by Lisa Jackson
Yanking a sweater over her head she wished she wasn’t going home to New Orleans for Thanksgiving. Not that she wouldn’t have an okay time with her dad, but their relationship had been rocky for years and now she had someone new. A real boyfriend. An older man.
Wouldn’t her overprotective father flip when he found out? She pulled her hair through the neck hole of the sweater and couldn’t help but grin. She still liked jerking the old man’s chain.
So what would happen if when he came to pick her up, she’d have him meet Brian and then blithely announce she’d invited Brian for Thanksgiving? He didn’t seem to have anywhere to go; at least she thought he didn’t. But then she didn’t know much about him other than he taught at the college and was working on his doctorate.
So dinner tonight with Brian, and later … who knew? A naughty smile caressed her lips. She couldn’t wait!
“Check this out,” Montoya said as he swaggered into Bentz’s office just before ten. His Cheshire cat smile was stretched wide, his earring winked in the fluorescent lights suspended overhead, and his black leather jacket gleamed as if it were brand new.
“What?” Bentz was on his second cup of coffee waiting for a callback from the Covington Police. A secretary for an insurance company was missing. Her boyfriend, Dustin Townsend, had called earlier; no one had seen Stephanie Jane Keller since Friday afternoon when he’d driven her into town. According the Townsend, Stephanie was five foot six inches, about a hundred and twenty pounds, and played tennis regularly. Blue eyes, blond hair. He’d sounded upset on the telephone, frantic with worry, and reluctantly given Bentz the name of Stephanie’s dentist. The department had formally asked for the dental records, which had been faxed and were now being matched. Townsend himself was on his way, agreeing to bring pictures of Stephanie with him.
“I’ve got some interesting information on Ms. Benchet,” Montoya announced, swinging a leg over the corner of Bentz’s desk. The muscles in the back of Rick’s neck tightened. “Well, really on her old lady. Bernadette Dubois … She’s been married five times and that doesn’t count a misstep or two with engagements that didn’t pan out. Not too shabby for a woman who’s barely in her fifties. There was Olivia’s father, Reggie Benchet.”
“The felon.”
“Ex-con.”
“Still a felon in my book,” Bentz said.
“Yep. Assault. Resisting arrest. Murder two. A few other things. A helluva guy. Anyway, Bernadette had the good sense to divorce him after a couple of kids. But he’s just the first. She has a string of husbands. She left every one of them. And she’s working on her most recent. According to court records, she’s already filed papers against the current Mr. Bernadette, a guy by the name of Jeb Martin. He works for an oil company in Houston. They got married about four years ago and apparently wedded bliss didn’t last long. Martin’s got a nasty temper when he drinks—been arrested several times.”
“Sounds like a pattern.” Bentz knew his partner was leading up to something.
“Well, number one and number five are alike and the third husband, Bill Yates, the trucker, I think he was a rebound thing. Only lasted eighteen months. Number four was Scott Lafever, a musician who didn’t live through his last OD. But here’s the kicker. Guess who was the second husband?”
“The one right after Reggie Benchet?”
Montoya nodded, then dropped the bomb. “Our good friend, Oscar Cantrell.”
“The owner of Benchmark Realty?” Bentz asked.
“One and the same.” Montoya, obviously pleased with himself, stroked his goatee. “I don’t know about you, but I think there might be a connection there, seeing as Oscar’s management company rented the house where one of our Jane Does was killed.”
“Maybe we should have a talk with him.”
“I tried. Already called his house—no answer, just a machine—then I rang up Benchmark a few minutes ago and talked to Cantrell’s secretary, I think you met her.”
“Marlene Something-or-Other.”
“Anderson.”
“Right. The talker,” Bentz said, remembering the chatty brunette with the wild glasses.
“That’s the one. She claims he’s still away on business and will be out until after the holiday weekend. Oscar Cantrell isn’t due back into town until next Monday.”
“She can’t get hold of him?” Bentz asked, disbelieving. “Doesn’t the guy have a cell phone?”
