by Lisa Jackson
Good. The press was always a nuisance.
The deceased had already been examined, photographed, and taken away in a bag. Bentz had taken a look and nearly lost the contents of his stomach. He’d witnessed a lot in nearly twenty years of being a cop, but what had happened to this woman was up there with the worst he’d seen.
One fire truck remained. Several police cars and a police van were parked at odd angles around the perimeter of the site. Some of the neighbors were still hanging around, asking questions, or talking among themselves as a wintry sun peeked through a bank of thick gray clouds layering over the city. Bentz had talked to a couple of the officers and the ME and was still trying to piece together how in the hell Olivia Benchet had called this one.
Right on the money.
As if she’d been here. Bentz found a pack of gum in his pocket and removed a stick of spearmint from its wrapper. What the hell was with that woman? If she hadn’t been here, in the room or looking through a window, how could she have known what had happened in the house?
Stan Pagliano walked up. His face was smudged with soot and dirt, the lines webbing across his forehead appearing deeper than usual. “Man, this was a nasty one,” he was saying, “but then they all are.”
“What happened?” Bentz had heard the story from one of the cops on the scene, but wanted Stan’s assessment.
“From what I understand, a neighbor got up to go to the bathroom, looked out the window, and saw the flames. By the time he called it in, it was too late to save the house. The first truck got here within three minutes, but by then the whole house was fully involved. We were lucky to save the surrounding property.” He motioned to the single-story homes, most of them identical shotgun doubles with decorative supports, hip roofs, a door on each side, and narrow windows in between. “Near as we can tell, the fire started in a closet in the back, one that housed an old furnace … and for some reason the fire moved from the firebox through one of the vents, almost as if it followed a trail of something slow burning to the bathroom … strange.” His dark eyes met Bentz’s. “But then there was the victim—chained, for Christ’s sake. Chained. What kind of sick bastard would do something like that?” He reached beneath his sooty yellow slicker and found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and offered a filter tip to Bentz, but much as he craved a smoke, he shook his head.
“Oh, yeah, you quit, right?” Stan flicked his lighter to the end of his Winston and inhaled deeply. “You know, Bethie always tried to get me to quit, for years. All that shit they hear about secondhand smoke in school, then just last summer she dropped her purse and guess what fell out? A half-pack of Marlboro lights.” He said this through a cloud of smoke. “Go figure.”
“They start to grow up and realize that we’ve been lyin’ to ‘em half the time,” Bentz said, watching as Montoya talked to several people clustered around the street. The neighbors.
“Ten to one the victim was young. Not much older than Beth Ann or Kristi, unless I miss my guess,” Stan said, and Olivia Benchet’s words burned through Bentz’s mind: You’re a father. Detective Bentz … How would you feel if the killer zeroed in on your daughter?
“Hey, Stan, over here. Give a hand, would ya?” another fireman called from the remaining truck.
“Right there.” He took a long drag, then nodded to Bentz. “Talk to ya later,” Stan said. “And Rick—”
“Yeah?”
“Nail this shit head, would ya?”
“You got it.” Bentz watched Stan jog toward the truck.
Montoya had finished with the neighbors. Skirting the crime scene, he wended his way through the parked vehicles, then leapt over a puddle on the street. “What’s the ME have to say?” he asked.
“He’ll send us a report, but from what he observed, it looks like our ‘witness,’ if that’s what you want to call her, definitely knew what was going on.”
“Makes ya wonder, doesn’t it?” Montoya observed.
“I think we’d better check her out, front, back, sideways, and inside out.” He stuffed his fists into the pockets of his slacks. “There’s more to her story.” Frowning, considering Olivia Benchet and how downright determined and innocent she appeared, he wondered what he’d dig up. Probably nothing he’d like. “I’ll talk to her again, and you, check out her background. The grandmother, mother, boyfriend, if she’s married, how many times, where she went to school, all that stuff.”
“You got it.” Montoya gave a quick nod.
“So what did you find out? Any of the neighbors see anything?”
