Cold Blooded (20 page)

But she doubted she'd ever outgrow Brian. He was so ... mature ... so

... experienced. She tingled at the thought of how he'd kissed, like it would be the last one he'd ever experience.

Kristi smiled at the thought as she pulled off her T-shirt and caught a glimpse of her torso, clad only in a black bra, in her mirror. Not too bad, she thought, swinging around for a full view.

She'd like to have bigger boobs, of course, but then she wasn't into plastic surgery or hormones, so for now, she'd content herself that she had a tiny waist and a flat abdomen.

Though her shoulders were wider than most girls', probably from years of swimming, and she weighed a few pounds more than the average in her sorority house, she looked pretty damned good. All muscle. No fat.

Athletic. Besides, she thought, the whole waif-like anorexic look was overrated and the way some of the girls attained it through cigarettes, uppers, and cocaine wasn't for her. Not that she didn't like a drink or two and had been known to smoke weed once and again, but she just didn't want to get into that whole drag scene. She'd experimented enough in high school and given her dad a good bunch of his gray hair while trying ecstasy and hallucinogenic mushrooms.

Well, what could you expect, when you're a teenager and you find out that your dad's not really your dad and your mom ... Don't even go there. It's over and done. Rick's a good guy. A real good guy and you know it now. He is your dad. He's always been there for you. Always.

Even though he knew you weren't really his kid. Frowning at the path of her thoughts, she concentrated on her image in the glass and liked what she saw. She tossed her head, letting a sweep of red-brown hair fall over one side of her face as she'd seen models do in the shampoo commercials on TV.

Again she smiled. Her hair was long, layered and a thick burnished mahogany. She'd sprung for highlights this fall so the strands gleamed red in the sunlight and Brian loved it. He'd buried his face in it several times when they were making out Saturday night and he'd told her how beautiful it was. She'd let him take off her top and his fingers had caressed her breasts in a way that made her hot when she thought of it.

Feather-light touches that created all sorts of conflicting emotions ...

She wanted to do it with him, but she hadn't. Knew better.

Good old Catholic upbringing, she thought. Though her father had been lax about taking her to church, when her mother had been alive, Kristi had been enrolled in parochial schools and never missed mass or Catechism or youth instruction. And yet Jennifer herself hadn't adhered to the sacrament of marriage, now, had she?

At least not according to Rick Bentz, who had decided, when she'd graduated from high school that she needed to know the truth. So he'd laid it out to her, explained why the marriage had gone sour, that her mother had been involved with the man who had sired her. Not just once.

Oh, no. Jennifer had slept with the guy way back when Kristi had been conceived, broken off the affair, then started up again, nearly fifteen years later, just prior to her death.

Kristi hadn't wanted to believe that Rick Bentz wasn't her father. But once she'd seen the evidence herself, in the form of a letter Jennifer had written two days before driving off the road and into a tree, she'd been convinced. The letter had been addressed to Kristi, but Bentz had decided his daughter should be spared the truth until she graduated from high school, so he'd hidden it away for over four years.

Bastard, she thought, angry all over again.

Swiping tears from her eyes, she remembered every word on the single yellowed piece of paper. The lines that burned in her mind still brought tears to her eyes.

I'm so sorry, honey. Believe me when I tell you that I love you more than life itself. But I've been involved with the man who is really your father again and I'm afraid it's going to ruin my marriage and break Rick's heart ... "Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot." Kristi sniffed loudly.

Wouldn't break down. She was convinced Jennifer had committed suicide.

She'd loaded herself up on pills and driven off the road two days after her husband had caught her in bed with another man. In Kristi's estimation Jennifer had taken the coward's way out by writing the damned letter and getting behind the wheel.

Ever since she'd found out the truth at the beginning of last summer, Kristi had been mad as hell at her mother, at the man who had raised her and at the god damned son of a bitch who couldn't keep his hands off of Jennifer, the man who had spawned her. Pathetic, that's what it was.

Pathetic.

Kristi didn't want to think about it right now. Well, really, not ever.

She'd taken enough psychology already this term to recognize that she was in denial big time, but she didn't care. She'd rather concentrate on Saturday night and Brian.

After a bad start, the date had been wonderful, she thought.

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 Can- trell 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 turne d 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 shortterm 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 Tums, 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?"

"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 being' 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?"
"Jaskiefs 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."