by Lisa Jackson
“Trying to. They’re resistant.” She pointed to his donut. “You going to eat that?”
“Yeah.” He unwrapped the pastry. “Eventually.” He grinned.
“I’ve been to Baton Rouge and the PD here in New Orleans, told them what I know and stirred up the pot. But what have they done?” She frowned. “They aren’t exactly excited about the prospect of keeping me in the loop, if you know what I mean. I’m not really sure they can legally, so I’m out.” Absently swirling her straw through the ice cubes in her glass, she added, “And you know what? It really doesn’t work for me.”
That much he believed. Brianna was a woman with a purpose, and he was beginning to see that she was not easily derailed.
The tip of her tongue traced her lips, licking away some powdery sugar. He looked away, finding the motion too stupidly distracting. Man, he was in trouble. He spied a pigeon searching the cobblestone floor for crumbs, then turned his attention to his donut, biting through the maple glaze to the bacon-flavored cake beneath.
“Look,” she was saying, “I don’t want to get in the cops’ way; that was never my intention. I just want to help find the twins. But face it; the cops don’t want my help. Not here in New Orleans or in Baton Rouge.” She sighed. “I don’t think they trust me or my motives.”
“Because you’re related to Donovan Caldwell and you’re trying to prove that he’s innocent?”
“That’s the main reason, I guess, but there are others. I’m pretty sure Detective Bentz thinks I’m a nut job.” She flashed a smile and then took a final bite, polishing off her beignet. “You know, he figures if I’m not completely off my rocker, then at the very least I’ve got tunnel vision. So blinded by motive that I can’t see the truth. You heard him the other day, right? At the police station?”
“Everyone on the floor heard you.”
She pulled a face. “Maybe not my finest hour. I probably should have used some finesse, but damn, I was sick of being stonewalled.”
“Don’t blame you.”
“So, Bridges, do we have a deal?”
He couldn’t help but wonder where this would lead, and his brother’s warning about staying away from her sliced through his thoughts. But as he stared across the table, studying a face that was so like her sister’s, he heard himself say, “Deal.” Reaching across the table to shake her hand, he wondered if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
CHAPTER 25
The dog was barking his head off, baying and causing a ruckus. “Hush!” he yelled at old Red, but his voice failed him. Though he was grateful that the dog had found that little bitch’s scent, he didn’t want to warn her or anyone else who might be in this part of the forest.
But the hound wasn’t listening to him, and once again, he wanted to kick himself, wishing he’d taken the dog to obedience training. But hell, Red had been a stray. He was lucky the beast could track at all.
And Red had definitely picked up Zoe’s scent. The dog was running up ahead, bounding through the sweltering forest, startling birds, rabbits, and God only knew what else. It was all he could do to keep up with the mutt. Huffing and snorting as he lugged his gun through the undergrowth, he was sweating like a pig.
“Red!” he tried to yell, his voice a whistle. “You shut up!”
That wasn’t happening. The dog darted ahead, crazy from the scent.
From the sound of the dog’s baying, he guessed they were closing in on her.
About damned time! Once he collected Zoe, he’d be able to end this, in the right birth order, kill each of the twins and be on to the next quest, whatever the hell that would be. Myra, she would tell him. She was the one who decided. He just followed directions. And that would have to change. Who the hell was Myra to be forever bossing him around, making him take all the chances, suffer all the consequences? Even now, his face and neck ached, and his legs, too, had suffered from all of the attacks those two little bitches had inflicted.
And yet, he kept on obeying her.
Myra was the one who had planned all this, the one who had bought the property with the cabin, who provided him with just enough money to keep going. The work he had was spotty, which was good, as it allowed him some free time to do this, to hunt for the twins who were about to turn of age, to spare them the pain that he knew existed.
Ungrateful sluts!
Why did they fight him?
Didn’t they understand that he was doing them a favor? Saving them?
