Hot Blooded (35 page)

“I could use the company,” he said, linking his hand with hers and tugging her closer to him. He nuzzled her cheek. “We could have some fun.”

It was tempting. “No doubt, but I have things I’ve got to do here.”

“Like?” He slung his arm around her shoulders.

“Catch up on my sleep for one. Someone’s been robbing me of it.”

“Are you complaining?” His lips were warm against her skin, and she felt the rush of heat she always did when he touched her.

“Complain?
Moi?”
She feigned innocence. “Never. But I do have things I need to do. You work on your end of this case, and I’ll try to start figuring out the other.”

“Meaning ‘John.’” His smile fell away, and the arm he’d wrapped around her shoulders tensed.

“To start with. How does he know the number for the second line? He called in after hours, line one—the one listed in the phone book—was free and yet he dialed in on line two.”

Ty’s jaw hardened. “You think he’s someone who works at the station?”

“I don’t know, but it’s definitely a possibility.”

“Have you told the police?”

“Not yet. I didn’t want to say anything last night because I didn’t want to freak out anyone who was working there.”

“Or tip them off,” he said. “Neither Tiny nor Melanie could have called in.”

“But they could be working with an accomplice.” She shook her head. “It’s possible, yes…but I don’t know why they would. More likely it would be George Hannah or someone who would directly benefit from the increased listenership. Melanie wants my job, whether she admits it or not. She’s always hoping I’ll retire or move on, so she would prefer it if my audience fell off and she could step in…well, that’s a little far-fetched. And Tiny…the guy’s got a major crush on me. I know that sounds vain, but it’s true.”

“I believe it,” Ty said.

“Neither of them would want to hurt me. We’re too close.

I’m thinking that someone at the station inadvertently gave the number to a friend or acquaintance.”

“Or on purpose,” Ty added, his lips compressing. “There’s still the very strong possibility that ‘John’ is someone who works with you.” He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze, but the look in his hazel eyes was deadly. “And if the son of a bitch has any connection to the station, trust me, we’ll get him.”

“Take a look at her neck,” Montoya was saying as he squatted next to the victim in the seedy hotel room. She was posed, just as the others had been, hands folded in prayer, legs splayed. “Same markings as the others, but check this out,” he pointed to a spot just above the hollow of her throat. “There’s something different here, another mark, like something was dangling from the chain like it had a tail…See here…maybe a medallion or a charm or a cross. You know, like she was strangled with her own necklace.”

“Or his,” Bentz said, his gut twisting. “He brings his own special noose.”

“And he took a trophy. See her left ear—all the metal—the earrings? One of them is missing.” “Was the radio on?”

“Oh, yeah. Tuned into WSLJ.”

Bentz glanced at the night table…saw the hundred-dollar bill with the black eyes. All part of the sicko’s signature, but
what did it mean? Why was Ben Franklin blinded? So he couldn’t see? So he wouldn’t be recognized? “Time of death?”

“We’re guessing around midnight. The ME’s on his way, and then we’ll have a better idea.” Montoya clucked his tongue. “She’s younger than the rest.”

She’s younger than Kristi,
Bentz thought, his jaw clenching. This dead girl, hooker or not, was someone’s kid, someone’s friend, probably someone’s sister and quite possibly someone’s mother. His jaw was suddenly so tight it ached. What kind of bastard would do this?

“She’s a local girl, been picked up for a few priors.” He handed Bentz a bag with the victim’s ID. “And check this out…” Through the plastic, Montoya shuffled the girl’s driver’s license, social security card and a few photographs until he came to a worn business card. “Isn’t this what you’ve been looking for?”

The card was stock for WSLJ radio station, personalized in one corner for Doctor Samantha Leeds, host of
Midnight Confessions,
AKA Dr. Sam.

“Hell,” Bentz said, glancing back at the body on the bed. The crime-scene team was vacuuming, and the photographer was snapping pictures of the area.

“You were so damned sure there was a link…well, it looks like you were right,” Montoya said. “Somehow this girl knew the radio shrink.”

Which wasn’t good news. Bentz was working on a theory, one that he wasn’t certain held any water, but an idea that wouldn’t go away. What if the killer wasn’t choosing victims at random any longer, what if he was escalating, the crimes getting more frequent, what if he was moving to his primary target…what if his intent was to kill Samantha Leeds?

