Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8)

by Lisa Jackson

  “I overheard your conversation with Detective Bentz.”

  “How?”

  “I was still hanging around after my interview with him.” He flashed that sardonic grin she remembered. “Yours sounded way more interesting than mine.”

  “And you were there . . . Why?”

  “Business.”

  Huh. Who was this new, older, cleaned-up version of the irreverent kid she once knew? “You eavesdropped?”

  A twitch of one corner of those blade-thin lips. “For once I didn’t have to.” He leaned a hip against the side of her Accord. “You were pretty loud.”

  “I tend to get that way when I’m passionate about something.” She cringed a little, wondering how many others besides Bentz’s partner and Jason Bridges had heard her.

  Again, the eyebrow. Cocked. Silently sarcastic. And irritating as hell.

  “Is there something you wanted?” she asked, extracting her keys from her purse. “I don’t think you flagged me down just to catch up for old times’ sake or whatever.”

  “I want to help.”

  “With?”

  “Finding 21.”

  Her back muscles tightened. Though she’d take any help she could get in tracking down the 21 Killer, this, running into Jase at the station, having him hear her plea to Bentz, seemed off somehow.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “Not a cop?”

  “Not yet, though I do have my app in for the public information officer job that’s coming up.”

  “So almost a cop.”

  “More like maybe-if-he-gets-lucky a cop,” he admitted. He crossed his arms over his chest, the seams of his shirt pulling as he glanced back at the police station.

  “Jase Bridges, lawman?”

  “Yeah, hard to imagine. I know.” He snorted at the irony of it all, and she felt the corners of her mouth twitch, her first inclination to smile since she’d found Selma Denning on her porch early this morning.

  “But still a reporter.”

  “Probably always. No matter what the job description reads.”

  Because she was fast running out of options, unable to galvanize Bentz, or the cops in LA or Baton Rouge into action, she was tempted to agree. Why not use this man who was willing to help?

  Because deep down, she didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust her feelings for him and heard her mother’s warnings running through her mind. “He’s no good, girls. Not him, not his brother, and certainly not his father.”

  So when had she ever listened to Ellen?

  She unlocked her car but didn’t get in. “Then you know about 21.”

  He gave a curt nod. “It made national news. A bizarre ritual killer usually does. And, of course, I was on the crime beat, so he intrigued me. I was in Savannah at the time, but I kept up.”

  “He scared the hell out of me.”

  “He scared a lot of people.”

  “He still scares me.”

  “You don’t think they”—he hitched his chin toward the police station—“got their man.”

  “I’m sure of it,” she said, and her thoughts turned dark again. “At least ninety-nine percent. You eavesdropped on the conversation, so you know the details.”

  “I heard part of it. Why don’t you fill me in?”

  She studied him for a second, decided she had nothing to lose. “The long and the short of it is that I think 21 has come to New Orleans. Why? Probably to show off for Bentz, but who really knows? A couple of girls are missing and we . . . their mother and I, are worried sick that he may have targeted them.” Staring into his eyes, she felt the now-familiar lump form in her throat when she considered the fate of the Denning twins. “But I hope not. God, I hope this is all a mistake and that I’m just a paranoid conspiracy theory nut who’s got it all wrong.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “No,” she admitted. “I don’t.” Her cell phone rang and she fished it out of her purse to see Tanisha’s name and number appear on the screen, along with the time. “Look, I’ve got to run.” She let the call go to voice mail. “I’m late as it is.”

  “Give me a call.” He pressed a business card into her palm before stepping away from her Accord and jogging across the street.

  She watched him go, noticing that despite the khakis and pressed shirt, he still had the pace of an athlete, his hips moved fluidly, his stride long. “Get over it.”

  She slid into the hot interior and fired the engine, then hit the A/C. It was giving her trouble, oftentimes blowing hot air, other times working, but she didn’t have the time to deal with it, so she took her chances and today, all day, it had complied. She caught another glimpse of Bridges as he disappeared around the corner of the police station and again felt that accelerated thump of her heartbeat.