A tree limb slapped him in the face and he cursed, stumbled, and felt the sting under his eye, a reminder of the pain that Chloe had inflicted.
Despite his discomfort, despite the heat and the pain running through his body, he grinned inwardly. Chloe Denning would never again have the opportunity to do him harm. No more. She’d been dealt with. After he’d captured her that last time, chasing her down to that barbed-wire fence, he’d made sure she would never thwart him again. Oh, she was alive, but just barely, and that was good enough.
Until he captured Zoe.
Then there would be no reason to hesitate.
The ritual would be quick. Orderly. Complete.
Thinking ahead, pressing through the deep woods, he licked his lips in anticipation of running Zoe to the ground and hauling her back to the cabin.
What satisfaction that would bring.
He couldn’t wait.
The trees thinned a bit, and he spied his dog leaping through the tall grass. Squinting, he thought he made out a movement ahead of Red, a person stumbling through the weeds.
“Gotcha,” he said, knowing that the dog had flushed Zoe out of the forest.
Perfect.
It was just a matter of time before he reached her, and he was going to savor every sweet second of his revenge. She looked frantic, hobbling feverishly. The dog barked again and she glanced over her shoulder, only to turn and try to run in the opposite direction.
As if she had an escape route.
As if she actually thought she could get away.
And then he heard it.
The distinctive hum of traffic.
What?
Heart pounding, he focused on the space between Zoe and the horizon, and spied a pickup truck traveling beyond the fence line. And after the truck came two cars. And a semi heading the opposite direction.
“Fuck!” he swore, the sound a rattling rasp. He sprang into action, running forward, calculating the angle between Zoe and the road. He couldn’t let her reach the highway. Wouldn’t.
He was gonna cut her off, tackle her before she got to the road. Then he’d haul her back to the cabin, prepare her, and finally take her life. It would be all over soon.
But if he didn’t reach her before she flagged down the driver of a passing vehicle?
Oh, shit!
Myra would be beyond pissed.
Adrenaline firing his blood, he shot across the brush-covered land. His legs pumped as each breath was drawn in and expelled through his bruised windpipe. Faster! Faster! He’d been an athlete in school, a hunter afterward, and could run miles without difficulty. But it was hard to run in hunting boots, packing a gun and being beaten as he had been. Still, he should be able to overtake a wounded girl.
Pushing his muscles, pumping his arms, he focused on Zoe, ignored the pain, and ran flat out.
He’d make it.
He’d stop that little bitch.
Or, damn it, he’d die trying.
Selma Denning was a wreck. The poor woman nearly shattered into a million pieces when Bentz and Montoya showed up on her doorstep. At their arrival, she’d been certain they’d come to report one of her daughters dead.
“No, no, we’re just here to ask a few questions,” Bentz assured the distraught woman.
At that point, she let the detectives into her home. Sitting on a floral rocker by the window, the woman chain-smoked while she answered questions about the twins. Most of the information confirmed what Bentz had already learned from Brianna Hayward. Though it had obvio
usly been difficult for her, she had come up with recent pictures of the girls as well as two hairbrushes. With little success, she fought tears as Montoya placed each brush into a bag labeled with the girl’s name. The notion that the police might need DNA samples to identify her daughters was nearly too much for her.
Bentz got it. He’d been in her position when his Kristi had been abducted years earlier.
“I just want them back,” Selma whispered, crushing out her third or fourth cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
“We’re doing all we can.”
She stared into space, unblinking, her mind somewhere else.
“Do you mind if we have a look at their car?” Bentz asked. She nodded numbly, but didn’t move from her chair. Instead, she reached for her half-empty pack of cigarettes on the table where her phone and the ashtray sat. “I mean, now,” Bentz clarified.
“What?” Her hand paused midair. “Oh, yes . . . sorry. It’s out back in the lot. One of the visitor’s spots.”
“We’ll probably have it towed to the garage,” Montoya said.
