Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (131 page)

Her mother wanted her to keep her silence. She wanted her to hold the secret safe. And Abby hadn’t breathed a word. Not ever. She hadn’t even remembered that she’d been in the room. Now, she was shaking, feeling with surprisingly sharp clarity her mother’s despair.

“Abby!” Zoey’s voice was like a slap.

The memory faded, withering away, and Abby found herself in the restaurant again, her salad sitting upon the place mat in front of her. Zoey stared at her anxiously across the table. Her face was strained, ashen. “The waitress asked you if you’d like ground pepper on your salad.”

“What?” Abby glanced down at the mound of dark green spinach leaves, pieces of mandarin oranges, bean sprouts, and succulent shrimp on the plate in front of her. She hadn’t even been aware that she was still in the restaurant, much less been served. Dear God, she was cracking up!
Just like Mom.

No!

Quickly she looked up at the waitress holding the huge pepper mill poised over her platter. She forced a tremulous smile. She was not like Faith. Not weak-minded.

“Pepper?” the waitress asked, probably for the third or fourth time.

“No, thank you,” Abby managed, and with a last, curious look, the round little waitress moved on to the next table.

“What’s the matter with you?” Zoey hissed. “Get a grip, for God’s sake!”

“I remember . . .” Abby leaned over the table, whispering just loud enough for Zoey and Zoey alone to hear.

Zoey didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She slowly set down her butter knife. “What happened?”

“She wasn’t alone.”

“I know that, you were there.”

“No, not just me, Zoe. There was a doctor in the room and . . . and I think . . . Oh, Lord, I can’t believe this, but I think he was
abusing
her.”

“Abusing her?” Zoey stared at Abby as if she, too, had lost her mind.

“Molesting her.”

“Jesus, Abs!”

“I know, I know, but as I recall, her blouse and bra were undone and . . .” She hesitated. “I can see his face, but . . .” She tried to think, to roll back the years, to call up his name, but nothing came to her, just the start of a headache that pounded through her brain. She drew a calming breath and glanced across the table. “Do you remember who was treating Mom? What the psychiatrist’s name was?”

“There were lots of doctors and nurses.” Slowly, as if she were acting by rote, Zoey dipped the ends of her fork tines sparingly into the small cup of dressing, then pronged her bite of lettuce and shrimp. “I don’t know. She was in and out of the hospital a lot. The staff came and went.”

“I know, but I’m talking about that last stay. Who was seeing her right before she died?”

“I can’t remember, but Dad would know.” She shook her head. “But he’s so frail. I don’t want to drag him into this.”

“I don’t think we have a choice, Zoe. I have a feeling that whoever that doctor was, he not only abused Mom, he might have killed her as well.”

“Oh, now, come on . . . Now you’re accusing this man of . . . what? Sexual molestation and . . . murder? You think he pushed Mom out of the window?”

Abby squeezed her eyes shut, tried to hold on to the memory, but it was slippery, skimming in and out of her consciousness. “Go visit Dad tomorrow. See what he knows.”

“And what will you do?” Zoey asked suspiciously.

“Keep trying to remember.” She ran her hands through her hair and regarded her sister. “You should have told me. I don’t care what the doctors said. I needed to know. I still need to know.”

“Nobody wanted you to keep having those nightmares.”

“I had those nightmares because no one’s been honest with me!”

“Okay, okay . . .”

They drifted into uneasy silence. Abby chased her salad around her plate with her fork. She now knew what she had to do, but she couldn’t confide in her sister. Zoey would have a fit.

But armed with this new information, Abby was certain if she went back to the hospital, she would remember everything. If she wanted to learn the truth about what had happened to her mother, if she wanted to break the hold her mother’s death still had on her, then she needed to step back in time . . . she needed to force her way into Room 307 at Our Lady of Virtues Hospital.

Only then would she really know what had happened.

Montoya pushed the stack of photographs to one side of his desk, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes. He’d been at the desk for hours. He’d been looking over each snapshot he’d taken at the Courtney LaBelle candlelight vigil, then later her funeral, and finally Luke Gierman’s service. He’d do the same thing when Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson were laid to rest.

