Cold Blooded (38 page)

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right." "Fine ... fine ... " she said and explained what had happened. Her story gelled with the report and she promised that she'd get the door fixed permanently after the holidays, then later, as she sounded a little clearer, she thanked him for calling and wished him a

"Happy Thanksgiving," but he heard the change in her tone, the wariness.

Somehow she'd found a way to deal with the fact that whatever they'd shared the other night couldn't be repeated. And it bothered him. Not that he wanted her clinging to some belief that they actually could have something together, but the fact that he knew it would never work. The world seemed a little colder when he hung up and severed the connection.

Refusing to dwell on stupid romantic visions, he checked his e-mail and in-basket and made some calls, hoping to come up with an ID of either of the newly found victims.

So far, he didn't have IDs or an autopsy report on either, but the cause of death was pretty evident and he was fairly certain that the times of death would coincide with the tuning of Olivia's visions. If they were lucky, the killer had slipped up and the crime scene team had found some evidence linking someone to the murder scene--a hair, a piece of fabric, skin under one of the victim's fingernails, a fingerprint left carelessly, a tire track, a witness who'd seen a car or truck ... anything.

They just needed a break--one tiny break. Something more concrete than Olivia's revelations Olivia. Even though he'd called her earlier he'd tried not to think too much about her and had attempted to close his mind to all thoughts of the night he'd shared with her.

Nonetheless he was worried about her and had checked to make sure that her place was being kept under police watch.

He only prayed the killer wouldn't strike again soon.

Oh, yeah, and why not?

Sipping bitter coffee, he glanced down the list he'd put together on a legal pad, a list of martyred women saints whose feast days were coming up. It wasn't good news. In the next few weeks the calendar was ass-deep in feast days and Bent/ had written down the ones that he expected would appeal to the killer.

December second, St. Vivian or Bibiana, flogged and left for the dogs; December ninth, St. Gorgonia, trampled by a team of mules, her bones crushed, her internal organs mashed to a pulp. She supposedly survived not only the trampling-- oh, yeah, right--but some other form of paralysis, to end up dying of "natural causes." Then there was December thirteenth, the feast day of St. Lucy. Lucy had been hitched to a team of oxen who couldn't budge her. When the oxen failed to drag her to death or pull her apart, she was tortured by having her eyes ripped out before she was set afire.

Apparently she survived the blaze because she ended up being stabbed to death.

Brutal. Ugly. Twisted.

A priest?

He didn't think so.

He shoved his notes aside. The feast days he'd pulled were only a few, those celebrating the deaths of martyrs before the middle of the December. There were more ... lots more. With each day that passed.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Bentz stood and looked out the window to the gray, wet day. Pigeons fluttered and cooed, perching beneath the eaves.

In New York there was the traditional parade, while all around the country, people were hosting then- families, gorging themselves, and sitting around the television to watch football.

But here, in New Orleans, there was a killer. And he was waiting, ready to strike again.

Chapter Thirty.

"I told you I know nothin' about any of these murders and I don't ' want my ass being dragged down here on Thanksgivin'." Reggie Benchet's eyes glittered angrily as he sat under the harsh fluorescent glare in the interrogation room. His scrawny butt was balanced on the edge of a battered chair, his elbows propped on the table. Thin to the point of being gaunt, appearing older than his sixty-eight years, he spat a stream of tobacco juice into a tin can on the floor. "Now, do I need a lawyer? You gonna charge me with something' or you gonna let me walk ou t of here?"

Pointing a gnarled finger at Bentz, he added, "I know my rights. You cain't hold me without chargin' me, so unless you boys come up with something', I got me a Thanksgivin' dinner to go to."

"Where?"

"It don't matter none, but at my girlfriend's place."

Bentz checked his notes. "Claudette Dufresne?"

"Yeah, but don't you be botherin' her now, not on the holiday. She's got herself a bad heart and she don't need any trouble."

"She was arrested for selling crack," Bentz said, Sipping through a two-page rap sheet that included everything from soliciting to dealing.

"Yeah, she's a real sweetheart."

