by Lisa Jackson
"So Zimmerman's gone. No forwarding address, no job," Montoya commented as he soared past an eighteen-wheeler zinging down the highway. Bentz scrabbled in his shirt pocket for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes. He had to settle for a hit of nicotine from the last piece of gum in his pack. Montoya nipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. "And Kent Seger's MIA as well. Just up and left All Saints with no visible sign of income."
"Yep." Bentz winced as Montoya began to pass a sedan with an old man huddled over the steering wheel, his gray-haired wife so small she was barely visible in the passenger seat. Something bright flashed from inside the car, something blinding that dangled from the rearview mirror. Bentz flipped down his visor.
"And then there's Samantha Leeds's brother," Montoya ranted on. "He's dropped out of sight as far as the family was concerned, but, low and behold, he was working in the very town where his sister was a DJ, right during the thick of things. Seems a little too convenient to me. Maybe there's something to Wheeler's theory that Annie Seger was murdered."
Bentz had to admit it had some merit, but he lost track of the conversation when Montoya pulled ahead of the sedan and Bentz recognized the object that had been blinding him. A rosary was looped around the sedan's rearview mirror and the clear, glittering beads were refracting the hell out of the intense sunlight.
"I'll be damned," Bentz said as Montoya whipped across the lane to make his exit. "Did ya get a look at that?"
"At what? The Taurus?"
"No, I'm talking about what was in it. That old couple had a rosary tied to their rearview mirror."
"So? They probably had a plastic Jesus, too." Montoya braked for a stop sign. The unmarked car shuddered to a stop. He wasn't getting it.
"A rosary," Bentz repeated. "With beads spaced in a distinct pattern…"
"What're you talkin' about? So the beads are spaced for the damned prayers, yeah I know…" His voice faded, and he sent Bentz a look of disbelief. "You don't think our guy used a rosary as a garrotte, do you?"
"I think it's worth checking out."
"So what does this mean… that the guy's some kind of priest?" Montoya let a flatbed pass.
"Probably not. You can get those things anywhere, probably even on the Internet."
"What at Catholics R Us?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of www.rosary.com." The light changed.
"Holy shit," Montoya muttered, gunning the engine. The cruiser shot forward. "This is really sick stuff."
Amen, Bentz thought, but didn't say it.
Chapter Thirty-one
"You know I can't divulge patient information, Samantha," Dania Erickson said in that well-modulated I-know-better-than-you voice Sam remembered from her days sitting through psych lectures at Tulane. Sam had finally caught up with her old nemesis. Finally, the "doctor was in" at Our Lady of Mercy in California and not happy about being disturbed.
Tough, Sam thought as she held the receiver of the phone in the office she shared with the other DJs to her ear and stared at the composite drawing of the killer, a flat image that stared up at her through dark lenses. Music from a prerecorded program, some kind of soft jazz, played through the speakers, and the buzz of conversation drifted in through the open door.
Dania had always had something to say back in those days at Tulane, had always tried to ingratiate herself with the teachers, including Dr. Jeremy Leeds, who had ended up as Sam's husband. Sam suspected that her marriage had always rankled Dania, and now Dania wasn't giving an inch. Sam and Dania had been playing phone tag for nearly a week and had finally connected, not that it was doing any good. "Anything I have is privileged information."
"I realize that, but there's a serial killer on the loose here in New Orleans. The police have linked him to Annie Seger, Kent's sister. He could be a murderer, Dania."
"Doesn't change anything, you know that. I did treat Kent years ago, after his sister's suicide, but other than that, I can't divulge any information. It could cost me my job."
"We're talking about women's lives."
"I'm sorry, Samantha. Truly, but I can't help you." With that she clicked off and Sam was left holding the receiver of the phone.
