by Lisa Jackson
“I’ve met her.”
“Ye-ep, I imagine if you’ve got a set of twenty-one-year-old twins missin’ that you have. Yours are female, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’m not inclined to believe that the January twins are victims of 21. Hell, I believe the LAPD got their man. But yeah, we’re doin’ some checkin’, just in case.”
After further discussion, Crenshaw had promised to share the info his department had collected about the missing twins, Belle and Beau January, as well as keep Bentz updated on any new developments in the case. Bentz had hung up and stared at the phone a second or two. A nagging, uncomfortable feeling had crawled through his gut. He was torn.
Crenshaw made sense, he thought.
Yet the Denning twins had disappeared.
As for the missing men in Arizona, the Reeves brothers, the Phoenix PD hadn’t yet weighed in. But Bentz doubted that the twins missing in Arizona were the work of 21. As Crenshaw had said, the 21 Killer had stalked only women.
So far.
Bentz wasn’t really buying that 21 would take the lives of men as well as women, but then he would never have believed Father John would attack a prisoner in jail, a nun no less. His MO had been prostitutes and, of course, his ultimate target had been Dr. Sam, aka Samantha Wheeler. But he’d changed.
Could 21 have altered his actions, too?
If so, then the wrong man was serving time.
It was still too early to hear from Phoenix, with the time difference. Although he expected a call soon, he didn’t think that case would give him new inroads on the Denning case. He’d already checked with the Missing Persons Department here and in the Baton Rouge PD, just to make sure the ball was rolling on the missing Denning girls.
Though Brianna Hayward had already called the local hospitals, the department had reached out to emergency rooms in New Orleans as well as Baton Rouge, verifying that neither twin had been admitted. Credit card companies and cell phone providers were supplying records, and anyone who had contact with the twins was being questioned. A team was going back to the dorm room to go over them with a fine-tooth comb and search for clues leading to the sisters’ whereabouts. The friends whom the girls were supposed to meet up with on the night of their birthdays were being interviewed, and social media platforms were being scrutinized.
Bentz had sent officers to the Bourbon Street bars in the area where that last photograph posted on the Internet had been taken.
Now, staring at his computer, he was looking at that photograph on Zoe’s Facebook page, where it had been posted about fifteen minutes before their phones had gone dark.
Was the 21 Killer responsible?
Maybe. Most likely not.
But something had happened to those girls, and he was determined to find out what it was. With the information Selma Denning and Brianna Hayward had provided, he was retracing some of the girls’ steps, yes, but they would have to dig deeper into their personal lives. One of the next steps would be to collect samples of their DNA, possibly hair from the girls’ brushes, follicles intact, or cigarette butts if they smoked, anything that could positively ID them. He would also pull dental records, in the event they were dealing with a worst-case scenario.
His phone rang. When he saw the caller was his older daughter, he felt warmth invade his chest. He always had a minute or two to talk to her. “What’s up?” he asked, and glanced at the picture on his desk. With bright green eyes, auburn hair, and a sizzling smile, Kristi reminded him far too much of his first wife, Jennifer.
“Hey! Look, I just got off the phone with Olivia, and she tried to convince me to talk to you about retiring.”
“The female forces unite.”
“Not exactly,” she said, and he was certain he heard traffic noise in the background.
“Are you driving?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got an earbud, Dad. Hands free. So I’m safe, but don’t duck the question. Are you really quitting? Seriously?”
If nothing else, his eldest had always been forthright.
“Livvie and I, we’re discussing it. You know that.”
“Well, for the record, I think it would be a mistake. Make that an epic mistake. And the fact that she called me tells me you’re not all that keen on the idea.”
Not a surprise that Olivia and Kristi were at odds. Kristi hadn’t exactly been overjoyed at the thought of a stepmother waltzing into her life a few years back. But the two had been through some rough times together, and more recently they’d bonded a bit. Now that Kristi was grown, married, and had a career as a true crime writer, things between the two women seemed copacetic.
