you to talk to Samantha Leeds."
It wasn't a request; it was an order. He understood. But it didn't mean he had to like it. Not when there was more important work to do—a killer on the loose.
"Montoya can help you with the legwork."
He nodded. "You owe me one."
"And you owe me a dozen. Payback time."
"I thought I was past all that." But he knew he never would be. The past had a way of hanging on, like a bad smell. You just couldn't wash it off. No matter how hard you scrubbed. He didn't just owe Melinda his job, but also life as he knew it.
"Okay, look," she said, tilting her head to one side and studying him. "I'll pass your good intentions and deeds on to the powers that be. It'll make points."
Bentz leaned back in his chair and offered her a half smile. "And here I thought you were the powers that be. The way people talk I figured you were some kind of goddess around here."
Behind the fashionable lenses her eyes twinkled. She pointed a finger straight at his chest. "God. I'm God. All-powerful and without gender. It would behoove you to remember that."
He gave her the once-over. Beneath her navy suit, she hid a toned, fit body. Nice chest, small waist and long legs. "The without gender part might be hard to forget."
"Watch it. That could be construed as sexual harassment these days."
"My ass. You're the boss."
"Don't forget it." His phone rang, and she added, "Fill me in once you talk to Ms. Leeds, okay?"
"As I said before, 'you owe me.' "
"And hell's about to freeze over."
She walked away, and Bentz snagged the receiver from its cradle. "Rick Bentz."
"Montoya," his partner replied, and from the buzzy connection Bentz guessed the younger detective was talking on his cell phone while driving his unmarked. Probably pushing the speed limit. "Guess what? I got a call from Marvin Cooper, you remember him over at the Riverview Apartments where we found the last victim—the Gillette woman?"
"Yep." Bentz leaned back in his chair until it groaned in protest.
"So he tells me that Denise, the roommate, she's asked about Rosa's ankle bracelet. Says she always wore one, it was a gift or something. So I hightailed it over to the apartment building and Marvin tracks down Denise and she tells me about the gold bracelet."
Bentz rolled his chair back to his desk and, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, searched through the reports on Rosa Gillette. "She wasn't wearing any jewelry," he said into the mouthpiece as he pulled up the files on Rosa Gillette and Cherie Bellechamps. "Neither was the first one." He double-checked the photos flickering on his computer.
"Maybe it's nothing," Montoya said. "But maybe not. Denise thinks maybe the third hooker, Cindy Sweet, might have ripped Rosa off. I don't think so."
"Our perp wouldn't be the first guy to take home a little souvenir." Rick zoomed in on the images of the victims, Rosa's ankles, then both women's entire bodies. Nope. No jewelry visible. So the killer was taking trophies. Not a surprise.
"Anything else I oughtta know? Shit!" There was a blast of a car horn over the crackle of the cell phone. "Some idiot nearly pulled into my lane. Christ, doesn't anyone know how to drive in this town?"
"Only you, Montoya, only you. We'll talk later." Bentz frowned down at the report Melinda had handed him. "I've got to go out for a while. Jaskiel asked me personally to look in on a radio DJ who's getting threatening calls."
"Like you don't have enough to do."
"Exactly." He hung up, spit out his tasteless gum, hankered for a cigarette and grabbed his jacket.
Sam ran her fingers over the bindings of the books she'd held on to since college. Though she hadn't looked at the tomes in years, she kept them on the bottom shelf of her bookcase in the den, just in case. She was certain she had a copy of Milton's Paradise Lost from some required English literature course she'd had to take during her years at Tulane University. "I know it's here," she muttered to Charon as he hopped onto her desk. Then she saw it. "Aha!" Smiling, she pulled out the hardback and tucked it under her arm. "Voila. Come on, you, let's go down to the dock for a little R&R."
She stashed the receiver to her cordless phone, the book, a can of Diet Coke and her sunglasses in a canvas bag that was already bulging from her beach towel, then, wincing against the pain in her ankle, walked outside and down a brick path to the dock. The sun was high, sending rays of light glancing over the water. Dozens of boats skimmed the lake's surface and water-skiers and fishermen were out in abundance.
Sam loved it here; the house had already started to feel like home. Though David had argued relentlessly that she could have had as much success in Houston, she loved New Orleans and this spot that she called home. For the first six months she'd lived in an apartment closer to the heart of the city. Then she'd found this cottage and fallen in love with it. Despite its morbid history. David had really blown a gasket over that one—that she'd actually bought a place and put down roots. In a house where a murder had been committed.
A solved murder she told herself, a crime of passion.
She settled into a chaise under the table umbrella, popped her can of soda and flipped open the pages of the musty-smelling book. Maybe this was a long shot; maybe "John's" calls had nothing to do with Milton's epic, but she couldn't ignore the feeling that there was some connection, if only a feeble one.
