Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  It had been exquisite pleasure to help the black woman end his life. He remembered feeling her shake so hard she nearly dropped the gun. But he’d helped her, forced her finger to pull the trigger, watched the blooming surprise and horror cross Asa’s face. Only when he’d been certain the old man had breathed his last, rattling breath had he forced her to turn the gun on herself. Oh, the joy in that . . . feeling her fear palpitating between them, knowing that she was praying to God even as the gun blasted!

  Now, he fingered her necklace, holding it up in front of his eyes, letting the tiny gold cross dangle before him as it caught the candlelight. “You did the world a favor by killing him,” he said, as if Gina Jefferson could hear him.

  But the world didn’t know it yet. Didn’t even know that Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson had breathed their last. Soon, though, the news would break, the police would scurry around, and plans would be made to bury the bodies.

  Could he risk going to the ceremony for Gina Jefferson? The cop, Montoya, would be there, no doubt, pretending to pray, and all the while snapping shots of the grieving crowd just as he had at the virgin’s candlelight vigil. He’d seen Montoya in the crowd, holding the camera and clicking off photographs, and yet he’d lingered, couldn’t stop himself from watching the mourners, feeling their grief, his own body thrumming with the power of life and the pure knowledge that he was the one behind it all. It was he who had brought them to their knees. He who had meted out the perfect punishment.

  The virgin had been the first.

  The philanthropist the second.

  But he was just getting started and he felt anticipation sizzle through his blood when he thought of the third . . .

  CHAPTER 19

  Montoya slid his cruiser into a no-parking zone, stood on the brakes, and switched off the ignition in one swift motion. Blood pounding at his temples, he stormed inside the building near Jackson Square that housed WSLJ.

  Ignoring a pretty woman with coffee-colored skin and corn rows who sat behind the reception desk, he headed straight down the hall.

  “Wait a minute.” From the corner of his eye he saw her look up from her computer. “May I help you?”

  Montoya kept walking.

  “Sir, sir, you can’t go down there!”

  He heard the click of high heels as if she intended to physically stop him. Digging out his badge, he flashed it behind him and kept walking so fast he was nearly jogging.

  “Officer, please!”

  The inside of the building was a rabbit warren, but he’d been here before. He homed in on the glassed-in studio with its lights warning ON AIR. Through the window he saw the weasel, headset on, seated at a console, talking to everyone who was tuned into this edition of Gierman’s Groaners. Disregarding the illuminated sign, Montoya yanked open the door, strode into the room, and glared at the skinny, balding disk jockey whose claim heretofore had been Luke Gierman’s ass-licker. “You stupid, dumb son of a bitch!” Montoya growled, not caring that all of greater New Orleans and the surrounding parishes could hear him on their radios.

  “Oh, look, what we’ve got here—a visit from New Orleans’s finest!” Maury said. He was smiling broadly, as if he’d known Montoya would show. “Officer, to what do I owe the honor of—”

  Montoya keyed in on the main power switch and slapped it. Lights blinked off and Maury’s mouth fell open. “Hey! You can’t do that!” Maury was beside himself, pressing buttons, reaching for the main switch.

  “You’ve withheld evidence in a murder case and I’m taking your sorry ass downtown—”

  “What the hell’s going on here?” A big black woman strode into the room and he recognized her instantly as Eleanor Cavalier, the tough take-no-prisoners program manager for the station. “Detective, this program has to go on the air! Pronto.” She shot Maury a look. “Turn it on. Go to commercial. There is to be no dead air. No dead air!”

  Maury, looking for all the world like the cat who swallowed the canary, smirked at Montoya and turned on the appropriate switches.

  “What the hell is this all about?” Eleanor demanded. As a crowd gathered around her, she spied Samantha Leeds, better known as Dr. Sam, the radio psychologist whose program Midnight Confessions aired later in the evening. “Samantha, take over the booth and handle the controls. You don’t have to say much, just run the tape of a previous show for a few minutes.”

  Dr. Sam nodded, and there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. Walking into the studio, she whispered to Montoya, “Still getting into trouble, I see.”

