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

by Lisa Jackson

  He’d heard more of Brianna’s conversation with Bentz than he’d admitted and now was on the track of the missing twins she’d mentioned. It didn’t take long. After logging in through the Observer’s Web site, he located information on the Reeves twins who’d gone missing from Phoenix, and Beau and Belle January from Dallas. They, too, had vanished, one after the other.

  Victims of the 21 Killer?

  Or just a coincidence?

  Identical twins in the first case, but male.

  Fraternal twins in the second, a man and a woman.

  Not 21’s MO.

  After printing out the information on each of the missing sets of twins, Jase added his own notes, including what he’d overheard about Zoe and Chloe Denning. The Denning girls fit the profile of 21’s victims much more closely than the other two sets. Was it possible that the killer had expanded from only female victims? The fact that they were killed as they turned twenty-one, of legal age, had to be significant. The killer was obviously making a statement about reaching adulthood, coming of age. Or was that just psychological crap and the guy was just a freak who had a fascination with twenty-first birthdays?

  If they are victims of 21. Remember, the police and the criminal justice system think they got their man. There’s a chance this is all just Brianna Hayward’s half-baked theory.

  He chewed on that; he didn’t think Brianna was the type to go off half-cocked, even if she was motivated by the desire to get her cousin Caldwell out of jail.

  Then again, what did he really know about her? She’d been just a kid when he’d last seen her.

  Still searching, Jase pulled up everything he could find about Donovan Caldwell, including the abduction and murders of his sisters, Delta and Diana. The abduction and ritualistic murders of Caldwell’s siblings mirrored those of Lucy and Laney Springer, two more of the 21 Killer’s victims.

  Either the identical double homicides were committed by the same nut job, his apprentice, or a copycat who had inside information. From what source? The killer himself? An accomplice? A leak in the LAPD who would have information not given to the press or public?

  Again, he made notes to himself. He had a buddy who’d worked at the LA Times for years, had some connections with the LAPD. Jase phoned, but his friend didn’t pick up, so he left a voice mail, then a quick text. As he read on, one of the most glaring facts that came out of his research was that there had been a gap of twelve years, a long span between the killings of the Caldwell twins and the Springer girls.

  Had Donovan Caldwell suppressed his urges for a dozen years?

  Unlikely.

  Had the killer moved to another territory for a while, then returned to kill the Springer twins? If so, there were no records of Donovan Caldwell moving between the two double homicides, a fact his lawyer hammered home during the trial.

  Jase poured over the data.

  What, if any, was the link between the two sets of twins?

  Leaning back on the couch, one heel propped on the coffee table, he stared at the television mounted over the grate, but he didn’t pay attention to the highlights of a recent baseball game. His thoughts were turned inward. The time gap between the murders bothered him. Could the second set of murders have been at the hands of a copycat? If so, had that killer traveled to New Orleans from LA?

  The LAPD hadn’t prosecuted Donovan Caldwell for the Springer twins’ murders. The prosecutors obviously hadn’t found enough evidence to link Caldwell to the second set of homicides and had to settle for prosecuting him for the ritualistic killings of his sisters.

  Caldwell had admitted to disliking his siblings, even resenting them, and he’d been an odd duck, a person who could make others uncomfortable or wary. But had he been capable of this macabre murder of his sisters, stripping them and hog-tieing them and killing them as they turned of age?

  The jury had said yes, and he was now serving time for the murders. He’d screamed in the courtroom that he was innocent and he’d been insisting ever since that he didn’t kill his sisters. But that was par for the course for convicts. Many claimed their innocence.

  Jase raked his fingers through his hair.

  He stared at a picture of Donovan Caldwell, a man who blended in with the crowd. While his sisters had been gorgeous and outgoing, popular and, by all accounts, well-rounded, fun individuals, Caldwell had been a loner, a plain-looking man who had trouble holding down a job or forming any relationship. He’d taken the stand and to his attorney’s dismay referred to Delta and Diana as “the twins,” hooking air quotes. During his testimony he’d been unable to hide his disdain for them.

  Probably sealed his fate.