So far he had a stack of photographs of people he hadn’t yet identified. He’d separated that pile down, pulling out the females, then weeding through the men until he found those who were big enough to wear a size twelve. Even so, this could be a wild-goose chase. Who was to say that the killer had attended either service?

Even if the psycho had shown up, he would probably disguise himself . . . he could even come as a woman . . . albeit a tall one.

Frustrated, Montoya ran a hand around the nape of his neck, then climbed to his feet to stretch his back and legs. He had too much restless energy to sit at a desk for hours.

They didn’t want him on the front lines till they knew more about his aunt. It was frustrating. Who better than he to search for his Maria? He knew he wasn’t objective, but so what? No one wanted to find her abductor more than he did. Just as no one else was more concerned for Abby Chastain’s safety.

“Crap,” he muttered.

His family was going nuts. From the time Maria had gone missing, every aunt, uncle, and cousin twice removed had phoned him, either demanding answers or sharing their deepest fears.

None of which were any deeper than his own. With each passing second that Maria and Billy Ray Furlough were missing, he’d grown more certain they were victims of foul play. Every time the phone rang, he gazed at it uneasily, half expecting to learn someone had stumbled upon their grotesquely entwined bodies.

So far, that phone call hadn’t come in.

Montoya expelled air from his lungs and tried to force the odd pieces of the murder puzzle into some sort of sane pattern even though he knew he was dealing with a deranged individual.

He reread the note from the killer.

REPENT

AL

Repent for what? What had Luke Gierman, Courtney LaBelle, Asa Pomeroy, and Gina Jefferson had in common? What sin had they all committed? And what the hell did it have to do with Our Lady of Virtues?

Again, he viewed the pictures of the crime scenes on his monitor. Why were the male victims stripped bare? Why the women fully clothed and lying over them? Why the precise staging? The FBI profiler hadn’t come up with anything more than the usual . . . if a killer could be described as anything near “usual.” The same old stuff, white male in his late twenties to early forties, from a middle-class or lower-class family, someone who was probably abused as a child, someone who set fires and killed animals before escalating to humans, someone who had a fascination with the police and law enforcement . . . Montoya knew the drill.

But this guy, his gut told him, was different. This guy had taken the serial killing game to a new level.

Since Montoya was sidelined from the case, Bentz and Brinkman had returned to the convent as well as visited Billy Ray Furlough’s compound. The FBI—the agency in charge—was dealing with the worried wife and children, checking with friends, family, and members of the church, all the time waiting for a ransom demand that Montoya doubted would come through.

He leaned back in his chair and opened his desk drawer. He found a pack of Nicorette gum, unwrapped it, and popped a tasteless piece in his mouth. Craning his neck, he peered through the open door to Bentz’s office, then glanced out his window, where gray clouds were weaving their way inland from the Gulf.

Soon it would be night again.

And Montoya was afraid the killer would strike.

What if the son of a bitch took Abby’s gun?

He considered camping out at her house again, but he knew that, if he did, he’d end up in her bed. Their lovemaking had been hot, desperate, and addictive.

He reminded himself she wasn’t alone.

Her sister was staying with her. And anyway Abby had her dog, and Miguel had promised to install a security system ASAP.

But her ex-husband’s gun was missing and that made him crazy.

Maybe she’d misplaced it.

Or maybe someone had stolen it.

And maybe that thief was the killer.

He swore beneath his breath in frustration, changing the screen on his computer and studying a digital image of a map of New Orleans and the surrounding area. It was large enough to encompass all the places where the murders had occurred. Places where the bodies had been found were pinpointed in red. The places from where the victims had been abducted were marked in blue, and spots where their vehicles had been located were in orange. Also, each victim’s place of employment and residence had been color coded. Montoya stared at the map, but try as he might, he saw no correlation.

He even played with the data, coloring everything that had to do with one victim, home, employment, abduction site, murder locale in one hue, then designating another for the second victim, and so on and so forth . . . but no pattern jumped out at him.

