Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  Brinkman’s theory was bullshit. Plain and simple.

  “Damn it all to hell,” he growled, catching sight of his reflection in the rearview mirror. He saw his own dark eyes, the purse of his lips, the determination in the set of his jaw. “Stay objective,” he ordered. As the light changed, he drove the final two streets to the station’s parking lot and nosed the cruiser into an open spot. Still irritated with himself, the case, and the whole damned world, he climbed out of the Crown Vic and took his foul mood up the main steps of the station.

  Women had always been his problem.

  He liked them.

  And they liked him.

  Plain and simple.

  His stupid libido had a way of working overtime, or at least it had, until Marta. For a while he’d been a one-woman man, changing his womanizing ways for Ms. Vasquez.

  But that was all over now, he thought as he climbed the stairs and walked into the offices of the homicide division. Computer keyboards clattered, phones rang, and there was a sense of urgency in the nest of cubicles and offices that spread out over the floor. Somewhere a copy machine was whirring out pages, and near Zaroster’s desk a handcuffed and shackled suspect, his dreadlocks disheveled to his shoulders, his face unshaven, was talking with great animation. In jeans and a denim jacket with the sleeves cut out, he was speaking fast and jerkily, coming off of something, protesting his innocence vigorously to Zaroster and another detective.

  Montoya nearly ran into Brinkman, who was heading out the main doors while slipping his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. “Get a load of that,” he said, sliding a look at the suspect. “Involved in a knifing down off of Esplanade and Royal. Scumbag One here,” he explained, hooking his thumb at his dreadlocks, “didn’t like the fact that Scumbag Two was gettin’ it on with Scum One’s old lady. Grabbed a kitchen knife and that was the end of Scum Two.” He made a theatrical slice across his neck with his thumb. “Ooops. I mean he ‘allegedly’ nearly sliced the guy’s head off in front of the lady, and I use the term ‘lady’ loosely, considering the piece of ass in question.”

  “Why isn’t he in an interrogation room?”

  “Full to capacity. A shooting on Decatur and an accident on the waterfront. Been a busy day. This scumbag already said his piece in the interrogation room, we’ve got it on tape, but he wanted to make a statement. Waived his right to a lawyer. We needed the space, so . . .” He shrugged as if to say “all in a day’s work.” He then found his pack of Marlboros in his inside jacket pocket, fished one out, jabbing the cigarette into the corner of his mouth.

  “You know what I’m wonderin’?” he said, the filter tip bobbing. “Why the hell everyone in the damned Gierman case has another name? Courtney goes by Mary, the freakoid calls herself O . . . what the hell is that all about?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Hey, even you used to call yourself ‘Diego,’ didn’t ya? When you were out prowlin’ around for the ladies?”

  Montoya figured he wouldn’t mention that his aunt referred to him as Pedro in honor of St. Peter. Things were confusing enough as it was.

  Brinkman, patting his pants pockets in search of his lighter, started down the stairs. “Oh, by the way. Bentz is back,” he called over his shoulder. “Lookin’ for you. Guess I’ve been replaced.” He said it without a drip of acrimony. Montoya figured Brinkman didn’t like him either. It was a mutual thing.

  As the paunchy detective disappeared down the stairs, Montoya made his way to his cubicle, checked his messages, printed out Bonita Washington’s reports, and placed them into an ever-expanding file. Tucking the file under his arm, he grabbed a couple of cups of coffee from the pot in the small kitchen, then made his way to Bentz’s office.

  He didn’t bother to knock, just shouldered open the door that was already ajar and found Rick Bentz seated at his desk, papers strewn in front of him, pictures of his wife and kid shoved to the corners. He looked up as Montoya walked in.

  “Hola, mi amiga,” Bentz said, grinning. He was a big man who fought his weight by pummeling the hell out of a punching bag daily. He spied the coffee and waved Montoya over. Seemingly easygoing by nature, Bentz had been known to explode, especially if anyone messed with his daughter, Kristi, now nearly twenty-five, or his wife of a few years, Olivia. “¿Cómo está usted?”

