Hot Blooded (25 page)

“I’ll call you later,” he promised.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but maybe I won’t.”

She laughed, and he pulled her into his arms. Nose to
nose, he said, “Just be smart, Sam.” Then he kissed her. Hard enough that she felt the scrape of his whiskers along with the warmth of his lips. Memories of the night before kaleidoscoped through her mind, and as his tongue traced her lips she sighed, then felt him shift away. “Call me anytime.”

Then he was gone, lithely hopping off the verandah and jogging across the sun-dappled backyard to the dock where the
Bright Angel
was tugging at her moorings. He pushed off, set sail, and, as she stood beneath the overhang of the roof, watched the sailboat disappear around the point.

Charon followed her up the stairs and waited as she showered, then followed her into the closet as she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. She was buckling her belt and about to step into an old pair of tennis shoes when she looked through the door to her antique dresser and saw that the second drawer wasn’t quite pushed in all the way, was just slightly open, barely enough to notice.

Telling herself she was imagining things, that she’d probably just not slammed it all the way shut, she crossed the room and straightened it, then, thinking twice opened the drawer that held her slips, bras, camisoles and…teddies, except that her red teddy was missing. She only had two, hadn’t worn either in months…but the red one was definitely missing.

She knew she hadn’t taken it to Mexico and hadn’t worn it since…no, the last time she’d put it on was Valentine’s Day, as a joke, as she’d been all alone, just because it was red. So where was it? She searched all the drawers and scanned her closet again, but the teddy was definitely missing.

She bit her lip, told herself not to panic, and tried to convince herself that she’d just misplaced it.

But deep inside she knew that someone had taken it.

Heart thudding, she checked the rest of the house. Her
jewelry hadn’t been touched. Her television, stereo, computer, silver and liquor were undisturbed. The only thing missing was the lacy scrap of red underwear and her blood ran cold as she considered who would want such a personal item.

No doubt it had been “John.”

Jeremy Leeds, Ph.D. was a prick. Bentz was sure of it as he sat in the tiny alcove that was the professor’s office at Tulane. But Leeds wasn’t just a normal in-your-face kind of prick, but a self-righteous, sanctimonious, self-serving egomaniac, the sort that smiled condescendingly as he firmly but complacently put you in your place.

Bentz shouldn’t have been surprised. Weren’t all shrinks certifiable in one way or another?

It was just damned hard to imagine Samantha Leeds being married to the guy. That thought soured Bentz’s stomach. It was something the detective didn’t want to think about too much as he eyed the crowded niche Jeremy Leeds claimed as office space. Filled floor to ceiling with shelves of books on relationships, sexuality, complexes and the like, the stuffy little room boasted one dusty window and a withering Christmas cactus that should have been thrown out a decade or so ago. Basically the office was what Bentz had expected. But the man wasn’t.

Tall and lanky, with longish hair and hawk-sharp eyes, Dr. Leeds didn’t look the part of the rumpled, eccentric college professor that Hollywood always conjured up. His steely gray hair curled a bit, but was obviously cut and styled professionally, his beard neat and fashionable, his jacket smooth black leather, his wire-rimmed glasses trendy, as they sat on the end of a straight, aquiline nose. No ratty herringbone jacket with suede patches on the elbows for this professor, and there wasn’t the hint of a pipe rack nor the lingering scent of pipe tobacco, though a glass humidor showcased hand-rolled cigars that were certainly Professor Leeds’s only visible vice.

“Like one?” Leeds asked as he noticed the detective’s gaze upon the glass.

“No thanks.”

“They’re Cuban, but don’t tell anyone. Hand-rolled. This part of the conversation is off the record, right?”

“Only this part.”

Leeds extracted a long cigar from the humidor and inhaled deeply as he slid it under his nostrils. All for effect. But the scent of aged tobacco wafted through the warm room.

Bentz wasn’t interested in the professor’s theatrics. He just wanted to get through this interview, for that’s what it was, though the spark in Jeremy Leeds’s eyes led him to believe that the doctor was enjoying the meeting, happy for the chance to match wits with a slob from the police force, playing a game.

Earlier Bentz had phoned the university, asked about Dr. Leeds’s office hours, then upon receiving the information had shown up here, unannounced. The professor had been on the phone, deep in some kind of heated conversation, but had glanced up when Bentz had filled the open doorway. Leeds, startled a bit, had ended the call quickly with “…yes, yes, I know. I said I’d get back to you, and I will.” He’d hung up, hadn’t bothered to hide his irritation,
then with a dismissive wave at the telephone, had asked, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Only if you’re Jeremy Leeds.”