He frowned and shook his head. He was going at this all wrong. He looked at the crimes themselves. The commonality of the victims was twofold. First there was the obvious yin and yang of it all, victims selected based on the fact that they were diametrically opposed to each other, with good and evil being represented. The staging of the deaths represented the “good” half of the whole destroying the “bad.” Then, of course, there was the link of each victim, however thin it was, to the old mental hospital. He still couldn’t shake that.

He was still thinking about the old hospital when his cell phone rang. “Montoya,” he answered.

“Hi. This is Maury Taylor, down at WSLJ.”

Montoya’s muscles tensed. “Yeah?”

“Well, you told me to call if I got another one of those notes. And I did. Today.”

Montoya was already reaching for his jacket. “Don’t do anything with it,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

“I thought I’d talk to the guy on the program again. You know, draw him out—”

“No!” Holding the phone in one hand, he thrust his other hand down the sleeve of the jacket, shaking his arm a bit to get the stiff leather over his shoulder holster.

“Look, I think I have the right to—”

“You have no rights where this is concerned. Got it? Don’t touch the letter, don’t open it and—”

“I already opened it.”

The stupid little dick.

“I had to make sure it was from the same guy. Don’t worry, I didn’t touch it . . . well, not much.”

“Listen, Taylor, don’t do anything! You got it? Nothing!” He clicked the cell phone off and slid it into his pocket. Then he was out the door.

CHAPTER 25

T
he note read:

ATONE
LAW

As he stood in Eleanor Cavalier’s office with the program manager and Maury Taylor, Montoya held the single white sheet of paper in his gloved hands. He checked the postmark—not only was it New Orleans, but the two notes had been processed through the same station. In fact, they were nearly identical. Montoya read the information over and over again, then added the new note into a plastic evidence bag.

“This is all you got?” he asked and Maury nodded.

“You’re welcome to look through the rest of the mail,” Eleanor offered, “but this is the only item that looked pertinent.”

Through the plastic, Montoya read the note one last time. What was with the religious instruction? First REPENT, signed by A L. Then ATONE, signed by LAW. Was it a signature? He didn’t think so. It looked like the killer was trying to tell them something, but what?

“I think I should be able to mention on the air that the killer is contacting WSLJ,” Maury said in an obvious ploy to appeal to Eleanor’s penchant for higher and higher ratings. “It’s tantamount to a public service announcement.”

“We’ll decide that,” Montoya told him.

“But it came to
this
station,
my
show. I should get to use it to make the public aware.”

“Of what?” Montoya asked.

“Maybe someone close to the killer has seen this,” Maury suggested. “They’re unaware that their husband or best friend is the maniac.”

“He’s got a point.” Eleanor tapped a red-tipped fingernail alongside her jaw. She was leaning toward the ratings spike, too.

Montoya managed to mash down his temper. “Okay, look, here’s the deal. I’m going to take it in for analysis, have the lab and our handwriting experts and the cryptologist do their things with it. If we decide to make it public, you get first crack.”

“I’m thinking an exclusive,” Maury said, pushing his luck.

“If you can get the FBI to agree.” Montoya shrugged. He hated giving the worm anything, but it wasn’t his call.

“We have been complying with you,” Eleanor pointed out. “I could recant all those nasty things I said about you to Melinda Jaskiel.”

“Too late. Damage done.” His cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “If you get any other letters, let me know. I’ll talk to my boss and the Public Information Officer about an exclusive. They’ll speak to the feds and we’ll get back to you.”

Maury looked about to argue as the phone rang again. He thought better of it as Montoya pressed the phone to his ear and walked down the long hallway toward the front door. Melba, the receptionist, offered him a smile and a wave, obviously through being miffed at him for rushing in and nearly throttling Taylor. Montoya figured that secretly everyone at the station was glad someone had knocked the cocky son of a bitch down a peg or two.

“Montoya,” he answered on the third ring, shouldering open the door.

“Hello, Detective,” Our Lady’s Mother Superior greeted him, identifying herself. “I’ve talked with several detectives since I first called you about Sister Maria and I’ve given them all the information I had, including those personnel and patient records.”

“Good.”

“But there’s something else you should know about, and it’s personal.” She sounded unsure of herself. “I need to speak to you. In person.”