Then again . . .
“I’ve got to retire someday,” he said. “We had this discussion.”
“But you didn’t get it.”
“So, okay, kid, I’ll bite. Why an ‘epic mistake’?”
“Oh, Dad, get real! Like you would be happy changing diapers all day or arranging playdates for Ginny or worrying about picking out preschools.”
“You already said—”
“Come on, you and I both know that you’d wither up and die if you weren’t hunting down the bad guys. It’s what you do.”
“I might take up golf.”
“Yeah, right. And I might be the first woman president.”
“That would be a great idea. Olivia’s pegged Ginny for Madam President number two or three.”
“Very funny.”
“I think she was serious.”
“Well, so am I,” she said, then, “Crap! Watch where you’re going, dude! Oh, sorry, some ass just cut me off. Really? On Burgundy in the Quarter? Who does that?”
“Dunno.”
“Jerk!” she yelled, then took a deep breath. “How do these guys get driver’s licenses?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have one.”
She let it go. “Anyway, I gotta be straight with you, Dad. You’d wither away if you weren’t on the job and, wait, don’t give me any stupid excuse like you could be a PI or something. Is that what you want? Stakeouts to see if spouses are cheating on each other? Or if the president of the soccer league is running off with the team’s funds? Or some insurance scam where a perfectly capable thirty-five-year-old is trying to claim disability and you’re sneaking around trying to take pictures of him working out in the gym or cutting firewood? Give me a break.”
He smiled. She had a point.
“Don’t fall for it, Dad. You and I, we both know that your job is dangerous, but it feeds your need for excitement. You’re an adrenaline junkie, and you get a rush out of nailing the bad guys and getting them off the streets. Well, maybe Olivia knows it, too, but she’s fighting it. Because she loves you and she wants you to—Oh, crap, there’s a cop!”
“What?”
“Gotta hang up.”
Then she was gone, the connection severed. He didn’t have to be wearing a detective’s badge to figure out that she’d been lying to him earlier to avoid a lecture. There had been no earbud.
He dropped his phone onto his desk and told himself not to dwell on the decision to leave the department. Not today. He had work to do. He took a swallow of coffee, found it cold, and walked to the kitchen, where a fresh pot was brewing. Several cops were hanging out, reading the paper, eating a hasty breakfast, or lingering over a cup of Joe before heading out.
Turning his head to stretch the tight muscles in his neck, he poured a fresh cup and headed to his office again. He’d just settled in when he heard footsteps approach.
In black jacket and jeans, Montoya filled the doorway. “I’ve got bad news and . . . worse news.” His eyes were guarded by his signature shades, but the set of his jaw and the grim line of his mouth indicated he was perturbed.
“What?” Bentz rolled his chair back.
“The bad news is that there was an apparent homicide last night, maybe early this morning. Working girl, lives off of Chartres, not quite in the Quarter. Mike O’Keefe took the call.” O’Keefe was a
street cop who’d been with the department for years.
The hairs on the nape of Bentz’s neck lifted in warning. He knew where this was going.
Montoya added, “Her body was found by the super, who was sweeping up around the outside of the building when he noticed her door was open. Just a crack, but still. According to him, she never left it ajar, always locked up tight. So he peeked inside, saw her lying there, called 9-1-1. The super says he went inside, but he could tell she was dead. Didn’t even try to revive her.”
Bentz’s gut clenched. “Anything else?” he asked, though he could guess what was coming.
“Yeah, the guy who caught the call did a quick sweep of the apartment. The victim was half-dressed, displayed, weird ligature wounds around her neck, and a hundred-dollar bill left at the scene.”
Bentz’s stomach dropped. “Let me guess: Franklin’s eyes on the C-note were blacked out.”
“Bingo.” One of Montoya’s eyebrows appeared over top of his shades. “Father John.” With an affected Louisiana drawl, he added, “He ain’t finished.”