  “Schoolgirl crush,” she reminded herself as she glanced into her side-view mirror and nosed into traffic. She had twenty minutes to get across town where Tanisha would be waiting.

  No doubt it would take her thirty.

  “You could just call the Baton Rouge PD,” Montoya said as he followed Bentz through the station. “Wouldn’t that be a helluva lot easier?”

  “I will.” Bentz skirted a couple of uniformed officers climbing the stairs as he hurried down. “But I’m heading up there anyway. I want to see what they’ve got on the missing Denning twins. You can come along or not.”

  “You know, just because some crazy-ass chick comes in and starts rattling your cage doesn’t mean she’s legit,” Montoya pointed out, but kept stride with his partner as they reached the first floor.

  “We’ll see.” Bentz took a hallway leading to the back door and parking lot.

  He was heading for his vehicle when Montoya said, “I’ll drive. That way you can make your calls on the way and it won’t take three hours to get to Baton Rouge.”

  Bentz wanted to argue, but his partner had a point. Together they crossed the lot to the spot where Montoya’s Mustang was parked. Unbuttoning his collar, Bentz slid into the hot interior. The truth was that Brianna Hayward had hit a nerve, a raw one. He’d never felt a hundred percent certain about Donovan Caldwell as the 21 Killer. Back then the evidence had pointed his way and there’d been no other suspects. The DA had been intent on nailing Caldwell, and Bledsoe had zeroed in on Caldwell as the doer. As Brianna had pointed out, the evidence was highly circumstantial and largely due to Donovan Caldwell’s own Internet presence, where he’d hinted that he was instrumental in his sisters’ murders. He’d been stupidly bragging to what he’d assumed were like minds but, in reality, had been female cops looking to discover what turned him on.

  Caldwell had pretty much buried himself. The jury had found Delta and Diana’s brother guilty of their ritualistic murders.

  As Montoya sped through the city streets, Bentz dialed Jonas Hayes’s cell phone. It was two hours earlier in LA, so Bentz figured Hayes should still be working.

  The Mustang’s air conditioner kicked on, cool air starting to stream through the vents as Bentz waited. He watched as the buildings of the city passed by, shadows crawling across the storefronts before Montoya angled the Mustang to the freeway, heading north-west.

  His call went directly to voice mail.

  It figured.

  So far today, nothing had come together. He left his name and number.

  Maybe he’d get lucky in Baton Rouge.

  Then again, maybe he’d strike out.

  CHAPTER 10

  The meeting hall smelled of age and disrepair. None of the antiseptic, bleach, or pine-scented cleaning supplies used to freshen up the old floors, walls, and counters could hide the fact that Aubrey House was well over 200 years old. As such, the timbers, bricks, and mortar had endured and survived dozens of disasters including hurricanes, floods, and even fire. Located in the French Quarter, Aubrey House had been built as the home of a baroness; over the decades and centuries it had been renovated and remodeled, cut into apartments, and retrofitted to its
original glory. Now, it housed a variety of businesses, everything from a CPA to a psychic who read tarot cards and Brianna’s own business office, where she met with clients who were more comfortable in an office setting rather than in her home.

  The original ballroom was now a meeting area, complete with portable walls that could be moved to accommodate different-sized groups. Tonight, the north-west quadrant was home to a twinless twins support group, which Brianna oversaw. Like Brianna, each person who attended the weekly meetings had lost his or her twin. The group provided a community of support to acknowledge feelings of loss over the death or removal of a twin. Discussions ranged beyond grief and separation anxiety to everyday stresses. They talked about jobs and bosses. Another family member, spouse, or significant other. Any topic was fair game, and the information shared here did not leave these walls. The idea was that victims with the shared experience of losing a twin could relate, but sometimes that wasn’t the case due to the many diverse personalities involved.