He felt it then, that little niggle in his brain that warned him when something was about to change. “You know, because of my relationship with Maria, I’ve been taken off the case.”

“What I have to say is for your ears only. It requires the utmost discretion.” Her voice brooked no argument.

He thought about the investigation and what his superiors would say about being a rogue cop, but when push came to shove, he didn’t give a good goddamned what would happen to him. If he lost his badge, so be it.

He wouldn’t do anything to compromise the investigation.

Unless it meant taking the killer out. He could do that and hang the consequences. Justice would be served and he’d save the state of Louisiana a pile of money in the process.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” he said.

“Thank you, Pedro.”

“My name is Reuben.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. But I remember Sister Maria liked calling you by your confirmation name. Please come directly to my office when you get here.”

“I’ve got a stop first, but I can be there in an hour or two.”

“That’ll be fine.”

He hung up, jogged to his Mustang, climbed behind the wheel with a sense of renewed urgency. The clouds had thinned and the spires of St. Louis Cathedral shone a bright, nearly angelic white. Music greeted him, a saxophone player backed up by a guitar, and along with the bustle of pedestrians and the hum of traffic, the mule-drawn carriages rolled past. Behind the levee, the Mississippi moved steadily toward the Gulf.

All in all it was a beautiful day in New Orleans.

And yet behind every smiling face Montoya saw a killer. Whoever the son of a bitch was, he was blending in. Of all the calls that had come into the station—people who were quick to report suspicious activity of their neighbors, friends, family members, or enemies—nothing had panned out. The phone lines had been jammed with callers, the 911 operators overwhelmed, but after all was said and done, not one report of suspicious behavior could be connected to the killer.

Maybe this new note would be the break they were looking for.

He stepped on the accelerator as he blasted to the station, his mind turning back to the notes. Could LAW be in reference to the law? The criminal justice system? Was the guy making a mockery of all the law enforcement agencies trying to bring him to justice? Or was there something more? Something that was close at hand, something he could almost grasp, but couldn’t quite figure out?

There were a couple of obvious connections. LAW could be initials or the start of a name, such as Lawrence DuLoc, the caretaker at the convent. Montoya didn’t really like it. It seemed too easy, almost a setup. This guy wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was clever enough to steal weapons, abduct people, and leave the crime scenes with very little evidence for the police to work on. Still, since he was going to see the Mother Superior, he planned to ask some questions about DuLoc.

Montoya sped through a yellow light, then cut down a side alley. What if each letter was a symbol? Could the letter represent the victim?

L for Luke Gierman.

A for Asa Pomeroy.

W for . . . William. Montoya’s pulse jumped. The Reverend Billy Ray Furlough’s legal name was no doubt William. LAW . . . could that be it? Again it seemed almost too simple, but it made sense.

Dread settled in his soul. If his theory was right, it meant the preacher was already dead; otherwise the killer wouldn’t have sent the note, right? And if there was one dead body, there was bound to be another, a female to complete the whole of the yin and yang. Montoya realized that if his theory was correct, there was little doubt that his Aunt Maria had been murdered as well.

Anger surged through his veins and pounded in his pulse. Never had he felt so impotent. Though he knew better than to personalize the crimes, Montoya felt that the killer had singled him out, was taunting him.

Don’t lose your cool.

Keep a calm head.

Remain objective.

Maria may still be alive.

He sent up a prayer as he slid his car into a spot close to the station. The streets were clogged with news vans, their white exteriors emblazoned with the names of the stations they represented, satellite dishes and antennae spiking out of the roofs. Several reporters and cameramen were taking position on the front steps—the station doors a backdrop for the segments they were taping. Knots of pedestrians had slowed to rubberneck.

Montoya ducked in through the parking lot door and headed to the second floor, where he was greeted with the clicking of computer keys, the smell of stale coffee, and the buzz of conversation. Detectives were interviewing suspects, discussing cases, or at their desks shuffling paperwork or talking rapid-fire into phones jammed between their shoulders and ears.

Zaroster was at her desk. He slid the note in its plastic evidence bag across to her. “Looks like our pen pal’s back.”