Pelicans and seagulls flew overhead, and a jet cut across the clear blue sky as Sam skimmed the text wherein Satan and his army have been thrown into hell and the fiery lake.
"It is 'Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven'," she whispered, reading Satan's words from the text. "Now, there's a line." She glanced at the cat stalking a butterfly that flitted out of his reach over the water. "Yeah, I know. I'm probably waaaay off base here." Quickly scanning the pages, she wondered if she'd misinterpreted the caller's intent when he'd phoned.
She lost herself in the words as she sipped her drink while basking in the warmth of the sun. Bees hummed, a lawn mower chewed blades of grass somewhere down the street and Mrs. Killingsworth's pug started barking wildly, probably at a squirrel or a kid on a bike. A boat engine coughed, echoing across the water, sputtering and gasping. Sam didn't pay any attention. Just kept reading, her mind conjuring up the images Milton had scribed over three hundred years earlier.
The sun had lowered considerably wh
en she looked up and saw the sailboat; not just any sailboat, but the same sloop she'd seen docked at Milo Swanson's house, the very boat she'd thought had been gliding the waters late at night, though the sails were now down and the boat was being propelled by an engine that hesitated and died, only to cough and start up again.
A man was straining at the wheel, guiding the sloop closer to the dock and for once, it seemed, Mrs. Killingsworth was right. Even from a distance, she could tell he was fit, strong, and good-looking. His shirt was open, flapped in the wind and offered a view of a broad, tanned chest gleaming in the sunlight. Cut-off jeans hung from his hips, fraying over athletic thighs that strained as he kept his footing. His body glistened with sweat. Thick, dark hair blew across a high, tanned forehead. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and sitting at his feet, nose to the wind, was a dog, some kind of German shepherd mix, she guessed.
With difficulty he guided the dying craft into Sam's slip, then threw his line over a mooring and tied up. As if he knew her. As if it was his right. The engine gave up a final growl, then died.
Sam straightened in the chair and set her book aside as she studied an angled face with strong cheekbones and a square jaw covered with a couple of day's worth of shadow. Nope. She didn't recognize him as he scrambled over the deck and started working on the engine. He didn't so much as cast a glance her way.
She pushed herself upright and got to her feet. "Can I help you?"
No response. He was too engrossed in his work.
"Hello?" She walked along the dock. The dog gave off a sharp bark and finally he glanced over his shoulder.
"Sorry," he said, still working on the engine. "Got a problem here. Thought I could make it home, but… oh, damn." He slanted her a self-deprecating grin, then turned his attention to the engine. "This darned thing decided to give up the ghost."
"Can I help?"
He stared at her from behind dark glasses anchored over a slightly crooked nose. "You a mechanic?"
"I have been on a boat before."
He considered, looked her over once again. "Sure, come aboard. But it's not just the engine. The damned keel's been giving me trouble, and the sails are ripped. I shouldn't have taken her out today." Frustration lined his forehead where thick, coffee-colored hair caught in the breeze. He straightened and slapped the boom with an open palm. "I knew better."
Barefooted, she climbed carefully onto the deck, wincing just a bit when she put all her weight on her bad ankle. "I'm Samantha," she said. "Samantha Leeds."
"Ty Wheeler. I live right around that point." He gestured to the small jetty of land, then squatted near the engine and fiddled with a wire or two. Satisfied, he tried the ignition. It ground. The engine sputtered. Wound down pitifully. Ty swore under his breath. "Look, it's no use. Probably the fuel line. I need to run to the house and grab some more tools." He swiped the sweat from his forehead and scowled up at the boat. "She's not mine, not yet. I'm just trying her out." He shook his head. "Now I know why she's such a bargain. Bright Angel, my ass. More like Satan's Revenge. Maybe I'll rename her if I decide to buy."
Sam didn't move a muscle. She couldn't breathe for a second and told herself she was overreacting. It was a coincidence he'd mentioned Satan, that was all. So she was skimming through the pages of Paradise Lost, so what? There was nothing to it. Nothing.
He checked his watch, then the lowering sun. "Do you mind if I leave her here? I'll run down and get my tools. I live just down the street, about half a mile." He checked his watch and frowned. "Damn it all." Glancing up at her again, he said, "I really thought I could make it back to my dock, but she"—he glared at the engine—"had other ideas. I'll try to get back today, but, it might be tomorrow. I've got to be somewhere in an hour."
"I suppose that would be okay," Sam said, and before she could second-guess herself he was out of the boat, dog at his heels, marching toward the house.
Shading her eyes, she watched as he crossed the broad expanse of lawn, passed under one of the shade trees, rounded the porch and headed for the gate near the front of the house, as if he'd known exactly where it was.
Though that wasn't such a big leap. The gate had to be on one side of the house or the other. He had a 50 percent chance of figuring it out. He'd just gotten lucky.