  As the organizer and leader, Brianna usually arrived at the room forty minutes before the scheduled meeting. Tonight, running late, she hurried in to find Tanisha busy making coffee and arranging cups and napkins on trays set on the stage, now used by the group as a serving table. An extension cord snaked from the coffeepot to the nearest outlet, and an Air-Pot held hot water. On the other tray sat a container of powdered creamer and two sugar bowls, one with individual packets of different sweeteners, the other with varieties of tea.

  “Where have you been?” Tanisha chided as Mr. Coffee gurgled and sputtered. Dressed as always to the nines, her hair scraped back by a glittering headband that held her tight-knit curls away from her face, Tanisha sent Brianna a smile meant to convey that she was kidding. “It’s not like you to be late.” Plucking a packet of sugar from the bowl, she shook the little package while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

  “Delayed. Sorry.” Brianna dumped her purse on the far end of the stage.

  “I know what you mean.”

  Brianna seriously doubted it.

  “I tell ya, I couldn’t get back to sleep last night,” Tanisha went on, her mocha-colored skin looking smooth as silk under the once-upon-a-time ballroom’s chandeliers. Suspended from twenty-foot coved ceilings, the lights gave off a warm glow reminiscent of another era. The old-world charm was definitely at odds with the mismatched twentieth-century furniture and portable “walls” used to separate the huge space.

  “That dream I had?” Tanisha continued. “Whooee. So damned real. Lord!” Her eyebrows drew together as if she were still attempting to figure out the nightmare. “Don’t know what it means. But something was off last night. Something big, a separation thing.” As if she realized she was talking to herself, she glanced at Brianna. “What about you? You said you had a bad dream, too. Everything okay?”

  “No.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I guess you haven’t talked to Selma?”

  Tanisha gave a soft snort of disgust. “Why would I?” Tanisha rolled her expressive, mascara-rimmed eyes. She and Selma had never really gotten to know each other. Whereas Selma Denning was in her midforties and stuck in a rut where her ex-husband was concerned, Tanisha, at twenty-eight, thought Selma should “kick that son of a bitch’s ass to the curb and move the hell on.” Ever forthright, Tanisha had said as much in one session. Of course, Tanisha’s advice had gone over like the proverbial lead balloon.

  “I don’t know, I thought she might have called you and . . . and some of the others in the group,” Brianna said as the coffeepot gave off a final hiss and the warm scent of java tried valiantly to hide the musty odor of the building.

  “Well, she didn’t.” Tanisha’s back was still up. “So what’s up? God, that woman’s a dishrag. No backbone, y’ know.”

  “Her twins are missing. Both girls.”

  “Missing?” She still wasn’t getting it. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she frowned. “What do you mean ‘missing’? As in adult kids didn’t come in or call Mommy?”

  “It’s more than that.”

  As Tanisha doctored her coffee with sugar and powdered cream, Brianna gave her a quick rundown, and as the gravity of the situation sunk in, Tanisha’s face fell. Compassion replaced belligerence. “Oh, my God, that’s awful. You don’t think . . . holy shit,” she whispered. “The 21 Killer?” She blinked, disbelieving. Though she and Brianna had discussed the fact that Brianna thought the wrong man had been imprisoned, Tanisha had believed, or wanted desperately to believe, that 21 was behind bars.

  “We don’t know. Yet.”

  “This is awful.” Tanisha set her undrunk cup on the tray holding the Air-Pot and glanced toward the entry as members of the group began to stream in.

  Lincoln Robinson, a musician, could rarely scare up a smile despite the fact that he was happily married and the father of a fifteen-year-old scholar who was following in her father’s footsteps as a pianist. Still, the weight of losing his brother was a burden Lincoln had trouble shouldering. Survivor’s guilt. Both boys had been in an automobile accident nearly twenty years ago; while Lincoln survived, his brother had been pronounced DOA at the hospital. Tall, lean, and African American, Lincoln was a thoughtful member of the group, offering his stories and opinions quietly. He was the opposite of outspoken and direct Tanisha.