Zaroster eyed the note and whistled softly. “So we have another double homicide out there somewhere?”

“Unless he writes the notes first, then offs his victims.”

She sent him a look that accused him of knowing better.

“Look, I’ve got an errand to run. Could you get this to the lab with a copy to the cryptologist.”

“How’d you end up with this? I thought you weren’t supposed to be on the investigation.”

“Maury Taylor at WSLJ called me. We’re old friends. Go way back.”

“My ass,” she muttered, but took the note and said, “I’ll get this to the lab and see how it compares to the other one.”

He rested a hip on her desk. “How’re we coming with all the evidence?”

“Oh, ‘all’ of it. Let’s see, the lab is still working on the black hair, no DNA matches yet. The bridal dress was recognized by one shop owner as looking like a ‘Nancoise’ creation, whatever that is . . . kind of like a cheaper version of Vera Wang, I guess. We’re looking into it, trying to get hold of Nancoise herself to see if she has any records. No epithelials or trace that means anything. The boots are regular hunting stock, made by, get this, Pomeroy Industries, their clothing division, so we’re making some headway there, although that particular tread hasn’t changed in four years, so it’s slow goin’.

“I did manage to find out something about the caretaker out at Our Lady of Virtues. Lawrence DuLoc? He’s got a record, all stuff done about twenty years ago when he was a kid.”

“What stuff ?”

“Aggravated assault charge—that was dropped. Then later a domestic violence incident, again charges dropped.” She shrugged. “Not much, but something. He’s tall and wears a size eleven and a half shoe, but he’s got alibis for the times of the murders. Brinkman’s checking them out.” She sighed and shook her head. “I talked to DuLoc. He just doesn’t seem to have the smarts to pull off this kind of thing.” She frowned. “You think he could be our guy?”

“Doesn’t sound like it. Our psycho wants to outsmart us and then shove it in our face. Hard for him to pretend he’s no Rhodes scholar. He wants us to know how brilliant he is.”

“So . . . ?”

Montoya was already heading for the stairs. “So, we keep DuLoc on the list and push forward.”

“You’re not on the case,” she yelled after him.

Montoya kept moving.

The pain was an irritation.

His hands clamped around the steering wheel and he felt sweat soaking into his neoprene suit. The first hint of exhaustion was pulling at him. Though he’d rested for a few hours, he could feel his body’s need for sleep.

It would have to wait.

Until after.

His plans were set in motion, and he knew that soon he would feel that unique buzz that kept him going, that rush of adrenalin through his bloodstream that would carry him through and lift him up.

The damned wound bothered him. It hindered him more than he’d expected. Things weren’t going as well as he’d planned, not as smoothly as they had been. Ever since he’d underestimated Billy Ray Furlough, and the bastard had plunged that stupid tool into his chest.

He gritted his teeth.

Carefully, he drove the white Lexus out of the city and into the wilderness. The vehicle handled well but stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. Which was a problem. He glanced into the backseat, where his latest victim was shaking like a leaf, eyes blinking rapidly, mewling behind his gag, already pissing himself and causing the car to reek with urine.

You should be scared, you lazy little bastard . . . just you wait.

If the mewling got any worse, he’d use the ether or another shot with the stun gun.

He’d attended Gierman’s service earlier today even though he’d known the police would be watching, monitoring all of the bereaved.

Imbeciles!

They were so easily outsmarted.

He’d walked directly past the cop taking pictures on the sly.
Snap, snap, snap.

What a joke.

Pedro, the picture-taking detective. The defiler who had slept in Abby Chastain’s bed.

Thinking of them rutting, he lost control for an instant, the Lexus wandering over the center line. No! He could not bring attention to himself. Fortunately there was little traffic on this back road. To calm himself, he flipped on the radio, heard some classical crap, then managed to find WSLJ. But
Gierman’s Groaners
wasn’t on the air at the moment.

Another aggravation.

Hadn’t that stupid radio jock discovered the second letter? Why wasn’t he on the air crowing about it? He checked his watch. It was early yet, darkness a few hours away, which made his job all the more difficult.