“I was afraid of that. Let’s roll.” Bentz pushed his chair back and reached for his jacket and shoulder holster. “Wait a second,” he said, standing. “There was something else? The worse news?”
Montoya nodded. “Or maybe the not-as-bad news, as we might have caught a break. A security camera at a parking lot near Bourbon Street, where the Denning twins were last seen, got footage of a man struggling with a woman. He subdues her and throws her into a vehicle parked at the edge of the lot. The camera only caught the rear tire and back panel of the vehicle, but it looks like a light-colored van, possibly a truck. I haven’t seen the tape yet, but it’s being sent over. Got a copy going to the lab to see if they can enhance.”
“One woman?” Bentz strapped on his holster and sidearm.
“Yeah, don’t know if it’s one of the Denning sisters. Could be someone else. But the date and proximity are right. The time, too, near the time that the Denning girls’ phones stopped working.”
“How’d you find out about it?”
“After we interviewed the bartender, he told everyone who worked there about it, and the boss decided to review all their security tapes. I’m already checking with other businesses nearby. Maybe they’ve got something.”
“Let’s hope.” He shrugged into his jacket, though he’d probably peel it off again before midday. They headed downstairs to the parking lot. All the while Bentz felt that little buzz that always accompanied a significant break in a case, a little jolt of adrenaline that came with knowing they were on the track of something. So far he wasn’t sure what.
“Let’s check out the apartment off Chartres,” he said. “Then I need to stop by and talk to Selma Denning, check out the twins’ car. By the time we get back, the tape might be back from the lab.”
“If we’re lucky.” Montoya was already stepping through the doors to the street, where hazy sunlight filtered through a canopy of branches and reflected off the concrete. As he reached into the pocket of his jeans, he said, “I’ll drive.”
As if there was any question.
CHAPTER 23
“Rise and shine!” Jase set a cup of coffee on the table near the end of the couch where his father rested, faceup, mouth open, beard shadow more pronounced than it had been less than five hours earlier. Jase had already checked the news feed and had a major lead that he couldn’t ignore, a possible homicide. “Come on, Ed, you know the old saying, the one you always repeated? ‘If you’re going to soar with the eagles, you have to rise with the sparrows.’”
“Go ’way,” his father grumbled, and rolled onto his side to face the back of the couch.
“Dad—”
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Ed burrowed deeper, yanking the cover over his head.
“I have to go to work.”
“Then go already! Who the hell’s stoppin’ ya?”
“Fine. But I’ll be back, and then we need to talk.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Jase turned away, then paused. “You said that I was the right one to keep.”
“What?”
“That’s what I’m asking. What was that all about?”
“Hell if I know. I was drunk. Or didn’t you notice?”
“I noticed.”
“Fine,” his father said from beneath the blanket, “then you know nothin’ I said made any sense. Now, just leave me alone. For the love of Christ!” He pulled the pillow over his head as if he were a three-year-old child trying to avoid a scolding.
Jase let it go.
For now.
With a final glance at the man who had sired him, Jase grabbed the keys to his truck from a table where his cell phone was charging. He yanked the phone from its cord, pocketed the cell, and then left his apartment. He could let his old man sleep it off, though it wouldn’t be so easy to leave behind the remark about Jase being the chosen one. What the hell was that really about? The drunken ramblings of an old, forgetful man, or something deeper? A slipup? He should just let it go, but knew he wouldn’t.
He thought about the check he’d written to his father but never mailed. He’d intended to post it today, but now . . . oh, hell, everything had already started blowing up.
Making his way down the exterior stairs at the end of the building, he wondered what he would find when he came home. Would his father still be in the apartment? Still sleeping it off? Parked on the couch with no intention of leaving? Or would he be gone? According to Prescott, Ed’s truck was parked at the farm, so he’d have to find a way to retrieve it, unless Prescott brought it into town.
