Shiver

by Lisa Jackson

  He imagined her fear as she struggled with the steering wheel.

  He licked his lips as she managed to right the Honda and drive out of sight.

  His heart pumped wildly and he felt a bit of sweat upon his upper lip. She looked so much like Faith…his throat went dry and lust slid like a hot, determined snake through his veins.

  Faith…oh, beautiful…

  His head pounded and he remembered the sweet, welcoming warmth of her, the way she gasped as he entered her, the glimmer of fear beneath the hot, anxious look in her eyes. His body thrummed as he thought of her seduction, her ultimate surrender, the need that had caused her to pant beneath him and press her teeth into his shoulder.

  His lips curled back as he sucked in his breath. God, how he wanted her now, ached to feel the hot, urgent suppleness of her body clinging to his.

  All in good time, he reminded himself as he squeezed his eyes closed. Faith’s face came to him…her hot eyes, her throaty laugh, the naughty invitation of her slick lips. And as he imagined her, almost smelled her, her features altered slightly and the memory of the mother became a vision of the daughter.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Look, I’m telling ya, it was the last time I saw him,” Maury Taylor insisted as they stood in the reception area of the radio station. Bentz, having called in advance, had shown up about the time that Maury, spending extra hours in Luke Gierman’s chair, was free. The Gierman show was being played at various times in the afternoon and evening and apparently, from the latest poll, skyrocketing in the ratings.

  That’s what being killed did for a person. Instant fame. Or infamy. In Gierman’s case, it was probably the latter.

  “I explained this all to that other detective. What was his name?” Maury asked, then snapped his fingers. “Brinkman, the big guy with the gut.”

  Bentz nodded. “I know, but I was out of town and I’m just double-checking a few details,” he said, which was pure garbage. Brinkman had done a decent enough job talking to everyone at the station, but Bentz just wanted his own “hit” about how things were going down here.

  Besides, this was familiar territory. He’d been here often enough a few years back when Father John, a psycho of the worst order, was haunting the streets of the city. The killer’s fascination with Dr. Sam, a late-night radio psychologist, had been a grisly nightmare.

  The radio station, a block off Decatur Street and close to Jackson Square, looked pretty much the same as it had then, the reception area with its padded benches, one wall covered by a glass case filled with awards and news items, pictures of celebrities, and even an authentic voodoo doll. Melba, the receptionist, seemed forever on the phone.

  “I don’t know anything else except Luke was really pissed, and I mean really pissed at his ex-wife,” Maury explained. “She’d thrown away some of his stuff and he let her have it on the show that day.” He pulled a face. “I know we do some pretty off-the-wall things here, but usually Luke didn’t overdo the personal shit, you know, he wasn’t into bringing up his own personal dirty laundry. He had kind of an…unwritten rule or code of ethics about that.”

  “Code of ethics?” Bentz didn’t buy it. He figured Gierman would have done anything including moon his own grandmother if he thought it would boost the ratings for his show as well as his own inflated ego.

  “It was, I don’t know, and he’d deny it to the death but…oh, hell,” Maury said when he heard himself.

  “But what?”

  Taylor glanced away, toward a colorful neon display that reflected pink and blue on his face, then returned his gaze to the policeman’s.

  “But I think he was still in love with her.” At the quirk of Bentz’s eyebrow, he quickly added. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I know. He liked the young ones. Hell, don’t we all? The way he told it, he couldn’t get enough…was a regular man-slut. I don’t know all the women he banged, but he told me about a few and I gave that information to the other cop. The only one I remember, and Luke only mentioned it once, when he’d had a few too many, was his wife’s sister.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah…it didn’t sit too well with the wife, if ya know what I mean. The minute Luke confided in me, even though he was drunk, he clammed up about it, laughed it off, like he was joking, but I don’t think so.”

  Bentz made a mental note and felt an old pang of anger. He’d been there. Man, oh, man had he been there. He didn’t know what it meant to Abby Chastain to know that her husband had cheated with her sister, but it couldn’t be good.

  “It really didn’t matter if the fling with his sister-in-law was true or not.”