  “Jesus, Bentz, that’s amigo. With an ‘o.’ I’m a male. Varón! Got it? Soy un hombre, para el motivo del Dios! Translation? ‘I’m a man, for God’s sake!’”

  The corners of Bentz’s lips twitched and he stared pointedly at Montoya’s earring. “If you say so.”

  “Hell, man, let’s not go there, okay?”

  “Just breakin’ the ice, hombre. Gettin’ back into the swing of things here,” Bentz said, sipping from his cup then hoisting it into the air. “Gracias.” In his mid-forties, he had a blocky body, an ex-football player’s build. At his age, the few gray hairs and lines in his face added character, or so he’d told Montoya time and time again when the younger man had flung him some crap about aging. And he was a helluva cop, despite what had happened in L.A.

  “And here I thought you probably broke the banks in Vegas.” Montoya sipped his coffee and leaned against a file cabinet upon which a Christmas cactus was dying. “I figured you won a few mil on the craps table and decided to drop in just to pick up your things and say ‘good-bye.’ ”

  Bentz snorted. “Yeah, that’s what happened. Only it was roulette. I’m so rich, I could buy and sell Asa Pomeroy and Billy Ray Furlough put together.”

  Montoya laughed. Asa Pomeroy was a wealthy industrialist, had made his fortune in arming the world, and Billy Ray Furlough a televangalist spreading God’s word via the tube while collecting donations from wherever the airwaves cast his sermons. Asa Pomeroy’s money was tied up in ex-wives, trust funds, and land development. Billy Ray “the power of God be with you” Furlough’s was spent to help the poor, bring the word of God to underdeveloped nations, and fill the coffers of tax-sheltered foundations which provided him with a lifestyle befitting royalty.

  “So, since you’re the new Mr. Trump—”

  “Here it comes.” Bentz leaned back in his chair until it creaked.

  Montoya flashed a grin. “You know Trump goes by ‘The Donald,’ right? So, I’m thinkin’ from now on we’ll all call you ‘The Rick’ . . . No!” He snapped his fingers. “I like ‘The Dick’ even better.”

  Bentz barked out a laugh. “And I don’t suppose you’re talking about my job with the department?”

  “Hell, no!” Montoya felt better than he had since this whole double homicide mess had started. Dealing with Brinkman had been a pain; Bentz was easier. Smarter. Calmer. A good balance for Montoya’s more explosive personality. “So, The Dick,” he said, “if you’re in a generous mood, I could use a new set of wheels. A Ferrari would be nice, but I’d settle for a Porsche, as long as it was tricked out.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Bentz asked as phones outside his office jangled and footsteps pounded past his doorway. “I’ll remember that. Christmas is coming.” He reached into his drawer for a bottle of antacids, popped a few, and motioned toward his computer screen, where images of the Gierman-LaBelle murder scene were visible. “So how about bringing me up to speed on the double? I’ve seen the preliminary reports. What else have you got?”

  Montoya handed over the file and gave Bentz his version of what he thought had gone down. “We’ve got no suspects on the one hand,” he said, “because no one was holding a grudge, at least not that we can find, against Courtney Mary LaBelle. She was a virgin, for God’s sake, planned on joining the order at Our Lady of Virtues.”

  Bentz was way ahead of him. “But on the other hand, you’ve got Luke Gierman, who has every feminist, or PTA member, or socially conscious group wanting him dead because he does a lot of shows on weird sex, odd behavior, pushes the envelope to entertain and offend.”

  “You got it.”

  “What about the murder weapon?”

  “G
iven to Courtney by her father for protection and definitely a taboo on campus. I double-checked today. Even her roommate, who goes by the name of O and has an affinity for Goth culture and blood, didn’t know about the piece.”

  “Someone did,” Bentz said.

  “Yep.” Montoya scratched his goatee. “You know, it’s funny. The girl wears a promise ring and vows her virginity to God as some kind of sacred rite and her dad gives her a handgun for protection.” He frowned. “I never think of God and weaponry as things that go together.”

  “You’re wrong. Look at the Crusades, or what’s happening in the Middle East. Religion and money are the source of all wars.”