"Great," Sam muttered. It was Thursday afternoon and in less than half an hour she was supposed to attend a special staff meeting. Everyone at the station was on pins and needles. The police had installed taps and tracers on the phones, the staff was warned not to say a word about a link between Dr. Sam's Midnight Confessions and the serial killer, but somehow the word had leaked out. As if she were Pandora and had set Chaos free, the city blamed her for the monster who was stalking its streets.
WSLJ had been besieged with calls. The press wanted interviews. Listeners demanded information. The phone lines never stopped flashing.
George Hannah was thrilled. The audience for Midnight Confessions had grown seemingly exponentially overnight It was the one show to listen to, part of daily conversation at Café du Monde over beignets and café au lait, or the buzz in the bars on and off Bourbon Street, or part of the evening news or water-cooler conversation in the business district Cab drivers, oil workers, bartenders, accountants, college kids—they all had an interest in Midnight Confessions. Samantha Leeds, AKA Doctor Sam was the Big Easy's newfound celebrity, more infamous than famous. Yes, George Hannah was beside himself, and the rumors of his selling the station for an obscene sum ran rampant down the "aorta" and raced through the crooked hallways of the station.
Eleanor was worried sick. She wanted to cancel the show. Popularity was all well and good, but this insanity was too much.
Melba couldn't keep up with the phone lines.
Gator was sullen as opposed to Ramblin' Rob's amusement at "the whole darned thing. You've created a damned sideshow, Sam, my girl," he'd said early in the week as he'd clapped her on the back and laughed so hard he'd ended up in a coughing fit that sounded as if his lungs were about to explode.
Tiny was run ragged and Melanie, looking tired, complained of being overworked, needing a raise and wanting a bigger part of the show—better yet, her own show would be nice.
Sam had been offered a job at another radio station in town and some kind of media agent in Atlanta had phoned her, suggesting that there were bigger markets, that she might want to move to New York or LA.
Which wouldn't be a bad idea, considering. If she moved back to the West Coast she could be near her father. And thousands of miles from Ty. That thought made her wince. She'd come to love him, there was just no doubt about it, and in the past couple of weeks he'd become an integral part of her life—him and that big, slow-moving dog of his— had moved in for the most part. She didn't kid herself that he loved her; no, he was protecting his interests and absolving some of the guilt he felt because he was certain he'd stirred up this whole mess.
All in all, Sam's life had become a madhouse.
And a killer was stalking the streets.
A killer who had remained silent for nearly a week.
But he hadn't gone away, Sam was sure of it. He was biding his time, watching, ever-present, ready to strike again. She sensed it every time she picked up the phone, every instant she pressed one of the blinking lights on her console, every night when the sun went down.
It was just a matter of time.
Sam had attended Leanne Jaquillard's funeral, a small event with most of the girls from the Boucher Center in attendance. Leanne's mother, Marietta, had been in the tiny, hot chapel near the river, and when Sam had tried to give her condolences, Marietta had turned a cold shoulder. Marietta hadn't been as openly hostile as Estelle Faraday had been years before at Annie Seger's funeral, but the message was the same: Marietta blamed Samantha for her daughter's death. In this case Sam couldn't argue. If Leanne hadn't known her, chances were she'd be alive today.
The police had thought the murderer might attend the funeral and they'd had undercover cops inside the church and hidden cameras taking pictures of the small group of mourners.
John h
adn't made an appearance.
Or no one saw him.
In the meantime Sam spent days poring over her notes, her nights in Ty's arms. They made love as if each night would be their last, and Sam wouldn't let herself think where the relationship would lead, if anywhere. It was doomed, started on lies, based on a mutual need to bring the killer to justice.
In her waking hours, when not preparing for the show and coming up with topics she hoped would entice John from hiding, she'd read through the information Ty had gathered on his family, inhaled everything she could about serial killers and the psychology of murder, then trying to make sense of the clues she had as to "John's" identity and his motivation. And what was with the dark glasses? Did he always wear them? Was it part of his disguise? Sam had a theory.
She dialed the police station, left a message for Bentz and before she was finished checking her e-mail, received a call back.
"This is Rick Bentz. You called?" he asked.