  Lincoln lifted a hand in greeting and made his way to a chair he favored, positioned near the broad bank of windows running along one side of this third-floor room. “Evenin’,” he said with a nod as Milo and Desmond walked in.

  Milo, in his usual camouflage gear, grabbed a cup of black coffee and found a seat. He was on the quiet side, his connection being the loss of his twin sister when he was in his early twenties. He rarely spoke up and was vague when asked questions, even concerning his twin’s death, but seemed to gain strength just being a part of the group.

  Desmond didn’t bother with coffee, and as he lumbered in, Brianna felt her insides twist a little. Desmond Underhill had always made her uncomfortable. She thought of him as a lurker. A big man, fortyish, and a carpenter with meat hooks for hands, he never offered much, even when spoken to. All she knew about him was that he’d lost his twin sister, Denise, when she drowned at age seven. That was why he felt out of step with other people. That was why he was here.

  However, Desmond had never connected with the group or anyone who attended. It was almost as if he were an obvious voyeur, one who came and listened to everyone else’s story without adding much of his own. Tonight, he was wearing his plaid shirt buttoned to his neck, his thin hair pulled into a scraggly ponytail, a few cuts visible on his face, which wasn’t unusual. When asked about the abrasions, he’d always shrugged. “Work,” he’d say, or “Huntin’ in the woods.” He beelined for his chair, in this case a faded wingback, pushed into the farthest corner, away from the rest of the group.

  In the past Brianna had suggested that he pull in closer and engage in the discussion, but her request had always been met with silent resistance. He maintained his distance, content to watch the others. Despite the weather, he always wore a long-sleeved shirt and a vest with big pockets that oftentimes bulged. She wondered what he was hiding. A bag of jerky? A recorder? A folding knife or gun? Or just his wallet? Her imagination took her to places she’d rather not go.

  She told herself not to be so paranoid, recognizing that the situation with the Denning girls had amped her fears upward in the stratosphere.

  For the most part, Brianna had given up trying to include Desmond in the ongoing discussion. It was hard enough to get Milo or Elise to participate, especially when Tanisha and Enrique always threatened to take over the meetings. Brianna hoped Desmond would join in when he felt compelled. But she wasn’t counting on it.

  Others filtered in. Elise Gaylord, the introspective thirty-five-year-old working on her PhD in history who was never without her knitting, was followed by Enrique Vega. Muttering under his breath, Enrique strutted across the room, found a chair, and plop
ped down with an energy drink he didn’t appear to need. He worked out daily at a gym, his biceps huge beneath a tight T-shirt. Brianna believed his constant state of anger had more to do with still living “at home” at thirty than the loss of his twin, who might not even be dead. Juan Vega had disappeared, leaving for San Francisco and never talking to anyone in the family again. Enrique didn’t know if his brother was still alive with a new identity, deliberately separated from the family, or the victim of foul play.

  More than anything Enrique seemed pissed that his brother had taken off without him. “If Juan had taken me with him,” Enrique had said on one occasion, his shaved head shining beneath the overhead lights, “he would be alive today. Okay? See what I mean? But he didn’t even tell me he was leaving! What kind of brother does that? And he calls himself a twin! Bah!”

  Now, slumping in his chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his eyes sparking with anger, Enrique popped open his drink and glowered as he drank and waited for the meeting to begin. Twice he glanced at the clock, then at Brianna. “We doin’ this, or what?” he asked impatiently.

  “In a minute,” Brianna said loudly enough for him to hear. There were still a few others who might attend. Roger, the ex-football player who lived out of town. A big man who rarely spoke, he seemed bottled up and Brianna thought if anyone prodded and poked him too much, he might explode. There was anger beneath the surface of his calm. All Brianna really knew about him was that his twin, Ramona, had died at a campsite and that he blamed himself. Though her fall had been ruled an accident, Roger sensed that everyone, including his parents, thought he should have saved her.