by Lisa Jackson
"I told them as much." Sam scrounged in her purse, found a pair of sunglasses and shoved them onto the bridge of her nose.
"What about me? Did you put in a good word?"
"That I did, but… well, George has some ideas of his own."
"Ideas?" the girl said, stopping short, suddenly deflated. "Oh, shit, I knew it. He's going to give the show to someone else isn't he?" She kicked at a pebble lying on the cobblestones of the street and sent the stone hurtling against a trash barrel. "Son of a bitch. Son of a friggin' bitch!"
"Maybe you should talk to Eleanor," Sam said, surprised at Melanie's vehemence. Disappointment she understood, but this was out-and-out rage.
"After all I've done, all the hours I've worked, the damned sacrifices I've made!"
Sam's heart nearly stopped at the term. "Sacrifices?" she repeated, telling herself she was being overly sensitive. "But it's your job."
Melanie didn't hear her; she was already striding back to the building in her three-inch platforms and gauzy print dress, muttering under her breath, "This is the last friggin' straw. I've had it."
Leaning back in his desk chair, Bentz looked at the pathetic man before him.
David Ross was scared. Nearly shaking. "I think I need a lawyer," he said, sweat beading on his brow, his hands clasped so tightly, his knuckles showed white. His hair was unruly, his shirt wrinkled. He looked like he hadn't slept in two weeks.
"You came on your own volition."
"I know, I know." Ross swallowed hard. "I just didn't know it would go this far, I mean…" He closed his eyes and gathered himself. "I'm worried about Samantha Leeds. I am, er, was her fiancé. And… well, we had a falling-out, tried to patch things up in Mexico and it didn't work. I was kinda desperate and I did some things I shouldn't have." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of keys and a wallet. "These were returned to me while we were in Mexico—I don't even know if everything's there, but I didn't return them to Sam and when this trouble started, I kept everything figuring that she would get scared, come running back to me and… well, it didn't happen and I guess I didn't know Samantha as well as I thought I did." His smile trembled. "She's tough. Anyway…" He cleared his throat. "… I knew that someone was harassing her, I heard about the calls and, I admit, I thought about it myself, even dialed her show a couple of times, but never had the nerve to go through with it I figured she'd recognize my voice, y'know."
"Sure," Bentz said, trying to figure out just what it was that made David Ross tick. He chewed his gum slowly and waited. He knew the guy wasn't the killer—the blood types didn't match and Ross didn't look a whole lot like the composite, not really. But the guy had some guilt he wanted to heave off his chest, and Bentz was ready to listen.
"Anyway, I was hoping she'd come back to me and it all backfired and now… now there's a killer on the loose and I've heard that he might be the same guy who's calling the show… and that someone Samantha knew was murdered. I, um, I'm scared."
"So you're turning yourself in because you forgot to give an ex-girlfriend back her keys?" Bentz leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk, on top of reports that would make the likes of David Ross piss his pants.
"I just want to clear my name."
"Does it need clearing?"
Ross's face flushed. "I didn't need to come down here. Matter of fact, maybe it was a mistake," he said, growing some balls. "But I wanted to set things straight."
Bentz believed him. The only way David Ross was a part of the murders was if the setup had been murder-for-hire, if he were the guy someone pulling the strings, a man using the killer as his puppet, but serial killers didn't work that way—no the actual kill was the thrill, and if it was murder-for-hire the other women wouldn't now be dead, and Ross wouldn't have shown up with evidence. He wasn't "John" the Rosary Killer as Bentz had come to think of him. Not only had one of the mannequins at the Boucher Center party been wearing a rosary but sure enough the ligature around each victim's neck was the same pattern as the beads on a rosary and the strange mark on Leanne's Jaquillard's throat was probably a crucifix. "Anything else you want to tell us?" he asked Ross.
"Yeah. Get him, okay?" Ross's nostril's flared as if he smelled something bad. "Arrest the bastard or kill him, but get him off the streets. Before he gets to Samantha."
"That's it. I quit!" Melanie announced, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. She was so mad, so damned mad, and as she stood in front of Eleanor Cavalier's desk, she could barely keep from shaking.