"Yeah," Sam said, "I want to run something by you."
"Shoot."
"From the minute I received that publicity picture of me, the one with the eyes cut out, I had this feeling that whoever sent it to me was trying to give me a message, not just terrorize me, but I thought there might be some sort of subliminal information that even he might not realize he was passing along."
"Such as?"
"That he didn't want me to see him, or recognize him, that… there was some symbolism with the eyes being mutilated." She picked up the composite picture sitting on the desk. "And both eyewitnesses said the guy was wearing sunglasses, even though it was night, right?"
"Yep."
"At first I thought it was just part of his disguise, but maybe there's another message here—that he can't stand to see what he's done, that he doesn't want to witness his own act."
There was a pause. Bentz was mulling it over.
"And then he calls and there's all these religious references, and one of my first thoughts was that he was making reference to John Milton's Paradise Lost. He calls himself John, which could be anything from John Milton to John the Baptist, that part I'm not clear on." She stared at the computer drawing. "I had discarded the idea, but now I'm not so sure. Somehow I think he's referring to himself as Lucifer, that he was somehow thrown out of heaven or paradise and even though he's blaming me, I'd guess he's blaming himself."
"This is your theory?" he said.
"Part of it, yes. I do have a degree in psychology," she said, bristling. "A doctorate. I'm not your usual dial-a-shrink."
"Hey, I didn't say you were wrong. I'll give it some thought. And meanwhile, you keep safe. This guy's not done."
"George should have canceled this." Eleanor eyed the crowd packed into the courtyard of the old hotel. Palm trees glittered with thousands of lights, huge pots were filled with fragrant blossoms, and mannequins dressed in differing costumes loitered through the hallways, courtyard and hotel lobby. While waiters served champagne and hors d'oeuvres on large trays, music from a jazz combo positioned on the second of three balconies filtered over the crowd.
Champagne flowed from an ice sculpture of the station's logo and George Hannah, smooth in his tux and practiced smile, was in his element, working the crowd, shaking hands, making small talk, looking, as ever, for investors for WSLJ.
"He couldn't have canceled," Sam said, "it was too late. This had been planned for months."
"Then he could have done it up right. Found a decent place to have it, even rented one of the plantations for the night. This place is falling down." Eleanor's dark eyes flashed as she gazed up at the stucco walls and terraced rooms with their green shutters and filigreed railings. There were cracks in the plaster, some of the paint peeling.
"It's being renovated," Sam pointed out, searching the crowd for Ty. "I've seen work crews coming and going all afternoon while we were setting up."
"This hotel should have been demolished fifty years ago."
"It's part of New Orleans history." Sam knew the reasons they'd chosen this smaller hotel. It had character, was situated in the French Quarter and was cheap. George had worked a deal. Which was good for the Boucher Center, who would reap the benefits. Yes, they'd had some complications from the work crews who were restoring and renovating the old rooms, but the hotel staff had bent over backward trying to accommodate the crowd and the workmen had cordoned off the reconstruction areas.
Conversation buzzed throughout the courtyard as the music played. Samantha managed to keep her cool, though she caught surreptitious glances cast her way from some of the guests. She understood why. Her name had been in the papers and on the local news, tied to the series of killings and the maniac who called her. She thought of Leanne. How the girl had looked forward to this event and now was dead. Sam's heart wrenched. Guilt weighed heavily on her mind. If only she'd called Leanne back sooner, if only she'd read her e-mail, if only… John hadn't known about her. Her jaw set.
How had John known how close she'd been to Leanne. Who the hell was he? Someone close to her? Who? Someone she considered a friend. Through an arbor, she saw Gator lurking near the bar and tossing back one drink after another. Tiny, looking awkward in a too-small tux standing away from the crowd while nervously smoking a cigarette. Ramblin' Rob was schmoozing with a local television hostess and Melanie, in gold lame and five inch heels, was keeping a close watch on every move George Hannah made.
