Cold Blooded (26 page)

His alibi checked out, too."

"Great," Montoya muttered, his voice muffled as if he were drawing on a cigarette. "What about her car?"

"I've got people going over it now. Vacuuming, dusting for prints, even looking for blood."

"Maybe we'll learn something."

"I doubt it," Bentz said. "My guess is the guy waited until she was walking the five blocks from the dealership to the university and grabbed her, or maybe even offered her a ride. I think he knows the victims. It would have been someone she trusted. I've got a class list and I'm having everyone called to see if they remember if she made it to class. No one takes roll, y'know."

"Too bad."

"Yeah." Bentz glared into the night.

There were still no more clues on the death of Stephanie Jane Keller and each hour that passed made it less likely the crime would be solved.

Where had Stephanie met her attacker? What had happened? How had she been transported to the shotgun house in Bayou St. John? "Keep me posted," Bentz said. "I'm stopping by WSLJ, just to see that no one's getting any crank calls. Then I want to double-check this saints' feast days angle--see if anyone was reported missing from the surrounding colleges on feast days in the summer or early fall."

"You still think the Rosary Killer is back?" Montoya asked.

"I don't know. But I don't like the connection between the murders and the Catholic Church. It's too much like deja vu. I mean, what are the odds? Serial killers are pretty damned rare and this guy's leaving his calling card."

"The signature is different," Montoya reminded him, then swore as a horn blasted through the receiver.

"I know, but I'm saying if it's not the same guy, then there's a chance it's someone he knew."

"What?"

"A mentor or something."

"Hey, whoa--don't you think you're going off the deep end here?"

"Maybe, but it's just a gut feeling that there wouldn't be two serial killers in the same town, connected somehow to the Church, who didn't know each other."

"It's not like they belong to the same country club."

"No? Well, run it by the profiler and the FBI and tell the people who are trying to crack the damned code about St. Philomena."

"You got it. Jesus! That prick cut me off!" There was a muffled sound.

Something harsh, then he was back. "Hey, Bentz, guess who I got a call from today?"

Bentz cranked the wheel and crossed two lanes. ' ' give, who?"

"Marlene, Oscar Cantrelfs secretary. Remember her? I guess my little talk earlier today about obstruction of justice got through to her.

Anyway, she gave me Cantrell's cell number. I left a message with him.

So far he hasn't returned my call."

"Try again." "Oh, I will," Montoya said. "I'll let you know what the guy says. You know, Bentz, if someone's killing women on saints' feast days, we're screwed. There's another one of those damned feasts every time you turn around."

"Then we just have to stop him," Bentz said as he saw the building housing WSLJ and parked in a loading zone.

It was after hours and he really didn't give a shit. He rode up the elevator and was met by a security guard, a reminder that not too long ago this very station had been terrorized a crazed killer fixated on Dr. Sam.

' ' hours are over," the security guard said gruffly, but Bentz flashed his badge.

"I'm looking for Samantha Leeds."

"She's not here," the beefy guard insisted, not budging an inch.

"It's all right, Charlie," a voice behind the guard announced and Bentz looked over the stocky man's shoulder to spy a wasp-thin woman with short black hah" and sharp features. "I'm Trish Labelle, Detective. I recognize you from your picture in the paper." She glanced at the guard.

"He's the policeman who cracked the case of the Rosary Killer," then back to Bentz, "Sam's not scheduled to come in until eleven. Is there something I could help you with?"

Trish offered a smile. "You know, I'd love to interview you on my program and now that we've got another killer on the loose ... Oh, that's what this is all about, isn't it?"

Her eyes narrowed and Bentz imagined a million wheels turning in her mind. "Wait a minute. You're here to see Samantha--why? Does this have to do with the Rosary Killer?" She snapped her fingers. "His body was never found, was it?" Before he could answer, her mind was racing with lightning-bolt speed. "That's it! You think the Rosary Killer has resurrected himself." Rather than seem horrified at the proposition, she was curious. "Please, Detective, I'd love to interview you."

"Not right now."

' ' about in a couple of nights? We'd need to advertise it on my program and Dr. Sam's, of course, and even a couple of spots during Gator's and Ramblin' Rob's programs."

