by Lisa Jackson
“Did it make you angry?”
“Damned straight,” she admitted, then looked at him. “It would have made anyone angry, but no, not that you’re asking, but you’re hinting that I might have been mad enough to kill him. I didn’t.”
“What about Courtney LaBelle. Any luck remembering her?”
“No . . . But there’s something about her name that seems familiar.”
“Famous singer named LaBelle,” he offered. “And a disk jockey over at WNAB.”
“No . . . Something more.” She’d wondered about it all day, had felt uneasy ever since hearing the girl’s name. “But she’s too young, I wouldn’t have known her.”
“She went by Mary.”
“Mary LaBelle.” Abby rubbed the back of her neck and drew her lips into a knot as she tossed the name around in her head. She came up with nothing, just a vague uneasiness that she should remember something. Something important. “Sorry. It’s probably nothing.”
“Do you know if your ex wore any piece of jewelry that was important to him?”
“Like what? A nose ring?”
He snorted a laugh. “I don’t know, but let’s start with a ring, you know, for his finger.”
She crossed her arms. “He never even wore his wedding band after about six months into the marriage. He had an accident when he was sailing, the ring got caught on something, or so he claimed. Anyway, he quit wearing it. Later, I figured he just didn’t want to advertise the fact that he was married. I still have it, in my jewelry box,” she admitted, embarrassed. “I guess I was saving it for an anniversary or something so I could hurl it into the Mississippi, but I never got around to it.”
He was staring at her with those damned dark eyes that seemed to see more than she wanted him to. She felt foolish, as if she were sentimental for a marriage that had died a natural death long ago, long before the divorce proceedings had been started.
“So . . . no wedding ring or ring of any kind?”
“I never saw him wearing one.” She looked pointedly at the gold ring in Montoya’s ear. “No earrings, either, or . . . ID bracelets or gold chains . . . the only piece of jewelry, if you could call it that, was a watch. Never without it.” Her stomach curdled when she remembered the day she’d dashed outside, trying to avoid big drops of rain, to the spot where he’d parked the BMW. She’d been on a mission of mercy, to close the sun roof and to find his auto insurance documents as there was some question about coverage on the new car. What she’d discovered, locked in the glove box of the shiny black sports car, was an expensive watch, a card signed by initials she recognized as belonging to Connie Hastings, the owner of a rival radio station that was trying to lure Luke away from his job at WSLJ, and the singularly devastating knowledge that her husband had been cheating on her. Again. Her hands had shaken as she’d read the cute, overtly suggestive card. Her stomach had boiled with acid when she opened the padded box wherein lay the Rolex. The whole experience was tantamount to a blow to the solar plexus. She’d felt as if she couldn’t draw a breath and she’d been totally unaware that the passenger side door was still open, the warning bell dinging insistently, rain blowing into the interior, drenching her and the stupid proof of insurance.
God, she’d been such a fool. If she hadn’t been pregnant at the time, she would have divorced him on the spot. Instead she’d left the sun roof open, the card and gift on the passenger seat, the door open in hopes that the interior of the car would be ruined, the battery drained, and the precious new watch stolen. She’d vomited in the bushes, delighting Hershey, then gone inside and waited for Luke to step out of the shower.
Now, she looked up and found Montoya waiting. “Oh, well. The watch. It’s a Rolex, one that he could use scuba diving, if you can believe that. It still ran under so many pounds of pressure and could withstand decompression . . . and it was cool enough looking that he never took it off. At least he didn’t while we were married.”
“Did he have it insured?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But since you’re asking, I assume it’s missing.”
“Just taking an inventory of all of his stuff.”
“But if he had been wearing the watch, you’d know about it, right?” she asked. “You wouldn’t have to ask me.”
“We can never rule out robbery as a motive.”