"I'll call you back," Eleanor said, then hung up and turned her dark eyes on Melanie.
"Sit down and let's talk about this. You can't just up and quit, you know. You're required to give two weeks' notice and—"
"No way. Not after the way I've been treated. When I took this job I was told that there was room for advancement, that with my degree and background in psychology, I'd be in line for my own program."
"Someday," Eleanor said, again waving her into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Like she was going to try and placate her. "It could happen."
"Could," Melanie repeated with a snort. "Could! Jesus, Eleanor, I've got a bachelor's degree and I know all the technical stuff inside and out, as well as Tiny, for God's sake! And didn't I take over for Samantha when she was gone. Was I so bad?"
"No, of course not."
"And who do you call when she's sick? Huh? Me." She curved her thumb at her chest and shook it. "Oh, what's the use? I'm outta here!" she said, and whirled on her heels, nearly careening into Ramblin' Rob in the middle of the aorta. The old coot had, no doubt, been eavesdropping. Well, he made her skin crawl. Come to think of it, everyone did. George Hannah was an old lech and Gator, well, he had his own private agenda. Melanie didn't want to think what kind of pervert he was, what he did behind closed doors, but she could just tell. His eyes… they creeped her out. Come to think of it, she didn't know why she hung out here and she'd been talking to Trish LaBelle, maybe she could get a job over at WNAB. Yeah, that was it. Then she wouldn't have to put up with lumbering Tiny. God, he was worthless, nearly drooling every time he was around Samantha.
She walked to the stairs and thundered down the steps, her hair flying, her temper escalating as she thought about how much she'd given to this damned station, how much of her life she'd poured into Midnight Confessions. Of course, no one knew just how creative she'd been. Not only had she been the dutiful, Johnny-on-the-spot employee, always wearing a smile, always busting her butt for everyone else, but she'd done a little extra, given herself a little more edge toward Sam's job, or so she'd thought.
Shouldering open the door to the stairs, she flew by that fat slob of a security guard and, for once, didn't bother to wave. If the old fart really knew what she was about, how she'd plotted Dr. Sam's demise, only to have it blow up in her face.
Stepping onto the street she felt a blast of hot air and scrambled in her purse for her shades. Jesus, it was hot, maybe she should move to another city, a cooler one, less muggy… but she couldn't. Not yet. She'd gained a reputation around town.
One you might just have crammed down the toilet by not giving your notice.
Harsh sunlight glinted off the pavement as she headed toward the parking garage where her little hatchback was waiting, all the while considering the unfairness of what had happened.
No one at WSLJ could understand how much she'd given, how much she'd sacrificed, how much she'd plotted her career path.
She cringed just a bit remembering just how far she'd gone. But then, she'd been given her opportunity on a silver platter when Sam had asked Melanie to watch her house and her cat in Cambrai.
Melanie had jumped at the chance. Once Sam was on her way to Mexico, Melanie had become ensconced in the cozy house on Lake Pontchartrain. While there she'd snooped through "the doctor's" things, even found the files on Annie Seger in that creepy, bug-infested attic. When Melanie had been alone, she'd tried on some of Sam's clothes.
Melanie had felt decad
ent and wild and had invited her new boyfriend over to christen Sam's bed. She'd worn one of Samantha's nightgowns, a lacy white thing with thin straps, then lit candles around the room. What had happened afterward had been an orgy the likes of which she'd never seen since and made her ache inside as she sat in the car. Just being in Samantha's big four-poster had seemed to turn her boyfriend on. Also, the knowledge that Melanie had whispered into his ear, that a jealous lover had been rumored to have killed his girlfriend in that very house had seemed to give her lover a rush.
Later, when Melanie had told him about Annie Seger, he'd hatched a plot that had been daring and dark—just like him. He'd encouraged Melanie to gaslight Sam, to leave the note in her car, to rig up the mannequin at the benefit for the Boucher Center, to disguise her voice and create a tape saying she was Annie—they'd even taped the recording on Sam's machine, with one of her blank audio tapes. Later he'd played that tape when he'd called in. The result had freaked Sam out.
