by Lisa Jackson
The bedroom was as tidy as the living room, the bedclothes not even mussed. The bathroom filled with women things— hose hanging from the showerhead behind a clear curtain, shampoo and conditioner on the edge of the tub. Using a handkerchief he opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and found tubs and jars of makeup, some over-the-counter meds, Band-Aids and tampons. The only nod to her profession was an open box of condoms next to the Alka-Seltzer. No prescription medications. No evidence of illegal drags.
Clean towels were in a small cupboard, and her cleaning supplies were under the sink.
Bentz, satisfied that he'd seen enough, walked to the front door, where a small crowd had gathered around the uniformed cops keeping the curious at bay. "I want this place swept clean," Bentz said to the woman in charge of the crime-scene team.
She shot him a put-upon look. "Like we usually leave evidence for the cleaning people. Give me a break."
Bentz held up a hand. "Sorry."
"Just give us some room here, okay? The sooner we're done here, the sooner you'll have your report."
"You got it." He and Montoya eased out of the room and through the small crowd that had collected in the hallway. "Have everyone here questioned."
"I'm already working on it." Montoya was nothing if not efficient. "So far no one claims to have seen anything out of the ordinary."
"I want to see the statements ASAP. And call the lab. Have them put a rush on this. Double-check that they look for hairs from a wig, and cross-check any semen, blood or hair samples with what we have on file on the pending cases, and even the solved ones—not just murder but any rapes or assaults in the past five years."
"A pretty tall order," Montoya griped as they eased through the small group that had gathered in the hallway.
One cop was questioning the residents, the other keeping them outside of the crime scene.
"Not so tall. We've got computers and the FBI." He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced back toward Cathy Adams's apartment. "Where are the Feds?"
Montoya's grin was wicked. "Guess I neglected to call them."
"There'll be hell to pay."
"As you said, this isn't our boy." He clenched the cigarette between his teeth and searched his pockets for his lighter.
"Yeah, but they'll want to know about it."
"I'll give 'em a personal report in the morning."
"You do that," Bentz grumbled, as they walked down the stairs. He didn't like dealing with the Feds any more than Montoya, but he wasn't going to buck the system. And there were some good agents, guys he could work with. Like Norm Stowell when Stowell had been with the bureau.
"How come you were called first?" Bentz asked.
"I wasn't." Montoya found his lighter and clicked it to the end of his cigarette as they reached the first floor. "I was at the station writing up a report for you on the associates of Annie Seger." He sucked hard on his filter tip then exhaled a cloud. "I left a hard copy of the report on your desk and was about to go home when the call came in. I took it, drove over here, then phoned you."
That explained it.
Montoya added, "When you get a chance, you might want to take a look at the report. Annie Seger wasn't your typical prom queen."
"I don't imagine."
"And there's a couple of other things. Samantha Leeds's old man—the guy she was married to?"
"Doctor Leeds."
"Yeah. He's still around; still teaches over at Tulane. On wife number three, and that seems to be falling apart."
"I've already had the honor of meeting him," Bentz muttered, remembering the jerk. "Helluva guy."
"I figured. But there was a couple of things I hadn't counted on. Check out the good doctor's patient list—it's only a partial, of course because of the doctor-patient confidentiality code, but the Houston PD were able to piece together some info."
"I'll look at it."
"I'm sure you will." Montoya took a drag and then shot a plume of smoke from the side of his mouth. "Then check out to see who was first officer on the scene the night Annie Seger died."
"Someone we know?"
Montoya's eyes glinted as they always did when he'd uncovered a particularly unusual piece of information. "You could say that." He shouldered open the door.
Outside, a crowd had gathered—the night people who wandered the streets, interested neighbors, people who listened to the police band and got their kicks out of being a part of the action. And maybe one of them is the murderer.
Serial killers were known to watch the results of their havoc. It gave them a rush to watch the police try to find clues they'd endeavored not to leave behind. Some even had the balls or were nuts enough to try and keep up with the investigation, to come forward and offer "help."