Montoya snorted. “Not much. No one remembers anything suspicious, or if they did, they’re keepin’ it to themselves. Aside from the guy takin’ a leak in the pink house, there”—he gestured to a shotgun house next to the one that had burned—“none of the neighbors so much as looked out their windows until they heard the sirens. Then they smelled smoke and noticed that the neighborhood was glowing like a damned nuclear explosion.” He shook his head, disgusted. “The neighbor who noticed the fire, Elvin Gerard, he saw the flames, woke up his wife, Lois, and called nine-one-one. End of story. Except that he claims the house was a rental duplex, but it had been empty for a month or so. Both sides of the unit vacant.”
“But someone was there tonight.”
“Yeah.” Montoya flipped open a little notebook. “According to Gerard, the house had been owned by an elderly couple, the Jalinskys. First he died, then the wife within the year. Their kids inherited it and rented it out through a local management firm, Benchmark Realty. No one’s been there, except someone from Benchmark showing it to potential renters and a janitorial company that cleaned up the mess from the previous tenants.”
The firemen were beginning to retrieve the hoses, the neighbors were disbursing, and even the last television crew was packing it in. A police officer was taking down the barricades on the street and waving cars with rubbernecking drivers through.
“I’ll check with Benchmark, get a list of who’s been asking about the place,” Bentz said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Maybe. The only break we’ve got is one of the neighbors pulled out his video camera and caught the fire on film just as the fire department arrived.”
“You get the tape?” Bentz was interested.
“Yep. The guy was only too happy to oblige.” Montoya reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a cassette. “I think we’ll have to suffer through the Hendersons’ trip to Disney World, but after that we can take a look at the fire.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and see something on the tape,” Bentz said, not believing it for a moment. The killer would have been long gone by the time the groggy neighbor had focused on the inferno, unless the murderer had gotten his rocks off by sticking around to view the havoc wrought by his work. It happened upon occasion and then the police got lucky. But it was a long shot. Right now, the most serious link they had to the crime so far was Olivia Benchet. Bentz’s eyes narrowed on the soggy mass that had once been a house and thought about Olivia Benchet’s bizarre story—a naked chained victim, a priest with a radio and a sword, and the anniversary of JFK’s assassination.
“I’ll check with missing persons, see if we can figure out who the victim is, then talk to Ms. Benchet again.”
“You’re not buying the ESP-voodoo thing.” Montoya swallowed a smirk.
“Not yet.” They started walking to their Crown Victoria. “We’ve got to figure out what makes her tick. You talk to Brinkman. Pull out anything he’s got on her, no matter how insignificant. He must have notes or a file or something. And see if she talked to anyone else, here in the city or in the surrounding parishes. She acts like there are other murders, so check around and I’ll contact the FBI. They can put it through their computer.”
“They’ll want another task force, if this is linked.”
“Fine.”
“I didn’t think you liked working with the Feds.” They dodged a few remaining firemen and thick hoses.
“Nah
. That’s not it. Long as they don’t get in my way.”
They reached the cruiser and Bentz slid into the passenger side. He wasn’t going to leave any stone unturned when it came to the psychic—just what the hell was her angle?
“So, maybe we should check out the local priests,” Montoya suggested as he climbed behind the steering wheel.
“Maybe. And while we’re at it, maybe we can find one with a rap sheet for arson and murder,” Bentz joked.
Montoya snorted a laugh as he started the car. “The nutcase’s vision was right on the money, wasn’t it?”
“Either that or she was involved.”
“Ya think?”
Bentz shook his head as he conjured up the desperation in Olivia’s eyes, the genuine fear in her expression, the way her teeth sank into her lower lip and worried it when she was telling her story. “I don’t know what to think.”
Montoya backed up and jockeyed the Crown Vic between the other rigs. “If she was involved, why come to us? Nah, that doesn’t wash.”
Bentz didn’t think so either, but weirder things had happened. He wasn’t leaving anything to chance. “We’ll see.”