  “Always.”

  She slid into the booth and Maury handed over the headset, then rammed a faded Saints hat onto his bald pate and ambled into the hallway, hands in his pockets as if he were taking a stroll along the Mississippi on a sunny summer afternoon.

  Montoya glared at the man as Samantha settled onto the barstool, flipped a few switches and adjusted the mike. She was already speaking to the audience as Maury finally found his way into the corridor.

  “Your boy here is withholding evidence in a murder investigation,” Montoya told Eleanor before the door to the sound booth shut.

  “And you’re breaking more than your share of laws yourself, starting with parking in the no-zone, then ending up with I don’t know how many FCC violations.” Uncowed, Eleanor Cavalier took a step toward Montoya. “Don’t you flash your badge around here and bully your way around this station, got it? If you’ve got a problem with what’s happening here, you can damned well talk to me or the station’s lawyers.” She turned furious black eyes on Maury. “Now what the hell were you thinkin’? I heard what Montoya’s talking about and he’s got a point. So, let’s get down to it.” She looked up, noticed the small crowd that had gathered, and said, “The show’s over, people. Everyone get back to work.” Her perfect eyebrows slammed together and she glared at each and every person who had made the mistake of letting their curiosity take them from their jobs.

  They all scuttled away like bugs from beneath a rock. Satisfied with their reaction, Eleanor trained her fury on Montoya again. Her voice was steel as she said, “We’ll talk in my office.”

  She motioned for Montoya and Maury Taylor to follow her, then led them to a small office where every book, recording, and file was in its place. On the desk was a brass paperweight in the shape of two golf balls . . . someone’s idea of a joke.

  “What have you got?” She skewered the smaller man with a glare as she rounded the desk and dropped into her chair, the seat creaking a bit.

  “I got a note. Well, the station did. Addressed to Luke. Maybe from the killer.” Maury shrugged. He and Montoya were standing like boys called to the principal’s office. “But it could be a fake.”

  Her lips barely moved. “Get it.”

  He was gone for less than a minute and returned with a small white piece of paper and matching envelope encased in a plastic sandwich bag. Somewhat less recalcitrant, he handed the package to Montoya. “All it says is ‘Repent’ and then it’s signed A L, both letters in capitals. I touched it, yeah, when I opened it, but when I figured it might be important, I was careful to put it where no one else would find it. I used a copy when I was on the air.”

  “Jesus, Maury, don’t you have a brain?” Eleanor demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I’d just opened it before I went on the air.”

  “Right.” She glowered from her chair.

  “You should have called the department immediately,” Montoya said.

  “Hey, I’m tellin’ ya. I just got it before I went on,” the DJ insisted, but Montoya knew BS when he heard it. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to use it, might ratchet up listener interest, you know, maybe even flush the guy out.”

  Montoya wanted to throttle the twerp. “Don’t for a second think you can ‘play cop’ on this. This is a police matter, and if you’ve screwed up my investigation, I’ll see your ass in jail so fast, your head’ll spin.”

  “You hear that, Eleanor? He’s threaten
ing me.” Maury turned to his boss, some of his bravado slipping.

  “I heard it. And I agree with the detective. You are not—do you read me?—not to mess with any police matters. And you”—she turned to Montoya, pointing a long, accusing finger—“have no right to bust in here like Wyatt Damned Earp. There is protocol to be observed, Detective, and I expect you to follow it. Don’t think I’m not going to call your superior.”

  A muscle worked in Montoya’s jaw. “Then make sure everyone here at the station follows that protocol you’re so proud of,” he growled.

  She glared at him, her lips flattening. He saw he’d just stepped over a very thin line, but he didn’t care. Let the brass call him on the carpet. Big deal. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already worn a hole in it.

  Taking the new evidence with him, he left the radio station and hoped to hell that whatever else that chicken-necked, dumb-ass radio jockey had done, he hadn’t fucked over the investigation.