  Like hell. It mattered a lot.

  “I just always had this feeling that he really never got over his ex-wife.”

  “Did he say so?”

  “Luke? Admit to being hung up on a woman who would have nothing to do with him? Nah. Not his style.” Maury raised his slim shoulders and shook his head. “But then who knows, maybe I got it all wrong.”

  “The ex-wife couldn’t have liked the attraction to her sister.”

  “Ooh, no. Ouch! You know what they say about love and hate.”

  Bentz didn’t disagree, but he knew from personal experience that the line between love and hate was so thin as to be invisible at times. Passion was a hair-trigger emotion.

  “Anyone mind if I look through his desk and his closet?”

  “Knock yourself out, but that other cop—”

  “Brinkman?”

  “Yeah! Geez, why can’t I remember that guy’s name?” Taylor snorted. “Not a good sign. I need my memory man, need to think fast on my feet or in my seat.” He offered up a proud, toothy smile. The high school geek who’d just made a touchdown. “The station manager’s talking about making me the next Gierman. How ’bout that?”

  Bentz figured the station manager wasn’t doing the listening public of New Orleans any great favors. “What about Brinkman?”

  “Oh. Right. He already looked through Luke’s stuff. Took what he wanted. Luke’s desk is this way.” Maury guided Bentz down the main hallway, known as “the aorta,” through the labyrinthine corridors of the old building. They passed other employees as well as glassed-in sound booths and editing rooms. “What about Gierman’s girlfriend?”

  “Nia?” Taylor snorted. “Nice ass. But not much upstairs, if ya get my drift.” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Not exactly a brainiac, and Luke, he’d get bored quickly if the woman couldn’t keep up with him. The physical chemistry was nice, always got him goin’, but that only lasts awhile, y’know.”

  As if this guy were Casanova or Dr. Phil. The trouble was, in Bentz’s opinion, this time Maury Taylor was right. Wasn’t Bentz, himself, a prime example? He’d never planned to remarry after his first wife, but in Olivia Benchet he’d found a woman who was, he’d discovered, his mental match as well as drop-dead gorgeous. What combination was sexier than that?

  Taylor, passing by a showcase of vintage LPs, was still rambling on, “Nia and Luke broke up—I guess you know that. From what I heard, she’d already found some new guy, a jock…even more of a workout nut than Luke, if ya can believe that. ‘Tall, dark, and handsome,’ she told Luke, then really stuck it to him. Claimed this guy was the best lover she’d ever had. Can you beat that? Ouch!” He looked over his shoulder at Bentz and gave him the we’ve-all-been-there look. “Turns out, little Nia had been seein’ this guy on the sly for weeks. How’s that for a turn of events? The cheater got cheated on. Some kind of cosmic justice.”

  “Except that the cheater ended up dead.”

  “Yeah,” Murray said, grimacing. “Except for that. Double ouch! Sucks, ya know?”

  “Big time.” They reached the back of the building, where a rack of built-in desks vied for wall space with lockers. “What about Gierman? Did he have any other girlfriends, or exes that he might have teed off?”

  “Don’t think so. On the air he always acted like he had a girlfriend whether he did or not. That was part of the routine,” M
aury said as he pointed out Gierman’s desk, where Sharpie pens were kept in one of those personalized cups with a picture of a chocolate Lab on it. On the bulletin board over the desk were snapshots of Gierman sailing, skiing, playing tennis, leaning against the fender of a sporty BMW, or romping with the same brown dog that was on the coffee mug—a virtual shrine to himself and his hobbies. An egomaniac if Bentz had ever seen one. The only other photo was a small one of a woman Bentz recognized as Abby Chastain. In the picture she was staring out to sea, her curly red-gold hair was tangled in the wind, her lips parted into a sexy smile that showed a hint of dimple. She had the kind of eyes that seemed to delve straight into a man’s soul.

  Yep, he figured, Maury Taylor was right. No one would keep a picture like this unless he was seriously hung up on the woman.

  Bentz glanced back at Taylor. The smaller man, too, was staring at the snapshot.

