Cold Blooded

by Lisa Jackson

“Of course … of course … it is the same as before. You are to say the rosary and confess to the police—”

  “I’ll not be judged by mortals! My confession is only to the Father through you.”

  He clicked off and James was left with the receiver to his ear. He dropped it, didn’t realize that the connection wasn’t severed, that the receiver dangled over the edge of the desk.

  James sank to his knees and prayed harder than he ever had in his life.

  Bentz taped the entire conversation. He felt some measure of relief that James wasn’t the killer. But hearing the bastard’s raspy voice, feeling his presence had made Bentz’s skin crawl. He didn’t waste any time, just popped a couple of Rolaids he found in the desk drawer at home, then dialed up his friend with the phone company. Maybe Larry would have some information for him. Maybe he was about to catch the killer. Maybe he’d get lucky.

  “What the fuck is this?” Brian Thomas asked as he threw open the door to his studio apartment and found two cops on his doorstep. One had a swarthy complexion and had a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude stamped across his face, the other guy was older, tough-looking but … oh, shit, he recognized Kristi Bentz’s father from a picture he’d seen in her wallet.

  “We’d just like to talk to you,” Bentz explained.

  “I haven’t done anything to your daughter.”

  “So you know who I am?” His smile was cold as death.

  “She said you’d be calling.” He stepped back and let them into his one room. It was sparsely furnished and messy, but he didn’t really give a rat’s ass. The cops couldn’t bust him on anything. The weed he’d smoked last night was all gone, he didn’t do anything stronger, so he was home free. But he was sweating and no doubt both cops, their gazes scraping over his bookcase and … oh, shit … the bong. He’d left the bong and a six pack of empties by the bed and sure enough Bentz spied it.

  His lips compressed. “We need to ask you some questions,” he said and pointed to a secondhand recliner near the window. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  Brian was sweating bullets. What did the cops have on him? He’d been through this before, a long time ago, and memories of being arrested, of having his hands yanked hard behind his back as he was cuffed, of the charges and arrest, the hours of interrogation, being fingerprinted and stripped, thrown in a locked cage with the lowlifes of the world … Now, he gritted his teeth and tried to think. He’d done nothing wrong. They couldn’t prove anything.

  “Kristi said you’d eventually come by, that anyone who dated her was subjected to some kind of interrogation.”

  “Just a few questions,” Montoya said. “No big deal, man. You just stay cool and this’ll be over in a few minutes.”

  “Maybe I should call my lawyer.”

  “You need one?” Bentz asked, thick eyebrows lifting over suspicious gray eyes. What a piece of work.

  “I don’t know, do I?”

  “Not if you haven’t done anything wrong,” Montoya said and kicked out a kitchen chair. “Sit down. Relax. It’s just a couple of questions.”

  Bullshit, Brian thought, but settled into the recliner and wondered if they smelled the wafts of burnt weed still lingering in the air. Bentz didn’t sit down. He also didn’t hide the fact that he didn’t trust Brian. Not one little bit. Obviously he didn’t like the fact that Brian was dating his daughter and for a second Brian thought about all those movies he’d seen, the bad cops who planted evidence, then threatened charges unless they could squeeze a confession from the guy. He swallowed hard. Even if he beat the charges, his career here at the University would be ruined.

  It would be smarter to cooperate.

  They asked him a million questions. Some of them had to do with faculty and students, but a lot of the questions surrounded Dr. Franz and his two wives. Brian had been at All Saints as an undergrad at the time and had done some work for the first wife, Dr. Nancoise Franz. They also asked him about women he’d read about in the papers, Leslie Franz, Cathy Anderson and Stephanie Jane Keller—victims of the serial killer. And they’d stared at the two swords he had mounted over his bed, then asked him about weaponry and what he’d done while in the military. He should call a lawyer; it was obvious they thought he might be connected to the killer stalking the college campuses.

  Or more likely, Bentz had a hard-on for him because he was dating his precious daughter. Didn’t the cops have more important things to do than intimidate innocent people, for Christ’s sake?