“You’d think. I tried to sweet talk her and, when that didn’t work, strong arm her a little, but she wasn’t having anything to do with it. Got snippy.”
“Snippy? With you?” Bentz grinned. That he would like to have seen. Most women melted like butter in the hot sun when Reuben Diego Montoya turned on the charm. Maybe there was more to gossiping Marlene Anderson than met the eye.
“Hard to believe, but it happens,” Montoya grumbled.
“So the connection is that one of Olivia Benchet’s short-term stepfathers owns the house where the murder took place?”
“Got anything better?”
Bentz’s stomach burned fire. He reached into the top drawer of his desk, found a bottle of Turns, and shook out the last two tablets. He plopped them into his mouth and chewed. “Don’t know. I’m waiting for a possible ID on the Jane Doe.” He gave Montoya a quick rundown on Stephanie Jane Keller. “… the boyfriend should be here soon. With pictures.”
“In case we have to reconstruct?”
Bentz nodded, but he had something different in mind. A test. For Olivia. He’d get snapshots of a dozen women in the department, add in Stephanie’s photo, and see if Olivia could pick her out of the photographic “lineup.” Though he was beginning to buy into her claims of ESP, the pragmatic, real-cop side of him was still having trouble accepting it.
“You think the boyfriend could be involved?” Montoya asked.
“Always a possibility. If the Jane Doe does turn out to be Stephanie Keller, then we’ll check out the boyfriend, her family, other friends and acquaintances and see if other than being killed by the same murderer, she has any connection to Cathy Adams.”
“And Olivia Benchet.”
“I’ll check that out, too.”
“Thought you might.” Montoya’s dark eyes narrowed. “You know, Bentz, if you weren’t such a hard-ass, I’d think you might have a thing for our resident kook.”
“I swore off women long ago.”
“Oh, right.” Montoya nodded. “Because of your ex-wife. Man, that lady must’ve done a number on you. What was it? Did you catch her doing the wild thing with someone else?”
Bentz didn’t reply.
“That’s it, isn’t it? Who was it?”
“It’s ancient history. What happened occurred a long time ago,” Bentz said, unwilling to dredge up all the muck again. It had been over eighteen years and when he stopped to think about it, how Jennifer had admitted that the child she was carrying wasn’t his, how it had hurt like hell, he figured she’d only told him because he might find out if the baby needed blood work. There had been problems with the pregnancy and Jennifer, always one to overplay everything, had thought the baby might need surgery and her blood would be typed and it might not match Rick’s. So she’d told him the truth and vowed she’d broken off the affair, that she loved Rick, that she wanted to make the marriage work, that the man who had sired the baby didn’t want the child, couldn’t support it, and the affair was over almost before it had begun. Bentz had been blindsided and nearly poured himself into a bottle, but he’d stuck around and never once regretted claiming Kristi as his own. “Look,” he said to Montoya. “What happened to me doesn’t matter anymore.”
Montoya snorted. “Then why haven’t you hooked up with another woman?”
“Maybe I’ve been too busy.”
“With what? Work? Christ, Bentz, we all need a social life.”
“Do we?” He leaned back in his chair until it creaked.
“Yeah, and don’t give me any garbage about you bein’ too old. I know
better.”
“You don’t know Jack shit.”
Montoya clucked his tongue. “You need to get out more, Bentz. You really do.”
“You get out enough for both of us.”
“Not anymore. Nooooo,” he said with a wink. “I told you. I’m a one-woman man these days.”
“Oh, right.”
“It’s true. I’ve met a fine woman. Afiiiiinnnnne woman.”
“You meet one every week.”
“This one’s different.”
“Until next week.”
Montoya scoffed, but didn’t continue the argument. “Okay, so now that you think we’ve got a serial killer in our fair city, what about the media?”
“Jaskiel’s working with the public information officer. There should be a press release and conference later today.”
“You gonna be there?”
