Cold Blooded (13 page)

"Doesn't he ever calm down?" Bentz asked.

"Not until he gets to know you." Hairy's eyes were trained on Bentz and
he was wiggling like crazy, yapping and growling as if he were about to
tear the detective limb from limb.

"And how long does that take?"

"Longer than a couple of days. Same with Chia, so I wouldn't be putting your nose too close to her cage." hairy was still barking.' ' it off!"

she ordered, and the dog, chastised a bit, satisfied himself with a growl of disapproval.

Olivia put him on the floor and he started sniffing the hem of Bentz's jeans. "He's all bark and no bite." "But not the bird." Olivia smiled. "You can test her if you want."

"I think I'll take your word for it."

"That's probably a wise choice. So, is your laundry all done?" she asked, unable not to needle him.

"Yep." He flashed a smile--one of those rare, genuine ones that lit up his eyes. "I even managed to unload the dishwasher, too. But damn, I just didn't have time for the vacuum."

"Very funny." "I thought so."

She couldn't help but return his grin. "I'm surprised you didn't bag out, that you didn't find something better to do."

"I think I just ran through my list of options."

"What about fishing or hunting or golfing ... You said you were going to watch football--"

"I listened to the game on the way over. LSU needs help."

"Don't they always?"

"Uh-uh-uh. You're talkin' to a die-hard fan here."

"I'll remember that. Come on in." They walked to the kitchen and she felt a little more at ease with him in her house. Maybe it was because he was dressed-down, or because the visit wasn't official, or maybe she was just getting used to him. It was hard to imagine that less than forty-eight hours ago, he was just a name on a piece of newsprint Now he was this ... presence in her life.

Oh, get over yourself. He's a cop. Doing his job. End of subject.

"So--the inscription?" he asked, leaning a jean-clad hip against the counter.

"Oh, right. Up in my room. Just a sec." She sprinted up the stairs to her bedroom. Hairy, ever faithful, galloped ahead. In the drawer of her night table she withdrew two sheets of paper, one with a list she'd compiled last night of everyone she knew who lived within fifty miles and the other she'd taken from her computer's printer the last night of the dreams when she awoke to find Grannie Guy had died.

On another page, she'd written the strange markings that she'd seen in the vision. Now, her good mood evaporated as she glanced down at the meaningless symbols and letters and she felt that same chill she always did upon reliving the vision.

"Don't even go there," she told herself as she hastened out of the room and down the stairs with an excited mutt leading the way.

"Loyal, isn't he?" Bentz observed.

"Very." Unlike the men I've known. "Here's the symbols and a list of my friends and family." She handed him the sheets and he was instantly absorbed, scrutinizing the hieroglyphics as he dropped into a chair at the table.

"So this is what was written in the crypt when you had the dreams?" he asked.

"What I could remember when I woke up, yes." She walked to a spot behind

him where she could look over his shoulder, and as she stared at the symbols and letters, she shivered, remembering all too clearly the victim's plight.

"Go over it again, would you?"

"Sure. What I can remember. But those dreams, if you want to call them that, weren't as vivid, at least not at first."

Yet she recalled them clearly. With the same bone-chilling intensity as the last. "It was basically the same dream over and over, with just slightly different variations." She rubbed her arms and glanced through the window. Winter sunlight pierced through the filigree of naked branches, to spangle the dark water, but the day seemed suddenly frigid and lifeless, filled with shadows that shifted and distorted, always changing. How many times had she thought of the terrified woman trapped in a living tomb? How many nights had the image become a nightmare that she saw over and over again?

"The most awful dream was when I think he actually killed her. It was the same night my grandmother died. August eleventh.

"I reported this all to Detective Brinkman for all the good it did." Her eyes held his for an instant, then she glanced away. "Same old story. No body, no missing persons, no witnesses ... just me. The lunatic."

"Is that what you are?" he asked.

A small smile lifted one side of her mouth. This time when her gaze found his, she wouldn't let it falter. "What do you think?"

When he didn't answer, her smile twisted into a selfdeprecating smirk.