  Then there was the question of the murder case that occurred twelve years later. Was Caldwell also responsible for that? Lucy and Laney Springer’s murders had brought the unsolved Caldwell twins’ homicides to the fore, and somehow the new evidence or technology had been enough to convict Donovan for the older killings of his sisters. Not so for the Springer girls.

  Did Donovan Caldwell actually wait twelve years to repeat his crimes, to relive taking his sisters’ lives? Or were there other victims scattered around the country, dual corpses of twins who’d disappeared and had never been located?

  Far-fetched.

  But even the most unbelievable homicides happened. Bizarre murders were rare, but certainly existed. Jase had only to think of the stories he’d covered or look at the true crime books stacked haphazardly on his bookcase near the fireplace to confirm that truth was stranger than fiction. People were capable of monstrous, heinous, and bizarre actions. Some targeted family members, others randomly picked strangers.

  Father John was an example of a killer who targeted strangers for the most part. Posing as a priest, he’d killed prostitutes in the city, though his ultimate target had been someone he’d known.

  “All kinds of psychos,” Jase told himself, cracking his neck to relieve some tension before turning to his computer for more digging. He scoured the Internet for information on Donovan Caldwell, finding old newspaper reports, court records, and interviews with the arresting officer. Throughout the arrest, arraignment, trial, and conviction, Caldwell had screamed his innocence, but was hauled off to jail. To this day he swore that he’d been railroaded by police and prosecutors, who felt pushed by public pressure to get the 21 Killer off the streets. The prosecution had asserted that as the oldest and only son of a man’s man who wanted his male heir to succeed, Caldwell had been unable to meet his father’s expectations. Told he was a failure, Caldwell had hidden his simmering resentment for years and plotted his revenge to take away his father’s favorites. He had reveled in his domination and control of their last seconds of life, ensuring they would never reach adulthood.

  Case closed.

  Until now . . . Combing through the data on the missing twins in Arizona and Texas, he wasn’t convinced that the 21 Killer was behind their disappearances. Everything was off about them. But, unfortunately, the Denning girls were a different matter altogether.

  Jase set his laptop aside and walked to the kitchen. Was it possible? Had the cops arrested the wrong man? Had the jury jumped to the wrong conclusions? Was Donovan Caldwell serving time for crimes he hadn’t committed? And if so, was the real killer now stalking the streets of New Orleans?

  Why would 21 come here? he wondered. To prove a point and goad Rick Bentz, as Brianna had asserted? That theory seemed thin, but Jase wasn’t going to dismiss anything at this point.

  Opening his refrigerator, he frowned at its meager contents, which consisted of a cardboard slice of pizza from a week ago, a bottle of ketchup, and three lonely beers. “Pathetic.” He grabbed a long-necked bottle from the shelf and cracked it open before heading outside and standing on the deck. Three stories, traffic moved slowly, headlights visible through the leaves and dripping Spanish moss dangling from the branches of live oaks planted along the street.

  Taking a long pull on the bottle, he felt the cold beer slide down his throat a
nd hit his stomach.

  Mosquitoes buzzed near his head. Somewhere in the distance someone was playing a saxophone, the melancholy notes of a bluesy song rising upward from the street. He relaxed a bit. Cleared his thoughts. Until, in his mind’s eye, he saw Brianna’s face. Damn she looked like her twin.

  Arianna Hayward.

  Oh, hell.

  Leaning over the railing, holding his bottle in both hands, he silently cursed the gods who had gotten him tangled up with Arianna.

  His jaw clenched so hard it ached. Though Jase hadn’t known Brianna in high school, he’d met Arianna. More than once. A lot more. Dark thoughts came to mind, disturbing images he’d rather forget.

  Rolling his bottle in his hands, he told himself not to go there.

  But that might prove impossible since Brianna had been on his mind since the moment he’d heard from his brother that she lived nearby. She was trouble, he knew that, and she was the one woman in the world he should avoid at all costs, a woman who was dangerous to him, one who could ruin him if she ever guessed the truth.

  And his connection to 21.

