by Lisa Jackson
Then there were the Feds. Taking charge. Which was fine with Bentz. Let the FBI use its resources and work with local crime enforcement. The Feds added a new perspective, and though a few of the agents rankled him, so what. There were cops in his own department that aggravated the crap out of him as well. “The videographer’s taping the crowd, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Bentz wanted to make certain that anyone found hanging around every crime scene was identified and investigated. His eyes searched the crowd, looking for someone who just couldn’t stay away, who felt compelled to be there. His gaze landed on Kristi. Oh hell! She was talking into a handheld tape player and had obviously blown off work for the day. Hadn’t she told him this was the case she was going to use to write her ridiculous true-crime book?
As if she sensed him staring at her, she looked his way. This time she made eye contact and waved.
He tapped his watch, indicating that she should get her butt to work. She shrugged, ignoring his attempt at fatherly advice.
Crap.
Muttering under his breath, Bentz reached into his pocket, found one last antacid, tossed it into his mouth.
“So, what do you think about the missing doll? You buy it?” Montoya asked.
“Why lie?” Bentz countered. “Why take us up to the attic? I don’t think they were bullshitting us.”
“So where’s the doll—Charlotte, isn’t that what she called her?”
“Beats me.”
“Could be a story, though.”
Bentz gave him a look.
“The numbers didn’t jibe,” Montoya pointed out. “According to Dennis and Renner the doll was supposed to be scribbled on in red ink. 444. But our nun, Sister Viv, she’s got 323 tattooed onto her forehead, same as the number written in blood on the wall with her finger. No 444 in sight.” He sucked hard on his cigarette again, the tip glowing in the reflection of his sunglasses.
“The doll was supposed to have ‘Eve’ written on her as well.”
“If the damned thing existed.”
“The missing doll doesn’t bother me as much as the missing files.”
“Humph.” Montoya took a final drag and tossed the cigarette butt onto the concrete then crushed it with the toe of his boot. They’d discovered no other files in the attic. “Maybe they didn’t exist either.”
“We’ve got Faith Chastain’s folder. It exists.”
“That could have come from anywhere. Maybe Dennis stole it from Terrence Renner’s house the night he was killed and just didn’t bother to return it with the laptop. Or maybe it was at Eve’s place all along. That house was owned by her grandparents, her father’s family. Terrence Renner had lived and visited there, maybe not for a while, but the file’s twenty years old. Who knows where Eve dug it up. We only know where she says she found it.”
“Her key fit into the lock of the cabinet.”
“The empty cabinet. Big deal.” Montoya wasn’t impressed.
“Dennis and Renner insist it was full the day before.”
“So our guy, the doer, besides killing two people and hauling one from Baton Rouge to here, took the time to clean up. Not only did he swipe the doll, he took all the files from the file cabinet. Why? Cuz his name is in the cabinet?”
“Or something connecting the crimes to him.”
“Maybe he was hoping to take Faith’s file.”
“Then why take the others?” Bentz asked.
“You tell me,” Montoya said tensely.
“Maybe he couldn’t find Faith’s,” Bentz allowed. “Panicked, figured it might be misfiled and didn’t have time to search.”
“So he takes everything inside? In what? Boxes? Bags? Who is this guy? Supermover? Where did he park? Close enough to haul those files to his vehicle? Then, after everything else, he takes the time to cover his tracks, close windows, and make sure the ladder’s back up on the fire escape? I don’t buy it.” Montoya ran a hand through his glossy black hair and glared at Cole and Eve. “Besides, I still don’t trust Cole Dennis. He may not be the doer this time, but he’s holding back. I just know it.”
“She seems to trust him now.” Bentz was watching Cole and Eve. They were deep in a confab, talking, glancing up at the hospital then over at him, waiting for their cue to leave. “I called South General. They were there last night. Together.”
“So what’s that all about? After being a prime witness in Roy Kajak’s death, now she sleeps with Dennis? After being convinced that the son of a bitch nearly killed her?”
Bentz shook his head, swatting at a horsefly that was buzzing near his head. “Don’t know, but I think we should find out.”
“No shit.”
Eve slept for hours.
Cole had brought her back to her house and, over her protests, given her some of the pain medication the ER doctor at South General had prescribed then insisted that she rest. She’d been certain sleep would prove elusive, as her headache had returned and her shoulder had throbbed mercilessly. She was shaken to her core, her mind filled with spinning, disjointed, and terrifying images of a dark red bloodstain, the missing and mutilated doll, and Sister Vivian’s posed, bloodied corpse with its hideous tattoo.
She and Cole had talked to the police, including an agent from the FBI, given statements at the station, and tried to come up with every bit of information they possessed. Eve had been asked about her father over and over again, the police intimating that he’d not only had a drinking problem but might have used self-prescribed drugs. They’d asked about her childhood, about Roy and her relationship with him. They’d wanted to know what names she’d seen on the missing files and if she remembered anyone from the list she’d pulled together. Then they’d zeroed in on her sex life, bringing up, once again, the man she couldn’t name, the man whose sperm was found swimming in her vagina, a man she’d been with only a few hours after sleeping with Cole.
