Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  Sweeping his flashlight’s beam over the shore, he located a solitary cypress tree with a split trunk. Bleached white, it stood a ghostly sentinel, and Cole sent up a silent prayer that it hadn’t been disturbed in the last year. Making his way to the far side, near the water, he found a hole between the bare, exposed roots. First he pulled on a pair of thick gloves. Then he tested the hollow by shining a light inside. He saw nothing, but it was dark, the slit in the roots barely larger than a man’s hand. He couldn’t be certain. Squatting closer to the bole of the tree, he withdrew a long-handled screwdriver from his tool kit and used it to poke and prod whatever might have taken refuge there. He didn’t want to surprise a sleeping water moccasin or other creature.

  No animal hissed, barked, screamed, or flew from the opening, but his heart was pounding double-time all the same. He reached inside carefully and gently scraped at the dirt he’d piled inside until the tips of his gloves encountered something foreign. He smiled in the darkness. “Bingo,” he whispered, digging swiftly until he extracted a nylon fanny pack.

  Slipping the unopened pack into his tool kit, Cole retraced his steps quickly, half running through the low brush and trees. He heard nothing save the sound of his own short breaths and thudding heartbeat. If anyone found him now, he’d have a lot of explaining to do.

  Near the fence, he clicked off the flashlight, climbed over the old chain-link, and landed softly about twenty yards from his Jeep. Where he froze. Waiting. Catching his breath and watching for any hint that he’d been followed or that someone was nearby.

  The seconds clicked by.

  Nervous sweat trickled beneath his collar.

  Somewhere to the east, an owl hooted softly, but he could see no figure in the darkness, detected no scent that shouldn’t be in the night air, heard no snaps of twigs or shuffling of feet.

  Get moving. It’s now or never.

  Ever alert, he started forward, and when no one jumped out at him, he walked quickly and surely until he reached his vehicle. He unlocked it, yanked open the door, and tossed his tool kit and dirty fanny pack inside.

  He backed out of the lane carefully. No flashing red and blue lights were waiting for him, no burly cops with handguns or clubs. At the county road, he threw the Jeep into first and took off, eyeing the bag on the seat next to him. Only after he’d put five miles between himself and the single-wide and was heading through a small town on his way back to the city did he pull open the fanny pack zipper and reach inside. Plastic met his fingertips. He flicked on the interior light and caught a glimpse of the money. Fifteen tight rolls, each totaling a thousand dollars, banded and wrapped in a ziplock bag. Fifteen grand. Not exactly a king’s ransom, but enough to start him rolling again.

  Blood money, he thought but didn’t really give a damn.

  Montoya glared at his badge and flung it on the table. Sometimes the job just wasn’t worth it. In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer, and popped the top. The room was chaos, as he was in the middle of a major remodeling job. Some of the plumbing worked, some didn’t, and the common wall that had separated his shotgun-style rowhouse from the neighbor’s had been torn down. Now, to keep the heat in, Visqueen sheeting separated the two identical halves that would soon merge into one living area. The kitchen would be double its current size; they would have two baths and a second bedroom.

  Eventually.

  After two swallows of his Lone Star, he sat in a caned-back chair and absently patted the big dog’s head. Hershey, his girlfriend’s chocolate lab, licked Montoya’s palm. Montoya grunted, “Good girl,” but he wasn’t really paying attention to Hershey as he looked over a copy of the file he’d made of the Royal Kajak homicide.

  There had to be something they’d missed, some piece of evidence to tie Cole Dennis to the crime. Correction: some piece of evidence that they hadn’t fouled up—or lost. They’d had, in their possession, a torn piece of black fleece that had matched a rip in one of Dennis’s pullovers, but the scrap had been lost before it had been tested for blood splatter or epithelials or as a fit into the sleeve of a sweater they’d discovered in Dennis’s hamper. Trouble was, the pullover itself had no blood spatter on it, just a hole, so they had nothing concrete. And even if the missing piece were to suddenly turn up, it would be the only part of the shirt with incriminating evidence, so what were the chances of that? Still, it was a departmental screwup they couldn’t afford, especially with a man like Cole Dennis.