  A story he couldn’t let go.

  The 21 Killer was intriguing, if appalling at the same time. “21” would hold the public’s interest. Would sell papers. Above that, finding more about him, linking him to the current case of the missing girls, proving that the police in LA were wrong, might give Jase more cred not only as a crime reporter but as an investigative journalist. Someone who could dig deep, uncover the truth.

  But if Brianna were right, the LAPD would end up with a black eye. And if Jase was involved in unraveling the story, how would that play here with the New Orleans department? It was a quick way to slam doors in his own face. Bentz wouldn’t care; he’d left LA on bad terms, but the brass at NOPD might see him as a rogue.

  Well, hell, who really cared?

  The story was the story, the truth was the truth, and the public had a right to know. Jase was more than willing to offer it up. Even if there was a personal price to pay.

  The prospect that 21 may have resurfaced or that a copycat killer may have stepped into the murderer’s bloody shoes made a helluva story, one he wanted to pursue. If it was true. His conscience nagged a bit. Deep down, he hoped to hell Brianna Hayward’s theory proved wrong. For the Denning sisters’ sake. And for any other set of twins about to become adults and catch the killer’s attention.

  But if the maniac existed, he needed to be exposed and taken down.

  Jase was the man for the job.

  Even if it means dealing with Brianna Hayward? Think of the consequences of getting close to her.

  Personally, the smartest thing he could do was back away from her and this entire mess.

  Then again, he thought as he drained his beer, he’d never been smart where women were concerned.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jase was waiting for her. Big as life, long legs stretched in front of him, he leaned against the hood of her car as she exited the restaurant two doors down from Aubrey House where she and Tanisha had coaxed Selma to eat some dinner. They’d also drunk a glass of wine and had lingered over dessert while talking for hours.

  Jase started to push himself upright, but she held up a finger to keep him at bay, silently asking for a little time. He got the message.

  “So you’ll be all right?” she asked Selma.

  “Of course not, but . . . yeah . . . no . . . Oh, God! I don’t think I’ll ever be ‘all right’ again.” Pale and shaky, Selma scrabbled in her purse, no doubt searching for her cigarettes.

  As Selma found a half-empty pack and lit up a filter tip, Tanisha’s dark gaze met Brianna’s. The silent message she conveyed wasn’t good. They both were worried sick about Selma and her daughters.

  It had been Brianna’s idea to grab a bite at the pub. She knew it had been an exhausting day for Selma, who had poured her heart out in the meeting. It had been difficult for Selma to let the members of the group witness her anguish. Thankfully everyone had let her speak, the sparse comments confined to condolences and words of encouragement.

  The tone of the meeting had been somber, almost bleak. As twins, everyone had heard of the 21 Killer, and Brianna suspected some held a macabre fascination for the killer who targeted twin siblings. The group had been thankful that the murderer had been caught, tried, and convicted . . . until Selma’s worries had opened the door to a terrible new possibility that 21 was still at large.

  Even usually talkative and smiling Jenkins had been somber. Enrique had put aside his hostility and Elise, though constantly knitting, hadn’t turned the discussion back to her problems. Milo had remained silent, and Jenkins had sadly shaken his head throughout Selma’s story. Tanisha, who’d always been hard on Selma, had shown a kinder side and insisted on joining them for dinner where not only did she allow Selma to fall apart, but showed true empathy and understanding.

  “You sure you want to go home?” Tanisha asked as the three women walked to the spot where Selma’s little Chevy was parked.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be fine.” Selma drew deeply on her cigarette. “I mean as fine as I can be.”

  Brianna didn’t like the idea of Selma being alone. “You could stay at my house,” she offered.

  “No, no. The girls could come home or call the house phone. Oh, please God!” She took a calming drag from her Salem Light, and added, “No, I really need to go home.”

  “Then I could come over,” Brianna said.

  “Or me,” Tanisha offered. “I got nothing goin’ at home.” She slid a meaningful glance toward Brianna’s Honda and the man leaning against the passenger side before her gaze met Brianna’s.