The interview had been exhausting. She’d been separated from Cole, and he too had been questioned relentlessly, to the point he’d even asked if he needed to call his lawyer.
She’d seen Van and Kyle at the station as well, though she hadn’t spoken to them. They too had been questioned.
In the end, when the police had been convinced Eve and Cole had nothing more to tell, they’d been allowed to leave. Eve had taken Cole to pick up his Jeep. Then they’d reconvened at the house, where Eve’s energy had dissipated to zero.
By the time she’d lain down, it was midafternoon; now it was after eight in the evening, and her stomach growled from lack of food, which was a good sign.
She headed downstairs, where the lamps were lit and Cole was seated at the kitchen table, head bent over scads of yellow sheets from a legal pad he’d found somewhere. He glanced up at the sound of her footsteps, and a smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “Ah, look, Sleeping Beauty has awakened,” he said to Samson, the traitor, who was curled happily in his lap.
She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and shuddered. “Maybe Sleeping Ugly is a better description.”
He laughed and pushed back his chair, the cat scrambling to the floor. “Never.”
“Close enough,” she said ruefully, self-consciously touching her short hair. It was clumped and sticking up at odd angles, and what little mascara she’d once worn on her lashes was smudged beneath her eyes. Her lipstick had long faded, her clothes were wrinkled, and she was still wearing a sling. All in all, she was a mess.
He waved her over and patted his lap. “Sit and take a look. I’ve been busy while you’ve been catching up on your…beauty sleep.”
She groaned as she settled onto his lap. One of his arms slipped around her waist.
“This could be dangerous,” she said.
“That’s the general idea.” He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck then pointed to the papers strewn before him. “Just not now. So, here’s what I did….”
He explained that he’d made a sheet of information on all of the victims who’d
been recently killed, trying to find a common link. Anytime he’d found something he could attribute to another of the victims, he starred the information then listed it on a separate piece of paper including all the victims’ names to whom it pertained. “For example, both Sister Rebecca and Sister Vivian were nuns, so they’re linked that way, but no one else—that I know of, anyway—is part of the order, so they’re the only ones with this in common.” He’d made a note on the information paper. “And these people worked at the mental hospital: your father and the two nuns. But not Roy. I know his father worked there, so I did put a question mark by his name, but the link to the hospital is broader, not about employment, or Roy wouldn’t be included.”
“But everyone’s linked in one way or another to the hospital?” Eve asked.
“Yes, but not to Faith Chastain.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “I thought everyone who’d been killed would have some major connection to her, but I can’t find it. Roy didn’t know her.”
“Sure he did…. Well, at least peripherally. He wasn’t just the son of the caretaker. Later, he spent time there as a patient.”
“At the same time Faith was there?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“For right now, the only total connection is the hospital,” he said, tapping his pen on the page. “That’s the key…. So, what do these numbers mean? 212, where Roy died, 101 at your dad’s, 323 on the nun, and 444 on the doll.”
“What about the Mother Superior, Sister Rebecca?”
“We don’t know yet. We can assume there must have been something written in blood and tattooed on her, but the police have that information.” He set his chin on her shoulder and stared at the pages scattered on the table. “Do you have any idea what the numbers mean? Are they part of a social security number? Or some other kind of ID? Or an address? Or maybe a date? February twelfth for 212? January first at your dad’s house?”
“Well, that won’t work. Look at 444. It’s not a two-digit date. There is no forty-fourth month or day…. It would have to be years, April 4, 2004, but that won’t work because of the 101. No month or day is zero….” She stared at the notes, her head aching again, Cole’s breath warm against the back of her neck.
“Maybe the 444 is the one that’s off, because it was on a doll, not a real person? That whole thing: Charlotte posed and then the nun in the exact same manner, what’s that all about?”
“I don’t know.” She was glad for the strength of his arm around her waist. “And why did he steal the files?”
“Because of something inside that cabinet? Patient records, right? Nothing else?”
“Nothing that I saw, but I didn’t have time to go through every drawer or flip through all the files.”
“So, what did you see?”
“Let me think….” She remembered some of the names that had jumped out at her. “Enid…um, Enid Waller, I mean Walcott. And John Stokes, Ronnie Le Mars and Merlin…Oh God, what was his last name? Not Merlin, Mer win Anderson and Neva St. James…. There were others, but I can’t remember.”
He wrote down the names. “Do any of these connect with any of the victims?” he asked.
“Aside from being patients at the hospital and all treated by my father?”
“Were any of them close to Faith Chastain?”
She shook her head slowly. “I wouldn’t know. I was just a kid for most of it. I wasn’t paying much attention. It seems that they were all at the hospital at the same time, but then again, I can’t be sure.” She exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”
He kissed her nape. “It’s okay, but since we’re getting nowhere, how about I take you to dinner?”
“Dinner?” she repeated. It sounded so normal. So welcome. “Yes, please.” She glanced out the window and noticed that dusk was starting to creep across the backyard.
Cole pulled her to her feet. “Come on. I know this great little place that serves a mean bowl of dirty rice and mudbugs.”
Eve smiled. “How romantic.”