“Not unless I’m asked. Jaskiel will take care of it. She’ll make sure the public gets the right information.” They didn’t have to discuss the fact that, though the public would be warned about the killer and some of the information would be released, the police department would keep back important pieces that only they and the killer would know in order to catch the right culprit and flush out any mental cases who might claim to be the killer just for some sort of attention. Leaning forward, Bentz tapped his pencil on the desk. “So what’s new with the video of the fire?”
“The lab’s still working on it. I’ve seen pictures. So far nothing. But the guy who took the film, he wants to make sure he has the rights to it. You know, if it becomes valuable to the case.”
“And what? The Enquirer wants a copy?”
“I think that’s his major concern, yeah. There’s been talk on the street about a serial killer and Henderson is all of a sudden thinking he might have something as valuable as the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination.”
“Great. Didn’t he sign a release?”
“Sure, but now he’s hired himself an attorney. After the press release, I’m sure he’s gonna make a lot more noise.”
“Let him,” Bentz grumbled just as the phone shrilled. Bentz picked up before the second ring. “Bentz.”
A secretary informed him that Dustin Townsend wanted to see him. “Send him up,” Bentz said and within five minutes a distraught man appeared in his doorway. Townsend was somewhere around thirty. Prematurely balding, he carried the start of a beer belly. His eyes were bloodshot and he appeared nervous. “Can you tell me anything?” he asked after quick introductions were disposed of.
“Not until we’ve done some tests and comparisons. They’re checking the dental records now.”
“Oh, God, it can’t be Stephanie,” he said, his face ashen, his chin not quite steady. “I mean, I saw her Friday afternoon. No … there’s got to be some other explanation.”
“I hope so,” Bentz said and didn’t glance at Montoya. How many times had they heard the same fears expressed by disbelieving family members? Unfortunately every victim had family and friends, lovers, parents or children, someone who cared. “Is that the picture of Stephanie?” he asked, indicating a small sack clutched in Townsend’s fingers.
“Oh … yeah. I, um, I brought a few.” He offered Bentz the bag. Complete with a full set of fingerprints. Should they need them.
“Thanks. Why don’t you show me what’s inside?”
Townsend was more than willing to fan out three pictures of a gorgeous, vibrant-looking girl. One where she was standing in hip-hugging jeans and a tank top; another where she was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless top, her hair scraped back in a knot on her head, her face speckled with sweat, a tennis racket held loosely over her shoulder; and a third that was a glamour-type head shot with Stephanie looking over her shoulder, her eyes slumberous and sexy.
“She’s pretty.”
Townsend nodded and sat on the chair in Bentz’s office, his hands clasped between his knees, his voice low as he answered enough questions to convince Bentz that he was either innocent or a damned good liar. He left half an hour later and Montoya shook his head and reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. “I don’t think he’s our guy.”
“Me, neither. But check his alibi. He said he dropped her off at a car dealership where she was having some work done on her Taurus, then she was going to her night class at Loyola and she planned to spend the weekend with friends. The friends said she didn’t show up and they eventually tracked down Townsend. He called the police in Covington yesterday and that’s where we are. Her car’s in the shop, just as he said. The owner remembers her. That’s all we know. I’m getting a list of the other people enrolled in the class from the University and I’ve already got a call in to her professor to try and figure out who last saw her alive. It shouldn’t take too long to have the dental records prove whether or not she’s our Jane Doe.”
“And if she is?”
“Then we’ll take a harder look at the boyfriend.” Bentz reached for his jacket as Montoya slid a filter tip from the pack. “I’m going to check at Loyola. If the Jane Doe is Stephanie Keller, then two of our victims attended college and the universities butt up to each other.”
“He’s picking off coeds.”
“So he could go to school at one of the universities himself,” Bentz said. “Or works there.”
“Loyola—Catholic?”
“Yep. It merged with the Jesuit College of the Immaculate Conception over a hundred years ago. It’s supposed to be the largest Catholic University in the South.”
