Cold Blooded (41 page)

brief, but then he'd expected as much.
Time he told himself, it will take time.

He lived in a small house one block from St. Luke's and he considered

going over to the church early and speaking with Monsignor O'Hara. He hung up the phone.

Father James, who so many turned to for counseling, needed someone in whom to confide. He had so many issues to deal with.

First and foremost there was Kristi. His child. How he'd once wanted to give up the priesthood, marry Jennifer, claim Kristi as his own. Failing that, at least he'd hoped for interaction with her. He could never be recognized as her father, he knew that much now, but he could still have the role of uncle ... if she'd let him.

He didn't want to take away anything from Rick. Bentz had done a fine job with Kristi. Better than fine. And raising a daughter alone was never easy.

Then there was the issue of Olivia. Dear Father, help him.

James walked to his desk and found his Bible. It had been his mother's and he found solace in the thin pages. Where was the passage he wanted?

He flipped to the Book of Proverbs just as the phone rang loud enough to startle him.

He picked up the receiver but his eyes were skimming the pages, searching for the passage that would give him peace.

"Forgive me, Father ... "

James didn't move a muscle. The midnight confessor was calling again. The clock ticked on the wall, counting off the seconds.

He was sweating, his hand around the phone in a death grip. "What can I do for you, my child?" he forced out

"I ... I ... must complete my mission ... but sometimes I have doubts."

"We all have doubts. What is your mission?"

"It is from God. To find the saints. To see that they make their way to heaven."

No. This can't be right. James sank back in his chair.
Was he actually talking to the serial murderer? The killer Bentz was

trying to stop? "It is not for you to decide who is to be venerated or
canonized," he said carefully.
"But God has chosen me to find them, to offer them to Him."
The hairs on the back of Father James's neck rose one by one. "You

must've misinterpreted what He's saying. It's a sin to take a life.
Remember that
"Thou shalt not kill' is one of the Ten Commandments. God would not ask

you to sin."
"He speaks to me, Father. He tells me who to choose.
It's His divine will. And this, my confession, is between you and me,

Father. What shall be my penance?"
James's heart was beating a fast tattoo, his mind spinning rapidly. He'd

considered the question. "Your penance, my son, will be to pray the
rosary and to turn yourself in to the authorities."
There was a long pause. James would have thought that the penitent had

hung up except he heard music in the background--soft choral chords. No
... it was a Christmas carol, an instrumental version of
"Silent Night." His stomach turned over at the thought.
"The rosary," the penitent finally repeated. "Pray the rosary?"

"Yes, and never kill again. Go to the police."
"So that they can jail me for doing God's will? So that you would not
carry the burden of my confession?" There was a hint of anger in the
voice.

"So that you would not sin again. This is your penitence.

You must go to--"

Click. The line went dead. James closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. He'd failed. The killer was certain to murder again. In the name of God.

And James could do nothing about it.

Montoya was waiting for him when Bentz arrived at his office Friday morning. His expression said it all. And it wasn't good news. Montoya looked like hell. Though he was dressed in his standard leather jacket and black jeans, his hair was uncombed, his goatee untrimmed and ragged, and his usually cocky smile was nowhere to be found.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he clipped out.

"But--" . "I said I'm fine." His dark eyes flashed, the set of his jaw was rock-hard, and every muscle in his body was flexed, as if he were spoiling for a fight. As Bentz hung up his coat, Montoya leaned against the file cabinet. "Three women were called in missing Monday night. One came home-- she'd just had it with her husband and teenaged sons and took herself a little unscheduled break. The second one's still unaccounted for, but the third one, Leslie Franz, is probably the victim we found on the wheel. She's married, no kids, teaches in a preschool, but get this, her husband is a professor at Loyola."

"Let me guess--she was a part-time student."

"Bingo." Bentz's back teeth gnashed. He thought of Kristi at home in bed. "No positive ID yet?"

"Just a matter of time." Montoya motioned to Bentz's computer.' ' scanned the photos over from missing persons.

And she has two tattoos. One on her right ankle, the other on her left shoulder."

"Does she?"