Bushy eyebrows had shot up.

“Professor Jeremy Leeds,” Bentz had qualified.

“I prefer Doctor.”

I’ll just bet you do,
Bentz had thought as he’d introduced himself and flipped his ID under the man’s prominent nose.

Leeds had reached for his glasses, eyed the badge and sighed through his nose. The corners of his mouth had pinched. “Officer Bentz.”

“I prefer Detective.”

The professor’s eyes had sparked. “Fine. Detective.” He’d leaned back in his padded chair. “I suppose this is about my ex-wife. I heard that she was having trouble again.”

“Again?” Bentz asked as Jeremy Leeds indicated a small love seat wedged between a corner and the desk. Bentz had clicked on his pocket recorder and was taking notes.

“Surely you know about Houston.” Leeds didn’t elaborate, except to say, “That was a helluva fiasco, but then Samantha asks for it.” Glancing out the half-opened window, he’d knotted his mouth in irritation. “That sounds harsh, I know, but I don’t put much stock in radio psychology. It’s glitz, you know. Nothing serious. Just a medium for a lot of people to sound off. Gives the profession a bad name. Words like ‘psychobabble’ and ‘airwave shrinks’ and all. It’s degrading and…oh, well.” He threw up his hands as if in exasperation. “Excuse me for ranting. A personal pet peeve, I suppose.” He turned his attention to Bentz and managed to smooth the lines from his brow with an easy, if false, smile. “What is it you wanted? Specifically.”

“Specifically, you’re right. I’m here about Samantha Leeds. You were married to her about ten years ago?”

“Briefly. She was one of my students and we…well,
we got involved.” His smile faded and his eyebrows drew together pensively. Tenting his hands beneath his chin, he admitted, “It wasn’t one of my stellar moments, you know. I was married to my first wife, separated, of course, and…well, you’ve met Samantha. She’s beautiful. Quick-witted and, when she wants to be, charming. As things were falling apart with Louise, my wife, I turned my attention to Sam, and then, even though my first marriage was dead and I was talking to an attorney about filing for divorce, word got out, it was something of a scandal and we eloped.”

“After the divorce was final I take it?”

“Of course.” He looked peeved. “I’m not a bigamist, just…well, I have two weaknesses. One is tobacco from La Havana—Havana.” He was still holding one of his cigars as he motioned toward the humidor. “The other is beautiful women.”

“Was Louise one of your students, too?”

Leeds’s jaw tightened. “No…we’d met in grad school.”

“And you’ve married again, after the divorce from Samantha.”

Splaying his hands, Leeds said, “What can I say? I’m an incurable romantic. I believe in the institution.”

Enough with this crap. Bentz needed to get down to business. “When Samantha was your student did she ever do a paper dealing with prostitution?”

“Not specifically prostitution,” Leeds corrected. “It was about the psychology of the streets—what makes people turn to selling their bodies or drugs, that kind of thing.” His eyebrows elevated. “And it was an excellent paper. As I said, Samantha’s incredibly bright.” He rubbed his chin, then folded his glasses and set them on the desk. “It’s too bad it didn’t work out.”

“What?” Bentz had a guess but he wanted it clarified.

“The marriage.”

“Why didn’t it?”

Again the catty smile. “I could say we grew in different directions.”

“But I wouldn’t buy it.”

“She followed her career.”

“And you found someone else?” A trace of irritation marred Jeremy Leeds’s otherwise complacent expression. “Man is not by nature a solitary creature, Detective. I’m sure you know that.”

“So you’re sorry that you aren’t still married to Samantha.” The eyes narrowed, as if he expected a trap. “I just said I was sorry things didn’t work out for us.”

Bentz didn’t believe it. Not for a second. This guy was too phony. Too into himself. The man’s fingernails looked as if they’d been professionally manicured, his thick hair neat and recently trimmed, not an ounce of fat on his frame. The narrow, full-length mirror hanging near the coatrack said it all.

Bentz asked a few more questions, didn’t get a good hit off the guy, then got Leeds’s back up when he pried into the professor’s personal life, asking where he’d been on the nights that “John” had called the radio station.

