by Lisa Jackson
“Something wrong?” Montoya asked and she jerked, brought back to the present, to the man with the searching dark eyes and protective manner. She yearned for that protection.
“Are you kidding?” She tried to make light of it, but her attempts fell flat. “A madman is running around the area, killing people, including my ex and my neighbor for starters, and I’ve got a detective checking up on me regularly. Lots of things are wrong.”
“But it’s good I come here.”
“Yes . . . yes, it is.” She swallowed and looked away from his intense gaze. “Come on into the kitchen and I’ll buy you a beer . . . I assume you’re off duty.”
“Until tomorrow morning unless I get the call.”
“What call?”
“That our guy has struck again.” He was stone-cold sober.
“So soon?” What a horrible thought! She glanced at the television screen, saw the exterior of Asa’s hunting lodge again, and silently prayed the terror would end soon.
“It wasn’t that long between the two sets of murders. This killer doesn’t seem to have much of a cooling-off period between attacks, and oftentimes serial killers escalate.”
“Serial killers,” she repeated, a shiver chasing down her spine. “Maybe this one’s finished. Maybe whatever it was he felt compelled to do is now complete.”
He sent her a look that spoke volumes. She saw her words as wishful thinking. He knew otherwise.
In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and dug out two bottles of Lone Star, cracked them both open, and handed one to Montoya. Ansel, hiding on one of the bar stools at the counter and frightened all over again, hopped to the floor and made a quick beeline down the hall.
“An improvement,” Montoya observed. “No hissing.”
“He’s really warming up to you. Watch out if you sit on the couch—he’ll probably hop onto the back and lick your hair.”
“Something to look forward to,” he said dryly.
Abby grinned at his look of disgust. “Actually, Ansel would never—but my girlfriend Alicia’s purebred Siamese was really into it. Always wanted to ‘groom’ her.”
“I’d say the cat has a few screws loose. Or maybe it was into the kind of gel or shampoo she used.”
“Well, I guess we all have our personal idiosyncrasies,” Abby murmured, far too conscious of the way Montoya’s presence filled a room.
“Some more than others,” he agreed.
They returned to the living room, where on the screen again, Billy Ray Furlough was ranting on about the wrath of the Lord and how everyone had to look inside him or herself to help stop the poor, demented soul who was committing these crimes against God and man.
“Can you believe this guy?” Montoya pointed at the screen with the index finger of his beer-holding hand. “He’s already called the department several times. Wants to meet with the lieutenant and the detectives in charge to pray for divine intervention.”
“So much for the ‘God helps those who help themselves’ theory that I heard him spouting a little while ago.” She walked closer to the set. The preacher stared straight at the camera and offered a bold smile, one that suggested he was a strong leader in the face of adversity. “Hasn’t his church been investigated by the SEC or the IRS or something?” she asked, trying to remember.
“Maybe, I don’t know. He’s pretty much off-limits, though, being the head of a religious organization. Believe me, he’s buried so deep in tax lawyers, accountants, spin doctors, and I’d guess, makeup artists and hairstylists that it would take a backhoe to try and find him.” He took a swallow from his bottle. “Just my opinion, though. I’m not speaking for the department.” He rubbed thoughtfully at his goatee. “Odd thing though—I think his organization tried to buy the Our Lady of Virtues property.”
Abby felt that whisper of fear, cold as death, scrape the back of her neck again as she sat in one corner of the couch, he on the other end.
“Along with a lot of other businesses and moguls, including Asa Pomeroy.”
“Wait a minute . . . Asa Pomeroy? What? Did he expect to construct a munitions factory next to the convent?” she asked in disbelief.
“I think he wanted the entire piece of property, convent and all. And I’m not certain it was for a factory. It didn’t matter. The nuns balked and the archdiocese passed on the offer.”
“Why haven’t I heard of this before?”
“I hadn’t either. It happened a few years back,” Montoya explained. “I only found out earlier today as I’ve been checking on the victims. Pomeroy seems to have a fascination with the place, though, mind you, he was an elder with the First Baptist Church in Cambrai. Makes you wonder why he donated so much money to the hospital while it was open. He’s not exactly known for his philanthropy. I figure maybe he knew someone who worked there or was a patient.”
“Like Gina Jefferson?” she said, trying to remember. “It’s odd, but I have this feeling . . .” She frowned, forced her mind back to the day her mother died and the weeks before. “I think she might have been employed at the hospital.”
Montoya ignored his beer and his facial muscles tightened. “I’ll check it out.”
“You think it’s important?”
“Could be. Any connection between the victims will help us understand what’s going on, who might be behind all this”—he gestured toward the television—“crap.”
“Do you think there’s some connection to the hospital?” she asked. “I mean, Clyde LaBelle was a doctor there, Asa gave money, Gina Jefferson may have worked on the premises . . .”
She felt his gaze upon her.
“What about Luke?”
She shook her head and tucked her feet under her. “That’s where it all falls apart. Luke’s only connection that I know of is that my mother was a patient—and died—there.”
