Cold Blooded

by Lisa Jackson

  With that he swung out of the door, nearly knocking over Wanda who just happened to be hovering nearby. James let out his breath, made the sign of the cross and sent up another prayer for forgiveness …. as he had each and every day for the past eighteen years.

  But his half-brother was right. Had he not been seduced by Jennifer, Kristi would never have been born and that, in and of itself, would have been the greatest sin of all. He’d been a seminary student when he’d met his brother’s wife. He’d let down his guard one weekend during a time Rick and Jennifer had briefly separated. He could still remember the taste of saltwater on her skin, the feel of hot sand against his back on the beach near Newport … Those memories had been with him for years and when she’d offered herself again, years later, when her marriage was on the rocks and she could no longer take being tied to a cop who’d mistakenly shot a kid close to Kristi’s age and had begun pouring himself into a bottle … James had tried to console her and had ended up making love to her in the marriage bed she shared with his half brother.

  Unfortunately Rick had chosen that afternoon to stop by the house.

  Within a month Jennifer Nichols Bentz was dead. Had she killed herself? James suspected as much, though her death was ruled an accident. But the antidepressants, the booze, the clear weather conditions didn’t explain why her car left the road and slammed into a tree.

  James’s throat thickened. No wonder his brother hated him. Kristi was right. He was a hypocrite who should have walked away from the priesthood. Instead he’d spent the past eighteen years begging God’s forgiveness.

  But you couldn’t leave her alone, could you? You couldn‘t resist. And she died. God punished not only you, but your brother and your daughter.

  There was a light tap at the door and he looked up, expecting that Bentz had left something and was returning for it. Instead, Monsignor O’Hara swept in. He was a tall, graceful man, soft-spoken, but with a bearing that set him apart from his peers. Wearing a plain alb, he shut the door softly behind him. “Is everything all right?”

  What a joke. Nothing was right. “I suppose.”

  “Mrs. Landry said the police were here.”

  Of course. Wanda Landry had felt compelled to spread the word. She was a gossip; a pious gossip, but a gossip nonetheless and she seemed to take particular delight in the troubles of others. James suspected that she was involved in the prayer chain primarily to learn of bad news and pass it along. “It was only one policeman who happens to be my half-brother.”

  “Oh.” The monsignor frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t know you had any family around.”

  “We’re not close.” And whose fault is that?

  “Maybe that will change,” the monsignor said.

  “Perhaps.” James didn’t elaborate. He figured that his family was his business. Bentz’s father had been a policeman killed in the line of duty. His wife had married his partner, who had treated Rick as if he were his own flesh and blood. However, he’d left the boy with the surname of his biological father—a gift and, perhaps, in retrospect a burden.

  “So there’s no trouble?” O’Hara asked, a guarded smile stretching across his strong jaw. Though in his fifties, Monsignor O’Hara worked out regularly. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the older man’s body. He seemed a sincere, if distant soul though James realized that he knew little of the man with whom he’d been partnered for several years.

  “No trouble.”

  “Good … good … I’ll see you later.” As if he really didn’t want to hear any bad news, the monsignor lifted a hand and hurried out of the office to leave James alone, sitting at the desk in the green glow of a banker’s lamp as the notes from a lonely cello wafted through the empty office. He tried to pray and found no solace in speaking with God. Walking to the window he looked out at the dark, gloomy skies. The wind was beginning to pick up and a branch from the magnolia tree near the front of the building was banging against the church again, as if God were rapping on the walls, reminding him that He was watching. He knew.

  James leaned his forehead against the glass and tried to conjure up the monster stalking the streets of the city. A man killing women in the ways some of the saints were martyred. Ugly. Twisted. Who would think of such a thing? And, for God’s sake, why?

  He suspected there was a lot more his half-brother hadn’t told him; he could feel it as he stared into the dark night. And the threat was extreme for Rick to have sought him out.

