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

by Lisa Jackson

  “You really got yourself a sick one here,” she observed, then snorted. “Hell, they’re all twisted bastards.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” he agreed. He spied O’Keefe, the cop who’d responded to the call, and turned his attention to the burly man rumored to be able to bench press 300 pounds. “Who’ve we got here?”

  “Teri Marie Gaines.” A tough cop and a family man, O’Keefe only used his six foot four, 250-pound frame to his advantage if seriously provoked. “At least that’s who she was during the day. It’s the name on her driver’s license. She worked as a waitress at Sylvia Black’s down in the Jax Brewery,” he added, mentioning the huge old brewery that had been transformed into a shopping mall. “But at night,” O’Keefe continued, “she was Tiffany Elite.”

  “The super tell you this?” Bentz asked, his stomach roiling as he viewed the victim more closely. With smooth mocha-colored skin, Teri Marie Gaines had dark, tightly curled hair with a few golden streaks. Spread-eagle upon the bed, she was half-dressed in a tiny skirt, a bra that barely held her breasts, and a sheer blouse that was open, draped over one shoulder. Around her neck, dark ligature marks were a combination of bruising and tiny abrasions; little cuts in a distinctive pattern that Bentz suspected came from a rosary made of sharpened beads linked with piano wire or something just as strong.

  Father John.

  No doubt about it.

  His stomach did another roll.

  “Yeah,” O’Keefe said, nodding. “The super, he knew what she was doing at night, and it was confirmed by the neighbor in 2-E.” O’Keefe checked his notes. “Frances Kowalski.”

  “A customer?”

  “No, don’t think so.” He flashed a quick grin. “Mrs. Kowalski is a woman. In her late seventies or early eighties, I’d guess. A widow who apparently makes it her business to know what goes on in every unit in the building, night and day.”

  Bentz knew the type.

  “She, uh, she disapproved of Ms. Gaines’s nocturnal antics.”

  “I bet.”

  “Copycat?” Montoya asked.

  Bentz thought of the security video from the prison. Father John had stared straight into the camera’s eye, not hiding his face or features, almost flaunting the fact that he was back.

  Bentz shook his head. “Doubt it.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Bentz turned toward the medical examiner, a middle-aged man on his knees near the body. “Time of death?”

  Wrinkles appeared over his prematurely balding pate as the examiner considered. “After midnight. One thirty to three, I’d say. Rigor’s still strong and body temp suggests that she’s been dead around eight, maybe nine hours. Give or take.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “That would be our window.”

  “Defensive wounds?”

  “Not really. We’ve got some bruising at her fingers and a couple of scrapes, two broken fingernails, probably from when she tried to pry the garrote from her neck.”

  In his mind’s eye Bentz imagined her struggle: a small woman who had expected the john, then was surprised when the tall and strapping man had slipped the rosary around her neck and started pulling, cutting off her air as he twisted his glittery weapon more tightly. Hers would have been a fairly quick, if agonizing and terrifying death. All at the hands of a psycho who should, if Bentz’s aim had been true, already be dead. If Bentz’s bullet had only hit its mark all those years ago in the bayou, at least two dead women would still be alive today. A sense of guilt tried to sneak up at him, but he pushed it firmly away, kept it at bay. For now. “Thanks,” he said to the examiner.

  “Hey! She have a kid?” Montoya stood on the opposite side of the bed from the ME, pointing to a silver picture frame positioned beneath a lamp with a beaded shade. A small boy smiled in the picture. Judging from his wide grin, which showed off gaps and permanent teeth just breaking the gum line, Bentz guessed the kid was around seven or eight.

  Montoya frowned, his gaze sweeping the room. “No sign that he lived here. No toys or kids’ clothes or video games or books. Kids, they come with a lot of stuff.”

  Bentz nodded, then asked O’Keefe, “The super still here? He might know.”

  “Or maybe Frances Kowalski,” Montoya suggested.

  “Yeah, I’ll talk to her, too.”

  “The super’s name is Vincente. Vincente Espinosa.” O’Keefe nodded to the open doorway where a skinny man lurked, peering inside.

