by Lisa Jackson
“Okay, but there’s something else you should know.
“Oh great.” The lines over her eyebrows deepened. “Now what?”
“I received a greeting card last night.” Sam described the birthday card. “It was in my car.”
“Inside your car? But didn’t you lock the doors…?” she asked, then waved off her own question. “Of course you did, you’re not an idiot. As I said I already talked to the police last night, but I want to know what you think. What the hell is this all about?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out,” Sam said. “I’ve already talked to the police.”
“You had a busy night last night,” Eleanor observed. “I’ll tell George I want a guard not only at the front door of the building, but here, on the premises, at all times. No two ways about it. Until this all dies down. It’s one thing for the nutcase to make calls to the station, another one to threaten you personally.”
The intercom line beeped and Eleanor took the call. “Send “em back, and thanks, Melba,” she said. “Tiny and Melanie are gonna join us. Maybe they have a different spin on this.”
Within minutes, there was a sharp rap on the door. Melanie breezed in, with Tiny dragging at her heels.
They dropped into a short couch wedged between a file cabinet and a bookcase.
“Okay, Sam’s filled me in on what happened last night, but I’d like your impressions.”
“Sam’s got a maniac stalking her,” Tiny offered, rubbing his hands together nervously and avoiding Sam’s eyes. “I think he’s dangerous.”
“He’s probably just getting his rocks off by scaring her,” Melanie disagreed. She tossed her blond curls off her shoulder, and added, “He’s probably some tightly wound religious nut.”
“Even so, he could be dangerous. I listened to the tapes three times, and I think Tiny’s right. This guy is definitely off-balance. I want everyone to be extra careful. Don’t go out alone at night.”
“It seems he’s just targeting Sam.”
“So far,” Eleanor said. “Because it’s her show, but it’s personal with him.”
“And a game,” Samantha added. “Tiny’s right, the guy could be dangerous, but Melanie’s got a good point. The creep is getting his jollies by scaring me.”
“So be careful. Get a watchdog, carry Mace, don’t go out at night alone, check your car before you get in. Whatever it takes until we find who the son of a bitch is.” Eleanor’s dark eyes focused on each of them. “I already talked to George about adding security and upgrading our equipment so that we can trace our calls—so far I haven’t heard back. I don’t even know if it’s possible. But, if we have to call in the police or hire a private detective or whatever, I’m willing to do it. This has got to be monitored.”
“You mean stopped,” Sam corrected.
“Of course. Stopped.” Eleanor pointed a polished nail at each of them. “And I want to hear about it the second something out of the ordinary happens. Don’t wait until the next day, you call me directly. You all have my cell number. You can catch me anytime.”
The phone rang, and she glanced at her watch. “Damn. Well, I guess we were finished here anyway. I just hope we don’t have any more trouble. We’ve got that charity gig coming up—for the Boucher House and we’ve invited all the media. I wouldn’t want them to get wind of this.”
“We are the media,” Sam reminded her.
“You know what I mean.”
The phone jangled again and Eleanor reached for the receiver.” The meeting was over. Tiny and Melanie had already made good their escape. Sam was halfway to the door when she heard her name. “Wait—Sam—” Eleanor called after her.
Samantha looked over her shoulder as Eleanor ignored the third ring.
“You get in touch with the police again and you put the fear of God into them, y’hear? Tell the officer in charge he’d better nail this sucker’s butt or else there’s gonna be hell to pay!”
“Oh, that’ll make things move along faster,” Sam mocked.
“It damned well better.”
“Isn’t this your radio shrink?” Montoya asked, flipping a copy of a report across Rick’s desk. The air conditioner was on the blink, the office an oven. Bentz had propped a fan on the credenza behind him. It droned and swiveled, pushing hot air around the room.
“My what?” he asked, then caught sight of Samantha Leeds’s name. “Shit.” Bentz glanced up at Montoya who smelled of cigarette smoke and some cologne he couldn’t name. Even in the sweltering heat Montoya looked cool in his black shirt, matching jeans and leather jacket while Bentz was sweating like a pig. “More trouble?”