That’s not the way it usually worked; but this case wasn’t usual. The guy wasn’t tipping off the police or the newspapers or trying to gain some glory, except to call Dr.
Sam…. He wasn’t the usual creep…. Bentz glanced at the ligature around the victim’s neck and felt like there was something important in the spacing of the marks surrounding her throat, something he should understand.

“Didn’t you say the hotel clerk got a look at the guy?”

“Yeah.” Montoya was moving out of the way of the photographer. “She’s in the hotel office right now.” He flipped out his small notebook. “Her name is Lucretia Jones, has worked here about nine months, and already gave a statement to the first officers on the scene. I asked her to stick around cuz I figured you’d want to talk to her.”

Bentz nodded. “Anything else?” “We’ve got the original registration he signed as John Fathers.”

“He gave an address?”

“Houston.”

Bentz glanced at Montoya. “Anyone check it out?”

“Fake. He had the street right—Annie Seger’s street—but there’s no such number.” Montoya’s gaze met Bentz’s as they walked into the outer hallway, where a few curious bystanders were craning their necks. “I’d say the address is another damned good link.”

For once Bentz wasn’t glad to have his gut instincts proved right. “Didn’t John Fathers have to give a driver’s license, offer up some kind of ID?”

“Apparently not. Just anted up with cash—a hundreddollar bill for a forty-nine-dollar room. No luggage. It’s really not a big deal in a hotel like this. It’s all pretty common—guys pick up a hooker, and they rent a room. No one asks any questions.” They paused in front of the elevator. Montoya pressed the call button.

“You said the clerk’s in the office?” Bentz asked. “Let’s see what she has to say.”

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into a cramped car which deposited them into a once-far-more
elegant lobby that was now shabby at best. The chandelier, a glimpse of a more prosperous time, was dusty, with many bulbs dimmed, the potted plants near the doors drooping, the carpet threadbare, with a vacuum cleaner left unattended in one corner. What had been genteel eighty years earlier was now downright shabby, a musty, dark alcove with a desk that hadn’t been replaced in the past century or two.

Two women in matching black skirts, jackets and white blouses, were working behind the desk, peering at computer screens that seemed out of place in the ancient building. A heavyset guy who could have been a bellman or a janitor was slurping coffee in the doorway leading to a back room. Bentz flashed his ID, explained what he wanted and the taller of the two women motioned both Bentz and Montoya around the desk. “Lucretia’s back here,” the receptionist said. “But she’s already spoken to one of the officers.”

“This’ll just take a minute,” Bentz assured her, as she led them down a short corridor to a brightly lit room, where a computer hummed, a table complete with coffee rings dominated the middle of the room and an old couch was pushed against a wall near the microwave and refrigerator. A rail-thin black girl sat drinking a can of diet cola. Her eyes, large to begin with, were huge today, as if she were scared, and seemed to bulge from a head supporting hundreds of tiny braids that were all pulled together at her nape.

She stood as he entered, and the receptionist explained who they were. Bentz waved her back to the couch and took a seat in a folding chair. Montoya lingered in the doorway.

“You were on duty last night?” Bentz asked, and she nodded quickly.

“Yes.”

“And you took the registration for the guest who rented the room where the murder victim was found?”

“Uh-huh. I, um, I already gave the card he filled out to the other officer.”

From the corner of his eye, Bentz saw Montoya nod slightly, indicating the police had already retrieved the registration form.

“So you got a good look at the guy as he registered last night,” Bentz asked.

“Yes.” Lucretia nodded, her tiny head bobbing beneath all that hair.

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Just what I told the other cop—er, officer. He was about thirty, I’d guess, and tall and big—not fat, but…strong-looking, like maybe he lifted weights or something, a white guy with real dark hair—almost black and…he was wearing sunglasses, real dark, which was kinda different and strange but then…” She shrugged her thin shoulders, indicating that she’d seen it all.

“Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. I remember noticing that his face was scratched, like someone had raked a set of fingernails down his cheek.”

“You remember anything else, what he was wearing?”