“Come on, Detective. Don’t tell me you think I’m involved.” His eyebrows lifted. “If you presume to think that I had anything to do with what’s happening with Samantha, guess again, Detective. I wish her no harm. Don’t even care that she’s back here in New Orleans.”

He leaned over the desk, all personal, as if they were buddies. “Look, I admired her as a student, fell in love with her. She has charm. Charisma, for lack of a better word. And she was certainly one of my brightest students.”

“Because she got involved with you?” A muscle ticked near Leeds’s eye. “Because of her innate intelligence and inquisitive mind. That’s what attracted me to her, but, okay, shoot me for being a red-blooded male as I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I thought she was gorgeous
>and that had a lot to do with my attraction.” His smile was nearly wistful. And phony as a whore’s whisper of sweet nothings. An act. “It was over between Samantha and me a long time ago. I’m sure she’s told you as much. It’s basically by coincidence that we’re in the same city again.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” His eyes were razor-sharp again. “I’ve never moved,” he pointed out. “I’m still with the same university. Samantha and I had separated when she took that job in Houston. I didn’t want her to leave and when she did, well, the marriage was doomed.”

“So you got involved with another one of your students.” Leeds’s grin was unabashed. “Guilty as charged.” They talked a few more minutes. Bentz learned nothing more but had the distinct feeling that though Dr. Leeds seemed irritated to have his phone call interrupted and his office hours filled up with the questioning, the professor enjoyed being a part of the investigation, that he found it amusing to be interviewed by the police. His answers were clear, but there was an edge of condescension in his voice; he, of the high IQ, disdained others not as naturally intelligent as he.

Which was pure, unadulterated bullshit. As Leeds walked him out of the office and into the revered halls of the university, he said, “Drop in any time, Officer. If I can be of help, any help at all, just let me know.” More bullshit. The guy was playing games. Bentz walked outside to the oppressive heat. Storm clouds had rolled in, blocking the sun, threatening rain. The air was thick as Bentz strode through the parking lot and wondered how the hell a classy woman like the radio-doc could have ever been married to a bastard like Jeremy Leeds Ph.D. or no Ph.D. It seemed impossible.

But then he’d never been one to figure out the male/
female attraction game. His own ill-fated marriage was proof enough of that.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he flipped down the visor where his emergency pack of Camels was tucked. He punched in the lighter and jabbed a cigarette between his teeth as he nosed his cruiser toward the St. Charles exit of the parking lot. Kids were playing in the park across the avenue, a streetcar, windows open, ferried the curious sightseers and bored locals through the Garden District. The lighter popped. Bentz, waiting for the streetcar to pass and the traffic to thin, fired up his cigarette and drew in a deep lungful of smoke. Nicotine slipped easily into his bloodstream as passengers got off the trolley—a couple of black kids with backpacks and CD players, an elderly man in a plaid cap and a tall, dark-haired guy with wraparound sunglasses. From behind his shades he glanced in Bentz’s direction, then dashed through traffic to Audubon Park and past the group of kids kicking a ball around.

There was something about the guy that bothered Rick, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. So the commuter didn’t like cops. That wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t even uncommon. Bentz followed the guy with his eyes, smoke fogging the inside of the windshield. He watched as the man jogged across the clipped grass to the trees and lagoon beyond. The streetcar started up again, gaining speed. Bentz turned on his siren, cut across traffic and the double tracks in the median, turning toward the business district. At the sound of the siren, the jogger glanced over his shoulder, but didn’t increase his pace, just disappeared into the trees.

Probably a paranoid druggie with an ounce of weed on him.

Nothing more.

Flipping off his siren, Bentz pushed the jogger from his mind as he maneuvered through heavy traffic, all the while
considering the fragments of the Samantha Leeds case. Nothing seemed to fit.

Who the hell was John?

How was he involved with Annie Seger?

Why was a woman pretending to be a girl nine years dead?

Was there a connection between what was happening at the radio station and the murders being committed in the French Quarter—or was it just coincidence? Bentz had already talked to the Feds, even phoned Norm Stowell, a man he’d worked with in LA who’d once been a profiler at Quantico when he’d worked for the FBI. Stowell’s instincts had proven to be right-on more than once. Bentz trusted Stowell’s opinion, more than he did that of the kid who’d been assigned to the case. Stowell had promised to look over the information Bentz had faxed and get back to him.