  “No, please . . . it’s been a long day and a long night before that. I just need some time to think and—” Her phone jangled and she jumped. Juggling her cigarette, she anxiously pulled the cell from her bag. “Carson,” she said, her frown deepening. “Look . . . I’d better take this. He might know something.” She answered with so much hope in her voice that Brianna’s heart twisted.

  She slid a glance at Jase, ever-patient, it seemed, as if he didn’t have anything better to do than wait there beneath a tree. Lingering in the lamplight, his hands in his pockets, he appeared cool and at ease, which she doubted.

  “Damn,” Selma said on a breath that drew Brianna’s attention back to her. “Okay. Fine.” The droop of her thin shoulders and disappointment in her short answers suggested that her ex-husband wasn’t offering any support. “But don’t blame me . . . no, don’t. Carson, just don’t! No excuses . . . For the love of God, we’re in a crisis here.” A pause. She took another drag, then dropped her cigarette onto the curb and crushed it beneath one sandaled foot. “Oh . . . Jesus, please, just call me if you hear anything and I’ll do the same.” She clicked off the phone and quickly fumbled in her purse again, found a fresh cigarette, and lit up. “Such a bastard,” she hissed in a cloud of smoke. “Such a damned bastard.” As if suddenly remembering she wasn’t alone, she fought a fresh onslaught of tears and forced a tremulous grin. “I’d better go. Maybe the girls will show up at my place. . . .” But her brave smile faltered and she swallowed hard.

  “I’ll follow you,” Tanisha said. Before Selma could argue, Tanisha sent Brianna an I’ve-got-this glance, then hurried to her own vehicle, a muscle car one of her exes had suggested she buy. The Dodge was parked half a block up the street.

  Brianna watched her wend her way past a couple locked in an embrace. Tanisha sent them a dark glare as she strode past them.

  “Look, Selma,” Brianna offered, “I’d be glad to come over to—”

  “No! Go. Talk to Bentz or the police or anyone else who might help. Work on it from that end. Please. I . . . I just can’t deal with the cops or any more questions right now, but we have to get the word out, have to find the girls . . .”

  “I will,” Brianna promised as she hugged her friend and felt the smaller woman nearly crumple in her arms. “Call me if you hear anything. And when you have time
, send me that list.”

  “List? Oh, yes. Right.”

  “And the time line,” Brianna reminded her. Over dinner they’d discussed putting together a time line and a record of the events as they knew them, as well as a complete list of everyone the girls knew, or may have come in contact with last night. Although Selma had filled out a report at the Baton Rouge PD, she’d been upset at the time, well, more like totally freaked out, so Brianna had suggested she write down everything she could think of: friends, enemies, teachers, employers, arguments the twins had been involved in, boyfriends they’d broken up with, out-of-town friends or relatives, e-mail addresses, social media platforms, and phone numbers. Anything that might lead to finding the girls. Brianna wanted to wade through the information and pass it on to both police departments.

  “I will,” Selma promised. She settled behind the wheel of her Chevy and rolled down the window.

  “Take care,” Brianna said.

  Selma placed her cigarette in the car’s ashtray. “Thanks.” As Brianna stepped away from the curb, Selma pulled into traffic, narrowly missing a motorcycle that came roaring down the street. Up the street, brake lights flashed in Tanisha’s Charger, and as soon as the Chevy passed, Tanisha’s car moved into the street behind her.

  Brianna turned.

  Jase had straightened, his hands in his pockets, his athletic silhouette backlit by headlights as a truck rumbled past. His gaze found hers, and for the briefest of seconds the back of her throat turned to dust and she was a schoolgirl again, harboring a secret crush.

  Damn.

  No matter how it all played out, she figured, this was gonna get messy.

  Zoe’s ankle throbbed and her skin was burned, hot to the touch. Add to that, she was hungry and thirsty. Yeah, the river was right there, a few feet away, but so far, she hadn’t drunk from it. Well, as long as you didn’t count the kabillion gallons of water she’d swallowed during her swim the night before. She couldn’t just lie here of course. If she did, she was a sitting duck. Besides, no one would find her in the dark.