“If Courtney killed him, she didn’t rob him. If it was someone else, why go to all the trouble to take them both out to the middle of nowhere?” Abby asked, angry that the detective was holding out on her. “Thieves usually rob people on the street, in a car, at work, at home. They don’t go to the trouble and time of getting two victims together to stage some bizarre murder-suicide.”
“Unless they were into it,” Montoya said.
“Is there a reason you’ve not told me more about what happened the other night?” she asked, deciding to air her worst fears. “Am I under suspicion or something?”
“Everyone is.”
“Especially ex-wives who are publicly humiliated on the day of the murder, right?”
Something in Montoya’s expression changed. Hardened. “I’ll be back,” he promised, “and I’ll bring another detective with me, then we’ll interview you and you can ask all the questions you like.”
“And you’ll answer them?”
He offered a hint of a smile. “That I can’t promise. Just that I won’t lie to you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to, Detective.”
He gave a quick nod. “In the meantime if you suddenly remember, or think of anything, give me a call.”
“I will,” she promised, irritated, watching as he hurried down the two steps of the porch to his car. He was younger than she was by a couple of years, she guessed, though she couldn’t be certain, and there was something about him that exuded a natural brooding sexuality, as if he knew he was attractive to women, almost expected it to be so.
Great. Just what she needed, a sexy-as-hell cop who probably had her pinned to the top of his murder suspect list. She whistled for the dog and Hershey bounded inside, dragging some mud and leaves with her. “Sit!” Abby commanded and the Lab dropped her rear end onto the floor just inside the door. Abby opened the door to the closet and found a towel hanging on a peg she kept for just such occasions, then, while Hershey whined in protest, she cleaned all four of her damp paws. “You’re gonna be a problem, aren’t you?” she teased, then dropped the towel over the dog’s head.
Hershey shook herself, tossed off the towel, then bit at it, snagging one end in her mouth and pulling backward in a quick game of tug of war. Abby laughed as she played with the dog, the first real joy she’d felt since hearing the news about her ex-husband. The phone rang and she left the dog growling and shaking the tattered piece of terry cloth.
“Hello?” she said, still chuckling at Hershey’s antics as she lifted the phone to her ear.
“Abby Chastain?”
“Yes.”
“Beth Ann Wright with the New Orleans Sentinel.”
Abby’s heart plummeted. The press. Just what she needed.
“You were Luke Gierman’s wife, right?”
“What’s this about?” Abby asked warily as Hershey padded into the kitchen and looked expectantly at the back door leading to her studio. “In a second,” she mouthed to the Lab. Hershey slowly wagged her tail.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Beth Ann said, sounding sincerely rueful. “I should have explained. The paper’s running a series of articles on Luke, as he was a local celebrity, and I’d like to interview you for the piece. I was thinking we could meet tomorrow morning?”
“Luke and I were divorced.”
“Yes, I know, but I would like to give some insight to the man behind the mike, you know. He had a certain public persona, but I’m sure my readers would like to know more about him, his history, his hopes, his dreams, you know, the human-interest angle.”
“It’s kind of late for that,” Abby said, not bothering to keep the ice out of her voice.
“But you knew him intimately. I thought you could come up with some anecdotes, let people see the real Luke Gierman.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I realize you and he had some unresolved issues.”
“Pardon me?”
“I caught his program the other day.”
Abby tensed, her fingers holding the phone in a death grip.
“So this is probably harder for you than most, but I still would like to ask you some questions.”
“Maybe another time,” she hedged and Beth Ann didn’t miss a beat.
“Anytime you’d like. You’re a native Louisianan, aren’t you?” Abby’s neck muscles tightened. “Born and raised, but you met Luke in Seattle when he was working for a radio station . . . what’s the call sign, I know I’ve got it somewhere.”
“KCTY.” It was a matter of public record.
“Oh, that’s right. Country in the City. But you grew up here and went to local schools, right? Your mother and father are from around here?”
Warning bells clanged in Abby’s head. She felt a headache forming in the base of her skull.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Jacques and Faith Chastain.”
