by Lisa Jackson
"Yep." He raised his hands, palms outward. Sucked in his breath. "Guilty as charged."
"And the boat?"
"Really did break down." He shook his head. "I couldn't fake that."
"Well, that's something," she said, a little stung. Not that he'd really lied, but…
"For the record Edie told me that you were a cross between Meg Ryan and Nicole Kidman and that I'd be out of my mind if I didn't meet you." Sam wanted to drop right through the dock as his shaded eyes met hers. "So that's why I pulled in here, rather than at the dock next door. I had to see for myself."
"And?"
"Hey, anything I say now is gonna get me into deeper trouble, I think." He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced away. "If I tell you you're prettier than either Meg or Nicole, you'll laugh at me and tell me to get lost. It'll sound like a come-on line and if I say 'Nah, the old lady needs her glasses readjusted,' you'll be offended. Either way I lose."
She thought of her nosy neighbor likening Ty to Harrison Ford, Tom Cruise and Clark Gable. "Edie Killingsworth watches too many movies."
"Nah, she's just one of those women who can't stop themselves from matchmaking. She was probably already working you."
"Maybe. She told you I was single?"
"Implied as much." He glanced at her ringless left hand. "No hardware."
"Not for a long time. I'm divorced," she admitted. "And you?"
His lips tightened just a fraction, as if he didn't want to talk about it, as if he didn't want to give up too much of himself. "Single." From the boat, his dog whined. "Hush, Sasquatch, and no, I didn't name him," he added, as if reading her mind while thankful to change the subject "My sister's prize German shepherd bitch had a litter that was supposed to be purebred. However, when the pups were born, it was obvious that she had managed to jump the fence before they brought in the show dog to do the honors and father the litter. Anyway, my sister ended up with six paperless pups and I got the runt, this guy here."
He threw a smile at his dog. "Sarah had already named him. She lives up in Bigfoot country, up around Mt. St. Helens in Washington State. That was twelve years ago."
Ty gave a sharp whistle, the dog bounded out of the boat and raced the length of the dock to stop right at his heels. His tail swept the dusty planks, his tongue lolled from his head and he panted loudly.
"Trained well," she said, and scratched the old shepherd behind his ears. He froze. His eyes trained on the cat. His muscles quivered. Charon had been stalking across the lawn. Spying the dog, he stopped dead in his tracks at the base of a live oak tree. His black hair stiffened and he glared at the intruder with wide, unblinking eyes.
"Don't even think about it," Ty warned. The dog whined a little but stayed put as Charon slunk like a quick black shadow toward the safety of the hedge.
Ty rubbed the shepherd's big head. "You'd better be on your best behavior, or the lady will throw you out."
"What makes you think his behavior will have any influence on me?" Sam asked, surprised that she was nearly flirting with this stranger. But it felt good to laugh and talk without any restrictions, without worrying about how he would take her comments. If he didn't like them, tough. He could be on his way. "The dog can do just about anything he wants," she said. "You, on the other hand, need to be straight with me."
"Always," he said quickly. Almost too quickly. He was standing close enough that she had to crane her neck up to look at his face. Crow's-feet bit into the corners of his eyes, and there was a small scar over one eyebrow. His skin was tanned and tight, and he looked as tough as leather. Like he could take care of himself and anyone else he wanted to.
Stupidly, her heart pounded a bit. Despite his easy drawl and good looks, he was a stranger—someone unknown, a man who appeared outwardly calm, but beneath the veneer seemed restless.
She reminded herself that somewhere lurking in the streets of New Orleans there was a man who had decided to terrorize her, knew her name, her address and where she worked. A man she didn't know. One she wouldn't recognize.
So who was she to say that this man, this stranger who lived down the street wasn't the "John" who had phoned the station during her broadcast or the creep who had sent her the letter and mutilated picture?
"Edie did let it slip that you're Dr. Sam," he admitted. "As in Samantha Leeds, beautiful woman, great cook, and radio psychologist."
Her nerves tightened. "So, are you in the market for a shrink?"