"Let me guess. That I'm not playing with a full deck? I'm a bottle short of a six-pack? That the gates are closed, the lights Sashing, but a train ain't coming?

I've heard ' all. You have to believe, Detective Bentz, I'm not one of those idiots who tries to make a scene with the police just to get some attention. And you know it.

Because that girl in the house the other night was murdered just the way I told you she would be. And there was at least another one. Maybe more.

Someone was left in the dark with those"--she pointed to the paper spread in front of him--"those damned markings!"

"Okay, okay. Let's start over. Calm down, okay. I'm sorry. I'm here, aren't I? Listening to you. Trying to make some sense of it."

Her blood was still boiling, but she nodded, tried to rein in her

temper.

"Okay ... so what do you make of these?" he asked, picking up the sheet and indicating her sketches. "I saw this in Brinkman's report, but they didn't mean anything to me. Chicken scratches. What do you think?"

She leaned over his shoulder and silently cursed herself for catching a waft of his aftershave. Pointing a finger at the symbols, she said, "I'm not sure what they mean.

Remember, I caught only glimpses of these things as a light--probably the beam of a flashlight--swept the room."

She stared at the images she'd memorized. "I think the first one is an anchor and those"--she moved her finger to indicate a group of pointed lines--' ' three are probably arrows--one with an arc over it, like it's supposed to be a bow or something or on fire. At least that was the impression I got." She touched the next image. "This is some kind of flower, I think, but the rest ... I don't know. This"-

she indicated a group of letters with her fingertip--"is the inscription, but I only caught quick looks at the letters and I tried to write them down in the order they were scratched onto the walls of the tomb but they were just flashes, glimpses, all that I could remember."

She read the strange message she'd tried to decipher a hundred times before: LUM ... NA ... PA ... E ... CU ... FI

"Lum-napa-e-cu-fi," he pronounced.

"Some of the letters are missing," she said, "and I've tried a million times to fill in the blanks. Luminary, luminous ... Napa--like Napa Valley in California ... I don't know.

It could be a foreign language or part of an acronym or ... anything.

Maybe even gibberish. Maybe it was written on the wall before the woman was held captive, maybe it has nothing to do with her. I don't know."

She gazed over his shoulder at the partial words and they made no more sense to her than they did the first time she'd seen them. Squinting, she leaned forward for a closer look, her breasts brushing the back of his sweater until she felt the muscles of his back tense. Realizing just how close she'd gotten, she quickly stepped back, breaking contact.

Embarrassed, she pulled out a chair and dropped into it.
She motioned toward the sheet of computer paper.' "s like one of those
word-jumble puzzles in the Sunday paper.

Except you can't go to page fifty-one and find the answer."

His eyes narrowed a fraction. Not a hint of a smile. All business again.
"Mind if I take this? It's clearer than Brink- man's copy."
"Go ahead."
"Any other visions?" He was staring at her as if trying to sort out the

lies from the truth, the smooth sanity from any shards of craziness.
"Off and on."
"All different?"
"Yes. Nothing as clear."
"Done by the same guy?"
"I ... I don't know ... But it seems that way as I obviously don't

visualize every murder committed, not even some that happen in my town, but I see some, Detective Bentz, and they're so clear they literally make my skin crawl."

Nodding, he flipped to the second page and scanned it quickly. "Names,
addresses, and phone numbers." He glanced up. "I'm impressed."
"I'm determined to catch this bastard." She leaned back in the chair.

"So ... are you going to keep following me?
Like last night." She'd seen his Jeep in her rearview mirror as she'd
driven home last night.

"Maybe I just wanted to see that you got home safely."

"And maybe that's a cop-out. Literally."
His jaw sh'd to one side. "Okay, I'll level with you."
"That would be a plus."
"I did want to see where you went and there's something else. I'm

starting to believe you and I'm starting to get worried. I wasn't

kidding about an alarm system and a Rottweiler."
' ' now you're going to be my own private bodyguard?" she asked, tilting
her head and trying to figure him out.