Renee and Anisha, dressed up in high heels and long dresses, practically beamed as they, along with the directors of the center, explained about the programs to the guests who inquired.
Leanne should be here.
Sam tried to ignore the guilt that had been her constant companion since the girl's death..
She's dead because she knew you. Murdered by a psychotic maniac.
"Don't go there," Eleanor advised as if reading her mind. She, too, was looking at the knot of people collecting around the table for the Boucher Center. "I know what you're thinking. You couldn't help it."
"I don't know. I think that if I would have responded to her, called her back sooner or did something different, she would be alive today."
"Don't beat yourself up." Eleanor advised, though she looked nervous and drawn despite her makeup, jewelry and shimmering black dress. She'd insisted upon plain clothes policemen and Bentz had agreed. Hotel security was supposed to be mingling through the crowd and yet Sam had the sinking sensation that if John wanted to be here, he would be. The composite picture in the paper wouldn't be a deterrent, if anything, she thought, trying to second guess him, the fact that the police had some idea of what he looked like would present a challenge. She spotted Bentz, tugging at the collar of his white shirt, looking uncomfortable standing guard in one doorway. Across the courtyard, Montoya was leaning against a pillar and surveying the crowd.
"Try to enjoy yourself," Eleanor advised.
"You, too."
"I'll smile if you will," Eleanor said and managed to do just that as George Hannah approached and introduced her to some parish officials.
Sam forced a grin even though she noticed two people she would rather avoid. Her ex-husband was parting the crowd and heading in her direction while Trish LaBelle was holding court near the bar.
"Samantha!" Jeremy called and she gritted her teeth as he reached her and brushed a familiar kiss across her cheek.
"Don't," she warned.
"Why not?"
"Just don't." She saw a flash of anger in his eyes and something else, something darker. "It makes me uncomfortable." Where the devil was Ty?
"A kiss on the cheek? After what's been going on with you? For the love of Christ, Sam, I would have thought you would take any friend you could get."
"I have to draw the line somewhere."
"So you start with ex-husbands?"
"I only have one," she reminded him sharply as he snagged a glass of champagne from a tray.
"So far."
"Ever."
"You know, Sam, in my professional
opinion, all this bitterness indicates that you're still not over me."
"Can it, Jeremy. That's a crock. You and I both know it. Now, what is it you want? Didn't you say something about there being something going on with me? What's that?" The combo, joined by a smokey-voiced singer, lit into a slow rendition of "Fever."
"You've collected a stalker. One who might be a serial killer. It's been reported on the news and in the papers. Why do you think there's such a big turn-out tonight?"
She felt suddenly sick inside. Maybe because she was too close to her ex-husband, or maybe because she'd thought the same thing herself. The people weren't here to support the charity event so much as gawk at her.
Jeremy sipped from his glass and waved at someone across the sea of guests. "At least you've got what you always wanted," he said. "Fame, or, well infamy and that's good news not only for you, but the station as well."
"Good news? Women are dead, Jeremy. As in never coming back. I don't know how anyone could construe that as good news." With that she turned and slid through a group of women who were talking local politics. Samantha wasn't interested but she did want to escape Jeremy.
"Are you okay?" Melanie's voice caught up with her. Turning, she found her assistant staring at her. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just the ghost of marriage past and believe me, it was hideous," Sam replied.
"So where's the new man in your life—Ty?" Melanie asked.
"Hopefully on his way." From the corner of her eye, Sam caught a glimpse of George Hannah locked in an animated conversation with Trish LaBelle. Melanie was watching the scene as well and her expression hardened just a bit. "What about you? Where's the new boyfriend?"
"Busy," Melanie said with a sigh. "As usual."
"I'd like to meet him."
"You will… sometime," she said vaguely just as Ty appeared beneath the arched entrance and Sam felt her pulse jump just a bit. He spied her and made a bee-line in her direction. Gone were the disreputable jeans and T shirts, in their stead was a black tuxedo.