  They couldn’t think he was really involved? That was crazy. He didn’t know those girls.

  Bentz asked him about the rape charges and about him spending time in the seminary. They even brought up the names of some of the patron saints—now what the fuck was that all about? Bentz had done enough homework to bring up the fact that before Brian had transferred to All Saints he’d spent his freshman and sophomore years at Tulane and studied psych under Dr. Leeds.

  “That guy, he’s a real prick,” Brian said, wiping the sweat from his palms on his jeans. “Stuck on himself. Between him and Dr. Sutter, here, I gave up on psychology, decided to do my doctorate work in philosophy. I came up with a theory that everyone gets interested in psych because they need it themselves. They have problems, go to a shrink, get off on talking about themselves and decide they could make some money at it…” Brian shut up. Why rattle on? Years ago, when there had been all that trouble with the rape charges his lawyer had told him to answer precisely, give no more information than what was asked.

  The cops left about an hour and a half after they’d arrived, thank God. Brian walked to the window and looked through the grimy panes and checked out the parking lot. Within minutes they climbed into a Jeep with Bentz at the wheel. What the hell were they doing all the way up here? How serious were they to be talking to him? An uneasy feeling crawled across his skin.

  He thought about calling Kristi and reading her the riot act, but decided against it. But seeing her tonight would be out. Bentz would probably drop by and visit his daughter and he was the last person Brian wanted to run into again.

  No, he needed time to think. What the hell was he doing with a cop’s daughter anyway?

  Brian walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He was just twisting off the top when the doorbell rang again. Shit. Not the cops again. Please! He took a long swallow and walked to the window. The Jeep was gone. Good.

  So who was ringing his door? Grinning, he thought he knew the answer.

  The edge from the detectives’ visit had worn off. He’d cooled it a little with Kristi since she’d returned from visiting her dick of an old man at Thanksgiving. Not because Brian didn’t want to see her, but because he thought playing a little hard to get wouldn’t be such a bad idea. He sensed she liked a challenge, so he was going to give her one. Maybe then he’d be able to score. How would the old man like that? Huh?

  The bell rang again and he yelled, “Coming!” then under his breath, “Keep your panties on.” Running fingers through his hair, he walked to the door and pulled it open. The smile plastered onto his face slid away when he recognized the guy standing in the hallway. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded a second before he saw the stun gun. “Hey—wait!”

  But it was too late. He felt the blast, fell backward and watched his beer fall to the floor.

  “Is he a suspect, Dad? Are you gonna arrest him?” Kristi demanded, ignoring the hot dog and Coke her dad had bought her. He and Montoya had taken her to a hasty dinner in a little hamburger shack just off campus and he’d dropped the bomb—admitted that he’d been talking to Brian. A few other students were hanging out at the counter and she hid her head, didn’t want to be seen with her dad when he was on duty.

  “Let’s just say he’s a ‘person of interest.’ “ Her father was seated across the table with its fake wood top. Bentz was all business.

  “ ‘Person of interest.’ What the hell does that mean?”

  “That I’m going to be watching him.”


  “No.” She wanted to shake some sense into her old man. “Are you trying to ruin my life? Because you are!” She shot a glance at Montoya. “He’s just hassling Brian because I’ve been seeing him, right?”

  “No. The dude could be bad.” Montoya wasn’t his usual self. Seemed harder, angry. Like the case was getting to him, too.

  “What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty?’ Huh? Isn’t that what this country is all about. Jesus, Dad, give me some breathing room, okay?”

  “This guy is dangerous.”

  “The killer is dangerous, Dad. Not Brian. I know him. He’s not a killer.”

  “Bull. I want you to come home with me. Now.” Bentz rose to his full height. “It’s not safe here.”

  “For who? Everyone? Or just me? Are you going to send everyone on campus home just because you think one of the T.A.s might know something about the murderers?”