“And Tulane.”
Bentz shook his head. “Originally a medical school, now lots of business.”
“How do you know these things?” Montoya seemed amazed. He was usually one step ahead of the game, at least when it came to what was happening within the department, but Bentz invariably dug deeper on the crime scene stuff.
“I checked. The minute I heard that another victim might have been a student, I did a little research. It’s all here.” He flipped a copy of a text on New Orleans across his paper-strewn desk.
“Maybe. In the meantime I’ll see what I can dig up on Oscar Cantrell and Bernadette Dubois.”
“Let me guess,” Montoya said as he started for the door. “Another interview with the visionary.” His dark eyes gleamed.
“I figured I’d show her pictures of this girl and some others—see if she can pick Stephanie out as the victim she claims to have seen. I’ll make copies on my way out. You got a better idea?”
Montoya’s grin grew. “Nope. I think it’s a damned good plan.” He crammed the cigarette into the side of his mouth. “Damned good.”
Chapter Eighteen
The bell over the shop door tinkled. Olivia was stocking shelves in the back room. She shoved a box of aromatic candles onto a stack, then swept through the beaded doorway to find Bentz making his way along a narrow aisle filled with baskets of incense, bath beads, and candles.
“Early Christmas shopping?” she asked.
He glanced at a five-inch crystal pyramid. Next to it was a tiny Japanese sand garden. On the next table was a tiny waterfall. “I think I’ll pass.”
“I can get you a deal on slightly used tarot cards,” she teased, unable to stop from baiting him as his shoulder brushed against a silver star that was part of a wind chime set. The chimes pealed softly over the background of sitar music piped in from the speakers mounted on the highest shelves.
“Another time.”
“I take it this isn’t a social call,” she said, reading the serious expression in the lines of his face. Suddenly she understood. “You caught the guy,” she guessed, crossing her fingers and hoping against hope.
“Nothing like that, but we did get a possible ID on the body.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say. Not until we know for certain and the family’s been notified.”
“Then why are you here?” she asked and stupidly, for a split second, she wondered if he’d come to see her, and her heartbeat increased. S
he remembered the kiss they’d shared in her house and she wondered if it had affected him as much as it had her.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a manila envelope. Within were color copies of snapshots of half a dozen women, all between twenty-five and thirty-five, some smiling, some not, all seemingly fit and all attractive. He handed the pictures to Olivia.
“Are all of these women missing?” she asked, horrified. Oh, God, please say that the monster hasn’t killed them.
“No. I just wondered if any of them looked like someone you’ve ‘seen’ in your visions.”
“What?” she asked, then understood. “Oh, I get it. You’re testing me, right?” She was disappointed. “Always the skeptic, aren’t you?”
“Gotta be.”
“I suppose.” She flipped through the pictures, studying each face and stopping when she came to a tawny-skinned woman with a wide smile in a bikini. “I… I feel like I’ve seen her before,” she said, confused. “But she’s not the one … oh, God.” Her heart nearly stopped as she gazed at one of the snapshots of a girl holding a tennis racquet. Cold recognition swept over her. “This one,” she whispered, dropping the rest of the snapshots as if they burned her fingers. “This is the woman he called Cecilia. I’m sure of it.” In her mind’s eye, she again saw the brutal images of the woman kneeling, begging, desperately clutching the priest’s robe. Olivia’s knees turned to water and the contents of her stomach curdled. She took in a deep breath and sagged heavily against the counter.
Bentz was quick. He grabbed the crook of her arm. “Steady,” he said as the door opened and Tawilda, lugging a shopping bag, stepped inside.
“Hey! Livvie, are you okay?” she asked, bustling down the aisle, the bracelets circling her wrist jangling. “Who the hell are you?” Dark eyes flashed at Bentz.
“It’s okay. He’s—”
Bentz flashed his badge. “Rick Bentz. New Orleans Police.”
“Police? What happened? Did we get robbed or somethin'?” Tawilda asked.