  Zoey strapped on her seat belt and silently cursed the fact that, with the exorbitant amount of money she was spending on this airline ticket, a red-eye with a four-hour layover in Dallas, she’d ended up in the middle seat with a woman and an infant next to her on the window side, and a guy over six feet and topping the scales near three hundred—on the aisle side. The big guy couldn’t get comfortable no matter how hard he tried. Every time he squirmed, his arm brushed Zoey’s, and even though she wasn’t a germophobe or anything, she just didn’t like strangers touching her. Period.

  She was even suspect of the blanket and pillow she’d found wedged between seats 13 A and B on her way down the aisle. But she needed to sleep and she hoped to hell that whoever had used the cheap bedding before her wasn’t infected with lice, or cooties, or some major strain of flu or worse.

  She had her iPod with her and figured she’d zone out for the trip. She needed to relax as much as possible, considering what she was going to face when she landed. All hell was gonna break loose. Able to read her sister like a book, Zoey knew Abby would flip out of control when she finally heard the truth.

  Yep, this book was going to end bad, Zoey thought with a grimace. No two ways about it. From the phone call the other night Zoey had figured out right away that Abby wasn’t interested in having her come visit or show up at Luke’s funeral, but that was tough. It was time.

  Zoey put stock in omens, curses, signs, and luck, and all the signs that she relied on had pointed to the fact that her secret had to be released. She felt that if not God, then the Fates were watching over her and would give her clues as to what she was supposed to do with her life. Other people often initiated the signs, just as Luke Gierman had all those years earlier, when he’d told her he couldn’t stop thinking about her, that he’d had some cosmic revelation that forced him to follow her to her car on that warm May afternoon.

  Though Zoey prided herself in recognizing bull when she heard it, she’d let Luke ramble on and on—finding him incredibly fascinating all over again. They’d been lovers before. She knew his chart by heart and realized that the planets were aligned for their union. That had been the sign—that and her own nightly dreams of making love to him . . . or at least that’s how she’d rationalized it at the time. Even though she’d known he was engaged to her sister by then, that he’d promised himself to Abby, she’d been powerless to resist Luke.

  Zoey had never felt good about herself since.

  And now it was time to make it up to her baby sister.

  Hadn’t her personal astrologer recently told her that the heavenly bodies were situated in the perfect order? That now was the time to right past wrongs? Hadn’t he hinted about the familial torment that had existed for two decades? Hadn’t he suggested that now, before the stars shifted, she make amends?

  And if the astrological viewpoint wasn’t enough, there had been that other very strong sign: a recent anonymous letter. No return address. Block letters. Postmarked in New Orleans. It read:

  COME HOME. HANNAH NEEDS YOU.

  Now, that was a pretty clear sign. Had Abby sent it and was ashamed to sign her name? Had she referred to herself by her middle name, the one their mother sometimes called her? The name of their maternal grandmother? Or had someone else sent the letter, someone who knew Abby well enough to use her middle name?

  The final sign, completing the triad, was Luke’s murder. How could she possibly ignore it?

  Two things were certain.

  It was time to return to New Orleans.

  And it was time for the truth.

  It had been twenty years since their mother had plunged to her death, and Zoey was sick to the back teeth of holding on to the secret she and her father had shared.

  No more.

  Abby was a big girl. She could handle the past. Hadn’t she been trying to sort it out by herself? Going to the hospital on her own, wasn’t that another sign that she was healing? And the insinuations Abby had made . . .

  . . . we can talk about a lot of things before we have that drink, okay? Including Mom and the day she died. I think you know more about it than you’ve ever said . . . We’re going to discuss it . . .

  But now, Zoey second-guessed herself, something she rarely did. There was a pretty good chance that she should have come clean on the phone the other night, but she’d really thought it would be best to see her sister face to face before unloading the truth about the past.

  At least she hoped she was making the right decision.

  Zoey crossed her fingers, sent up a quick prayer to God, then asked the Fates to keep pointing her in the right direction, to help her be certain that she was making the right choice on this one.

  The door to the plane closed and the flight attendants asked everyone to turn off his or her electronic devices before the jet pushed out of the gate. The big man next to her clicked off his cell phone and struggled to place it in his bag under the seat.