Oh, yes, he'd been good. He'd urged Melanie on, advised her that to get ahead, she would have to sacrifice and use any means possible to attain her ultimate goal. Though she'd been a little unnerved by his calls as "John," she'd known he'd done it out of love for her, so that Sam would quit and Melanie would be promoted to hosting Midnight Confessions.
Only it hadn't happened. Sam had hung in with the station and the program, largely through Melanie's efforts, had increased its audience. Dr. Sam's star had soared into the stratosphere, to the point that the powers that be at WSLJ wanted Sam to expand the program without promoting Melanie at all.
Shit.
It was not only unfair, it was stupid. Melanie could handle Sam's job with her eyes closed. She was younger, smarter, and willing to do whatever it took to promote herself and the show.
Sweating profusely, she marched over the hot sidewalk, then jaywalked to the parking structure. Bee-lining to her car, she ignored the dirt and oil that had collected on the concrete floor. Inside, the hatchback was an oven. Melanie didn't care. Rolling down the driver's window, she blew out a breath of hot, angry air. She needed advice, solid advice, from someone who cared about her, about her career, about her needs.
There was only one person.
She grabbed her cell phone, and punched out the autodial for her boyfriend's cell phone. She'd talk to him, explain what was going on, and maybe he'd calm her down. They could get together and celebrate her newfound freedom.
Maybe, if she was lucky, she'd even get laid. He'd been a little lax in that department lately. She figured it was from the coke, but tonight she might get lucky.
Waiting for the connection, she fingered her keys and eyed the replica of a Louisiana license plate emblazoned with her name. Her boyfriend had given it to her after borrowing her car when she'd first met him. She fingered the raised letters as he answered.
"Hello?" His voice was a balm.
"Oh, God, I'm glad I caught you." Fighting tears of frustration, she added, "I've had a helluva day and I just quit."
"Why?"
"The station's expanding the show. Midnight Confessions will be aired every friggin' night of the week, but they don't want me to host any of it. Oh, no, it's either Dr. Sam or no one." She leaned back against the seat. "It sucks."
"Then you did the right thing."
"I hope so. I'm calling WNAB right now."
"Why don't you wait on that? I'll come pick you up and we can go out? What'd'ya say?"
"I might be lousy company."
"I doubt it." He laughed. "You know, I have just the thing to get you out of your bad mood."
"What's that."
"A surprise." His voice was low. Sexy.
She felt a thrill. The dark side of him appealed to her. "Will I like it?"
"Let's put it this way, it'll be a night you remember for the rest of your life. I promise."
Standing in front of the statue of Andrew Jackson, Father John clicked off his cell phone. He smiled to himself. Things were progressing perfectly… almost as if divine intervention had been involved.
Through his Ray-Bans he watched a mime entertaining passersby just outside the gate to the park. He'd witnessed Melanie marching out of the building housing WSLJ, had expected her to call and had known that she'd want to see him. But then she always did. For all her bristly, independent exterior, she was really weak and needy, a single girl who was estranged from a family in Philadelphia. An easy target.
Absently he stared at St. Louis Cathedral. Its white walls were nearly blinding in the fierce sunlight, its high spires and dark crosses knifing in Christian defiance against a clear cerulean sky. Inside were the devoted. Or the curious.
Yes, he thought as he strolled along the path toward one of the wrought iron gates guarding the small park, Melanie Davis had been more than accommodating and now her purpose had been fulfilled. She'd aided and abetted him in reaching his ultimate goals without realizing exactly who he was. She'd been so willing, so easily manipulated, an oh, so willing pawn. He'd sought her out upon learning that she was working at the radio station as an assistant to Dr. Sam. He'd approached her in a bar on Bourbon Street and charmed her. Within days, he'd uncovered her weakness, brought to light her incredible ambition, and he'd used it against her. To his advantage. For Samantha Leeds's downfall.
It had been so simple.
But then it always was, he thought, as he walked past the mime's open suitcase with its paltry few dollars. A flock of pigeons scurried and fluttered out of his path.