"Yep. A dolphin and a cross."

As Bentz settled into his chair and clicked on the icons on the computer screen, Montoya walked to the window, his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, his eyes fixed on the dismal day outside. Gray clouds hung over the tops of the buildings and rain spat against the window.

Bentz found the file and opened the picture. Sure enough, St. Catherine of Alexandria smiled up at him. She was clinging to the jib of a sailing ship, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, her smile as bright as the sunlight spangling the blue water. Bentz's gut clenched. She was either the victim posed as St. Catherine of Alexandria or she was her twin.

"Once again everyone who knows her is locked tight in alibis, at least that's the way it seems. The husband, Bertrand, is older, pushing fifty.

Leslie is his second wife. The trophy, I guess. His first one is another professor, up at All Saints."

Bentz stiffened. Damn!

"That's where he met wife number two. Leslie Jones was an undergraduate.

Big scandal. Bertrand divorced the first wife, married the second, and took a position in the Psych Department at Tulane."

"With Dr. Leeds." Bentz didn't like it. Because Kristi attended classes there, because the Rosary Killer had attended school there, and because of the name' ' Saints."

Coincidence? Not hardly. He reached into the top drawer and found a half-used package of Tums.

"When he married Leslie, Old Bert was forty-eight and she was half his age. Nasty. Nasty."

Bentz popped two antacids and washed them down with a swallow of yesterday's coffee. "We'll have to check out the ex-wife, though I don't know how she could be involved."

"I've already started. Her name's Nancoise and she's got credentials up the ass. All kinds of awards for scholarship and philanthropic shit.

She's a long shot."

"Remember the guy who wrote The Scarsdale Diet? He was shot by a scorn ed lover who was headmistress of some hoity-toity school. It's happened before. What's the old saying, something like ' hath no fury like a woman scorned'?"

"Close enough." Montoya scratched at his goatee and continued to stare through the glass as noises from the outer office filtered in through the door, which was slightly ajar.

Phones rang and conversation buzzed. Once in a while, someone shouted.

"What's eating you?" Bentz asked, leaning back in his chair. "Bad turkey? Holiday depression? What?"

Montoya's jaw clenched. "Woman trouble."

"What? That I can't believe, Diego." ' ' it," Montoya said grimly. A muscle worked near his temple, and his eyes narrowed. "That second woman, I mentioned, the one still missing?"

"Yeah." Bentz got a bad feeling.

"She's my girlfriend. Marta Vasquez. I filed the report.

We had a fight Monday night at my place. She never made it home. Took off in her car like a bat out of hell. No one's seen her or her Camaro since." He glanced over his shoulder and his dark eyes had lost their spark. "I was the last one to see her and I've got no idea where she is, man, not one fuckin' idea. The worst part of it is she was taking a couple of night classes at Loyola."

Looking up from his desk chair, Bentz waved Olivia inside. But he didn't so much as crack a smile, and what little spark of hope Olivia had experienced that he would be glad to see her was quickly extinguished.

"in," she said just as the phone rang. He nodded at her as he grabbed the receiver. "Bentz." His expression grew darker and he held up a finger indicating that he'd be a minute or two. Then he rotated the chair so that his back was to her, the phone cord stretched, and his end of the conversation was just quick answers. "No ... not yet ... waiting

for the autopsy ... Yeah, you'd hope, but so far we haven't gotten lucky

... ass-deep in this shit ... I'll see what I can do ... "
His office looked about the same as it had the first time she'd visited
him--had it been only a week ago? So much had happened. The
clutter--files, mail, legal pads on which notes had been scribbled,
still remained as did the pictures of his daughter on the desk. His
window was cracked a bit, allowing in the noise of traffic below
floating in on a cool November breeze.

"... I'll call as soon as I hear anything. Yeah ... you got it ... You,

too." He spun around and hung up.
"How are you?" he asked without much inflection. She looked for warmth
in his steely eyes. Saw not a drop.

"Fine."
"Nice Thanksgiving?"
"Yeah, it was. A couple of friends came over. You?"
"Just Kristi and me. It was good. Now, what can I do for you?" So much

for pleasantries. "I thought I'd share something."