  Which meant, apart from Eve Renner’s word, there was no proof Dennis had even been at the cabin.

  “Damn,” Montoya muttered, shaking his head. They hadn’t had enough to hold the bastard, and their prime witness had come up with a severe case of amnesia.

  So now Dennis was free.

  Montoya wondered if Eve Renner had intentionally sabotaged their case. She and Cole Dennis had been lovers. But then why finger him in the first place?

  Shoving stiff fingers through his short-cropped hair, he scowled so hard his face hurt. The thought of that slime-bag of an attorney walking on the homicide caused the stomach acid in Montoya’s gut to start roiling.

  Hershey gave a short, high-pitched bark and lunged for the front door. Her tail was already pounding against the side of a chair, kicking up dust.

  Abby was home.

  Montoya’s bad mood eased a bit.

  The front door rattled, opened, and Abby Chastain paused on the porch to shake out her umbrella then folded it and dropped it into the stand near the door. The dog went nuts, wiggling like crazy. As she stripped out of her raincoat and hung it on the curved arm of a hall tree, Abby caught Montoya’s eye. She flashed him a sexy grin that caused an immediate shot of lusty adrenaline to spurt through his blood. “Hi.”

  “Back atcha.”

  “Sorry I’m late, but I stopped for takeout. Just a sec…Hey, you. Miss me?” she asked her squirming dog, kneeling down to scratch the lab behind her ears. Hershey whined and pushed her head into her chest. “Yeah, me too.” If possible, Hershey’s tail thumped even harder. “Hey, slow down,” Abby commanded, nearly falling over and laughing.

  Montoya couldn’t help but smile. His bad mood disappeared as she straightened and dusted her hands. “Now, that”—she motioned to Hershey—“is the kind of homecoming I expect, Detective.” She reached through the open door and pulled a white plastic sack and her portfolio from the porch swing, where she’d left them so that she could open the door.

  “You want me to wiggle my fanny and whine at you?” Montoya scraped back his chair.

  “For starters, yeah. And then, oh, I don’t know, you could nuzzle my face and lick me all over.”

  She smiled at him. God, she was beautiful. Though she’d tied her hair back, some of the tousled red-blond curls had sprung free to frame her face. With a small mouth that was often in a thoughtful pout and eyes the color of aged whiskey, she got to him the way no other woman ever had. Now those eyes glinted naughtily. “And don’t forget to kiss my feet and tell me you’re crazy about me and that you can’t live without me.”

  “And what would I get back?”

  “Hmm. Let me think.”

  In three short strides, he crossed the distance between them.

  “What would you want?” she questioned softly.

  “Careful,” he warned, “you’re wading in dangerous waters.”

  One eyebrow lifted in wicked defiance. “My specialty.”

  “Oh lady.” He barked out a laugh and shook his head. Wrapping his arms around her, he said, “Let’s forget dinner and go straight to bed.”

  “No way. Not after I searched for a parking place for ten minutes, parked in a loading zone in desperation, and stood in line for the last order of pad Thai. Sorry, but we eat first. But afterward…who knows?”

  “You are so much trouble.” He kissed her hard on the lips. Felt her melt against him. When he lifted his head, she sighed. “Okay, so you’re persuasive, but, really, let’s eat first. I see no contractor showed up today.”<
br />
  “Tomorrow. He promised.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, disbelieving as she eyed the wall of plastic behind the big-screen TV. Where there had been built-in shelves, there was now just a murky plastic barrier separating Montoya’s living space from the gutted living room that had once belonged to Selma Alexander. “Hey, what’s this?” She looked at the table where the files on Dennis were strewn around his badge. “Uh-oh, I heard about this. It was all over the news that Cole Dennis was released.” She walked into the kitchen, the dog at her heels, and untied the plastic bag she’d been carrying, then opened each individual container of food. As she scooped steaming noodles, vegetables, and chicken onto two plates, she added, “I know this goes against everything you believe in, but maybe you should just let this one go.”