"I think my boss might have some issues with that although you're pretty
damned valuable--with this gift and all."
"And all, Detective Bentz?"
He folded the paper and slid it into the pocket of his jeans.
"You can drop the ',' " he said.
"And call you what?"

"I go by Rick but most people refer to me as Bentz."
She realized this was an olive branch of some kind and figured she could
use all that was offered. "Okay, Bentz, only if you call me Liwie or
Olivia. I answer to both."

"It's a deal."
"So you finally believe me?" she asked and he slanted her half a smile.
Something flickered in his gaze.' "s just say I'm keeping an open mind."
"And it's killing you."
His grin stretched wider. "It's not what I'm known for."

He pushed himself to his feet. "Thanks for your help," he said as they

walked through the house and onto the front porch. hairy streaked off, whining, hot on the trail of some invisible creature.' "I'll let you know if we find anyone trapped in a crypt somewhere."

' ' hope to God you don't," she said,' ' I know someone will. Someday."

"Maybe by then we will have caught the guy." He hesitated and for a second she wondered if he was going to shake her hand, give her a hug, or kiss her. Instead he just inclined his head. "I'll let you know."

Olivia watched as he strode to his Jeep and got in. He backed the four-by-four into the turnaround by her truck, then waved and drove off, his rig bouncing down the rutted lane and out of sight behind the thick stands of cypress and oak. Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, she wondered how long he'd last, if indeed he would keep that open mind, then told herself it didn't matter.

The visions came to her.

She was the one who had to figure out where they came from. Otherwise she'd never convince anyone to take her seriously. She wrapped her arms around her middle and wondered why it was so damned important that Rick

Bentz trust her. After all, he was just another cop who'd seen it all.

So what if she saw something deeper than the crusty, no-nonsense exterior he put forth? What did it matter that she noticed how wide his shoulders were and the way his jeans hugged his hips? Who cared that there was a deeper, more complicated side to the man than first met the eye?

She couldn't afford to find him attractive. Getting involved with him would be a major mistake.

Major.

Nor could she sit around and wait for Rick Bentz or anyone else from the police department to take her seriously.

She'd have to find some more proof or a link or something.

Before the killer, whoever the bastard was, struck again.

She decided to start with St. Luke's.

Chapter Twelve.

Olivia pulled on the parking brake and looked through her windshield at the church. It was larger than she'd expected, a whitewashed building with arched stained- glass windows, a single spire, and a bell tower separated from the rest of the church as it rose toward the gray cloud-covered sky. She'd chosen St. Luke's because of its proximity to the French Quarter. A few blocks off Esplanade, the two-hundred-year-old bastion of Catholic faith was the closest church to the crime scene. It seemed the logical place to start when one was looking for a murdering priest.

"A fool's mission," she told herself as she got out of her pickup and cinched the belt of her coat more tightly around her middle. She hoped that somewhere in St. Luke's offices, or the vestibule, there might be information, pamphlets about the church, its priests and staff and hopefully something about the other churches in the city.

It was Saturday. No one was hanging around in the vestibule.

She tested the main doors and they opened easily.

Inside, the building was vast but inviting. The ceiling was two full stories above the tiled floor and decorated with painted inlays framed in gold. The nave was lit by dim lights and dozens of candles, their flames flickering against the rough masonry walls. Most of the dark pews were empty, only a few devout individuals inside.

Olivia paused to stare at the altar and felt something. A need. An ache to believe. She'd never been particularly religious, but had tagged along to mass at her grandmother's prodding.' ' your troubles are too much," Grannie had said, clutching Olivia's hand, "it's time to talk to God. To visit His house."

Yet she was here not to pray, but to pry.

She made a quick sign of the cross and began her search, looking for the church office or a rack containing information about when the services would be held. If she didn't find what she wanted here, then she'd visit St. Louis Cathedral by Jackson Square. It was the oldest and most famous in the city, and it was half a block from the store where she worked. If

all else failed, there was the Internet.

Father Mcclaren watched the woman hurry into the vestibule and felt a forbidden emotion he quickly tamped down.