“Luke was their son-in-law for a few years, nothing more,” Abby said tightly.
“Wait a minute . . .” Beth Ann muttered, as if searching through some notes, though Abby suspected she had all the information at her fingertips. “Your mother probably never met him, right? Wasn’t your mother, Faith Chastain, the woman who died at Our Lady of Virtues Hospital, the one they’re planning to tear down?”
The woman had certainly done her homework.
“So, she never really knew Luke as a son-in-law?”
Abby hung up. Slammed the receiver down and vowed if it rang again, she’d just let the answering machine pick up. She would screen her calls. Anyone who wanted an appointment to see the house or for a photography session would leave a message.
She stared at the phone for a second, half expecting it to ring again, then she let out a long breath. Get used to it, her mind warned her, this is just the beginning. Until they find Luke’s killer and even afterward, the press, police, and the just-plain-curious will be calling.
There was just no getting around it.
The drive to Baton Rouge was fairly tolerable, Montoya thought. Brinkman wasn’t as irritating as usual and he kept the conversation on the crime. So far the lab had come up with nothing, but Gierman’s car had been found in an alley near his athletic club, the ATM where he’d gotten money only a block away. The trouble was, according to Brinkman, no one at the club had seen Gierman at the facility working out. He hadn’t shown up for his personal training session nor the rock climbing he liked to do on the fake stone wall that was built into the place.
At first glance Gierman’s BMW seemed clean, but the techs at the police garage were still going over it.
“I also had a chat with the ex-girlfriend, Nia Penne,” Brinkman said, cracking his window as Montoya drove northwest on Highway 10. It was twilight, headlights punctuating the gathering darkness, the air thick with the promise of more rain.
“What did she say?”
“Mainly that Gierman was a ladies’ man. Had the old wandering eye, but she thinks he was still in love with his ex-wife all the same.” He shot Montoya a look across the darkened front seat of the Crown Victoria.
“This is the same guy who bad-mouthed her on his program.”
“Yep. That’s what she claims. I asked about it but she said his show was all an act, if you can believe it.”
Montoya didn’t.
“Anyway, if you ask me, airing all your dirty laundry ain’t exactly a way back into a lady’s good graces, or the sack.” He cackled as he fished in his inside jacket pocket and came up with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Go figure.” He shook out a filter tip, rammed it into the corner of his mouth, and searched his pockets for his lighter.
Montoya didn’t have too much trouble figuring at all. He eased the car around a broad corner and decided it might be tough to get over a woman like Abby Chastain.
“I’m lookin’ into the money.” The cigarette wobbled in his mouth as he spoke. “Who gets what, assuming Gierman still has some after his divorce. Usually the wife, she makes out like a bandit.”
Montoya wasn’t buying it. However, he hadn’t gone through three divorces like Brinkman had. And he had a sense that Abby Chastain wasn’t about the money. But then, he could be wrong. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made mistakes of character in the past. “Back to Gierman. So he was a player. We already knew that. What about the girlfriend’s alibi?”
“Iron tight. Like a damned locked chastity belt.” Brinkman found the lighter and fired up his cigarette. “She’s been in Toronto with friends, a couple with a ten-month-old baby.” He shot a stream of smoke toward the passenger window. “When Gierman was killed, she was with her friends, drinking wine and playing cards at their house until one-thirty in the morning. Noise woke up the neighbors, who called the police. Took everyone’s names.”
“Maybe she hired someone.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.” Brinkman shook his head and wrinkled his nose. “She was a little pissed off at him. Seems he had a fling with some waitress at a restaurant hotel on Bourbon Street and Nia found out about it. Threw a hissy fit and quit seeing him. They hadn’t been cohabiting, so she just broke it off. If anything, she seemed relieved.”
“And the waitress?”
He took another deep drag. “Haven’t got that far yet. Hey, ain’t this the exit?”