  Or perhaps God was trying to talk to James. There was a chance that God had directed his half-brother to the church, to him, to show James that he was needed. He walked to the bookcase again and found another, well-worn volume on the saints. In this one the pages were so thin they were nearly translucent.

  Resting his hips on the edge of the desk, he shuffled through the pages and caught glimpses, images of the portraits of the saints. Painted by the masters, the women who had been canonized appeared virtuous, kind and flawlessly beautiful, the kind of woman any man would want….

  Like Olivia Benchet.

  Why couldn’t he put that woman out of his mind? A dozen times over since their last meeting, James had thought of her, evoking her image and entertaining thoughts decidedly unworthy of his calling.

  He looked down at the book again. Olivia was as beautiful as any of the pictures in this ancient tome.

  Stop it!

  He snapped the book closed but even as he did, he wondered if he would ever see Olivia again. His pulse quickened at the thought of another encounter no matter how brief. She was innocence tangled with sweet, sinful seduction, one of the few women who were able to breach the solid and sanctimonious wall he’d constructed around his heart.

  He knew he was good-looking. He’d been told often enough. The jokes that he was wasting his inherent masculinity didn’t go unnoticed; some women had speculated that he was gay. Then there were the others, the vulnerable. In his role of advisor and counselor to those in pain or grieving, he’d been given ample opportunity to break his vows of celibacy. Young widows looking for strength and comfort, women who’d been rejected by boyfriends and spouses and were searching for someone to prove they were still attractive, other pushy little flirts who just looked upon him as a challenge, a notch in their garter belts. At each door of temptation, he’d stopped short, steadfastly resisting. Even when the temptation of the flesh had been so strong that he’d spent hours alternately dousing himself with cold water and kneeling on the cold stones of his altar, praying for the strength to resist the invitations thrown his way. In each and every case he’d succeeded.

  Except with his brother’s wife.

  Even now, he closed his eyes and felt shame.

  Until a few days ago he’d been prideful enough to think that he could no longer be swayed from his vows of celibacy.

  And God had proved once again that he was a weak and frail man.

  For that was before he’d looked into the liquid-gold eyes of Olivia Benchet. And now, he feared, he was doomed to sin again.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “… that’s right, Saint Philomena. August eleventh,” Bentz was saying into the receiver of his cell phone. “See if any coeds from any of the universities were reported missing about that time.” God, he hated to think about the connection between the women. College girls. Like Kristi. And she wasn’t that far away. It scared the piss out of him.

  “I’ve already started looking,” Montoya reported, his voice as clear as if he were sitting in the passenger seat of the Jeep instead of on his own cell phone. “But you really think this is tied into feast days?”

  “I’d bet my dad’s service revolver on it.”

  “Damn.”

  Bentz had spent the last three hours, ever since leaving St. Luke’s, running down leads in the Stephanie Keller murder. Now, he was driving into the Quarter. “I talked with the mechanic who saw Stephanie Jane Keller after the boyfriend dropped her off. He was clocked in until nine—they work late—and was home by nine-fiftee
n to be with the wife and kids. He remembers nothing except that she was in a hurry to get to class. But she never made it, according to her professor. So far, the mechanic was the last one to see her alive.”

  “Shit.”

  Bentz’s exact thought. “I’ve called some of her friends. None of ‘em think she was going anywhere but to class and that gels as her books and notebook for that class weren’t in her car or her apartment. I talked to the team that went through her things. Her friends check out, too, and the last guy she was involved with before Townsend was a guy she worked with, but they broke up because he got transferred to Boston. His alibi checked out, too.”

  “Great,” Montoya muttered, his voice muffled as if he were drawing on a cigarette. “What about her car?”

  “I’ve got people going over it now. Vacuuming, dusting for prints, even looking for blood.”

  “Maybe we’ll learn something.”

  “I doubt it,” Bentz said. “My guess is the guy waited until she was walking the five blocks from the dealership to the university and grabbed her, or maybe even offered her a ride. I think he knows the victims. It would have been someone she trusted. I’ve got a class list and I’m having everyone called to see if they remember if she made it to class. No one takes roll, y’know.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah.” Bentz glared into the night.