  “Got it.” Bentz called over his shoulder to Rosarita. “Send me the report.”

  “Like you need to tell me,” she muttered, raising a gloved hand to wave him off. She sent him a look that silently suggested she might want to raise her middle finger, but didn’t. “Sheesh, Bentz. How long we worked together? Ten years? Fifteen?”

  “Too long, Rosie. Too damned long.”

  “Yeah, and I love you, too.”

  As Bentz and Montoya stepped outside, Espinosa fluttered into motion. The super grabbed a rag from his back pocket and stepped back, trying to look busy, which was kind of tough when he’d probably been warned not to sweep or touch anything. Somewhere near sixty, his swarthy skin deeply lined, he wore a faded Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. His hair was pulled back into a thin, graying ponytail that heightened his receding hairline.

  “You the building supervisor? Mr. Espinosa?” Bentz showed his badge, introducing himself and Montoya.

  “Yeah, that’s me. Folks call me Vincente.”

  “You called 9-1-1?”

  He nodded. “I already told the other cop.” Vincente’s eyes were black as obsidian as he squinted against the midday sun.

  “So let’s go over it again. We want to hear everything you know about Miss Gaines.”

  “It ain’t much.”

  Bentz managed a smile. “Let’s start with when she moved in.”

  “Three, maybe three and half years ago?” It was a question. “You’d have to ask the owner of the building for sure. Crescent City Developers. They’d have records.”

  Bentz was making notes.

  “She have a kid?” Montoya asked.

  “Yeah, a boy. About nine or ten, I think.” So the picture was a couple years old. “But he was never here. Lives with his dad.”

  “Do you know where we could find him?”

  “Beats me,” Vincente said. “I didn’t really know her. We never talked much. I just know she had a kid. Lived with his old man, out of town. Don’t know where.”

  Someone would have to call the ex and relay the bad news that his son’s mother was dead, the victim of a homicide. The kid had to be found.

  “So you knew that she was turning tricks out of her apartment?”

  “I didn’t know it. But, yeah, that was the word on the street. And with the hours she kept, the people going in and out . . .” He shrugged. “It seemed likely. But hey, she was a good tenant. Gave me no grief, and she had to do what she had to do, y’know?”

  “You see anyone come into her apartment last night?” Bentz asked.

  “Me?” Vincente shook his head, the ponytail whipping back and forth. “Nah, I’m in bed before the sun goes down. Watch a little TV, mainly sports. The Saints, they ain’t playin’ now, so I have to settle for baseball. I like the Rays, y’know. Tampa Bay?”

  Bentz nodded, and Vincente went on to explain how he slept soundly and even with the window open he’d heard no struggle, no fight. He had only discovered the body, as he’d told O’Keefe and the 9-1-1 operator, when he’d been sweeping up and noticed Teri Gaines’s door cracked open.

  The interview revealed few other details, so they moved on, up the stairs to apartment 2-E.

  Frances Kowalski wasn’t a whole lot more informative, but the elderly woman in the second-floor apartment filled to the brim with religious artifacts and photos of a man Bentz assumed to be her late husband was certainly an eager witness. Whereas Espinosa had been guarded and a little reticent, Frances Kowalski was effusive to the point Bentz thought the older woman might be exaggera
ting, just to keep Montoya and him interested.

  “About Ms. Gaines,” she’d said from behind owlish glasses, the tops of which brushed thick bangs of dyed red hair. “You know, I have a bird’s-eye view of her apartment. I see everything.” Her lips had pursed in a sanctimonious show of disgust. “And, I hate to judge, you know—”

  Bentz thought the opposite was probably true. In his experience anyone who started with “I hate to” usually relished it. Whether it was “I hate to point out,” or “I hate to speak ill of the dead,” or in Frances Kowalski’s case, “I hate to judge,” it all boiled down to some kind of self-justification to spread a little gossip tinged with a bit of self-satisfaction. In some cases, he suspected that these people actually envied the person who broke the rules and walked on the wild side.

  “But she had men coming and going all hours of the night.” Mrs. Kowalski’s eyebrows had arched pointedly over the top of the glasses. “They weren’t there selling vacuum cleaners or brushes, if you catch my drift.”