"That was a few years back. She's cleaned herself up and taken Jesus into her heart. She's a good Christian woman, takes care of her sick ma and works down ta the senior center in Lafayette." He scrabbled in a pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of Camel straights. "Mind if I smoke?" He didn't wait for an answer and lit up, chewing and smoking all at once. A tobacco company exec's dream consumer.

"You found God yourself, didn't ya?"

"That I did and you all can rest easy that I'll be sendin' up prayers for your souls."

"You're not a priest," Montoya interjected from his spot near the door.

His arms were folded over his chest, his usually neat goatee a little ratty, and he was wearing an I'mnot-buying-it expression.

"Nah. ' not. I'm born again. Found Christ in stir ... hell, that sounds like a great country song, now, don't it?" he asked, coughing as he laughed at his own joke.

"But you were Catholic?"

"Me? Hell, no. That was my wife. ' me, my ex-wife.

Bernadette." He shook his head violently, as if he were trying to dislodge water from inside his ear. "Now there's a woman I should never have gotten myself hitched to."

"Let's talk about that."

"Ancient history."

"You had three children with her."

His smile faded. He spat again.

"We know that one daughter survived and another drowned as a toddler, but you had a son as well." "For all the good it did me. No one ever told me ' the boy, y'know. I suspected, though, found some old doctor bills when I was married to Bernadette, but she always got real quiet and claimed she had a miscarriage. Years later, when I was locked up, she came clean. I guess her conscience got the better of her and she wrote me a letter, told me the boy was out there, she just didn't know where. I did what I could from prison, which wasn't much.

Once I tried to get more information from her, then from her mother, and even from the doc. But he was dead. I didn't get squat."

"And that's where you left it?" He paused, took a long drag, then blew a smoke ring to the ceiling. "Not me. That there's my only boy and he was

took from me. Thirty damned years ago. I ain't done lookin' for him."

"Maybe we can help," Bentz offered.
"And why would you do that?"
"We're looking for him, too."
Reggie was instantly wary. "Why?"
"We just need to talk to him, like we're talking to you," Montoya

explained.

Reggie's eyebrows drew togther. "I don't see how. If you don't know who
he is, why do you need to talk to him?"
"We think he can help us."
Reggie wasn't buying it. "No way--" "I thought you wanted to see your

boy. Tell us what you know."

Hesitating, stalling for time, Reggie mashed out his Camel, leaving a
piece of it to smolder.' "ll quit hasslin' me then?"
"If you've kept your nose clean."
"Shit, yes, I have. You talk to my parole officer. He'll tell ya so

hisself."
"So what've you got?"
He snorted and finally lifted a thin shoulder. "Not much.
I told you that already. All I know is that Virginia told me it was a

private adoption, and by that I'm sure she meant illegal, and no one would ever find out. A priest had handled the whole damned thing and he was sworn to secrecy. But while I was doin' time, I remembered another inmate who told me about a Father Harris or Henry, who got himself in a passel of trouble. Not only was he sellin' babies and pocketin' the money, but he got caught with his pants down.

With a fifteen-year-old boy." "He was charged?" Bentz asked. Now they

were getting somewhere.

Montoya's eyes glittered in interest.

"I don't think so. According to the inmate--Victor Spitz--the boy was paid off, the charges dropped, and the priest was moved out of state."

"You say his name was Henry or Harris?" "That's what I was told."

"First name? Or last?"

"That I don't know." Reggie shook his head. "That's all I can tell ya," he said and checked his watch again.

' ' ... I expect a ride back ta Lafayette before my damned dinner gets cold and I find myself in the doghouse."

"You didn't! You didn't invite a priest to dinner," Sarah said, horrified. She was folding bread cubes into saut£ed vegetables, turkey giblets, and oysters, all of which she claimed were part of her mother's "famous" stuffing.

"Why?" Peeling parboiled sweet potatoes, Olivia said, "I could lie to you and say that he seemed lonely and that I like him and that I wanted him to feel included in some kind of Thanksgiving tradition and it wouldn't really be a lie, but the real reason is that I did it because of you, because you seem depressed and I thought--"

"That what? I needed to confess something? Jesus H.