Wackos.
A news van was parked on the other side of the yellow crime-scene tape, and a sharply dressed woman reporter was talking with her cameraman. She looked up as Bentz ducked under the barrier. Without missing a beat, she kept her conversation running and made a beeline for Bentz. The guy holding the shoulder camera was right on her tail.
"Here comes trouble," Montoya stage-whispered, "all gussied up in designer labels."
"Detective," the newswoman called, not bothering to smile. "I'm Barbara Linwood with WBOK. What's going on here? Another murder?"
He didn't respond.
"I mean, I've heard some of the people here talking. The victim is rumored to be a prostitute and there's been several women killed lately—all prostitutes. I'm starting to think we have a serial killer running rampant in New Orleans." Her expression was expectant, eager. She wanted a serial killer to be stalking the streets of the Crescent City. She wanted the story.
Again he held his tongue and his pager went off.
"Come on, Detective. Give me a break here. Was another woman killed? A prostitute?" A breath of wind teased at her hair, but she didn't notice as she stared at Bentz intently.
"We have a woman dead," he said, "and we're in the first stages of the investigation. I have no statement to make at this time."
"Enough with the company line." She was a quick woman, about five-three, with sharp features, heavy makeup, and a persistent streak. She wasn't just zeroing in on Bentz but included Montoya in the conversation. "If there's a serial murderer in our midst, lurking in the streets of New Orleans, the public has the right to know. For safety's sake. Can't you give me a quick interview?"
Bentz glanced at the camera hoisted on the cameraman's shoulder. He hadn't said a word, but the red indicator light was glowing brightly. "I think I just did."
"Who was the victim?"
"I'm sure the department will issue a statement in the morning."
"But—"
"There are rules to follow, Ms. Linwood. Next of kin need to be notified, that sort of thing. That's all I can say right now." He turned his back on her, but silently admitted she had a point. A monster was stalking the streets of the city, maybe more than one, and the public needed to be aware.
"What about you?" she asked Montoya, but got nowhere. Reuben might want to talk to the TV people and grab a little glory, hell the guy loved that part of the job. But he wouldn't risk that kind of trouble from Melinda Jaskiel or the DA. Montoya was too savvy and ambitious to blow it.
From the corner of his eye, Bentz saw Montoya disentangle himself from the newswoman and jettison his cigarette onto the street.
Bentz walked past a couple of cruisers with their lights flashing to his own car, where he checked his pager and called in to the station. The message was simple. There had been more trouble over at WSLJ. Dr. Sam had received another threatening message—this time in the form of a birthday cake for Annie Seger planted in the kitchen at WSLJ. Someone was really trying to rattle the radio shrink's cage.
"Hell." Bentz threw his car into drive and tore off. He rolled the windows down, let the warm Louisiana breeze flow through the interior as he headed toward the business district, leaving the stately old homes behind. Whoever th
e hell this John was who was harassing Samantha Leeds, he had one perverted sense of humor. All in all, it was a damned nightmare. Was it a coincidence that the prostitute was killed on Annie Seger's birthday? Was there a connection between the murders and the threats being aimed at Samantha Leeds? Or was he grasping at straws?
He blew through a yellow light near Canal Street and slowed down. Just because a murder was committed the same night Dr. Sam received an ugly prank didn't mean squat. And there was no hundred-dollar bill with the eyes blackened, which seemed a very frail link to the mutilated publicity shot Samantha had received. All the references to sin and forgiveness didn't have anything to do with the murders… there was no radio tuned into the Lights Out program… no, he was just tired…
And yet his mind wouldn't let go of the possible link. He was missing something, he was sure of it. Something obvious. He wheeled around a corner when it hit him like a fist in the gut.
Not Lights Out. The program before it. His hands gripped the wheel. That was it The time of deaths were earlier, before the bodies were discovered and he'd bet a month's salary that the program that had been on when the women were killed was Midnight Confessions.
Why hadn't he seen it before?