"Depends upon who you talk to." That damnable smile grew irreverently. "Just don't call my sister. She'd have me signed up for sessions for the rest of my life." He folded his arms across his chest, stretching the seams of his shirt "You could retire then."
"I doubt that you need my help."
"Is that your professional opinion?" He was toying with her. Flirting again.
"I don't know you well enough to make an honest evaluation. But if you want to look at ink blots or talk about how your mother didn't love you, we'd better set up an appointment."
"I thought you only did the radio stuff."
"I do. At least for the time being. Maybe you should tune in."
"I have." His shadow fell across her crown, and her pulse jumped a little.
"Have you ever called in?"
He shook his head. "Not yet."
"So what do you think?" She couldn't keep a nasty little feeling of dread from dripping into her bloodstream.
Ty scratched at the stubble that was beginning to darken his jaw. "Well, I don't know what to make of it. Seems like a lot of lonely people just calling up to spout off about something. I think they just want to connect with another person or maybe claim their fifteen minutes of fame."
"Fame or infamy?"
"You tell me." He was staring at her through those dark lenses, but grabbed a plastic deck chair, twisted it around and straddled it, leaning over the back and pinning her with his hidden gaze. The breeze had died, the sun harsher now, bright beams bouncing off the water. "You seem to be the real thing."
"How about you?" she asked "How real are you?"
"As real as it gets," he said, as a speedboat dragging a wake board roared past, creating a wide frothy wake. Laughter rolled across the swells as the kid on the board wiped out. Quickly, the driver of the boat did a sharp 360 in order to retrieve the boy bobbing on the surface. "But then what's real?"
"Touché," she said, again getting a glimpse of a more complicated man than showed outwardly. The good-ol'-boy with the aw-shucks charm wasn't cutting it. No, Ty Wheeler was more than a long, tall Texan with a sexy smile. What was worse, he was getting to her. Big-time. Though it was ludicrous, a part of her was intrigued with this man, wanted to peel off the layers, find out what was hiding beneath the easygoing veneer. But that was foolish. Playing with fire. This man was trouble. And right now she had enough trouble to last her a lifetime.
He could only be a neighbor. Even a potential friend wasn't worth thinking about, and anything else was out of the question. Period.
If her involvement with David had taught her anything, it was that she wasn't ready for a relationship.
Boy, are you getting ahead of yourself here… you've barely met the man and already you're thinking in terms of a love interest. Get real, Sam.
"You know, usually I don't socialize with my fans."
"Who said I was a fan?" He cast a thousand-watt smile her way. "I just mentioned I'd listened to the show." He inclined his chin toward the Bright Angel as it swayed slightly on the swells. "Maybe you'd like to take a ride with me sometime."
"After everything you've told me about the boat? After I've helped you fix her. Call me crazy, but I don't think so."
"When she's totally seaworthy."
"And when will that be?"
He lifted a shoulder. "Probably the next millennium."
"Call me." She rattled off her phone number.
"I will," he said, and stared at her a little longer through his shades. Then, whistling to his dog, he walked back to hi
s sloop. With a final wave, he cast off, leaving Sam barefoot on the dock, arm raised to shade her eyes as she watched him motor off.
The man's trouble, she told herself again. If you're smart, Sam, you'll forget him. Right now. Before this flirtation goes any further.
But she had the sinking premonition that it was already too late.
Chapter Ten
"So what do you think he meant, 'It's all your fault'?" Montoya asked as he crashed his paper coffee cup and tossed it over Rick Bentz's desk to land in the wastebasket in the corner.
"Two points," Rick said automatically.
"Three, man. That was a trey if I ever saw one. I parked that sucker from downtown."
"If you say so." Rick was flipping through the reports on Rosa Gillette and Cherie Bellechamps.
"So—what did the caller mean?" Montoya asked.
"I don't know." Rick scratched at his chin as he thought about his interview with the lady psychologist.
"You shouldn't even be thinking about it, you know. We've got enough to handle as it is."