  “What did I tell you?” Taylor said, his jaw sliding to one side. “The only woman Luke Gierman ever really gave a damn about was his ex-wife.”

  Montoya eyed the crowd, mentally checking off each of the mourners who had come to stand around the chapel door at All Saints College. A young priest, Father Anthony, stood straight-backed on the steps in front of the lancet-arched doorway. Flanking the fresh-faced priest was the old relic, Father Stephen, his bare head bent in prayer. Beside him was Dean Usher, the brim of her hat dripping in the rain.

  Hundreds of students surrounded the chapel steps, each holding a candle, each listening raptly to the priest’s smooth, calm voice at this, the vigil for Courtney Mary LaBelle.

  Chapel bells tolled softly as Father Anthony, a rapt, fervent individual, recounted the joy of knowing “Mary” and the tragedy that she, who had pledged herself to the service of God, was struck down, so young. So innocent. So trusting in God. Father Anthony’s white collar, a stark beacon in the night, stood in deep contrast to his black shirt and suit. The priest lifted his hands in supplication.

  But he wore no vestments, Montoya noted, assuming the formal robes would be saved for the real funeral mass.

  Wind rushed through the campus, causing the Spanish moss to dance from the branches of trees overhead, as Father Anthony warned that no one should be “heavy of heart” as Mary was with the Father now, she was safe and cared for, in a place far better than the rest of the crowd was.

  Montoya listened with only half an ear.

  The group of mourners prayed and cried, holding their candles in the darkness, and as they did, Montoya photographed them with a small, hidden camera. The pictures would be blurry at best, but they were at least something; he was certain Father Anthony would not approve a video camera with lights filming the students, faculty, and whoever else happened to stop by in his or her hour of grief.

  Montoya only hoped that the killer would be hyped up enough to attend. Often times the murderer wanted to be a part of the investigation, to be close to the action, to revel in what he considered his superior intellect while the lowly police attempted to track him down. The killer would show up at the crime scene or the wake, or a vigil, joining with the others or hiding in the shadows, eager to be connected to the investigation and grief. It fed his ego to know that he was the mastermind behind the tragedy. It was usually only a matter of time before he showed his hand.

  So, Montoya pretended to pray, to listen heedfully to the priest’s words of wisdom, but all the while he was checking out the faces in the crowd, noting which seemed out of place…not that appearances would matter. Some killers had the innate ability to blend in, to look more than normal, to appear so boring and bland that no one would suspect them of being able to slice their wife’s throat, or shoot the neighbor for scratching a borrowed lawn mower, or plan with meticulous detail the deaths of a string of victims.

  At first no one had suspected serial killer Ted Bundy, a good-looking guy with a degree in psychology and a bright political future. Bundy had actually worked at a rape crisis center in Seattle. Then the BTK killer in Wichita was a compliance officer, a religious man who looked like an Average Joe. Closer to home there had been Father John and The Chosen One, neither of whom hadn’t raised anyone’s suspicions as they’d gone on their gruesome killing sprees. Dr. John McDonald, a brilliant young surgeon, was serving time for butchering his family, though he still vehemently protested his innocence.

  No one, by looks alone, could identify a killer.

  Meticulously Montoya photographed each and every individual who either genuinely or fraudulently expressed grief for Courtney Mary LaBelle. Someone who felt so fervently about the killings that they’d ventured out on this miserable, wet, blustery night.

  As if to reinforce his thoughts, the wind gusted, causing candles to flicker and die, umbrellas to be whipped out of clenched hands, and in one case turned completely inside out.

  “Let us pray to the Father,” the priest said, lifting his hands toward the heavens again, “and then come into the chapel for the rest of the service.” He folded his hands and bowed his head.

  Everyone standing near the chapel did the same.

  Except for Montoya.

  “You said you’d call back,” Zoey accused as Abby answered the phone in the kitchen.

  Abby’s gaze darted around the room. She was still creeped out by her experience at Our Lady of Virtues and couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.

  Which was just plain paranoid.