  Bentz’s jaw grew tight. “No, I guess I can’t do that, but I can arrest him. There’s enough circumstantial evidence to hold him for a while,” he said, knowing that he was stretching the truth. He didn’t have anything concrete. Just a gut feeling. And the prick was seeing his daughter. But he had seen the bong and the empties in his apartment. He could bust the guy for drugs, and if he had any underage students in his apartment, for serving alcohol. “Either you come home with me, or I arrest him. What’s it gonna be?”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Damned straight.”

  “This is so outrageous. You’d embarrass me?”

  “In a heartbeat if I thought it would keep you alive,” he said.

  Her chin shivered, then she clamped her jaw tight. “If you do this, I will never, never forgive you.”

  He checked his watch. “You’re got one hour to turn in your papers and pack. You can drive up here every day to attend your classes. A bodyguard will come with you.”

  “ Like hell. I"m eighteen. You can’t force me—“The look in his eyes made her clamp her mouth shut. She was supposed to meet Brian at the library in half an hour.

  Then she could explain everything, but if she capitulated all of a sudden her dad would be suspicious. “So my choice is to leave school or be humiliated to death. Either way Brian will hate me.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  “You can really be a bastard, you know that, don’t you?”

  He checked his watch. “You’ve got fifty-eight minutes.”

  Olivia rang up the sale, quickly wrapped tissue paper around the cranberry-scented candles and handed the bag to a hefty woman with tight gray curls who smiled and wished her a “Merry Christmas.” She winked as she tucked her bag under her arm. “Less than a month away, you know. Tomorrow’s the first of December.”

  “That it is, Merry Christmas to you, too.” The woman bustled out of the store, jangling the jingle bells that hung from a bright red bow that Tawilda had tacked over the door.

  Olivia checked her watch … only an hour until the shop closed. She planned to spend a couple hours in the library on campus and then go home and soak in a long bath. She didn’t relish the thought of Christmas; this year would be the first without Grannie Gin and she was here in Louisiana, alone, instead of in Tucson where she’d made friends.

  Speaking of which, she was getting irritated with Sarah. It wasn’t unusual not to hear from her friend for a week or two, but it wasn’t Sarah’s style not to call and tell her she’d made it home safely, that she’d really enjoyed staying with Olivia, or that she really loved Leo and couldn’t go through with the divorce. Olivia had called her friend twice, leaving messages each time.

  Maybe Sarah was overwhelmed. It could be that the thought of the impending divorce coupled with the Christmas season was too much for her.

  And what about you? What are you going to do for Christmas? Who are you going to spend it with?

  Rick Bentz? Not hardly. Their conversations had been all business and she was still angry with him for not telling her about Father James McClaren.

  What about Father James? Oh, God, she didn’t want to think about that. She’d nearly made love to him, barely a week after she’d done the same thing with his half brother. No, she was better off without a man in her life. She could make it on her own. In fact, she’d probably need years of therapy after the last two men in her life. Bentz had been bad enough, but then to nearly sleep with a priest. How desperate had she been? James McClaren was a good, kind man and she’d almost led him astray … no, she wouldn’t even go there.

  Thank God they’d stopped when they had, that they’d realized before it was too late that they’d come close to making a mistake that would have ruined their lives.

  The phone rang just as another customer walked through the door, jangling the jingle bells. “The Third Eye,” Olivia said, picking up the phone.

  “Hi, Livvie, did you have a nice Thanksgiving?” Bernadette asked.

  “Yeah, I did,” Olivia said automatically and tried to keep her cool. He mother was reaching out to her. That was good. Just don’t let her get to you. “My friend Sarah, from Tucson, was with me.”

  “Good.”

  “And you?”

  “It was all right … well, no, it wasn’t. Jeb and I are splitting up. I decided you were right. I don’t need this. I went to San Antonio, spent a weekend alone, and sorted it all out. I’d already filed papers a while ago, but the divorce was on hold, now … I don’t think I’ll ever marry again.”

  Olivia almost laughed. “I think you’re the marrying y kind.” As opposed to me, she added silently. “So, you’re okay with the divorce?”