The perp offed the women while listening to Dr. Sam.
"Son of a bitch," he growled, but felt that surge of adrenaline that always sped through his bloodstream when he was close to cracking a case. This was it. The link. And the red wig. Because Dr. Sam was a redhead. Holy shit, how had he missed that. He drove to the station, nosed his car into a parking spot and headed upstairs. He wasn't officially on duty until later this afternoon, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. The questions and half-baked theories spinning through his brain would keep him awake for hours.
There was just enough sludge in the bottom of the coffeepot for one cup, so he poured himself a mug and carried it to his desk. He didn't bother with the harsh fluorescent tubes overhead, but switched on his desk lamp, then settled into his old chair and flipped on his computer screen. With a few clicks of the mouse, the crime-scene photos of Rosa Gillette and Cherie Bellechamps were displayed side by side.
They had to have been killed by the same guy. Both women had been strangled with a strange noose, the cuts on their necks, identical. Both corpses had been left with the radio playing, the bodies posed as if they were praying, both sexually violated, both left with a mutilated hundred-dollar bill.
None of which had occurred tonight with Cathy Adams.
And Cathy had been killed on Annie Seger's birthday. Big deal. Lots of people were born on July 22. It meant nothing. Nothing. There was no link.
And yet…
He'd wait for the report on the latest victim. In the meantime, he flipped through his inbox. Lying on top were several neatly typed pages compliments of Reuben Montoya. Bentz scanned the notes on Annie Seger quickly, then read it over a second time. Montoya was right. Annie Seger wasn't what he'd expected. Her parents Estelle and Oswald Seger had divorced when Annie was four and her older brother, Kent, was six. Estelle had remarried practically before the ink on the divorce papers had dried. Her new husband and Annie's stepdaddy was Jason Faraday, a prominent Houston physician. Oswald, "Wally," had all but disappeared from his children's lives when he'd moved to the Northwest, somewhere outside of Seattle. According to the court records, Wally had forever been delinquent in his child-support payments, only coughing up when Estelle had sicced her lawyers after him.
So much for the Ozzie and Harriet type of family. Bentz took a swallow of his coffee and scowled at the burnt, bitter flavor.
Leaning back in his chair he propped his heel on a corner of the desk and flipped over the pages. Montoya had been thorough, piecing together info from the high school Annie had attended. If her report cards and the school yearbook were to be believed, Annie Seger had been an excellent student, a popular girl, a cheerleader and member of the debate team. According to a file the Houston police had composed from interviews of family and friends, Annie had gone through several boyfriends before linking up with Ryan Zimmerman, who had been captain of the lacrosse team before he'd run into trouble with drugs and the law and had dropped out of school.
A stellar choice for the father of her child. Bentz frowned as he read on.
Suddenly the popular teen was alone and pregnant In apparent desperation she'd called Dr. Sam a few times and soon thereafter had ended her life in her plush bedroom over nine years ago. There were pictures of Annie—one in her cheerleading uniform in mid-jump, pom-poms clenched in her hands, another of her vacationing with her family, her, her mother, stepfather, and brother in hiking shorts and T-shirts, posed along the ridge of a forested hill, and of course, the crime scene, where she was slumped over her computer, wrists slashed, blood running down her bare arms and onto her keyboard, a tragic mess that was in stark contrast to what he saw of the rest of the room—the neatly made bed covered with stuffed animals, the plush white carpet, the bookcase where a stereo system was stacked between the paperbacks and CDs.
Bentz glanced up at his desk and stared at the bifold frame of the pictures of his own daughter. He couldn't imagine losing Kristi. She was the single most important thing in his life; his reason for staying off the bottle and making something of himself.
Frowning, he turned the page and found a partial list of Dr. Sam's patients. Only five were listed. The one that jumped out at him was Jason Faraday, the physician who just happened to be Annie Seger's stepfather.