  “So now you’re a philosopher.”

  “A philosopher who just happened to win a fortune at the roulette wheel,” Bentz said, flashing his smile as he reached onto the desk for his reading glasses. He thumbed through the file, his eyes scanning the pages. “What else have you got?”

  Montoya filled him in on the alibis of just about everyone close to either of the victims, and the lack of evidence found at the crime scene. The forensics department was still separating out tire tracks near the cabin at the woods while also trying to find product matches for the shoe tread of the size twelve prints they’d discovered. Once they found the company who made the shoe, they could find the local distributors and start searching through the names of purchasers of size twelves in the last few years. A tedious process but a necessary one.

  He told Bentz about the wedding dress and the single, short dark hair found on the fabric.

  “It’s at the DNA lab now. Hopefully it’ll come back and match up with someone who knows the victims.”

  Bentz frowned. They both were aware that finding that individual would take a lot of time. DNA samples from all the potential suspects would have to be taken, and if the suspects balked and wouldn’t give up a swab voluntarily, court orders would have to be issued.

  That was a whole new ball of wax.

  As Bentz listened, Montoya explained about the wedding dress, the fact that it might have been custom made, and that the bloodstained gown had already been photographed, the fabric analyzed. Copies of the photos were already being circulated to the local dressmakers and bridal gown shops throughout the state.

  Montoya and Bentz talked over the list of suspects—who was close to the victims and who might want them dead. They narrowed the field by who, within the time constraints of their schedules, could accost both Gierman and LaBelle and not be seen. Then they talked over where the victims had been abducted and why they’d been chosen.

  Neither man believed either of the victims had been a random choice. The murders had been too well planned.

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it? Who would want Courtney LaBelle and Luke Gierman dead?” Bentz said, thinking aloud. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and found a pack of Doublemint gum, pulled out a stick, and offered the pack to Montoya.

  “No thanks.”

  “Still goin’ cold turkey?” he asked as he folded his stick of gum and slid it into his mouth.

  “Yeah.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Fine,” Montoya snapped. No way was he admitting to Bentz that he would have killed for a drag about now.

  Bentz lifted an eyebrow in disbelief but didn’t comment. “So let’s go through this again. The last to see Courtney alive were some kids walking into the library as she was going out, right?”

  “Can’t find anyone else,” Montoya admitted.

  “And the last person to see Gierman was Maury Taylor at WSLJ.”

  Montoya nodded, explained Brinkman’s theory and what they found on the bank’s ATM tape as Bentz finished his coffee and Montoya’s grew cold.

  “I know some people over at the radio station. I think I’ll poke around over there, see if I can turn up anything Brinkman might have missed.” He crushed the paper cup in his fist and tossed it into the trash. “So it looks like whoever abducted them grabbed Gierman around six-forty, probably, and the girl three hours later.”

  “In Baton Rouge. An hour and a half away. What’s he do? Keep Gierman locked in the trunk while he waits for the girl?”

  “The cabin’s not far from the west side of Lake Pontchartrain.”

  “Twenty miles off of Highway 10.”

  “So where does our guy live?” Bentz wondered aloud. “And how did he know about that empty cabin?”

  “No connection between the owners and any of the victims. Already checked.” Montoya took a final sip of his coffee, scowled, and poured the rest into the pot holding the near-dead plant.

  “And the only link between the two victims that you can find is a class where Gierman spoke and the fact that Gierman’s ex-wife’s mother was a patient where Courtney LaBelle’s mother and father worked and Courtney intended to become a novitiate.”

  “It’s thin,” Montoya admitted.

  “Nearly invisible.”

  “So you think it’s a coincidence?”

  Bentz leaned back in his chair until it creaked, chewing his gum thoughtfully. “You know how I feel about coincidences,” he said and glanced over at the graphic pictures visible on his computer monitor.

  “That there are none. Same as Brinkman.” Montoya studied the images on the screen. Luke Gierman’s naked body, partially covered by the girl in the bloodstained bridal dress. Obviously posed. A statement. From a sick, twisted mind.