  “Sorry,” he muttered as he shoved things around and continued to brush against her.

  She flashed him a smile that she didn’t feel but her mind was on what she would face when she landed.

  She couldn’t believe Luke was really dead. Murdered, no less. A college coed had been killed with him. How sick.

  Zoey had been keeping up with the reports and had called friends at a sister station in New Orleans who were convinced that the police didn’t have any leads yet. Then there was this business with Asa Pomeroy, Abby’s neighbor. What the hell was that all about? This morning she’d heard another woman was missing: an African-American community leader had seemed to have vanished. Though she wasn’t certain, Zoey thought she’d heard the name before, a long time ago.

  Gina Jefferson. Why did that name sound so familiar?

  From the amount of information Zoey had gleaned on the Internet this morning, Gina Jefferson was a big deal in New Orleans, a woman who worked behind the scenes rather than in front, but who had gained recognition for her efforts supporting the mentally ill.

  Was that it? Zoey wondered as the jet lumbered toward the runway. She thought hard, digging her teeth into her lower lip. Had Gina Jefferson somehow worked at Our Lady of Virtues or in private practice with her mother? Could that be? A social worker maybe?

  A headache began to pound behind her eyes as the plane eased into position, then began to pick up speed, its engines roaring. Faster and faster, the jet tore down the runway and Zoey was pressed hard into her seat as the 737 lifted off, cutting into the darkness of the heavens and leaving Sea-Tac with its blaze of lights far below.

  It would be worth it, she thought, a relief to finally put the past to rest. That was what Abby had wanted, wasn’t it? Hadn’t her sister said she needed to learn the truth and deal with it once and for all?

  Jesus H. Christ, if Abby only knew what she was asking!

  She will, Zoey, and soon. Steel yourself.

  This ain’t gonna be pretty.

  * * *

  Montoya drove through the pouring rain. His jaw was clenched. It had been hours sin
ce he’d dealt with that lowlife worm Maury Taylor, but he was still seething. He’d dropped the note off at the lab, then reviewed everything with Bentz and Zaroster that they knew about the four murders. Which hadn’t added up to squat.

  No news on the bridal dress yet.

  No prints at the first scene, or on Luke Gierman’s BMW, or Gina Jefferson’s Buick, that could be identified outside family members or friends.

  Asa Pomeroy’s car hadn’t yet been located.

  No trace evidence that would help in locating the suspect . . . at least not yet.

  Size twelve boot prints at both scenes. The manufacturer had been contacted and was preparing a list of retailers who carried the common hiking boot.

  Cell phones and personal phone records were being checked but so far had given up nothing.

  The pictures he’d taken at the candlelight vigil were being pored over by the task force.

  The black hair on the wedding gown was male and was now with the DNA lab. However, until they had something to match the markers against, it wouldn’t mean much. Unless they got lucky.

  Montoya sighed, turning over in his mind what he knew so far.

  Each set of victims had been killed with the female victim’s gun, then the scene was staged to approximate a murdersuicide. “Approximate” was the right word because it wasn’t done well enough to fool the police. The killer probably knew that. He was toying with them, giving them a clue to his twisted game; Montoya just didn’t understand it yet.

  Then there was the note. If it proved valid, it suggested that Luke Gierman, to whom the envelope was addressed, was being instructed to “repent.” One single word. And then the signature: A L. Who the hell was that? The department was searching databases and going over the notes from every interview taken on the two cases. Was it someone named Al, or Allen, or Aldren, or Alfred, or Alice . . . or was it initials? Everyone in the department had tossed out ideas, Bentz pointing out that two of the victims were Asa and Luke, and their first name initials could spell A L. Then there was the thought that it might mean Alabama. Maybe the killer had resided or had been born there. Turn the initials around and the other state abbreviation would be for Louisiana, their home state. Or how about LA, Brinkman had offered up, Los Angeles. “Tons of freakoids out there, let me tell ya. All that smog. Fries their brains.”