“Looks like.” Montoya paused to straighten a picture of the skyline that Bentz had mounted over a cabinet as Bentz scanned the report.
“Seems like her personal pervert hasn’t disappeared. Not only called the station, but left a threatening note in her car?”
“Mmm.”
“Was the car impounded?”
“Nope.”
“Why the hell not?” Bentz growled.
“It was dusted there.”
“And?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Bentz wondered, opening his drawer for a piece of gum and thinking it was time to give up on trying to quit.
“Because you’re used to the way things work around here.” Montoya reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a cassette. He dropped a cassette onto the desk, right in front of Bentz’s half-drunk can of Pepsi and the photos of Kristi. “Here’s the tape of last night’s show. The upshot is that last night, she got a couple more calls.”
“From the guy calling himself John.”
“And a woman—a dead woman.”
“I heard that one myself,” Bentz admitted, leaning back in his chair and still hankering for a smoke. “Annie.”
“You tuned in?” Montoya’s grin stretched from one side of his mouth to the other. He was obviously amused at the thought of Bentz sitting by the radio, phone in hand, ready to call dial-a-shrink.
“Yeah, I’ve listened every night, ever since I interviewed her. No one named John called last night.”
“Wrong. The pervert did call in. But it was after the show went off the air. It’s on the tape. The technician, Albert AKA Tiny Pagano, caught it on that tape.” He motioned to the cassette on Bentz’s desk.
“Just what we need.” Bentz had hoped Dr. Sam’s personal nutcase had given up his threatening calls. From the looks of the report, he’d been overly optimistic. “How’d you get a copy of this?” He found the gum and popped a piece into his mouth.
“From O’Keefe. He was one of the officers on duty last night and knew you were assigned the case. He and another guy interviewed Dr. Sam at the station, then were called to meet her at the parking garage because of the note in her car. According to O’Keefe the doc was pretty shook up.
“Do you blame her?”
“Hell, no.” Scratching thoughtfully at his goatee, Montoya asked, “So what do you make of it?”
“Nothin’ good.” Bentz chewed on the flavorless piece of gum. “Annie Seger. Who the hell is she?” he asked.
“Don’t know. I suppose we should leave it to the harassment boys. It’s really not your case. No one’s dead.”
“Yet.”
“I figured you’d have that attitude.”
“Thanks.” He had more work to do than time to do it; not only was there a possible serial killer on the loose and now the FBI was involved, but there were the usual number of homicides to investigate as well—domestic disputes turned bad, drive-bys, gang-related, sour drug deals, or people just pissed off at each other and ready to pull out a gun or knife.
Montoya produced a pocket recorder and played the tape where it was marked, the first call being the one from the girl claiming Dr. Sam had killed her, the second from the stalker. Rick heard Annie’s breathy voice again, then John’s smooth, suggestive tone, his icy calm that slowly eroded as the conver
sation with Dr. Sam progressed.
Montoya snapped off the recorder as a wasp slipped through the window screen and buzzed angrily at the glass. “I’d say John’s not giving up.”
“And the threats are more pointed.” Both recordings left Bentz with a bad feeling—a real bad feeling. The wasp made the mistake of coming close and he swiped at it angrily. He missed and the angry insect danced against the filmy glass of the window in a desperate attempt at freedom.
“Definitely more pointed.” Montoya found a rubber band on Bentz’s desk, drew back and let it fly. Snap! The wasp dropped dead to the floor. “Do you think they’re related—the call from Annie, then the one from John?”
“Could be.” Almost had to be. Bentz didn’t believe in coincidence. “Unless one triggered the other—the girl heard John’s call and thought she’d come up with something of her own.”
“So she just knows about Annie Seger.”
“Someone does.”
“Okay, so what was that crap about Dr. Sam being a hooker? A working girl? Does that make any sense?”
