by Lisa Jackson
“So what’s her story?”
“She’s back in Louisiana because her grandmother died a few months back. Olivia moved here to be with the old lady when she got sick. The grandma kicked off and Olivia stayed on. She’s working on her master’s at Tulane.”
“What does she study? Voodoo? Isn’t that what the grandma was into?”
“Close enough. Psychology.” Bentz had already done his research on her, checked with the University, gotten a copy of her transcript and schedule of classes from a somewhat reluctant registrar.
“Psychology? Another one? I thought we were finished with shrinks after closing the Rosary Killer case.”
“Mental illness seems to be going around these days.”
“So what’s wrong with Prozac? Forget talkin’ to some shrink. Just take a pill. It’s a helluva lot easier.” Montoya adjusted the collar of his jacket. A diamond stud glittered in his earlobe. Damned dandy, that’s what he was. “If you ask me, they all got into the profession cuz there’s somethin’ not working in their own brains. They go visit a psychologist, find out they like lyin’ on leather sofas and talkin’ about themselves, and before you know it, we got ourselves a glut of head doctors hangin’ out shingles or giving out advice on the damned radio. Jesus, just think of it. A shrink who thinks she has”—he stopped to make air quotes with the fingers of both hands—” ‘visions.’ That’s heavy. Worse yet, she had a grandma who was a voodoo priestess—isn’t that what she said? That’s what we need right now. Next thing ya know there’ll be a murder, some kind of sacrifice with a bunch of dead chickens.”
“Don’t even go there, okay?” Bentz said, irritated.
“Yeah, well, just you wait.”
“Get this. One of her professors is Dr. Jeremy Leeds.”
“No shit?” For once Montoya was struck dumb. “It’s a small world.”
“Sometimes too small.”
“You got anything on her?”
“Some. Preliminary stuff. I’ve done some checking and I have Brinkman’s notes.” Bentz took his chair again and flipped through the reports he’d gathered so far. “The student info at Tulane checks out. Looks like she’s never been married, but came close. She left a guy at the altar and split to Tucson about six years ago. The guy, Ted Brown, was pissed, chased her down, then married someone on the rebound. That lasted less than a year.
“Ms. Benchet hasn’t been in trouble with the law except for a couple of speeding violations and some kind of animal rights sit-in in Phoenix a few years back.” He glanced up at Montoya. “I’ve already called the Tucson authorities. Figured they might know something, but either she didn’t have these visions in the desert or she never bothered telling the police.”
“So she goes West and they stop.”
“Or she keeps ‘em to herself.”
“Not her MO,” Montoya said, leaning a hip against the desk. “What else?”
“She worked odd jobs to put herself through college, anything from waitressing to an insurance company claims clerk. Does art on the side. She sold her New Age gift-slash-art business in Tucson to her partner. When she came back here, it was a natural that she landed a job at this touristy-crap New Age shop called the Third Eye on Jackson Square.”
“So she claims to hate these visions that she inherited from her grannie, but she keeps hanging out with the New Age and spiritual stuff.” Montoya grimaced. “It doesn’t wash. And neither does her not bein’ married or at least shackin’ up with some guy. A good-lookin’ woman like her? What’s up with that?”
“Don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“Nope,” Bentz said. “I didn’t have the info on the first trip down the altar until I looked through some of Brinkman’s notes.”
Montoya lifted a brow. “I thought her eligibility state might be the first thing you asked her. I saw the way you looked at her today. Couldn’t take your eyes off her and I don’t blame you, she’s one fine-lookin’ lady. And that ass—”
“I was looking at her because she came in here peddling some pretty off-the-wall stuff that just happened to be right on,” Bentz cut in.
“If you say so, man,” Montoya said, his grin spreading wide in a way that irritated the hell out of Bentz.