“Best I can do,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s go.”
“I’m just tellin’ ya, it’s not a smart move to quit your job and start poking around a homicide scene,” Bentz said with forced patience, his cell phone plastered to his ear as Kristi tried to come up with every excuse under the sun why she should have “exclusive” access to the ongoing case. “Forget it.”
“Dad, listen, please! I won’t do anything to hinder the investigation. You have to trust me.”
“The answer is ‘no,’ you got that? I’ll call you later.” He hung up, fuming. Why was she pushing him on this? Why mess up her job, a good job? Why complicate her life?
Montoya sauntered into the room. “You need to go home and get laid,” he said, observing Bentz’s utter frustration.
Bentz shot him a look. “Like that’s gonna help.”
“It always helps me.”
“Fine.”
“Look, you don’t smoke, you don’t drink, but you’ve got one helluva good-lookin’ woman waiting for you at home.”
Bentz stole a look at the picture of Olivia on his desk. Montoya was right. Petite, with gold curls falling down her shoulders, clear eyes, and a tight little butt…“I’m meeting her for dinner in half an hour,” Bentz admitted then decided the less Montoya knew about his love life the better. “You heard the information officer made a statement about the recent killings? He’s asking for the public’s help.”
“Not much they can do. We don’t even have a composite of the guy.”
“Yeah, well, maybe someone saw something at Our Lady of Virtues or All Saints. Maybe we’ll catch a break.”
“Maybe,” Montoya said, sounding unconvinced. Not that Bentz blamed him.
“What else is happening?”
“No DNA yet, but soon, I’m told.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“Zaroster has a few leads with the tattoo ink and equipment, but nothing concrete yet. The plaster casts at the crime scene of footprints and tire marks haven’t been analyzed completely, but the guess is we’re looking for a guy who wears size twelve or twelve and a half.”
“Big guy,” Bentz said.
“So it would seem.”
“What about Abby’s picture?”
“Nothing yet, and again no one at either convent or the college noticed anything out of the ordinary.”
“Two nuns killed and it’s business as usual?” Bentz scowled and twisted a pencil in his fingers.
“We’re not done yet,” Montoya said, but he was irritated and anxious as well. “I’m still trying to put together a roster of the people who worked at the hospital when Faith was there, but the records, hell, they’re obsolete.”
“The state must know, or the Feds. Tax records.”
“FBI’s supposed to be on it. So, did you meet with Eve Renner’s brothers?”
“Both of ’em.”
“And?”
Bentz leaned back in his chair. “I think Eve’s lucky she only has two. They were here to try and get the body released, so they can, let’s see”—he found his notes—“‘get on with our lives,’ which I take as Renner-speak for they can’t wait to get their hands on whatever Daddy left them.”
“You think they could have killed him?” Montoya asked.
“Anything’s possible. I’m waiting to see who inherits. There’s got to be a will, and we’re already checking into life insurance benefits. Neither brother has an alibi. Seems as if they were both out driving around about the time dead old dad had his throat slit. Kyle claims he was on his way here from Atlanta, and Van says he was driving from Arizona. I figure we might get credit-card receipts to bear their stories out.”
“Or prove them wrong.”
“Kyle, he’s big. I’d guess the size twelve shoes would be about right, but the other guy is smaller in stature.”
“So what reason would either of them have to kill the nuns?”
; “What reason would anyone?” Bentz pushed himself closer to the desk again, studying his notes.
“What you got there?” Montoya asked, nodding at Bentz’s desk.
“Just me trying to sort things out. Those are their tattoos.”
Montoya spun the paper around and read Bentz’s block letters.
“So, what do you make of it?” Montoya said.
“First off, I’m not certain whoever tattooed Faith Chastain is our killer. Her tattoo was a word, not a number. And we can’t really count the doll. We’re not even certain it exists. But there’s something weird about the numbers.
“Which is?”
“They read the same way backward as forward.”
“So?” Montoya said, his forehead wrinkling.
“Well, it doesn’t mean too much, but when you read the tattoo on Faith Chastain’s head backward, what do you get?”
Montoya looked at the letters, and his cocky smile faded. “Evil.”
Bentz dropped his notes on the desk as he stood.
“Jesus.” Montoya’s eyes narrowed. “Okay…but so what? Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I mean, Faith was tattooed over two decades ago.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in coincidence.”
“I don’t, but…”
“It’s just a thought. Means nothing.”
“It means enough for you to bring it up.” Montoya rested a hip against Bentz’s desk, apparently waiting for an explanation.
“It’s just something to explore,” Bentz said, but he felt that he was on the edge of something. Something that might be important. He just hadn’t sorted it out, wasn’t sure what it was quite yet. Throwing his pencil on the desk, he said, “I’ve got to run.”
“I’m thinking you’re gonna get lucky tonight.” Montoya’s grin was absolutely wicked.
“I’m always lucky.”
“An old fat guy like you? Huh.”
Bentz laughed despite himself. With Montoya in tow, he snapped out the lights and tried to shake off the feeling that he was missing something major about Faith Chastain. There was a reason she’d been tattooed twenty-odd years ago. He just had to figure out what it was.