Bentz chewed his gum thoughtfully. “We’ll check it out. I want to know every day of Dr. Sam’s history, who she is, what makes her tick, why she decided to become a radio shrink. I want to know about her family, her boyfriends, this”—he pulled a file and checked his notes—“David Ross, a guy she went to Mexico with and every John, Jack, Johnson, Jackson, Jonathon, Jay, any man she’s ever dated that could be the caller.” The phone rang loudly. Bentz made a grab for it, but as his fingers grazed the receiver, he stopped short.
The woman they’d been discussing, the radio-shrink herself, appeared in the outer office. From the look in her eye he was willing to bet that a bad day was just about to get worse.
Chapter Sixteen
Bentz braced himself.
Samantha Leeds was marching through the desks sprinkled outside his door and heading toward his office.
Dressed in a skirt that buttoned up the front and a sleeveless white blouse, she was a good-looking woman, and the set of her jaw suggested she wanted answers and wasn’t going to leave until she got them.
“Detective Bentz,” she said as she swept through the door. Layered reddish hair bounced around a heart-shaped face with cheekbones most models would kill for. Green eyes zeroed in on Bentz and didn’t let go.
Montoya gave her a quick once-over, and, apparently liked what he saw. He’d been about to leave, but now resumed his spot near the file cabinet as she gave him a cursory glance, then leaned across Bentz’s desk.
“Can I talk to you?” Sam demanded. “Now?”
Bentz’s phone rang again.
“Yeah. Just hold on a sec.” He held up one finger and took the call. It was a short conversation from someone in the lab about the type of fibers found on the bodies of the two prostitutes—what manufacturer used the synthetic material for the wigs, specifically the red wigs that were missing from the murder scenes. The report was being faxed to Bentz, and the technician confirmed that the hairs were identical. As every piece of evidence had confirmed they were dealing with one killer and two victims. So far. The Feds would go nuts. He hung up and focused his attention on the woman standing in front of his desk. She was trying to look cool and composed, but she was nervous as a cat. Her fingers fiddled with the strap of her purse, and she shifted from one foot to the other.
“Have a seat,” he offered, then motioned to Montoya. “My partner. Detective Montoya. Reuben—Dr. Leeds, A.K.A. Dr. Sam.”
Samantha eased into one of the worn chairs on the far side of the desk.
“Pleased to meet you,” Montoya oozed, slathering on his Latin charm.
“Thanks.” She nodded. “I assume you were told about what happened last night.”
“Just got the report.”
“What do you think?”
“That this guy isn’t going to give up. That he’s got a real vendetta against you.” Rolling his sleeves over his elbows, he asked, “What do you think?”
“I think whoever sent the card thinks I killed Annie Seger and that the caller who identifies himself as John is somehow linked to Annie—though I don’t know how. She is dead, you know.”
“Tell me about her.”
Samantha took a minute, leaned back in the chair and cradled her purse in her lap. “I hosted a similar program in Houston nearly ten years ago. A girl who said she was Annie phoned in. She was sixteen, pregnant and scared out of her mind. I tried to help, to steer her in the right direction, but…” Samantha paled and looked out the window. One of her hands fisted, then slowly opened. “I wish…I mean I had no idea how desperate she was and…” Sam’s voice trailed off for a second. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat before she controlled herself. “…Annie swore she couldn’t confide in anyone and…she killed herself. Obviously someone blames me.”
“And last night someone impersonating Annie called your program,” Montoya said.
“Yes.” Sam fiddled with the gold chain surrounding her neck, avoided Bentz’s eyes for a second. “It wasn’t Annie, of course. I…I went to her funeral, I mean…I was asked to leave, but Annie Seger, the Annie Seger who called me in Houston nine years ago is definitely dead.” She blinked hard, but didn’t break down.
“You were kicked out of the funeral?” Bentz asked. “The family blamed me.” He reached for his pen. “The family?”
“Her parents, Estelle and Jason Faraday.”