"I do what Jaskiel tells me to do." He shoved the reports aside. "Look, Montoya, you and I both know I'm lucky to have this job. That I ended up with an office is unbelievable."
"You earned it, man. You put in your years."
"In LA."
"And you got into some trouble. Big deal. The bottom line is you know your shit; otherwise, you wouldn't be here, right?"
Montoya was right. Twenty years with the LAPD should have counted for something, but as it was he was lucky to land a job anywhere. To say the recommendations of his superiors in the City of Angels hadn't been stellar would be a gross understatement. Everyone here knew it. Including Montoya. Not everyone understood the reasons. He cringed as he thought of them… of an unlucky boy who happened to point what turned out to be a toy gun at his partner. Bentz had reacted and a twelve-year-old was dead because of it. His family had sued, rightfully so, and Bentz had been put on probation. He might have regained his badge if he hadn't poured himself into a bottle for a couple of years. The powers that were at the LAPD decided he was far more trouble than he was worth—a media catastrophe. "Yeah," he said now, in answer to the younger cop's question. "I know my shit." All of it. And it stinks.
"So don't give me any crap about you luckin' out and gettin' the job. Jaskiel hired you to work on the cases she assigns because she trusts you, and she knows you'll work your ass off, round the clock. The way I see it, you don't want any free time anyway. Old man like you, what you got to go home to?" Montoya asked. "Now that your kid is about off to college, you won't have any reason to go home at night, right?"
"Kristi's still at home," Bentz argued, thinking of his daughter, the only family he had left in the world. Kristi's mother, Jennifer, was dead. She'd divorced Bentz long ago and everyone thought it was the job, which was a big part of it, but there was more, of course, and Bentz was left with one great kid and a secret he'd never share. He, glanced at the double fold frame that sat on his desk. One picture was of Kristi at five, upon entering kindergarten, the other was her senior picture, taken just last September. It seemed impossible that she was eighteen and soon would be moving up to Baton Rouge. "She's not off to All Saints until next month."
Montoya parked a hip on Rick's desk, picked up a letter opener and twisted it in his fingers. "So you think the stalker who's calling the lady shrink, he's dangerous?"
Rick considered the mutilated publicity shot, handed a copy of it to Reuben. "Looks that way."
Montoya's jaw tightened. "Whoever did this is one messed-up mother."
"Yeah, if this is all on the up-and-up I'd say, 'yeah, the guy is dangerous.' "
"But," Reuben encouraged.
"But it could be all for show. Publicity. Ratings of the Midnight Confessions have soared since the first incident, and the station's been in financial straits for a couple of years. George Hannah bought WSLJ, thought he could turn it around and didn't. Maybe this is a publicity ploy." But Rick didn't think so.
Montoya's face screwed up as he glanced down at the photocopy. "It's still sick-assed shit."
"Yep. I'm waiting for a report on the note and the picture—I got the originals from the Cambrai PD, then sent them to the lab."
He held up the photo. "You know what this reminds me of?"
Bentz was one step ahead of his younger partner. "The hundred-dollar bills with the eyes blackened."
"Could be the same guy."
"I considered it. Even put it in my report, but wouldn't he have just marked out the eyes with a felt pen—like he did on the bills?"
"You'd think… but maybe this creep is smarter than we think."
"It's a long shot." One Bentz was considering.
"But a possibility, or you wouldn't have thought of it," Montoya said.
Bentz reached for his coffee cup. The coffee was tepid and weak. "I'm not ruling anything out." Truth of the matter was, the photo with the cut-out eyes bothered him more than the calls to the station. He had a bad feeling about this one, real bad. Was the guy a prank or was he going to raise the stakes? And what about the psychologist? Samantha Leeds should be freaking out, not letting strange neighbors moor their damned boats at her place.
Reuben dropped the copy of the mutilated picture onto a stack of files. "So what have we got on your serial murderer?"
"A little more. Semen was left behind on both women. The lab says it's the same blood type. Same with hair samples."
"No surprise there."