There was a moment of silence between them, then Montoya said, “I guess we’ll just have to keep digging.” He watched Hershey settle onto her spot by the unlit fire and suddenly asked, “Can we light that?” He indicated the dry stack of wood sitting in the grate. And then, as if he felt the need to explain himself, he added, “I’ve never had a house with a fireplace.”
“Sure.” She climbed off the couch, found the long, tapered barbecue lighter that she always used, flicked on the flame, then touched it to the paper and dry kindling beneath the chunks of pine and oak.
The paper caught quickly and the kindling, bone dry, snapped and sparked, hungry flames eagerly licking the dry wood.
“Oh, damn.” Smoke began to billow and boil into the house and she reached quickly over the flames to pull the lever on the flue. With a rush, the fire burned more brightly and the smoke was sucked up the chimney. “Sorry,” she said, feeling like an idiot, “I always do that.”
“Are you okay?”
“No third-degree burns or singed eyebrows this time,” she said and laughed. “Just this.” She showed off the black soot on her fingers. “Give me a sec and I’ll wash up.”
It took longer than a second but she managed to clean the oily, black film from her hands, scatter some crackers onto a platter, and slice up some cheese, carefully cutting off a little mold from the end of the brick. When she returned, Montoya had kicked off his boots and was staring at the fire.
“Sustenance,” she said. “Such as it is.”
“Looks great.”
“Well . . . it looks decent.” She set the platter on the coffee table and took up her seat on the couch again.
Montoya grinned. “Beyond decent.” Sitting low on his back, he cradled his beer between both hands and asked, “So did Luke know anyone named Al?”
“Al? Probably. Doesn’t everyone?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Okay . . . let me think. He must have. Wait. Yeah. There was someone in college, someone I never met. Alan . . . Alan . . .” She snapped her fingers in rapid succession, thinking hard. “Oh, what was that guy’s name? O’Brian! Yeah, Alan O’Brian. I think they might have been in the sa
me fraternity. He lives . . . somewhere in the North-east, maybe Boston now. I don’t think Luke kept up with him. They both went to the University of Washington.”
“Okay.”
He seemed to be waiting for more, so Abby thought hard. “Oh, yeah. Later, Luke had a sailing buddy who owned a boat that he docked on Lake Union in Seattle. His name was Andrew Allen and I think some people called him Al or Allen, but Luke always referred to him as Drew.”
Montoya rotated his bottle between his palms “What about you?”
“Do I know any people named Al?” she asked, and he nodded. “Well . . . I’m sure I’ve had clients or classmates when I was in school, but the only person I’ve ever called Al is my friend Alicia . . . the one who lives in the Bay Area.”
“Where you’re planning to move.”
“When I sell this place, yes. Or if I ever do.” She thought of Sean Erwin, who had come by earlier, moving furniture, measuring every room, window, and door, then taking notes. “So,” she asked Montoya, “what’s this all about?” But before the words were out of her mouth, she knew. “Oh, wait a minute. I get it. I heard part of the radio program today, I was in my car and just checked out what was happening at good old WSLJ. Luke’s old program was running again, and Maury was talking about someone named Al, right? I’d just turned on the radio when someone showed up at the station and shut him down and Dr. Sam took over . . . hey, wait, was that you?”
The detective gave a quick nod.
Abby smiled at the thought of Montoya busting in on Maury’s program. She could imagine the moron freaking out. “Way to go.” She leaned over toward Montoya and clicked the neck of her beer bottle with his. “I think we deserve this drink.”
He smiled. “Well, I know I do.”
She laughed and it felt good to let go of some of the tension of the past week. “I’ll have you know you’re not the only one who’s been working hard. While you were out fighting crime and keeping the streets of New Orleans safe from serial killers, I’ve been busy cropping wedding photos and paying bills. So, you tell me. Who has the more dangerous job?” She pointed the top of her bottle at him. “Have you ever seen the mother of the bride react when she sees a shot that shows off her double chin, or panty line? How about a candid one that catches her husband kissing the maid of honor?”
He laughed despite himself, his teeth showing white against his dark beard. Brown eyes glinted. “You’re the one who should be wearing the gun.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, if I had one. Mine’s missing.” His smile fell away and she shrugged. “It was Luke’s dad’s .38. I kept it after the divorce, which really ticked my ex off. It was here the other day and now it’s missing.”
“For how long?” he asked, his expression suddenly hard.
“I don’t know. Just a few days.”
“You think you misplaced it?”
“No . . . I’ve looked for it. I don’t know what happened to it.”
“Who, besides you, has been in the house?” He set his near-empty beer on the coffee table, all of his attention focused on her.
Abby found his intensity a bit unnerving. He was asking all the questions she’d been afraid to ask herself. “No one, well, except a few people who’ve looked at the house.”
“You’ve got their names, addresses, and phone numbers?”
“Just numbers.”
“I want them.”
“You think it’s significant?” she asked, feeling that nasty breath of fear crawl through her again.