Reaching into her purse, she pulled out the sheet of paper James had
given her. "I asked a priest I know for a favor."
One of Bentz's eyebrows lifted. "Didn't know you were close to any

priests. The last I heard, you were having nightmares about them."
"About one," she corrected as she handed him the list of names. "Anyway,

Father Mcclaren was good enough to--" "Father Mcclaren?" Bentz said and
his eyes narrowed harshly. "Father James Mcclaren at St. Luke's?"
"Yes. Do you know him?" She was surprised.
"Kristi and I attend mass there once in a while."
"You never mentioned that--"
"It's not very often. How do you know him?"

"I was looking for information after the fire. St. Luke's is the closest church ... "

"Go on, what did Father Mcclaren come up with?" Bentz asked and the skin
over his face seemed to draw tighter. It ticked her off. So they'd slept
together and he decided he couldn't handle it. The least he could do is
act decently.

"It's a list of christenings," she explained, "all of which happened

within the three months after my brother was born.
You seemed so convinced that a blood relative might be involved that I
thought it was worth checking out."

"It is." He scanned the notes. There were sixty-three names. Olivia had
counted them. "Any of these turn out to be priests?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask that."
"Does he know you're looking for a priest who might be a killer?" "He
doesn't know anything about the murders. I only asked him about my
brother," she said. "And we talked a little. He gave me some advice."

Bentz lifted an eyebrow.

"About how to deal with a hard-ass cop who shuts off emotionally anytime
someone gets close."
A ghost of a smile flickered over Bentz's mouth. "And what was Father

Mcclaren's advice?"
"To tell the jerk to ' go to hell."
"That was a direct quote?"
"No. That's how I interpreted it," she snapped and noticed the set of

his jaw shift a bit. "Maybe he knows what he's talking about." Bentz's chair groaned as he leaned over the desk. Resting his elbows on an open file, he held her

gaze. "Look, Olivia. I'm sorry."

"Bull."
"No, I am." For a second the facade came down and she caught a glimpse

of the man beneath the tough-as-nails, emotionally detached cop. "But it
would be best if we--"
"Yeah, I know. I got it the last time," she said, standing.
"I'll let you know if I have any more visions, okay?"
"That would be good." "No, Bentz, it would be hell," she said, shifting

the strap of her purse to her shoulder. "Find this guy and do it fast.

Then you won't have to keep explaining to me why you can't see me anymore." She reached for the door, but he was out of his chair and around the

desk in one swift motion. She was pulling on the knob, but he slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle panels. The flat of his hand held the door tight in its frame.

His was so close she caught a whiff of his aftershave.
"Don't," he warned, his eyes flashing. "Don't play any woman-games with
me. We made a mistake the other night, and that's all there is to it. I

didn't mean to let it go so far and you didn't mean to get involved,
either. It just happens sometimes."
"Not to me."
"Well, it did the other night."
She didn't argue. Couldn't.
"For that, I'm sorry. But you and I can't let anything get started, at

least not for a while. We have to be able to work together
professionally. I thought I made that clear." "As glass," she said.
"You'll be able to handle it?"

"With no problem." They both knew she was lying, but as he removed his hand and she opened the door, she added, "Call me if you ever need a psychic, okay? Because I can see into your future and it looks like it's going to be lonely as hell."

The dogs were howling again. Chained, muzzled, and hungry, they put up a clamor that would wake the dead. The Chosen One told himself to remain calm; no one other than himself could hear the beasts. The feast day of St. Vivian was fast approaching and then the dogs would be satisfied.

He'd bought the curs from a backwoods redneck who lived in a rusted shell of a trailer, spat tobacco juice between his front teeth, and bragged about outsmarting the law while he poached "gators," distilled his own brand of moonshine, and sold half-breed dogs and "fightin' cocks" to anyone who paid cash.

The deal had transpired in near darkness, the only illumination the smoky glow of the parking lights of a battered pickup and an SUV. Neither vehicle had plates. The Chosen One had unscrewed the license plates of his stolen Ford before he'd made the journey to this part of bayou country.