"And it's the same MO, from the looks of it. Both working girls, both strangled by some kind of bumpy noose, both posed afterward. He's not afraid to leave fingerprints around, and we can't find a match, so he hasn't been printed—no priors or military or job where it's required." Bentz tossed Montoya the file. "Also, in both instances, there were other hairs found. Synthetic. Red."
"A wig?"
"Yeah, but it's missing, nothing close was found in the apartments and, according to people who knew the victims, neither ever wore a red wig, not even when they turned tricks."
"So they were wearing one at the time of death and the killer took it, is that where you're going?"
Bentz nodded. "As if he wanted his victim to look like she had red hair."
"Jesus. Like Dr. Sam."
"Maybe."
Montoya sucked in his breath. "It's still a pretty big leap."
"I know." Bentz wondered if he was grasping at straws, but he couldn't dismiss the eyes being cut out and the red hair. "We're checking out manufacturers and local outlets who sell wigs and I'm cross-checking cases, to find out if there are any other homicides where there was a red wig involved."
"It's not much, but somethin'," Montoya said, scraping the letter opener against the side of his goatee as he thought. "I checked on the ex-husband of Cherie Bellechamps— Henry? Turns out he had a life insurance policy that he'd never let lapse. Ended up with nearly fifty thousand dollars."
"Where was he when the second victim was killed?"
"In bed. At home."
"Alone?"
"Nah, he's got a girlfriend who swears he was with her all night, but she's got a record. Nothin' big. Shoplifting, DUI, possession—cocaine. Seems to have been clean in the last couple of years, since she hooked up with Henry Bellechamps. By the way, it's not Henry or Hank, he goes with the French pronunciation. Henri."
"Bully for him," Bentz growled.
"Even if he had an alibi, it could have been a hit. He could have found someone to off his ex and pay off the killer."
"Then why the second victim? To throw us off? A copycat?" Bentz didn't think so.
Montoya's beeper went off. He dropped the letter opener onto the stack of files on Bentz's desk, then pulled his pager from a pocket of his black slacks. With a quick glance, he checked the readout, and added, "I'm not convinced he didn't off his ex, but I can't connect him with the Gillette woman. I gotta take this call. You got anything else?"
"A bit of a problem," Bentz said, l
eaning back in his chair. "In the first case, the woman was raped before she died, but with Rosa, it looks like she might have been dead first."
"Might have been?"
"The ME's not certain…"
"Why not?"
"My guess is that the guy did it, just as the women died. That's his turn-on, killing them."
Montoya's dark eyes narrowed. "Shit." He shoved his pager back into his pocket. "About task-force time, isn't it?"
Bentz nodded. "I've already cleared it with Jaskiel and set the wheels in motion."
Montoya scowled. "So we'll be dealing with the Feds."
"Yep. The local guys." Bentz forced a smile he didn't feel. "It's party time."
Sitting at the scarred table, he listened to the night through the open window. Bullfrogs croaked, fish splashed, insects droned and water lapped around the poles holding up the tiny cabin, his one spot of refuge. His head clamored and he felt the need again. The need to hunt. But he had to be careful. Choose wisely.
He glanced down at his work and smiled as he picked up one of the dark beads and oh so carefully sharpened the facets with his file. It was delicate work and caused him to sweat, but it was worth it. In the end, each bead would cut soft flesh like a razor. His callused fingers wouldn't bleed as he touched the glass, but a soft white throat would easily succumb.
He thought of the lives he'd taken, the rush of watching a woman realize she was dying, the feel of the beads in his hands as her breath left her lungs. God, it made him so hard he couldn't think… could only hear the pounding in his brain, the thunder of lust as it ran through his blood. He relived each moment and knew he had to do it again, to keep the memories alive.
As the images faded, his hard-on softened. He turned his attention back to his work, filing, sharpening and polishing the beads until it was time for the program, then he snapped on the radio at just the right moment The music was fading and Dr. Sam's voice whispered over the crackle of interference.
"Good Evening, New Orleans, and welcome…" Her voice was so erotic, so sexy.