She settled into her deck chair again and opened the book, but she couldn't concentrate and soon she heard Hannibal barking madly, then thought she heard a car pull into the drive over the rise of the wind. Slamming the book shut, she got up too quickly, felt a pain in her left ankle and muttered to herself at her own stupidity.
By the time she reached the back porch, she heard the soft peal of her doorbell and she flew through the rooms yelling, "I'm coming." At the door she looked through the peephole and saw a tall, barrel-chested man wearing a tan jacket. His hands were jammed into his pockets and he was chewing gum as if his life depended on it. Sam opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow.
"What can I do for you?"
"Samantha Leeds?"
"Yes."
"Rick Bentz, New Orleans Police Department." He flipped open a black wallet that displayed his badge and ID. Gray eyes drilled into hers. "You filed a report down at the station. This is a follow-up call."
Everything looked in order, the picture on his ID matched the face staring sternly at her, so Sam unlocked the chain and opened the door. Bentz walked in, and Sam sensed the man was keyed up. "Let's go over what happened," he suggested. "We can start with"—he glanced down at his notes—"the call you got at the station and, it says here you got a threatening letter here at the house. You called the local police about it."
"And the message left on my machine while I was on vacation. This way." She guided him into the den, handed him a copy of the letter and marred photograph, then changed tapes in her answering machine. "These are both copies. The originals are with the Cambrai police."
"Good."
Sam played the message that had haunted her for nearly a week.
Bentz listened hard as he stared at the publicity photo with her eyes cut out.
"I know what you did, and you're not going to get away with it. You're going to have to pay for your sins." The voice she'd become so familiar with oozed through the room, filling the corners, sliding behind the curtains, scraping her mind.
"What sins?" Bentz asked, and a glimmer of interest sparked in his eyes as he scanned the room, taking stock, she supposed, of her small library and equipment.
"I don't know." Sam was honest. "I can't figure it out."
"And the calls to the radio station, they were about the same topic—sin?" he asked, his gaze moving over the desk and bookcase as if he were studying her den to get a better picture of who she was.
"Yes. He, um, he called himself John, told me that he knew me, that he was, and I quote, 'my John.' When I said I knew lots of them, he insinuated that I'd been with a lot of men and he, um, he called me a slut. I cut him off."
"Have you ever dated or been involved with a John?"
"I've thought about that," she said. "Sure. It's a common enough name. I think I went out with John Petri in high school and a guy named John… oh, God, I don't remember his last name in college but that's about it. Neither one of them were more than a couple of dates and nothing happened. I was a kid, and so were they."
"Okay, so go on. He called again?"
"Yes. The other night… it's on tape, but it was after the show. He called in and Tiny, he's the technician that was setting up for the next prerecorded show, took the call. The caller asked for me, said he was my 'John' and that he hadn't called in earlier during the show because he'd been busy and that what had happened was my fault."
"What had happened?"
"I don't know." She shook her head. "It was eerie and sounded sinister, but then I was jumpy. I thought I might come home and find my house burned down or ransacked or something, but… everything here was as I left it."
"You're sure it was the same guy who called here?"
"Positive. But my number's unlisted."
Bentz scowled down at the photo as he leaned against a corner of her desk. "This is a publicity shot. Right? There were dozens of 'em made. Handed out."
"Yeah." She nodded.
"And this is a copy from one of those."
She swallowed hard. "I… I assume that he must have an original."
"Why do you think he cut out your eyes?" he asked, his eyes thinning.
"To scare the hell out of me," she said, "and, for the record, it's working."
"Did he ever mention your eyes or something you saw when he called?"
"No… not that I remember."
"I'll need a copy of the tapes from your program."
"I'll get them to you."
"I'll get the original letter, picture and message tape from Cambrai."
"Fine."
"But you don't mind if I take these until I see the originals?"
"No."
Carefully he placed the letter, envelope and picture in a plastic bag, then asked if he could look through the house. What he was looking for, she wasn't certain, but she gave him the tour and they ended up in the living room as dusk was beginning to settle outside. She turned on the Tiffany lamp near the window and listened to the sound of crickets and mosquitoes as he sat on the couch and she took a chair on the other side of the coffee table. The paddle fan turned slowly overhead.
"Just tell me what happened, from the beginning," Bentz said as he placed a pocket recorder on the glass top of the table.
"I already told the officer at the station."
"I know, but I'd like to hear it firsthand."
"Fine. Okay. Well." She rubbed her hands over her knees. "It all started when I got back from Mexico…" She launched into her tale, told him about losing her ID in the boating accident in Mexico, again explained about the letter she received, the threatening call on her answering machine and the phone calls to the station. She mentioned that she'd thought someone had been watching her house, then dismissed it as a case of nerves. All the while Bentz wrote in a small notepad and recorded what she was saying.