Christ, Liwie, that's nervy of you!"

"You don't have to say a word to him, okay?"

"Good, ' I won't." Sarah was livid. She stirred the giblets with a vengeance.

"I was just trying to help."

Sarah set her mixing spoon aside and let out a long, calming breath. "Yeah, I know and I appreciate it, really, but ... I just need to talk to Leo."

Olivia wasn't about to argue.
Two hours later when the doorbell rang and hairy ran howling to the
front door, she wondered if she'd made a mistake. "Great, the priest's

here," Sarah said, still keeping her distance from the dog. "Just what
we need."
"You'll like him."
"Oh, come on ... "
"Just ... relax. Have a good time." Olivia threw open the door and found

Father James dressed in slacks, casual sweater, and a bomber jacket.

Bent on one knee, he eyed the damage to her lock. Beside him on the
porch that was a bottle of wine.
"Have a little trouble?" he asked, looking up at her, and she was

reminded that he was too good-looking to be a priest. Square jaw, thick hair, wide shoulders, and a killer smile that didn't quite touch his eyes.

"A little. Alarm system malfunction."
"And the door blew up?"
"Was kicked in by the police," she said and realized he probably thought

the security company had sent the cops.
No reason to explain. "Come in," she invited as, while still crouched,

he extended his hand, allowing the dog to sniff it cautiously. "That's
Hairy he came with the house."
"No doubt a selling feature." Blue eyes flashed humor.
"Depends upon your point of view."
He straightened and dusted off his hands. "I can fix that for you," he

said, motioning toward the doorjamb.

"That's right, you're the handyman priest. That would be great. But

maybe later. Right now, come on in. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Sarah stood by the bookcase inside the front door.

Olivia motioned to her friend. "Sarah Restin, Father James Mcclaren."

"You're a priest?" Sarah was obviously skeptical as she eyed his casual attire.

"That's right, but I left my alb in the car," he joked and took her hand in his. "Nice to meet you."

"You ... you, too." Stunned, she looked him up and down as Olivia ushered them into the kitchen.

Father James offered the bottle of wine.' ' contribution to dinner."

' Thanks. We' 11 eat in about half an hour. In the meantime, you can do the honors." Olivia handed him a corkscrew.

He poured wine and they each had a glass. Any reservations Sarah had seemed to melt away as they talked and got to know each other. Father James carved the turkey as Olivia placed dishes on the table and Sarah lit candles. hairy settled into his spot near the back door, Chia chortled, and once he'd held chairs out for each of the women, Father James sat at the table, bowed his head, and said a short grace. They talked about everything and nothing and Olivia thought again what a waste it was that he'd accepted a calling with the Church. He would have made someone a great husband and, she assumed, would have been a fabulous father.

He joked, was effusive about the meal, and helped clear the table. After the dishes were stacked near the sink, he insisted that Olivia bring out her grandfather's tool box, then went to work on the door.

"He's not like any priest I've ever met," Sarah said as she whipped cream for the pie while Olivia wrapped the leftovers in plastic wrap. "I mean ... he looks like he should be on a soap opera, for God's sake. He brings wine and then fixes things ... and, if I didn't know better, I think he's got the hots for you."

"The "? Come on. He's married to the Church."
Olivia felt heat crawl up her neck.
' '-smurch, he's still a man." Sarah sneaked a peak past the archway and

bit her lip. Over the whir of the mixer she said, "I know he was trying to hide it, but I'll bet you the deed to the store that he would be great in bed!"

"Don't even say it! Sarah!"

"Come on, admit it. Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to
do it with a priest?"
"No!"
"Why? Because you're in love with the cop?" She pulled a face.
"I'm not in love with anyone," Olivia insisted as Chia whistled and the

mixer whined. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and started to pour

coffee. "So hush."
But Sarah's smile was positively naughty. "I'm just telling you if I was
single and that man looked at me the way he looked at you over dinner, I
don't know if I could contain myself."

"Enough!" She glared at her guest, and Sarah, rolling her eyes, turned
her attention to the cream again.
"I think we're about there ... See, it's the stiff peak