"I don't think so." "Please, give it some thought."

"Would you tell Samantha that I was here?"

' ' Bentz!" a sultry female voice exclaimed, and he turned to find Samantha Leeds shaking out her umbrella.

She straightened, tossing her red hair from her face. A smile curved her lips and she winked at her own joke.

"Very funny," he said, forcing a smile.

"I thought so. But it's good to see you." Her green eyes sparkled.

"What's up, Detective? Hoping to get some free on-the-air advice?"

"Maybe later," he said, then cut to the chase. "I need to talk to you, if you've got a minute."

"Always for my favorite cop," she quipped. She led him through the maze-like innards of WSLJ, past rooms of sound equipment and glassed-in studios until they reached a small lunchroom. Dropping her bag onto a round table, she settled into one of the plastic chairs. "So, seriously, before we get down to business, tell me how've you been?"

"Can't complain."

"No?"

"What about you?"

"I guess I can't complain, either. I'm getting married," she said with a wicked grin. "Next month. You'll be getting an invitation." "I thought you'd sworn off men."

"I had. Then I met Ty. What can I say?"

"My guess is you'll be saying ' do.' "

She leaned back in her chair. "That's what happens, you know, just when you're ready to give up on the opposite sex, you meet someone. Watch out. It'll happen to you." He thought about arguing and decided against it. "I'll take your word on it. After all, you're the shrink. How's Ty?"

Her grin widened. "Just finishing his book on the Rosary Killer. He plans to ship it to his agent next week." She sighed. "Then he can get his head into the wedding, but you didn't come here to find out how many bridesmaids I'm having or if the reception should be catered. What's going on?"

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table. "I was wondering if you've gotten any more weird calls."

"You mean weirder than usual," she said with a shake of her head.

"People who call up at two or three in the morning aren't your usual nine-to-fivers."

"I mean along the lines of the calls last summer from Father John."

"No." Her expression became instantly sober. "Why?

Should I have?"

"I hope not." He outlined what he could about the recent series of murders and noticed that Trish Labelle was hovering near the doorway, taking in every word. He decided to ignore her as he explained, "The MO and signatures are slightly different from Father John's, but I just have the feeling there's a connection. Serial killers are rare and now we've got a second one within six months of the first. Even overlapping.

It's beyond unlikely."

"So you think that someone is copycatting?" she asked, her smooth brow wrinkling.

Trish quit lurking and stepped into the room. "He thinks Father John might not have died in the swamp." She pulled out a chair and took a seat. "Sorry, I'd like to say I just overheard, but I was eavesdropping."

' '," Samantha muttered and Bentz remembered there was no love lost between the two women. They'd worked at rival stations with their call-in programs and then, just last summer, Trish had jumped ship and joined WSLJ. Bentz suspected they hadn't warmed up to each other.

Trish ignored Sam's sarcasm. "I have to tell you, Detective, I find all this macabre stuff fascinating." "You didn't live it," Sam said, but Bentz's eyes had narrowed on the thin, sharp-featured woman.

"Do you?" he asked. "Really find it interesting?"

"Mmmm." She crossed her slim legs and leaned forward to place an elbow on the table and rest her chin on her palm, using her half-turned body to cut Samantha out of the conversation. "The truth is, I'd love to spend some time with you, Detective Bentz, visit the crime scenes, watch you sift through clues, you know, try to catch the bad guy, that sort of thing."

"It can be gruesome. Grown men have been known to lose their lunches at some of the scenes." "I think I could handle it," she said, her eyebrows quirking upward, a coy smile tugging at her lips. She was practically begging for an invitation to be a part of the investigation, even flirting a little to get what she wanted.

Which wasn't lost on Samantha. Bentz considered the charred, mutilated body of the last victim and was willing to bet two weeks' pay Trish Labelle would faint dead away if she was ever to see a dead body. "It would be interesting and informative. I'm sure I could work it into my show somehow."

"I don't think so."

"I'd call Eleanor Cavalier. I'm sure she'd approve it."

"Don't bother with the program manager." Time to nip this in the bud.