“Oh . . . but if the girls return . . .” Her voice faded. “Sorry. Certainly. I’ll get the keys.” She retrieved a set of keys and then led them outside to a lot that was surrounded by low-growing shrubs. Roughly half of the spots were taken by vehicles. “The manager will be glad if you do take it. I’m . . . I’m, um, not supposed to have any extra cars here for longer than, I don’t know, five hours or so. But the manager, Stan, he’s cutting me a break. You know, because of the situation.” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, then pointed out a fifteen-year-old Toyota. Selma Denning stood there smoking another cigarette as Montoya and Bentz gave the car a once-over.
They found nothing out of the ordinary. A pair of sunglasses along with the registration and car owner’s manual in the glove box. A phone charger, pack of gum, and mess of tissues and gas receipts in the console. A warm, half-drunk soda in the cup holder. Gum wrappers and half a dozen French fries under the front seats. In the back, two jackets, a collapsible umbrella, and some trashy magazines were tossed over the faded seat. Montoya checked the pockets of the two jackets and found lip balm, a bracelet, and a ticket stub from a movie dated six months earlier.
Nothing that looked as if it belonged to anyone but the twins.
A total bust.
Still, they called to have the car towed, just in case. Leaving Selma with their cards, the detectives headed across town to a two-storied home built at the turn of the previous century.
As he searched for a parking spot, Montoya’s cell phone rang from its spot in the empty cup holder. He picked it up, saw the caller ID, and clicked the cell off. “Speaking of my family. Second call I got today. They’re all thinking I should be hunting for Cruz,” Montoya said as he slowed for a red light, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. Cruz was Montoya’s brother, a bad ass who had recently lost his Harley to a fleeing nun. The desperate woman had stolen it, and Cruz had taken off after her. “No one’s heard from him, can’t reach him, so they all have decided that I, as the one cop in the family, should drop everything and chase him down.”
Bentz smothered a smile. Montoya’s tight-knit family was always bothering him in one way or another. “Did you tell them you’ve got other things to occupy your time?”
“Like a full-time job nailing bad guys, as well as dealing with a wife and kid? Even though Abby’s on hiatus from her photography for a while, she still expects me to be home and spell her with Ben and, you know, she needs a break. Geez, he’s only three months and hasn’t figured out sleeping through the night yet. We’re all sleep deprived.” He snorted and frowned, brackets lining his mouth. “So someone else in the family can go looking for Cruz. He’s a big boy anyway, a grown man.” Frowning at the traffic on the street, he finally found a parking spot close to a fire hydrant. “It’s okay, right?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “We’re cops. The good guys.”
“If you’re willing to risk a ticket.”
“From someone on the force? Bah. Look, if I get one from some meter maid who doesn’t know the drill, I’ll fight it. Like I said, ‘We’re the good guys.’” He was already out of the car and locking up. They made their way under an arbor and through a garden of exotic tropical plants to a two-storied front porch that ran the width of the building and was decorated in finely detailed wrought iron.
They were met at the front door by a pretty if harried-looking woman who seemed a little nervous when they introduced themselves. Erin Denning, Carson’s second wife, was petite with short reddish hair, an upturned nose, and wide, worried eyes. She could only have been five or six years older than the twins, her stepdaughters, and, Bentz already had learned from Selma, was raising Carson’s two sons, Carson Junior, “CJ,” a rambunctious four-year-old with red hair, and his little brother, Jayden, whom Erin carried on her hip. She led the detectives through a spacious foyer with inlaid marble to an office with double doors and a glass desk, where her husband sat before three computer monitors and two television screens. These days Carson Denning was a day trader and worked from home.
“Detectives,” he said after introductions. Though he grinned widely, there was barely a trace of happiness in his eyes. “Tell me you’ve found my girls.”
“Not yet,” Bentz said, and he saw what little light there was in Carson’s pale eyes fade. “We have a few questions about your daughters.”