  “Yes,” Bernadette said firmly. “And I’m hoping that you and me, we can patch things up. I haven’t been a great mother, I know that, but maybe now that you’re grown we could be friends or something.” Olivia was stunned. This was her mother talking? Self-centered Bernadette?

  “That would be nice …” Olivia said then saw one of the women who had entered the store, a short, slim woman in a navy jacket, pocket a glass paperweight. “Uh … I’ve got to run, Mom.”

  “Before you go—”

  The shoplifter looked over her shoulder as she reached for another item, a crystal reindeer ornament, then, spying Olivia watching her, casually looked over the item and replaced it. Olivia was only half-listening to her mother. “The real reason I called is that I remembered a name associated with the adoption of my son.”

  “What?” Olivia asked. Now her attention was dragged from the shoplifter.

  “It was Thomas.”

  “Thomas?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it. My son was adopted by a couple named Thomas.”

  “Thomas who?”

  “I think it was their last name … but maybe I’m mistaken …” Bernadette faltered. “I overheard your grandmother talking once and she said something about the Thomases, I think. I hope this helps.”

  “It does, Mom, thanks,” Olivia said, her heart racing as the shoplifter edged toward the door. “Just a minute,” she called to the woman and dropped the receiver. “I think you may have taken some merchandise—” The woman was out of the door in a heartbeat. Olivia gave chase, but as soon as she stepped out of the store, she lost the thief in the crowd. It was dark and raining and in her navy jacket she blended into the jostling crowd. Christmas lights illuminated Jackson Square but Olivia didn’t feel the spirit. “Great, “Olivia muttered, unable to leave the shop alone. Tawilda wasn’t due back from her dinner for another fifteen minutes.

  Olivia started into the store but caught her reflection in the window panes. Her hair was windblown and her face was pale. Taking a step toward the doorway, for the first time in a week, she sensed him … saw a quicksilver image behind her own.

  No.

  The people on the street walking by shrank, the noise of the street seemed to fade and her head began to ache. He was there, staring back at her—blue eyes and dark hair, angular features, not unlike her own, but not Father James no …. and … then he turned his vis
ion to another spot … as if someone had called his name. He focused on his quarry and Olivia saw the woman’s face. The dull ache behind Olivia’s eyes banged painfully. A young girl with long auburn hair and an attitude of confidence … a face Olivia had seen before, not in person, but framed as it was tonight, in a bifold picture sitting squarely in the middle of Detective Rick Bentz’s desk.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Where the hell was Brian? He was supposed to have met her fifteen minutes ago. Kristi stood on the porch of the library looking through the sheeting rain. It shimmered against the streets, and poured from the sky. Though barely five in the afternoon the day was gloomy and dark.

  And she only had seventeen minutes before she had to hook up with her dad in front of the dorm. She’d made the date with Brian five minutes before her dad had shown up. On the phone Brian had sounded weird, like he was high, or scared, or pissed. And who could blame him? Come on. To have your girlfriend’s dad, the cop, show up and start an interrogation. Her cheeks burned at the thought of it. Sometimes she hated her dad.

  He’s not really your dad, is he?

  Maybe that was the problem. Anyway around it, Bentz had only messed things up with Brian even more than they were to begin with.

  Ever since she’d gotten back from Thanksgiving, things had been strained with Brian. He’d been moody and uptight.

  Something was eating at him. He blamed the stress of the end of the term, that Zaroster had been giving him a hard time, but Kristi sensed there was more going on.

  They’d made out a couple of times, but she’d always broken it off because it hadn’t felt right. There was something missing, something she couldn’t define. She thought of Jay. He loved her. Brian didn’t. She knew it and it almost seemed as if she was … well, it seemed archaic, but it was almost as if he was using her, that she was just another conquest.

  That was backward thinking. She could turn it around, consider it the other way, that he was just another notch in her garter belt. Oh, yeah, right. Face it, Bentz, that’s not the way you ‘re made. She glanced up the street and saw his car slowly approaching. He hadn’t stood her up! He was just late again. Waving, she pulled her hood over her hair and blinked against the rain as she jogged down the puddle-strewn path to the spot where he’d slowed.