  “You agree?”

  “Yep.”

  Bentz rubbed his neck and frowned. “A guy who does something like this, he’s looking for attention.”

  Montoya knew where this was going. “You think he’ll do it again?”

  A muscle worked in the older man’s jaw and his face hardened. He looked up at Montoya. “I hope to God not.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “I want to come to the funeral,” Zoey insisted from the other side of the continent. “When is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Maneuvering through traffic, Abby was holding her cell phone to her ear while driving, and hating it. She was just no good at juggling her attention. Teenagers seemed to buzz in and out of lanes, cell phones to their ears as if the two tasks, talking on the phone and handling a car, were second nature.

  It was raining, the sky dark even though it was closing in on noon. At sixty miles per hour, her Honda seemed to skate over the puddles of water that had collected in the low part of the road. Trucks, sending up sprays of water from beneath their massive eighteen wheels, were flying past her as if she were standing still. “Look, I’m in the car now, let me call you back.”

  “I’m in the car, too. So what?”

  “I can’t concentrate on the conversation and the traffic.”

  “Come on. I do it all the time. Piece of cake.”

  “Right,” Abby said sarcastically as a silver Toyota from the inside lane cut in front of her and she had to touch the brakes. “Jerk!”

  “Me?”

  “No. Well, at least not today.”

  “Thank God,” Zoey said. “So when are you going to call?”

  “When I’m done. Promise.”

  “What’s on the agenda? Photo shoot?”

  “Yeah,” Abby hedged. It wasn’t really a lie. Not a big one.

  But she knew Zoey would have a heart attack if she knew that Abby was on her way to Our Lady of Virtues intending to finally put the past to rest. Yesterday she’d spent the hours with clients or showing the house, or trying to catch up on her sleep. She’d dragged around all day, forcing herself to go on a three-mile run that had left her winded and her muscles aching. After a microwave dinner and a long, hot bubble bath which had included sipping a glass of wine, she’d slept like the dead. No eerie, returning nightmares had woken her up, no images of her dead ex-husband peppering her sleep. She’d awakened surprisingly revitalized and refreshed.

  So today, she had planned to take charge of her life. First on the agenda: visiting the hospital. Laying the past to rest. It was time. Long past
time. But Zoey wouldn’t understand.

  “Okay, just let me know when Luke’s service is.”

  “Oh, Zoe—”

  “Look, you’ll need some support. Luke’s family isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. No Ozzie and Harriet, if you know what I mean. Mom, baseball, and apple pie don’t exist in that bunch of loons!”

  Abby couldn’t help smiling. Sometimes Zoey could be funny as all get-out; other times she was a royal pain in the backside. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you know.”

  “Abby?”

  “What?” she asked, checking her rearview and seeing that a semi had nearly attached itself to her bumper.

  “Are you okay?”

  “What? Yeah, fine,” she snapped, though of course that was a lie. “Just hunky-dory.”

  “I mean it. I know Luke’s death is difficult and—”

  “Gotta go, this is my exit,” Abby cut in, steamed. She hung up before Zoey asked another damned question. She was tired of the whole overly concerned older sister bit from her nosy sister. Sheesh. She hadn’t heard from Zoey for months and now she called all the time. All the time. It was almost as if her sister had some kind of sick fascination with Luke’s murder, or she needed to be close to the action.

  Or she’s just genuinely concerned. How about that, Abby? Get over what happened in Seattle; Zoey is probably just worried. “Fat chance,” Abby muttered and clicked the damned cell phone off. Anyone else who wanted to call her could bloody well leave a message on voice mail. She glanced in her rearview, noticed the semi was still on her ass, and wanted to slow to a crawl to really piss the guy off. Why didn’t the damned driver just pass her if she was going too slow?

  “Idiot,” she muttered, slowing as she eased onto the exit ramp. The eighteen-wheeler gunned it past her, engine roaring, his HOW’S MY DRIVING? sign on his back bumper mocking her. If she had the time, she’d phone the number listed and give whoever answered an earful. As it was, he was already past; she couldn’t read the 1-800 number anyway.