“I thought her name was Seger.”
“It is—was. Her mother and biological father were divorced.”
Bentz made a note and caught a glimpse from Montoya as the sound of a truck rumbling by on the street below rumbled through the small room. “What about her father?”
“I—I don’t know. I mean, I did some research after the fact…oh, God, I think he lived in the Northwest somewhere.” Her eyebrows drew together, and her smooth brow furrowed.
“His name?”
“Wally…Oswald Seger, I think. Something like that.” She managed a tight, humorless smile. “I knew all this stuff nine years ago. In fact I fed on it. Tried to make some sense of it, but then…well, I decided to let it go.”
Bentz didn’t blame her, but it all had to be dragged up again; whoever was terrorizing her had made sure of that. “You have notes? Names, addresses, anything?”
She hesitated, her eyes thinning. “I think so. I saw the box of notes and tapes and all when I moved. I almost threw it out, but packed it away in the attic with the Christmas ornaments and old tax records. I can get it for you.”
“That would help. Call me when you find it, and I’ll have someone pick it up. I’d like to see anything you’ve got.” He made a note and asked, “What else do you remember about Annie? Did she have other relatives and friends?”
“A brother. Ken, no…Kent.”
“And the boyfriend? The father of her baby.”
“Ryan Zimmerman, I think. He was a couple of years older. A big athlete, I think, but I really can’t remember.” She shook her head. “I’ve spent a long time trying to forget.” Lines of strain evident around her eyes and mouth. The doc was putting on a pretty good show, but the harassment and threats were getting to her. She was sweating, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes indicated she hadn’t slept much in the last couple of days.
“I heard the tape,” Bentz said. “John referred to you being a prostitute again. What’s that all about?”
“He’s sick.”
“So there’s no truth to it?”
In an instant, she was out of her chair and leaning over the desk, her hands flat on a stack of letters and files. The defeat he’d witnessed seconds ago had disappeared. Two spots of color tinged her cheeks. “I thought I’d already made this clear!” she said, her green eyes snapping fire. “I have never, not one second in my life been a prostitute of any kind…” Her words faltered, and she closed her eyes as if to pull herself together. Bentz’s gut tightened. He saw Montoya tense as well. They’d hit pay dirt. He f
elt it. “Listen,” she said quietly, her face now draining of all color. “I have never sold myself for any amount of money, but there was a time when I was in college where, for a research paper, I got to know a couple of streetwalkers…here, in New Orleans. I went out with them, saw how they made their money, the kind of men who tried to pick them up, how they discerned a good trick from a bad, the whole psychology of the street life. It wasn’t just about prostitution but the subculture of the city at night.” She slowly sat down and looked straight at him. “But I don’t see what that would have to do with anything…”
“You did this for a class?” Montoya cut in, obviously doubting her.
“Yes!” She whipped her head around. “I got an A.”
“Any way we can verify that you were enrolled?”
“Look, I didn’t come down here to be humiliated. If you doubt me you could check with my professor…oh, God.” She bit down hard on her back teeth and looked up at the ceiling as if searching for cobwebs.
“What?”
“He’s my ex-husband,” she admitted and gave her head a little shake. “I, uh, was his student. But you can call him. Dr. Jeremy Leeds at Tulane.”
“We’ll look into it.” She seemed suddenly tired, nearly wilted in the chair. As if her outburst had taken all the fire out of her. But she’d get it back. Bentz knew people, and this woman, he was certain, was a fighter.
“Who knows where you park your car?”
“Everyone at the station. We all use that garage. And…some of my friends, I guess. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out as it’s the closest garage to the building where I work, and my car is pretty distinctive, a 1966 Mustang.” Her fists curled in her lap. “Look, Detective, last night I was scared out of my wits,” she admitted. “And I don’t like the feeling.”
“I don’t blame you. If I were you, I wouldn’t go out alone, and I wasn’t kidding about changing the locks and getting a rottweiler. Maybe even a bodyguard.”