“These recent murders,” he said, “in both cases the victims were killed with the female victim’s weapon. In the first case, your ex-husband’s murder, the gun was a gift to Courtney LaBelle from her father, for protection. In the second murder, the weapon was stolen from the Jefferson house, part of a collection the husband kept.”
She could scarcely breathe. Panic swept through her. She shot to her feet, pacing before the fire. “You think the killer was here”—she pointed at the floorboards in front of the fire and tried to calm her racing heart—“in this house and he stole my gun so that he can kidnap me? Then kill me and some other person, a man, with that very weapon? Is that what you’re saying?” She was nearly hyperventilating now, her breathing fast and shallow.
“I’m saying it’s possible,” he answered carefully.
“Damn it, Montoya, you’re scaring the hell out of me.” Hershey lifted her head, watching as Abby crossed her arms over her chest. Restless, she walked from one window to the next, thinking about the unseen eyes she’d felt, the open window she’d discovered the day she’d found the gun missing . . . oh, God. Was it possible? Had someone been in her house? Had someone stolen Luke’s gun? Or had it been misplaced? “Then I guess I should tell you that when I found the gun missing, someone might have gotten into my house.”
She glanced over at Montoya, who was completely ignoring his beer.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if someone was inside. It was the night you came over and I had the hammer.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t know until after you left. You suggested I get a gun and I double-checked. As I said, earlier that day, Hershey went nuts. She was nervous and growled. I thought it was just the cat, but I searched the house anyway. There was nothing missing, I thought, and I’d locked the house, but I found the laundry room window open.”
“You didn’t leave it open yourself.”
“No . . .”
“You should have told me.”
“I was afraid you’d think I was an alarmist—one of those weak, scared little women I detest.”
“Don’t sacrifice your safety for your pride,” he ordered, sounding so imperative that her temper rose.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” she snapped. “I searched the house and found no one, okay? It wasn’t until after you left that I found the gun was missing. Since then I’ve been looking for it and”—she shook her head—“it’s gone.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.”
He was staring at her so intently, she had to look away. “So, tell me,” she said, rubbing her arms. She felt chilled to the bone. “Who’s this Al?” she asked, then suddenly she knew. “Oh, my God. He contacted the radio station, didn’t he? The killer. Maury’s been in contact with him! He called or wrote or e-mailed the station.”
“Someone did. It could be a fraud. Lots of times people pretend to be the doer, just to get some attention.”
“But you think it was the real thing,” she guessed, glancing at him as she shoved her hair from her eyes. “That’s why you’re here and asking all these questions. You may not be on duty but you’re still working.”
“I’m not sure the killer sent the note.” Montoya stood, stretching. “But it’s possible and we’re checking out every lead.”
“What did the note say?”
She came straight toward him, her fear and distress dilating her pupils. When she turned her earnest face to his, Montoya’s concentration shattered. He should have been prepared for the question. But he wasn’t. Nor was he prepared for the onslaught to his senses brought on by this little bit of a woman with her quick smile, sharp wit, and deep-set determination. She was close enough that he smelled a whiff of some perfume, saw the tiny streaks of gold in her hair, gilded by the firelight, noticed the way the cords in her neck were visible. The FBI wouldn’t like it if he spilled his guts about the note, and he didn’t want to do anything that would remotely compromise the investigation. However, this, he thought, was a mitigating circumstance. She was missing her gun, for God’s sake, and that single fact scared the hell out of him. So fuck protocol. The task force was just getting together. The message was only a single word, and who knew how many people at the station had heard or seen it?
“What did the note say?” she repeated.
“If I tell you, you need to keep this under wraps.”
“Of course.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I, Detective.”
“I’m serious, Abby, this could cost me my job or, worse yet, cripple the investigation.”
“I’m serious, too. Damned serious. What the hell did the note say?”
He stared at her long and hard. “The only reason I’m telling you is that I have this sense . . . worry that somehow this is connected to you. I don’t know how, and I could be way off base, but that’s what I feel.” He saw the fear deepen in her eyes. “I’m sorry. But you need to be aware and alert. And cautious. I don’t want you to be taken by surprise.” Frowning, he ignored the warnings running through his mind, including Melinda Jaskiel’s last order concerning protocol. It was all he could do to keep from taking her into his arms. “There was only one word:—Repent—and it was signed by Al, or more precisely A L; both of the signature letters were capitalized.” He watched as little lines of confusion appeared between her eyebrows, how her full lips pulled into a knot of concentration, how a shadow of fear chased through eyes the color of aged whiskey.
“Repent? For what?” Her gaze was troubled. “Sins? Whose? Why?”
“We don’t know yet. But the task force is looking into it.”
“Shouldn’t this information be made public?”
“It will, when the officer in charge of the task force thinks it should.”
She shook her head. “It means nothing to me and I don’t know anyone else named Al or even with those initials.” Her shoulders slumped. “Why the hell is this happening?”
“I wish I knew.” And then he could restrain himself no longer. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. When she didn’t resist, he rested his chin upon her head and drank in the scent of her hair. “I’m afraid until we catch him, we won’t know.”