“I see. Let’s step outside.” His lips folded in on themselves and he motioned the two detectives to walk out a side door that opened to a veranda where a variety of lush ferns and palms offered shade. Overhead lights had been strung to create ambiance in the evening. Water spilled from a stone waterfall into a basin where goldfish and koi swam slowly, their scales catching the sunlight. Bentz looked up, noticed a screen stretched between the wings of the house so that no bird could fly in and make a meal of the brightly colored fish.
“Look,” Carson said, “whatever it takes, whatever I can do, just say the word. You have to find my daughters. My divorce from their mother was not amicable; it’s hard for us to be civil to each other, but my Zoe and Chloe . . .” He let out a shuddering breath and stared at the fish darting beneath the water’s surface. “They’re special. I’ll do whatever I can to help find them.” He sat on a bench and clasped his hands between his knees. “That being said, the less my wife, Erin, has to do with this, the better.” He looked up quickly, frowning. “I mean, she’s fond of Chloe and Zoe, of course. They’re, well, they’re contemporaries of hers, but because she’s related to Selma, it’s . . . touchy.”
I’ll bet, Bentz thought, though didn’t admit that he, too, had been through a messy divorce where family members were compromising partners. That, however, had been long ago; water under the emotional bridge.
“And really, other than my meeting Erin because of Selma, she had nothing to do with the divorce. Nothing.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “The truth of the matter was that Selma couldn’t get over the loss of her twin, Sandra. That was the nail in the coffin of our marriage, though she wouldn’t believe it. I don’t mean to sound harsh, because it was a horrible ordeal that she went through, to lose someone that close to you. But it affected everything she did, all aspects of her life, of our life as a family. It was too much.” He stood, stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, and bit his lower lip. “Since no amount of private counseling sessions seemed to have helped, I was hoping that twinless twin support group might be the ticket. I’m glad she joined. But about the girls, what can I do?”
“We just want to double-check some things with you, ask about their acquaintances, anyone you might know who might have been with them that night after they peeled off from the group of friends.”
“I wish I could. But . . . I didn’t talk to them that day, hoped to celebrate their birthday after the fact, when they could come out here. I thought I’d take them to dinner and buy them a drink sometime after the initial celebration died
down.” He shrugged. “They’re kids. They want to be with people their age.”
Bentz and Montoya asked about Zoe and Chloe’s friends and, it seemed, Carson’s impression was nearly identical to his ex-wife’s. Neither one had cared for the most recent boyfriends, Zach Armstrong or Tommy Jones. “Oh, they were fine, I guess,” Carson said. “Just not going anywhere as far as I could see. What the girls found so fascinating about them was lost on me.”
Within forty minutes, they’d learned everything they could. As Bentz stepped out on the front porch, Carson stopped him, asking, “Are you doing everything you can to find my daughters?”
A good question. What was everything? The Missing Persons Departments of both New Orleans and Baton Rouge were working together, and the press had been informed that the girls had gone missing. The FBI had been called in, and half a dozen cops from each city were canvassing the area, talking to acquaintances, checking on leads, including the security video taken near Bourbon Street. Bentz and Montoya, homicide cops, were working the case as well, mainly because of Bentz’s experience on the original investigation of the 21 Killer. There was still no proof that 21 was behind this, especially since most believed that they’d locked up the killer when Donovan Caldwell was sentenced, but there was also no denying the crime pattern.
“We’re doing the best we can,” Bentz assured Carson, then asked him to call if he thought of anything that would help.
Once in the car and heading back to the station, Bentz said, “Twinless twins?” He snorted and shook his head as he opened his window a crack. “You know, I think there’s a support group for just about anything you want these days.” Before Montoya could add his two cents, Bentz’s phone jangled.
He slipped it from his pocket, recognized an LA area code, and answered, “Detective Bentz.”
“Hey,” Jonas Hayes said, his voice grim. Bentz imagined his ex-partner’s face set, his features hard, the harbinger of bad news. “I wanted to give you a heads-up before you heard it somewhere else.”