“Yeah, I’ll check with DMV, Vital statistics, the SSA.”
“Once I get the preliminary information on her and the ME’s report, I’m going to have another chat with her.”
“Man, she really nailed this one. I mean nailed it. Ten to one we find a burned-out radio and some necklace on the shower head, just like she said.” Montoya’s dark eyes held his for a second. “Somethin’s up with that woman.”
#x201C;It sure is, Diego.”
“Hey, that’s what I go by these days,” Montoya shot back as he turned off the side street.
“Why?”
“My heritage.” He patted the video sticking out of his jacket pocket.
“My ass.” Bentz stared out the window. “Diego,” he snorted.
“It just sounds good, don’t ya think?”
“Whatever.” Bentz didn’t care. Chewing his tasteless gum, Bentz glanced at the video cassette and wondered what it would show. Probably nothing. Unless the tape caught the image of a fleeing suspect, or someone in the crowd of curious onlookers at the scene whom none of the neighbors recognized, and who might be the killer watching the aftermath of his destruction. Or possibly one of the neighbors himself. Either way, Olivia Benchet was the best lead they had.
Chapter Six
The phone was jangling as Olivia opened the front door. Dropping her bag on the kitchen table, she swept up the receiver while Hairy S streaked into the living room. “Hello?” she said, cradling the receiver between her shoulder and ear as she unwrapped the cover to the bird’s cage. Green feathers ruffled as Chia, the parrot, gave off a sharp whistle.
“Livvie?” Sarah’s usually upbeat voice was soft. Sober. That could mean only one thing. Trouble with her husband. Again. Leo Restin had a problem with fidelity. A major problem. Monogamy wasn’t in the man’s vocabulary. He just couldn’t seem to keep his hands off other women. He’d even had the nerve to come on to Olivia, his wife’s business partner, a few months back. Leo’s unwanted attention was one of the reasons that had propelled her from Tucson. She’d told him to back off, threatened to confide in Sarah, but he just pressed on. Insufferable jerk.
“What’s up?” Olivia asked with a wink at Chia.
“It’s Leo.”
Big surprise.
“He’s disappeared again.”
That usually meant he was with a woman. Olivia wrapped the cord of the phone around her hand and stared out the window to the mists rising off the bayou.
“He just doesn’t give up, does he?” She didn’t respond. “You know what you should do, Sarah.”
Sarah sighed. “I don’t believe in divorce, Olivia. I know it’s crazy, but I still love him.”
“He’s using you.”
“I just have to wait until Leo grows up.”
That could well be forever. “He’s thirty-five,” Olivia pointed out. “How long do you think it’ll take?”
“I don’t know, but I really love him,” she said. Her voice wobbled a bit. “I know, I sound pathetic, like one of those loser women who puts up with everything because she loves the jerk. But I really do care about him and … and you don’t know what he’s like when there’s no one else around. He can be so sweet.”
“That’s why so many women fall for him.”
Sarah sucked in her breath.
“Sorry—I couldn’t help it,” Olivia said quickly. “I hate to see you keep getting hurt. If you keep letting him, he’ll keep doing it.”
“I know, I know, but nobody in my family gets divorced. I’d be the first one in my direct lineage.”
“Did all the others put up with this kind of garbage?”
“I guess. I don’t know. I grew up believing that everyone got married and lived happily ever after. Oh, they might fight and yell and even break up for a while, but in the end, it all worked out.”
“Fairy tales.”
“Divorce isn’t easy.”
“It shouldn’t be. Getting married should be harder.”
Sarah chuckled. “Yeah, maybe. So how’s it going there?”
“Not great,” Olivia said, but didn’t explain about her vision. Sarah, despite her flirting with New Age religion, had solid roots in Catholicism. Another lapsed believer, but one, Olivia sensed, ready to return to the fold. Wasn’t she one herself? “It’s not going to be as easy as I thought to sell this place.” She glanced around her grandmother’s cabin with its gleaming wood walls and floors shining with over a hundred years’ worth of patina. Tall windows with narrow panes offered a spectacular view of the bayou. The insulation was practically nil, the plumbing and electricity added decades after the original construction and now were outdated and probably dangerous. “I have a lot of work to do before I put it on the market and then I’m not sure I want to. It’s been in my family forever.”