  Montoya shook his head. “I can’t. Cole Dennis is dirty, I know it.”

  “But you can’t prove it.”

  “Not yet.” He rubbed at his goatee as he followed her to the kitchen, where he rested his jean-clad hips against the counter.

  “Sounds like a vendetta to me.”

  “Call it what you want.” He took a swig from his long-necked bottle of Lone Star. “There’s got to be a way to nail the son of a bitch, and I intend to find it.”

  Handing him a plate, she said, “Clear a spot on the table, and I’ll get the forks. Unless you want chopsticks…”

  “Forks’ll do.”

  “So, where’s Ansel?”

  Montoya lifted a shoulder. “Beats me.”

  She skewered him with a glare of pure gold. “Was he in when you got home?”

  “Don’t know. I’m tellin’ ya, the cat hates me.”

  “Honestly!” she said with more than a little exasperation in her tone. “You don’t try to be friends with him.”

  “It takes two to tangle.”

  “That’s ‘tango.’”

  “Is it?” He grinned widely, and Abby sent him a scathing look, handed him the forks, and instructed him to set the table before heading off in search of the miserable gray tabby. Montoya wasn’t big on cats to begin with, and this one was a royal pain, but he tolerated it as Abby seemed bewitched by the damned thing.

  A few seconds later she returned, the gray tabby in her arms. The cat was purring loudly as she rubbed his pale belly and made little loving sounds into Ansel’s flicking ears. The cat rotated his head and stared at Montoya with wide gold eyes and such a smug look that Montoya could almost believe the feline understood every word and was using it to his advantage. “Safe and sound, I see.”

  “Cowering under the bed.”

  “I’m telling ya, I didn’t do anything but walk in the door.”

  “Sure, Detective,” she teased as the cat squirmed out of her arms and dropped to the floor, only to hide under the couch.

  “Hate at first sight.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Eat,” she said and pulled a couple of place mats from a nearby cupboard before slapping them onto the table.

  Montoya grabbed a second beer from the fridge, and when thoughts of Cole Dennis regaining his freedom surfaced, he forced his mind from the case. Maybe he needed a break. He opened the bottle and handed it to Abby, added napkins and a bottle of soy sauce, along with knives, then settled into his chair across from her.

  Their living arrangement was new enough to feel a little awkward at times. They’d gotten engaged and she’d moved in, and though they’d known each other only a short time, he was certain he wanted to live the rest of his days with her, a divorced woman whose life had been in chaos from the first minute he’d set eyes on her.

  “Zoey called today,” she said, winding noodles over her fork.

  Zoey was Abby’s older sister, who lived in Seattle. “How is she?”

  “I asked her, and she said, and I quote, ‘More beautiful by the day.’”

  “No problem with her self-esteem,” he said, but they both knew Zoey was referring to the plastic surgery that had helped erase the scars from a vicious attack that had left her nearly dead. Montoya didn’t doubt that Zoey’s face would heal, but he wondered about her psyche, if the terror of being held by a madman, her life in dire jeopardy, would ever be completely erased.

  “She wanted to know if there had been any progress on finding out about our mother’s other child.” Abby set her fork down and stared straight at Montoya. “I told her I hadn’t found anything.” Tiny lines of frustration crawled across her forehead, and Montoya understood her agitation. Abby had grown up believing that she and Zoey were the only children of Faith Chastain, a tormented woman who had spent much of her adult life at Our Lady of Virtues Hospital, a mental asylum that had been closed for nearly two decades. Only recently had the mystery surrounding Faith’s death been solved and another revealed: Faith Chastain had borne another child. The autopsy report from the time of Faith’s death revealed a cesarean scar, one that hadn’t been there when Abby, as a young child, had caught a glimpse of her mother’s naked body.

  So what had happened to the baby?

  So far, no one had a clue.

  Abby frowned. She pushed her plate aside and folded her arms over the table. “I’ve searched all the birth and adoption records for the fifteen years between my birth and my mother’s death. If she had a baby, it would have had to have been in those years. I came up with zip. What about you?”