“Get over yourself, Diego. She’s a nutcase.” But deep down, the younger cop was right. They both knew it. There was a lot about Olivia Benchet that just didn’t fit together. She was an enigma. An interesting puzzle. He’d left her house but he hadn’t been able to push her out of his mind. All day long as he tracked down clues to the murder near Bayou St. John as well as dealt with the other cases demanding his attention, the anger that sparked in her gold eyes and the desperation that etched her features had stayed with him. When he’d returned here, he’d read through everything Brinkman had tossed his way and done some more checking himself.
She was a crackpot, all his instincts told him so, and yet she believed her own lies or illusions or whatever the hell they were.
And though he didn’t know quite why, he wanted to believe her as well. Maybe it was because they had nothing else to go on. He didn’t see her as being involved in the murder and arson, so what did that leave? That she was telling the damned truth.
He found an opened pack of Juicy Fruit and unwrapped a stick, doubled it over, and jammed it into his mouth. It wasn’t the same as a smoke, but it would have to do. For now. “There’s something else in Brinkman’s report. I’m not sure it has any relevance. Olivia’s old man has done time at the Mississippi State Pen. Assault. Murder Two. A business partner who supposedly cheated him.”
Montoya gave a long, low whistle. “And he’s out now?”
“Yeah, just last January after serving twenty-two years. Time off for good behavior.”
“Jesus H. Christ. Not exactly Ozzie and Harriet. You ask her about it?”
“Not yet. Thought I’d do some research first. She alluded to the fact that she hadn’t seen her old man in a long time.”
“Yeah, because he was in stir,” Montoya commented. “Man. Where is he now?”
“In Lafayette. Working at a car wash and checkin’ in with his parole officer like clockwork.”
“A model citizen.”
“You got it. But we’ll check him out. Put him at the top of the ‘persons of interest’ list. Find out if he’s got an alibi.”
Montoya reached for his cigarettes, thought better of it, and stuffed the pack back into his pocket. “This keeps gettin’ weirder and weirder. But yeah, let’s have a talk with her old man. Now, what about Olivia; did she tell you any more about her visions?” Montoya prodded. “This isn’t the first time, right? She said that when she came in here. So what about the others?”
“According to her, none of them were as clear as this one. We didn’t go into the other cases today, but you can look over what Brinkman has. Something about a woman in a cave with hieroglyphics. Here.” He fished out Brinkman’s notes and tossed them to Montoya.
The phone jangled and Bentz grabbed the receiver before the second ring. “Bentz.”
“Hey, Dad.”
Kristi’s voice always made him smile. “Hey, kiddo—what’s up?” He held up an index finger, signifying to Montoya that he’d be a minute. Montoya gave him an exaggerated wink, as if he were talking to some “hot babe,” but got the message and, taking Brinkman’s report with him, slipped through the partially opened door.
“I just wanted to check in,” Kristi was saying. “I’ve got an hour before my next class and I thought I should call and give you the rundown. My last class before Thanksgiving will be over Tuesday at four, so you can pick me up anytime after that.”
Bentz flipped through his calendar, surprised that the month was getting away from him. “I could be there by six, maybe sooner if I turned on my lights and siren.”
“Oh, that would be a great idea,” she mocked. “You really don’t have to drive up and get me, you know. I can find a ride.”
“I want to, honey.
It’s not a problem. Baton Rouge isn’t that far. Besides I’d like another look at the campus I’m paying for.”
“But if you’re busy …” Her voice trailed off.
He glanced at the pile of paperwork on his desk, the bulletin board on the wall behind him with shots of the victims of homicides yet to be solved. “I’ll be there,” he said automatically before picking up on the fact that she might be giving him a hint. Rather than an out. Leaning forward, he glanced at the pictures of her as a child and, now, as a woman. “You still want me to come get you. Right?”
“Well, yeah, of course, but it’ll be kinda crazy up here with everyone leaving for Thanksgiving and all. And I’ve got some stuff I’ve got to do at the house that might hold me up. I figured coming up here might not be your thing.”