“So you haven’t decided if you’re going to stay in New Orleans?”
“I know I’ll stick it out until I finish my master’s. Then, who knows?”
“Still working for that little store in the square?”
“Part-time. Around school.” She leaned a hip against the counter and thought of the eclectic clientele of the Third Eye. Located in a cubbyhole across from Jackson Square, the store boasted an inventory of everything from dried alligator heads to religious artifacts. New Age to voodoo with a smattering of Christianity in between. “How’s business in Tucson?”
“Great,” Sarah said as if she meant it. “I met with a new artist who’s going to display her things in the back nook. Consignment, and I’ve got a couple new lines of crystal pendants that are selling like crazy. But I miss you. It’s not the same.”
“Didn’t you hire someone?”
“Oh, yeah. I hired a girl, not a partner. A girl with tattoos on her arms and not just rings in her nose and eyebrows, and wherever else she can find a tiny fold of skin, but safety pins! Can you imagine? She looks like she should be working for a tailor, not a New Age shop.”
Olivia laughed. For the first time that morning. “Careful, Sarah, your parochial school roots are beginning to show.”
“Forbid the thought.”
“Next thing I know, you’ll be wearing a plaid skirt, blazer, and knee socks to work.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.” Olivia glanced at her grandmother’s tattered cane rocker at rest near a pot overflowing with the shiny leaves of an ever-growing jade plant.
“Oh, I’ve got a beep, I’d better go….”
“Talk to you later,” Olivia said, knowing that Sarah was eager to get off the phone and check the other line. Sarah, the eternal optimist, probably thought the caller would be a recalcitrant Leo, tired of the new woman and ready to crawl back on his hands and knees, to beg forgiveness from his loving saint of a wife.
Hairy S gave off a bark and twirled in tight little circles at the
back door. “Wanna go out?” Olivia asked as she swung the door open and the dog scurried outside. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and the air was sticky with the threat of rain. The dog ran the length of the porch to disappear into a thatch of tall grass and cypress, sniffing the ground searching for squirrels or possum or whatever marsh bird he could scare up.
Olivia’s stomach rumbled. It was ten in the morning and she’d been up for seven hours, existing only on coffee and adrenalin. She opened the refrigerator and scowled at the lack of groceries—two eggs, a chunk of cheese, a half-loaf of bread, and a bottle of catsup. “Omelette time,” she remarked, as she heard Hairy S pad inside. “How about you?” She opened the pantry, where a half-full bag of dog chow was tucked beneath three shelves of canned peaches, apricots, and pears that her grandmother had preserved. At the thought of the old woman, Olivia felt a pang of sadness. It was just damned hard to lose someone who loved you so unconditionally.
After measuring a cup of dry food into Hairy S’s dish, she added parrot seed to Chia’s cage and stroked the parrot’s smooth green feathers. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Grannie had asked when she’d first brought the bird home. “They’re messy as all get-out, I know it, but Wanda owed me some money and offered me Chia. I couldn’t resist.” Grannie’s eyes had twinkled and Chia had been a member of the family ever since.
“Grannie was right, you know. You are beautiful,” Olivia told the bird, who stretched her brilliant wings and picked up some of the seeds in her dish.
Olivia turned on the radio and stuffed two slices of bread into the toaster. As the dog made short work of his breakfast, she fired up the stove and whisked the eggs together. Patsy Cline sang about love lost. Great. Just what I need to hear. What an upper, she thought as the eggs began to bubble and she grated the wedge of cheese. The final notes of the song began to fade, and “Ramblin’ Rob,” the deejay, cut in to give some story about the old country classic recorded shortly before the star’s death. His deep, baritone voice slid easily out of the speakers and he spoke as if he knew all of his listeners personally. Which Olivia liked.