Montoya was already braking. He flipped on his turn signal and drove through the rain-washed streets of Baton Rouge. Though it wasn’t quite yet night, the street lamps, guided by the thickening twilight, had begun to glow, casting a shimmering light on the wet asphalt. Pedestrians scurried under awnings or beneath umbrellas, and a few bicyclists sped through the puddles. Neon lights offered sizzling splashes of color from windows of bars and restaurants lining the streets.
“What about the radio station? Anyone there who would like to put Gierman off the air permanently?”
“Still lookin’ into it. Spoke with a couple of coworkers, so far everyone’s talkin’ nicey-nice about the dead. To hear them tell it, Gierman was a helluva guy. A goddamned prince.” He snorted, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Nice guy, my ass. Still got a few more people to talk to. Last to see him, so far, was his sidekick, Maury Taylor, who seems genuinely upset. Could be an act.” He tossed the butt of his cigarette out the window. “Radio guys,” he said derisively. “Bunch of whack jobs.”
Montoya eased the cruiser through a residential district where the houses became larger and grander as they approached the university. Landscaped lawns, wide verandahs, gingerbread accents, fresh paint, and the look of affluence surrounded the gated entrance to All Saints College.
“You know where you’re going?” Brinkman asked as they passed the unguarded gate.
“Cramer Hall.”
“You’ve been there before?”
Montoya nodded. “Bentz’s kid, Kristi, lived in that dorm when she went to school here.” He didn’t go into the reasons he’d been here, the terror that Kristi and her father had lived through, but Brinkman had been around at that time. Knew the score.
“Oh, yeah,” he said now, nodding. “That case with that serial killer who called himself the Chosen One or some such shit. Jesus, there was a nut job.”
Aren’t they all? Montoya found a parking spot designated for visitors, then he and Brinkman piled out of the car. Ducking their heads, they made their way inside the dorm to where the Dean of Students, Dr. Sharon Usher, who had been called earlier, waited. The dean was a small-shouldered, nervous woman with short brown hair shot with silver, no makeup, and thin, pinched lips. She looked about forty-five, but the gray hair could have added some extra years. She was every bit a part of clichéd academia with her owlish glasses, long tweed skirt, and b
rown sweater.
They shook hands all around and she, clutching a large key ring as if it held the keys to the kingdom, led them up the old stairs of the brick building—a building that smelled of perfume, sweaty running gear, and enthusiasm. Girls in groups of three or four, chatting wildly, wearing headsets or clutching cell phones, passed by, barely noticing the older men.
But the third floor was quiet. Any students still around were either locked behind their doors or out. Crime-scene tape barred the door to Room 534.
“I hope you clear this up quickly,” Dr. Usher said, as if the police department would intentionally drag its heels.
“That’s the general plan,” Brinkman acknowledged with a conspiring glance at Montoya.
“Good. Good. As you asked, I’ve got Courtney’s class schedule, a list of the students in those classes as well as everyone here in the dorm, by room number. I also think you should know that Mr. Gierman was here, just three weeks ago. He was a guest speaker in Dr. Starr’s Personal Communications 101. Courtney was in that class.”
Montoya stopped and his focus sharpened. Finally a connection between the two victims.
“Luke Gierman was here?” he clarified.
“That’s right.” She sifted through the keys.
“Did Courtney speak with him?”
“I don’t think so, but I really don’t know. I’ve talked to Dr. Starr. The administration wasn’t pleased at his choice of speakers.” She slipped one of the keys into the lock of the dorm room. “As much as we preach diversity and freedom of speech and everything else, this is still a pretty conservative school.”
“We’ll need to talk to Starr, too.”
“I know. He’ll meet with you later, when we’re finished,” she said with the efficiency with which, he guessed, Dean Usher tackled any assignment. “I’ve included his cell phone number along with everything else in a file in my office. You can pick the file up when you’re through here.”
Montoya glanced at Brinkman. Maybe they’d caught a break. Usher unlocked the door and, without another word, let it swing open.