"It's not gonna happen. There are rules about that kind of thing."

Trish was undeterred.' "ve read about you, Bentz. You're not exactly one who plays by all the rules." "He said ',' Trish. Take a hint," Sam cut in.

Little lines appeared between Trish's eyebrows. "Look, I want to interview him on my program, okay?"

"Whatever." Sam looked at Bentz.

"I haven't committed," he said as he stood, concluding the short interview. "Phone me if you get any disturbing calls."

"Should she be scared?" Trish asked.

"Everyone should be scared," he said. "I'm not saying that the killer is the same guy, but I'm not sure about that.

What I do know is that he's out there, he's dangerous, and unless we

catch him, he's not going to stop." Sam grew sober and she rubbed her
arms as if reliving the terror she'd survived just this past summer.
Even Trish seemed more thoughtful, but she wasn't one to give up easily.
' ' is just the reason you should come on to the show," Trish insisted.
"To warn the public."

"The department's already made a statement."
Trish wasn't about to be derailed. "I know, but you'd reach more
citizens. We could do the interview and parts of it could be replayed
during the day, even on Sam's program.

WSLJ has a lot of listeners."
"Then they'll hear it on your newscasts."
"Some of them don't hear the news. You'll reach a lot more people this

way." She was on a roll now, her hands moving expressively as if she

could convince him by the sheer amount of her gestures or coy smiles."
"d be doing the city a favor, Detective. Just say you'll think about
it."

"Okay," he agreed as he stood. "I'll think about it. But don't hold your breath. And Samantha, if you get any calls that make you nervous, let me know."

"If she did that, she'd be out of a job," Trish joked.

Sam ignored her. "You'll be the first to know," she promised. "Thanks for the warning. I'll tell Ty you'll come to the wedding." "Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said as he left but he knew it was

a lie. His experience with marriage had left him the ultimate skeptic.

Much as he wished Samantha and Ty Wheeler the best of luck, he just didn't have any faith in the theory of wedded bliss. Olivia climbed out of the bathtub. The room was steamy and warm as she

towel-dried, buffing her skin before she smoothed oil over her body, rubbing deep into her muscles.

It had been a long day. Draining. Emotional. She replayed the scenes with her mother, with Bentz, and with Father Mcclaren through her tired mind and couldn't find a way to stave off a headache that had been pounding the edge of her brain for the past couple of hours. She'd popped four ibuprofen, then soaked over half an hour in the tub, waiting until the hot water had begun to cool slightly, hoping to ease the strain out of her day and keep the migraine at bay.

It wasn't working. As she slid her arms into the sleeves of her robe, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was piled on her head, wet tendrils framing her face. Mist clouded the glass, distorting her image. Condensation began to run in sharp rivulets, cutting through the fog and giving her a clearer picture of not only her own reflection, but something darker in the glass, something murky beneath the surface.

"Oh, no," she whispered, her heart nearly stopping.

Not again.

She caught a glimpse of a large wooden wheel, like an oversized wagon wheel with spikes. It turned slowly then disappeared in the mirror's foggy surface. Olivia's stomach clenched. "No ... no ... " A woman's tortured face came into view. Olivia jumped back so far she hit the towel bar on the wall behind her. The woman in the vision was screaming, her eyes bulging in fear and pain. Blood matted her dark hair.

Olivia was shaking.

The wheel spun, dancing in and out behind the curtain of condensation on the glass. Olivia's skin prickled. She could barely breathe. Her headache thundered, roaring through her brain. Transfixed in horror, she stared at the mirror.

As some of the condensation evaporated, Olivia caught a better view of a dark place, a cavernous area. She heard tortured screams and water dripping over the creak of ancient gears, then saw the horrendous implement of torture. The woman, stripped naked, was splayed upon the wheel and strapped down. Sharp spikes drove into her body as she struggled and the hideous wheel slowly rotated.

"Don't, please don't!" she shrieked. "Let me go ... Please ... Have mercy ... "

Olivia's headache hammered.

"Help me ... someone, for the love of God, please, help me ... " Her voice shook, reverberating in Olivia's brain, pounding with the pain.