  He caught it.

  And it stunk.

  The more Bentz had talked with the woman, the less he’d liked her. Her only pertinent information was that she had heard “something” and checked her window to witness a man “in black” entering Teri Gaines’s apartment. Her pale lips had pursed even more prudishly as she’d said, “I have no idea what she was doing down there.” A lie. “But it wasn’t good.”

  “It ended badly,” Bentz had offered.

  “Well, really?” A sniff of self-righteousness. “What could she expect?”

  Unable to extract any more information from the woman, the detectives had left her to her snooping and exited the building.

  Montoya reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of nonexistent cigarettes, then apparently remembered that he’d quit. Frowning, he said, “I’ll tell you what. I’m glad that old buttinsky isn’t my neighbor.”

  “Buttinsky?” Bentz repeated.

  “A term my mother used for people who couldn’t keep their noses in their own business. It applies here. With Frances not-a-guy Kowalski.”

  “I guess.” Bentz noticed a news van for WKAM setting up shop on the street. “Looks like the press has caught wind of this.”

  “A good thing.”

  “I suppose.” Bentz wasn’t all that interested in talking to anyone from the media. Deep down, he hated dealing with the “fourth estate,” though it was part of his job. He considered all reporters to be a necessary evil. The relationship between cops and press should be symbiotic, right? Each helping the other? Both groups looking out for the good of the public? But in Bentz’s opinion, too many members of the press were interested in sensational journalism, creating news rather than reporting it, causing a greater public awareness, but also stirring up fear and sometimes panic. Hence, he was careful in dealing with the press and usually tended to avoid everyone who carried a press card.

  The TV crew wasn’t alone. Also standing near Montoya’s Mustang was Jase Bridges from the Observer, the reporter angling for a job in the department. It had happened before, when someone from the outside had landed the position, a reporter no less. But Bentz wasn’t certain that Jason Bridges was the man for the job.

  “Hey,” Bridges said. “How about a quick interview?”

  Bentz shot him a glare. “You know the deal, Bridges. Nothing for me to say.”

  “Working girl, the victim?” he asked, undeterred. Obviously the homicide had already hit the wires. From the corner of his eye, Bentz noticed the approach of Brenda Convoy, a reporter from WKAM. A cameraman trailed a step behind her, shoulder cam in place.

  “Look, Bridges, you’re not the PIO yet,” Bentz told Bridges, ignoring the TV reporter. “So talk to someone from that office. We’ve got notifications to make and a case to solve. Until I’ve got a good reason to share the investigation with the public, you’re out of luck. At least with me.” And so is she, he silently added, watching Brenda Convoy hurry along, high heels clicking unsteadily over the uneven sidewalk. In one smooth motion Bentz slid into the passenger seat of Montoya’s Mustang and closed the door. A second later, without a word, his partner hit the gas, maneuvering the sporty car so that it melded seamlessly into traffic.

  Pain throbbing in her ankle, Zoe pushed herself to keep moving through the woods.

  Through the branches, she saw that the sun was climbing higher in the sky. She’d watched it rise, knew which direction was east, not that it helped her much as she had no idea where she was, couldn’t conceive of where she would find civilization. But at least she was convinced she wasn’t walking in circles. She was able to limp with the aid of a stick, and with each torturous step she put as much distance as she could between herself and the prick who had abducted her. Sick bastard. God, she wished she’d killed him. Maybe, by now, Chloe had finished him off.

  Zoe’s heart twisted.

  Chloe.

  Where was she?

  Safe?

  Or on the run like Zoe?

  “Please, God, no,” Zoe whispered through cracked lips. She pressed her fingertips to them and found them encrusted, probably with mud. Maybe even some dried blood mixed in, too. She was still naked but sunburned and bitten by mosquitoes or whatever creepy crawly things had found her bare skin.

  Light-headed from the lack of food, water, and sleep, she stopped and listened again, leaned on her stick, and strained to hear. Over the sounds of insects buzzing and a toad croaking, she heard the hum of traffic, wheels spinning over asphalt. Her heart soared.

  She would make it.