  “Nothing.” The department, of course, had nothing. No crime had ever been reported, so Montoya had phoned an old poker buddy, an ex-cop who was now a private detective. “I talked to Graziano last week, and he hadn’t found anything. But he’s still looking.”

  “The only way we’ll find out anything is to go through all the hospital records.”

  “Our Lady of Virtues was a private institution.”

  “So? There have to be records. Somewhere.” She picked up her plate and carried it to the sink. Hershey was only a step behind. “And someone knows about them.”

  He knew where this was heading, and he didn’t like it. “The church.”

  “Bingo.”

  He picked up his plate and set it on the counter next to the sink, where she was running water. “You want me to talk to the nuns out there?”

  “You don’t have to do it. I will.”

  “Abby,” he said softly, touching her arm so that she glanced up at him. “Maybe it’s time to let this go.”

  “You want me to just forget that I have a brother or sister that I’ve never met?”

  “The baby might not have made it.” They’d been over this ground before, but as always, she was stubborn as hell.

  “Then let’s find out, okay?” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and tossed it at him. He caught it with one hand as she pointed a long finger at his nose. “Look, Detective, I’m getting to the bottom of this. I can’t go on living the rest of my life not knowing. So either you help me or I go it alone. Your choice.”

  “Okay, okay. I know. I’m with you.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m just telling you we might not find anything, or, if we do, you might not like it.”

  “So what else is new?” She let out her breath and held up both hands. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to pick a fight.”

  “You didn’t.”

  She smothered a smile. “I tried.”

  “And failed miserably,” he teased.

  “You’re impossible.”

  “At least.” He snapped the towel at her rear. “Besides, I’ll get even with you later.”

  “What? In the bedroom?” she asked, eyes widening in mock horror. Splaying the fingers of one hand over her chest, she added, “Whatever do you have in mind?”

  “You’ll see…”

  To his surprise, she reached around him, unclipped the small case attached to his belt, and in one swift motion dangled the metal cuffs in front of his face as she kissed the lobe of his ear. Her teeth scraped the diamond stud he always wore. “And so will you, Detective….”

  CHAPTER 6

  The Reviver wa
s agitated. Ready. Every nerve screaming through his body.

  It was time.

  At last.

  He couldn’t wait.

  Anticipation propelled him. Bloodlust snaked through his veins.

  On silent footsteps, he crept through the undergrowth and followed a sagging, dilapidated fence line. Dressed for battle, his weapons belted to his body, he edged ever closer to his prey. A fine mist rose, adding another layer of camouflage to the already dark night.

  In the distance, across a lonely field, he spied the farmhouse, windows glowing faintly. His pulse quickened. He told himself to be careful, to tread lightly; he didn’t want to make a mistake and suffer the wrath of the Voice.

  Not this time.

  God had spoken to him, and His instructions were clear.

  Stealthily he slipped around a spindly pine tree.

  A sharp hiss cut through the night.

  His hand went to the knife at his belt before his eyes adjusted and he spied the thick, furry body of a raccoon. It had reared up on its hind legs, its nasty little teeth bared, its masked eyes glaring at him defiantly.

  Stupid animal. It would serve the fucker right if he sliced its throat, killed the damned creature out of spite and left it for vultures and crows.

  But he couldn’t risk anything that wasn’t planned. He had to remain focused. His orders had been succinct. The Voice of God had been specific and strong, telling him exactly what to do while the other irritating, whining voices had buzzed like white noise. The killing would begin soon enough.

  Eyes glittering, the raccoon lowered itself onto all fours and lumbered awkwardly deeper into the underbrush and brambles, as if it hadn’t known how close it had come to death. His lips curled, and his fingers itched to grab his hunting knife.

  Good riddance.

  As the vermin disappeared from sight, he focused his attention to the house where his victim was waiting.

  Unknowing.

  With renewed purpose, he stretched the sagging barbed wire, slid through the opening, then took off at an easy jog across the open field. The night was cool for May. Rising clouds of mist swirled from the damp ground, and the air was fresh and clean from the recent rain, filling his nostrils with the smell of moist earth.