“Or your thing,” he said, recognizing a touch of resentment in her voice. He’d insisted she rush and pledge a sorority house. He wanted to know that she’d have a built-in support system at All Saints College, that she wouldn’t be pressuring him to let her lease an apartment at the age of eighteen. He wanted her to grow up, he was trying to let go, but he wanted her to be safe. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the latest grisly crime scene with a mutilated woman. He knew as well as anyone how dangerous the world could be. That’s why he’d spent an arm and a leg on tae kwon do and firearm lessons.
“Yeah … well, I just thought I’d check in.”
“I’ll see you next week.” He offered her an olive branch. “If it works better for you to ride down with friends, just let me know.”
“Okay, but …” She sighed loudly and he imagined she was shoving a tangle of red-brown hair from her eyes. “… here’s the thing. There’s this girl Mindy and she got all excited. Her mom’s single, and oh, guess what? She just happens to be a cop and she’s coming to pick up Mindy. They’re going out to dinner before driving back to Shreveport. So, of course, Mindy thinks it would be waaaay coooool if you two hooked up.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“Mindy’s a dweeb. And her mom’s a detective. God, can you imagine? The two of you?”
Bentz laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll come up and it’ll be just you and me. Tell Mindy that I have to get back right away or that I’m already involved with someone … or something.”
“You? Involved? You mean like with a woman? In a relationship?”
“Yeah.”
“But …. you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
There was silence on the line, then a little nervous laughter. “Oh, yeah? Right. And when would you have time for a relationship? Give me a break, Dad, you are like married to your job.” She chuckled and the sound reminded him of her mother’s laugh—deep-throated, kind of naughty.
Jennifer Nichols’s laugh had caught his attention when he was little more than a kid himself, barely out of high school, and it had never let go. He’d thought she was beautiful with her long, dark hair, mischievous eyes and sassy tongue. They’d been attracted to each other immediately, their affair torridly passionate. She’d had a temper, but he was a man who could handle her moods and when he’d proposed barely five months after meeting her, she’d accepted. She’d expressed a few doubts about marrying a cop and imagined she could convince him to go to law school; he’d thought he could tame her reckless spirit. They’d both been wrong. He’d sensed it at the wedding, seeing her walk down the cathedral aisle in her lacy white dress barely nine months from the day he’d first seen her. Her veil hadn’t been able to hide the imperious lift of her chin and as awed as he’d been by her, he’d sensed theirs wouldn’t be an easy path. But he hadn’t cared. He’d loved her too damned much. Even through the bad times. Even when she’d betrayed him….
“What woman would want to get ‘involved’ with a homicide dick?” Kristi demanded.
“You don’t think your old man has a social life?”
“I know he doesn’t.”
“Then maybe I should meet your friend’s mother.”
“Yeah,” she tossed back at him. “That would be good, Dad, real good.” She snorted. “Save me,” she muttered, then caught her breath. “Damn it all.”
“What?”
“I forgot my stupid term paper! It’s back in my room on the other side of campus. Shit. I gotta go, Dad.” The line went dead and Bentz didn’t hang up for a second. He glanced at her graduation picture smiling at him from the desk frame. She’d grown up fast. Faster than most. Kristi had seen far too much in her eighteen years, been robbed of some of her innocence at a tender age. And it was his fault. His and Jennifer’s.
What kid wouldn’t have a chip on her shoulder after going through what Kristi did? Not only had she buried a mother and watched her old man pull himself out of a bottle, she had to deal with the fact that both her parents had lied to her from the get-go.
Not exactly Ozzie and Harriet, Montoya had remarked. Didn’t he know that there was no such thing?
Chapter Ten
Melinda Jaskiel, his immediate superior and the reason he had this job with the department, breezed in. Melinda was usually all business. He’d never seen her in anything but a suit. With her hair cropped short, rimless glasses, and a no-nonsense attitude, she was professional to the letter. Middle-aged, divorced, and physically fit, she handled the men she oversaw with an iron fist hidden within a kid glove.