"Son of a bitch," Bentz muttered, his mind racing. Samantha Leeds had never mentioned that Faraday had been her patient, but then she wouldn't. Couldn't. There were laws about that sort of thing. He swilled the end of the coffee and flipped to the final page.
Montoya's notes said that Estelle and Jason Faraday had divorced sixteen months after Annie's death. Estelle still resided in Houston, in the very house where her only daughter had taken her life. Jason, however, had left Texas and moved to Cleveland, where he'd remarried and had two young children. Phone numbers and addresses were listed.
Montoya had done a helluva job. True to his word Montoya had listed all of the officers of the Houston PD who'd been involved in the case. The first officer to arrive at the scene had been Detective Tyler Wheeler.
"Well, I'll be goddamned."
Bentz read Montoya's final note.
Detective Wheeler's involvement in the Annie Seger suicide hadn't lasted long. He'd been removed from the case immediately as he'd admitted that he was related to the victim. Annie Seger had been Tyler Wheeler's third cousin on her father's side.
Bentz's gut tightened.
Detective Wheeler had resigned his post.
His current address was Cambrai, Louisiana.
Just down the road from Dr. Samantha Leeds.
The neighbor who was always hanging around.
Coincidence?
No way in hell.
How did a cop with over ten years' experience under his belt give it all up and end up here with a pansy-assed job of being a writer? And why the hell had he ended up down here, in Louisiana, cozying up to Samantha Leeds?
Bentz figured it was time for a stakeout.
Chapter Twenty-three
"I'm taking you to my place," Ty said, as they drove out of the city, leaving WSLJ, the police, the damned cake and all the craziness behind. It was late, and Sam was bone-weary. She hadn't gotten much sleep the night before as she'd been with Ty on the boat and after the shock of the birthday cake and the interrogations by the police, her nerves were strung tight as bowstrings.
"I'll be fine," she said, too tired to really get into an argument. "I've got an alarm system and a watch cat."
"Seriously, Sam. Just for tonight, since it's Annie Seger's birthday."
"Yesterday was," she corrected, rolling down the window and letting in the night air. They were driving around the black expanse of Lake Pontchartrain, and the breeze was gratefully cool, the night finally calm.
"Humor me. For one
night. Stay with me."
He touched the back of her hand and her stupid skin tingled.
"Fine, fine," she agreed, rubbing her neck where the hornet had left his mark. It was beginning to itch like crazy. "I don't suppose you've got anything for a headache?"
"At the house." He glanced in her direction. "I'll take care of you," he promised, and she was too damned sleepy to remind him she could take care of herself. What was the point? Besides, she was certain whoever was terrorizing her was connected to the station. Someone had unlocked the door to the kitchen to leave the cake and whoever was calling in, trying to freak her out, knew the number for line two. A number not listed in any phone book nor available through directory assistance.
No, it had to be an inside job, and that thought chilled her to the marrow of her bones.
Shivering inwardly she wondered which one of her coworkers would go to such lengths and for what purpose? Certainly not Gator; he was worried enough about losing some airtime if her show was expanded. Though he might want to scare her out of a job, he wouldn't want her program to become too popular. Nor would any of the other DJs, though Ramblin' Rob was devious enough to do this just for the hell of it. For a few laughs at everyone's expense. The crusty DJ could have learned about Annie Seger easily enough, the story was common-enough knowledge because George and Eleanor had been in Houston. Maybe that was what had triggered it, someone like Rob finding out about the problems in Houston and exploiting them.
To what end? To drive you crazy? To get you to quit? To make you look like a lunatic? Or to lure in a bigger audience.
Then why the mutilated picture and calls to her house? Why the note left in her car? Or John's calls after the program was over. How would those actions promote more listeners?
They wouldn't, Sam. You're running down a blind alley.
There's something more, a link you're missing. So what was it? What?
Her headache growing worse by the second, Sam closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest She couldn't think about John, the calls or Annie Seger any longer. Not tonight. But tomorrow, when her head was clear and she'd caught up on her sleep… then she'd figure it out. She had to.