  No, not paranoid, just overly cautious.

  The refrigerator door was hanging open, Hershey standing expectantly beneath it, while Abby, with her free hand, searched through the bottles of half-used salad dressing and sauces to find a container of yogurt.

  “I waited for hours,” Zoey pouted.

  Oh, get over yourself, Abby thought. “I know, I know, Zoe. I’m sorry…time got away from me.” She was irritated that she felt the need to explain herself and apologize to her older sister. She was thirty-five, for crying out loud, not a baby, not a recalcitrant kid, not Zoey’s child. “I was busy. And no, I haven’t heard a word about Luke’s funeral.”

  “It has to be soon, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know when it ‘has’ to be. If his family decides to cremate him, they might hold a service later. Look, Zoey, I’m not sure what my role in this is. Or even if I have a role. Ex-wife isn’t particularly high on the food chain, y’know. It doesn’t exactly mean I have royal status or even real ties to the family. But that said, I’ll pay my respects. It’s just that I’m not sure I had any. Not in the end.”

  Zoey sucked air in through her teeth. “That bites, Abby.”

  “You didn’t hear his last radio program.” She opened the cap, then tugged off the plastic seal of her yogurt container. Her conscience twinging a bit, she decided there was no time like the present to fess up. “I went out there yesterday.”

  “Out where?”

  “To the hospital.”

  There was a pause and the silence stretched thin. “Why?” Zoey finally asked.

  “They’re going to tear it down and—”

  “Good!”

  “—and I thought I should visit the place.”

  “Because some know-nothing shrink told you to?”

  Abby felt her back bristle. She’d been to several psychiatrists since her mother’s accident, some better than others, but all, she assumed, knew what they were talking about. “Because it felt like the thing to do.”

  Her sister mumbled something under her breath she didn’t catch, then louder, asked, “So? How was it, Abby? A grand old time?”

  “Not funny, Zoe,” Abby said through her teeth. Why had she even brought it up? “To tell you the truth, it was weird as hell, okay? And spooky. Really spooky. The place is crumbling into total decay. I met a nun who used to work there. She saw me going over there because I had to park at the convent. Maybe you remember Sister Maria. She’s tall. Pretty. Latino, I think.”

  “Yes, I remember her,” Zoey said a trifle tersely.

  “
She was there the day that Mom died.”

  Zoey didn’t respond.

  “It was weird. She got me confused with you, I think. She seemed to think that I’d run into the hospital ahead of you and Dad, at least I think that’s what she meant.” Abby pulled open a drawer and found a spoon. “That I was running upstairs while she was coming down and that she met you with Mom’s present…or something like that.” Abby felt her eyebrows pulling into a knot. “At least I think that’s what she was getting at. As I said, it was all weird.” She dipped her spoon into the yogurt and took a small bite. Zoey still hadn’t responded. “Zoe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think of that?” The cool yogurt slid down her throat but she barely tasted it.

  “I—I don’t know why she would say anything of the sort. She must be pretty old. Probably confused.”

  “Most of the time she seemed pretty clear.”

  “Most of the time,” Zoey repeated, seizing on her words. “It’s been twenty years, Abby.”

  “Hey.” She held up her spoon and wagged it at the window, as if she were pointing at her sister. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re lying to me?”

  “Because I’m uncomfortable discussing the hospital and Mom’s death, that’s why. I know you don’t have closure on it, Abby, but I do and I don’t need to revisit it every time you have a birthday on the anniversary of her death.”

  “And her birth,” Abby reminded her sister.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. You had this special bond with her, this unique, God-granted karma or whatever you want to call it that no one but you understands. I get it. But I don’t get it, and as far as I’m concerned, we should move on.”

  “To Luke’s funeral?” Abby’s voice was dry.

  “Yes! Let’s get some closure there, too. And once he’s in the ground or cremated or whatever, then I say you and I, we have ourselves a couple of cosmopolitans, toast him—then bury him, the past, and the damned hatchet, okay?” She was talking faster and faster, her voice rising nearly an octave. When she’d finished, she was breathless.