No doubt fireworks would explode when Edward and Prescott came face-to-face again and Pres started going on about Ed and rehab, which Jase agreed was necessary for their father to function and survive. The trouble was, Prescott seemed to think Jase had unlimited funds, first to buy the farm and then to send their old man into some kind of treatment program. The truth was that Jase did have a bit of a nest egg, not that he was getting rich as a reporter. He’d purchased a small two-bedroom, utilized his carpentry skills to renovate, and then sold it when the market was at its peak. After that he’d invested his money in the stock market and hadn’t purchased another house, as he was happy enough in his apartment. Or had been.
So, he could probably get financing and buy out Prescott, and maybe there would be a little left to help out the old man. But then he’d be flat broke, a position he’d become intimate with a couple of times and didn’t much like.
Crossing the parking lot to the assigned spot where his truck was parked, he tried not to dwell on the fact that he soon might own the damned farm, a place he’d sworn to avoid, where his innocence had been buried long ago. “Don’t think about it,” he told himself as he opened the door of the truck. He had a lot on his plate today, starting with the apartment near Chartres where a homicide had taken place.
Then there was the 21 Killer and the series of articles Jase hoped to write about him. With Brianna’s help, he reminded himself. He felt a stab of guilt, wondering if, as she suspected, helping her was actually just satisfying his own personal quest for a story.
Last night’s nightmare flashed through his mind as he settled behind the wheel, a weird dream where one seductive mermaid had really been two women who looked so much alike. Arianna and Brianna. Both had the ability to tug on his emotions. Both inspired gut-wrenching guilt.
“Get over it,” he told himself. He had no time for self-analysis or anything as ridiculous as trying to interpret his own dreams. He started the engine, then noticed a yellow jacket beating itself against the windshield above his dash. “Get out.” He threw the driver’s side door open and tried to scoop the bee to the side with an envelope sitting on the passenger seat, an envelope addressed to his father and containing the check Jase had promised.
At least now it could do some good.
The bee was buzzing and running into the glass, mad as hell as it bounced and hopped along the
surface. Maybe just scared. Like so many people. Using the envelope, he scooped the stupid insect out the open door and wondered why he just hadn’t squashed the yellow jacket. It would have been a helluva lot easier. One bee. Who cared?
Again, he had no time for philosophy.
He had a job to do.
Bentz’s stomach turned as he slid covers over his shoes, signed in to the crime scene, and stepped into the tiny apartment off Chartres.
Within seconds a disturbing sense of déjà vu washed over him as he viewed the space with its older furniture and bars on the windows. He noticed paperback books lined up on the built-ins, the coffeepot in the kitchen filled for the next day, the smell of perfume lingering, all surrounding the reason for his being here: the dead body of a thirtysomething female victim.
She was splayed out across the neatly made bed. Half-dressed in a short skirt and open blouse, she lay there with her eyes open as if staring at the gently rotating blades of a ceiling fan positioned overhead.
He clenched his jaw, felt his stomach turn.
Crime-scene techs were busy snapping pictures, dusting for prints, searching every inch of the one-room apartment for trace evidence. None of the others seemed to have the same physical reaction to death that had been with Bentz since he was a kid.
The head tech, Rosarita Gervais, was wearing gloves, her dark hair scraped away from her face. She was leaning over the table where, as Montoya had mentioned, the hundred-dollar bill with Franklin’s blackened eyes had been left. “Don’t be messin’ with my scene, Bentz,” she warned. “You know the drill. Washington will have my ass if you disturb anything.”
She was half-kidding. It was their routine. Broke the tension. But she wasn’t joking about Bonita Washington, the head of the Crime Scene Unit. A brassy African American woman whose IQ was rumored to be at genius level, Washington was tough as nails.
“Got it.” He gave Rosarita a nod but continued to stare at the odd C-note. He had always found the desecrated bills disturbing. Then again, what wasn’t disturbing about a serial killer who dressed as a man of God and killed his victims with a rosary?