“Black—all over, I mean, a black T-shirt and jeans and a leather coat, I thought that was kinda odd cuz it’s so hot, but then he had on the shades as well. But he…he gave me a weird feeling.”

“Weird, how?”

She glanced away. “There was something about him, something…oh, this sounds so strange, but he seemed kinda dangerous, but kinda cool in a way. He carried himself all tall and like he knew what he was doin’. I don’t know how to explain it. I was nervous, probably because of the glasses, but he smiled and it wasn’t cold or weird or anything, it was a good smile. Real bright. Kinda reassuring.” She stared at the half finished bottle of cola in her hands. “I shoulda trusted my first instincts.”

The poor woman was beating herself up because of the
dead girl. “You can help us now, Lucretia,” Bentz said, leaning forward on his elbow, hands clasped between his legs, gaze holding hers. “I’d like you to come down to the station and describe the man to a police artist, who will draw your guy and then have a computer enhance it, make it look more real. It would help a lot.”

She blinked her too-big eyes. “Sure. Anything.” “Good.” Bentz felt a surge of adrenaline. He was getting closer to the guy, sensed he was closing in on the son of a bitch—hoped to living hell that he could stop the bastard before he struck again.

Estelle Faraday had aged. The past nine years coupled with her grief and hours spent playing tennis under the relentless Houston sun had robbed her of the vitality Ty remembered. She’d invited him to sit outside in a wicker chair, under the overhang shading her private verandah. Fans twirled overhead, two steps down a wide pool stretched to a fence guarded by shrubbery. A statue of the Virgin Mary, her arms spread wide, was flanked by terra-cotta pots filled with petunias, their pink-and-white blossoms offering bright splashes of color. A maid had brought iced tea and lemon cookies, then disappeared through glass doors into the huge, two-storied stucco house in this upscale neighborhood. The cookie plate hadn’t been touched, ice was melting in tea glasses sweating in the heat.

“I think you should understand,” Estelle said, the diamonds in her tennis bracelet sparkling on her slim wrist, “that the only reason I met with you face-to-face was to ask you not to write your book about my daughter.” The lines around her mouth grooved deep. “All it would do is cause the family more pain and embarrassment, and personally, I think we’ve all suffered enough.”

“I think it’s time to write the truth.”

“Oh, save me, Tyler!” She slapped her hand onto the table. “This isn’t about the truth, and you know it. It’s about money—some trashy pulp fiction, no, I stand corrected, trashy true—and I use the term loosely, believe me—true crime novel. You and that sleazy agent of yours are only interested in titillation and innuendo. You’re going to take your own family’s tragedy and turn it into a profit, so don’t go there on that lofty, false high road of yours. You’re not here in the interests of serving the truth, you’re only trying to pad your wallet. I’m sure that Wally is in on it, too. He never gave his daughter the time of day while she was alive. I had to force him into court to pay his measly child support, so Wally only wants to find a way to make a buck.”

“If you say so.”

“We both know it.”

Ty wasn’t going to let her rile him. He’d known this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. “I would think you’d want to know what really happened to Annie and her baby. Your grandchild.”

A dark shadow crossed those opalescent eyes, and she looked away, training her gaze on the smooth, calming surface of the pool. “It doesn’t matter,” she said in a harsh whisper. “They’re both gone, Tyler.” “I think Annie was murdered.” “Oh, God.” She shook her head. “There’s always been talk about it, of course, but that’s foolishness. The truth of the matter is that Annie was a very confused and scared girl. Too frightened to come to me.” Her voice cracked and her chin wobbled slightly. “I have to live with that, you know. That my own daughter turned to someone else, a
radio
psychologist who probably didn’t even have a degree…” Estelle’s fist opened and closed, manicured nails digging into her palm. “She called that…that…disk jockey instead of confiding in me.”

“I know this is difficult.”

“Difficult?
Difficult?”
Facing him once again, she skewered him with eyes filled with hate and self-loathing. “This isn’t difficult, Ty. Difficult is going through a divorce and facing the ostracism of church and family. Difficult is watching your parents fail and die, difficult is dealing with a child whose heart has been broken by their negligent father. Annie’s suicide wasn’t difficult. It was hell.”

“If she was killed, don’t you want her murderer found and brought to justice?”