  She’d get to that damned road and flag someone down, someone who would drive her to safety. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them quickly away as if anyone here in this godforsaken lowland forest could see her. She’d spent a night listening to bats and owls, looking out for gators and even bears, but finally, she was about to be rewarded. She was going to make it.

  But, damn it, she couldn’t tell how far away the road was.

  A mile?

  Two?

  Five?

  She wasn’t certain, but she’d get there, pushing through pain, thirst, and hunger. She just had to keep heading in the direction of the sound of engines and tires.

  Through the lacy branches overhead she spied an egret sailing in the blue sky, long-necked and snowy white, flying gracefully. She almost smiled as she hobbled forward and brushed the gauze of a spiderweb out of her face.

  Maybe she would reach the road in fifteen minutes.

  Or it could take an hour.

  She wouldn’t let herself think that it would be any longer. Surely she’d find civilization long before nightfall and not have to spend another frightening night alone in the wilderness.

  Gritting her teeth, she headed toward the sound.

  Somewhere in the far distance she heard a dog barking. Rapid, thunderous barks, as if it had picked up the scent of an animal it was tracking. Poor beast, she thought, relating to the fox or duck or whatever the hound was tracking.

  The dog’s cries seemed to get louder and . . . closer. Her heart stopped as a horrifying thought slithered through her brain.

  What if the dog was tracking her?

  “No,” she said, but the thought took hold.

  What if the hound was owned by the psycho who had abducted her?

  What if, even now, she, not some woodland creature, was the hunter’s ultimate prey?

  Impossible! She’d crossed the river. She’d gotten herself some distance from that horrible cabin with its dank cellar. And all that time she’d spent in the water . . . it had to make it difficult to track her. But still . . .

  She swallowed hard. Told herself she was hallucinating. She was safe. Far away from the whack job with his stupid fascination about birthdays.

  Right?

  But the dog continued to howl, a horrid, plaintive sound that echoed through this shady forest of hickory and pine. Panic skittered down her spine.

  How in the world would she, limping as she was,
outrun a dog?

  It’s not chasing you. Don’t freak out. Just keep moving. Head to the highway. Find a motorist. Get to safety.

  And, for God’s sake, Zoe, get there fast!

  CHAPTER 24

  In her practice, Brianna never stacked her clients back-to-back. Like most therapists, she gave herself at least fifteen minutes of breathing room between fifty-minute counseling sessions. She also worked to keep herself emotionally detached; empathetic, yes, but distant enough to remain objective and help each person find his or her path to emotional well-being. In the times she started to slip and become too involved, experiencing transference, she had worked through the issues with her own therapist. Generally, she was able to maintain her own mental equilibrium.

  Unfortunately, her usual techniques were not helping her maintain objectivity with her last client of the day. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe her worries over Chloe and Zoe were wearing away her concentration. Whatever the reason, today she found it impossible to remain emotionally detached from this widower who was heartsick at the loss of his wife, a husband who was having trouble moving on. He didn’t break down, wouldn’t allow himself to shed a tear, but his chin wobbled and he twisted his gnarled hands around a handkerchief so hard the thin square of cloth had become a tightly wound paisley snake.

  After he left, she walked outside to her garden and felt the warmth of the morning sun warm her back. Though it was just a little past ten, she didn’t have another client scheduled for the rest of the day, so she could spend more time helping Selma find her daughters.

  If they’re still alive.

  “Don’t think that way,” she said, though she knew the odds of recovering the girls alive were diminishing with each passing hour. Trying to stay positive, she watched a sparrow flutter in the branches of the tree. St. Ives had also noticed the bird and made a nervous little groan of frustration at not being able to reach it.

  “Stick with the mice. Or better yet, any rats hanging out here, okay?” She bent down to pet the tabby’s soft head, but he was having none of it. Focused on the bird, he ignored Brianna who, at the mention of rats, thought about her shower the night before. Letting herself outside the garden gate, she walked along the narrow path between the neighbor’s fence and the side of her house to the area around her bathroom window. She was an inch or two too short to see inside, but anyone near six feet tall would be able to see over the window’s ledge and view the interior.