“Tell me about the murder off Esplanade.” She folded her arms over her chest and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “I read the preliminary report on this one and heard a rumor that you have an ‘eye’ witness who wasn’t there.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“So—what do you think? Does this woman really have visions? ESP?”
“She seems to have firsthand knowledge of what came down. I think it was more than a lucky guess.”
One side of Melinda’s lips pulled upward. “Always the master of understatement, aren’t you, Bentz?”
“You know it’s my personal mission to serve, protect, and filter out the crap.”
“And you’re doing a fine job of it,” Jaskiel assured him.
“I don’t put much stock in psychic mumbo jumbo. ESP usually means Easy Sucker Punch or Exceptional Shit Pile.”
“Maybe you should try to keep an open mind, okay? There are cases on record where psychics did actually help the police.”
“Yeah, I know,” he admitted grudgingly. He’d had a partner in L.A. who worked with a psychic. The woman had helped him with a couple of cases but hadn’t been able to predict that a kid would point a toy pistol at him one night and Bentz, thinking the twelve-year-old intended to shoot, had taken him out. Nope, the damned psychic hadn’t said a peep before the tragedy. Bentz had ended up on probation, then promptly decided Jack Daniels was his best friend. His job in the City of Angels ended. He’d been lucky Melinda Jaskiel had seen something in a broken-down cop and hired him when every other department in the country had decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. “You know what they say is the problem with having an open mind?”
“That your brains will fall out? I’ve heard that one, Rick.”
Bentz smiled. “I was going to say people might accuse you of being a pansy ass and not having an opinion.”
“I doubt if that’ll be your problem.” She shook her head. “And since when do you care what people think?”
His grin widened and he winked. “Not people, Jaskiel. Just you.”
“Save that for someone who’ll believe it. So how’re you handling this?”
He gave her the rundown, everything from the vision, to the videotape, to the information from Benchmark Realty and Brinkman’s reports on Olivia’s previous visits to the Department. “Olivia Benchet knows more than she should. It makes me wonder why”—he held up a hand—“except that, of course, she’s a psychic and just happens to ‘see’ murders.”
Melinda sent him a withering smile. “So does the lady have an alibi?”
“Just her dog
and he’s not talkin'.”
“Seriously.”
“She was home in bed. Asleep. The vision woke her up.”
Melinda thought a second. Couldn’t seem to put her mind around it. “I assume you’re checking her out.”
“Done deal.”
“Okay, so keep me posted on the case. When you see the evidence report and the ME’s report, let me know.” She started out the door, but thought better of it. “And, Bentz, don’t pull any of that rogue-cop crap on me, okay? We need to play this by the book.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“My ass.”
“And it’s a nice one,” Bentz said.
“Careful. There is such a thing as sexual harassment these days.”
“You love it and you know it,” he said. “Besides you’re the boss.”
“Keep that in mind. Now, let’s give the witness in this case, Ms. Benchet, some credibility. Okay? It’s odd and she could be jerking our collective chains, but just maybe she does have some kind of visions. Look into it.” Jaskiel patted the door frame, then left.
“You got it,” Bentz muttered under his breath. So he was supposed to believe whatever Olivia Benchet peddled his way? He was supposed to buy that she had some psychic experience. How? Was she connected to the killer? The victim? The house where it happened? Why did she “see” this particular murder? Why not others? Did she confess to the priest? Or maybe he confessed to her. What the hell was the connection? Bentz stretched out of his chair and scratched his chin. Keep an open mind. Shit. He didn’t know if he could. Believe that a woman actually “saw” a murder miles away?
That would be a trick.
So Bentz doesn’t believe you. So what?
Not exactly a surprise, is it?
Olivia’s grip tightened on the steering wheel of her truck as she wound her way into the Garden District on her way to the University. She’d hoped that Detective Bentz would trust her, that he would sense she was desperate, but of course, he was just like all the others. Men, she thought disgustedly as she stopped, waiting to turn into the University while the streetcar clacked past. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d run into her share of women skeptics as well. Starting with her mother.