As easily as he'd uncovered Melanie's weakness, it had been far simpler to figure out his prisoner's need. His captive had developed a hunger for any chemical that could be swallowed, snorted, smoked or shot into the body, and Father John had willingly fed that craving, offering up substances that debilitated the body and left it weak. That was the secret, the key to success, to find one's enemies' weaknesses, unearth their appetites and feed their ravenous addictions, all in the guise of being helpful.
He turned from Decatur onto North Peters Street, increasing his pace. Night would soon fall. He welcomed the darkness, looked upon it with anticipation, for tonight Melanie Davis was to pay for her sins.
Walking past the Old French Market, he headed for the river, drinking in its heady, dank smell. He reached into his pocket, touching his sacred weapon, feeling the sharp tensile strength of the holy noose, knowing it wouldn't fail him. His heartbeat quickened as he crossed the streetcar tracks, then made his way up the grassy rise. Atop the levee he viewed the slow-moving Mississippi. God, she was magnificent. Wide. Dark. Ever moving. Seductive.
For a second he closed his eyes and let his thoughts tumble ahead. To the coming night. To Melanie Davis and his plans for her. His fingers tangled in the rosary—sweet, sweet instrument of death to those who sinned.
At this moment Melanie was expecting the surprise of her life.
What she didn't know, was it would be her last.
Chapter Thirty-three
"Somethin's up," Montoya said, edgy and nervous, his black hair gleaming under the harsh lights of Bentz's kitchen, where three rosaries were lying on the table beside a plastic tub and various dishes, saucers, plates, even old margarine containers held a few glittering beads.
"What's up? What do you mean?" Bentz picked up one of the beads and rolled it in his fingers. Plastic, the facets rounded.
Montoya reached into the fridge and grabbed a bottle of near beer. "You got anything stronger?"
Bentz shook his head. "If you want booze, there's a tavern two blocks down."
"You're off duty."
"I'm never off duty," Bentz grumbled.
"Shit." Montoya eyed his partner's half-drunk cup of coffee on the counter, the near-empty glass pot pushed against the stove where a stale loaf of bread and a container of lite peanut butter was testament to Bentz's dinner. Montoya twisted off the cap of the bottle. "This is un-American."
"No fat, no booze, no nicotine. It's about growing older."
"You're barely forty,
for Christ's sake… just don't tell me there's 'no sex,' okay, cuz I don't wanna hear it." Montoya kicked out one of the kitchen chairs and took a seat. "And what's this?" He motioned to the table where Bentz was conducting an experiment.
"What's it look like?" Bentz asked.
Montoya swilled half his bottle. "A damned campfire project."
"Guess again," Bentz said.
"Okay, okay, I see the rosaries. This is about the weapon the killer uses. I thought we already established that. We checked the wounds, saw that this sick-assed creep strangles his victims with a rosary. Hell, he left one on the mannequin at the party. So he's a wacked-out Catholic. There are enough of them out there."
"Watch it." He pinned Montoya in his glare. "I'm one."
"Hey, me too, me too… well, I was."
"You will be again," Bentz predicted. "We all go back."
"Another aging thing?"
"Yeah. Now, take a look. This one's a duplicate of the one we found wrapped around the mannequin's neck." Bentz wrapped the first rosary with its clear beads around his hands. Then he placed both hands in a big plastic tub and gave a little tug. Beads split off, singletons, those in segments, all flying into the plastic vessel. "Not too strong," he observed. "Not meant to be used as a weapon."
"We knew this, too." Montoya reached into the tub and picked up three beads held together by thin wire. "Okay, so where did he buy the superstrength version?"
"I'm betting he didn't." Bentz held one of the beads up to the light, stared into the clear facets. "My guess is that he made his own. Selected really sharp beads, sharp enough to cut skin, strung 'em together with some heavy-duty wire and probably prayed as he counted off the Hail Marys and Our Fathers."
"Wouldn't it be easier to just use a rope or the wire?"
"Not symbolic enough. Our boy gets off on all of this… there's all sorts of undercurrents here… you know, I'm starting to think Samantha Leeds knows what she's talking about. She suggested the killer made some kind of reference to Paradise Lost. I think I'd better pick up a copy."