  There were still no more clues on the death of Stephanie Jane Keller and each hour that passed made it less likely the crime would be solved. Where had Stephanie met her attacker? What had happened? How had she been transported to the shotgun house in Bayou St. John? “Keep me posted,” Bentz said. “I’m stopping by WSLJ, just to see that no one’s getting any crank calls. Then I want to double-check this saints’ feast days angle—see if anyone was reported missing from the surrounding colleges on feast days in the summer or early fall.”

  “You still think the Rosary Killer is back?” Montoya asked.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t like the connection between the murders and the Catholic Church. It’s too much like déjà vu. I mean, what are the odds? Serial killers are pretty damned rare and this guy’s leaving his calling card.”

  “The signature is different,” Montoya reminded him, then swore as a horn blasted through the receiver.

  “I know, but I’m saying if it’s not the same guy, then there’s a chance it’s someone he knew.”

  “What?”

  “A mentor or something.”

  “Hey, whoa—don’t you think you’re going off the deep end here?”

  “Maybe, but it’s just a gut feeling that there wouldn’t be two serial killers in the same town, connected somehow to the Church, who didn’t know each other.”

  “It’s not like they belong to the same country club.”

  “No? Well, run it by the profiler and the FBI and tell the people who are trying to crack the damned code about St. Philomena.”

  “You got it. Jesus! That prick cut me off!” There was a muffled sound. Something harsh, then he was back. “Hey, Bentz, guess who I got a call from today?”

  Bentz cranked the wheel and crossed two lanes. “I give, who?”

  “Marlene, Oscar Cantrell’s secretary. Remember her? I guess my little talk earlier today about obstruction of justice got through to her. Anyway, she gave me Cantrell’s cell number. I left a message with him. So far he hasn’t returned my call.”

  “Try again.”

  “Oh, I will,” Montoya said. “I’ll let you know what the guy says. You know, Bentz, if someone’s killing women on saints’ feast days, we’re screwed. There’s another one of those damned feasts every time you turn around.”

  “Then we just have to stop him,” Bentz said as he saw the building housing WSLJ and parked in a loading zone. It was after hours and he really didn’t give a shit. He rode up the elevator and was met by a security guard, a reminder that not too long ago this very station had been terrorized by a crazed killer fixated on Dr. Sam.

  “Visiting hours are over,” the security guard said gruffly, but Bentz flashed his badge.

  “I’m looking for Samantha Leeds.”

  “She’s not here,” the beefy guard insisted, not budging an inch.

  “It’s all right, Charlie,” a voice behind the guard announced and Bentz looked over the stocky man’s shoulder to spy a wasp-thin woman with short black hair and sharp features. “I’m Trish LaBelle, Detective. I recognize you from your picture in the paper.” She glanced at the guard. “He’s the policeman who cracked the case of the Rosary Killer,” then back to Bentz, “Sam’s not scheduled to come in until eleven. Is there something I could help you with?” Trish offered a smile. “You know, I’d love to interview you on my program and now that we’ve got another killer on the loose … Oh, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Her eyes narrowed and Bentz imagined a million wheels turning in her mind. “Wait a minute. You’re here to see Samantha—why? Does this have to do with the Rosary Killer?” She snapped her fingers. “His body was never found, was it?” Before he could answer, her mind was racing with lightning-bolt speed. “That’s it! You think the Rosary Killer has resurrected himself.” Rather than seem horrified at the proposition, she was curious. “Please, Detective, I’d love to interview you.”

  “Not right now.”

  “How about in a couple of nights? We’d need to advertise it on my program and Dr. Sam’s, of course, and even a couple of spots during Gator’s and Ramblin’ Rob’s programs.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Please, give it some thought.”

  “Would you tell Samantha that I was here?”

  “Deceptive Bentz!” a sultry female voice exclaimed, and he turned to find Samantha Leeds shaking out her umbrella. She straightened, tossing her red hair from her face. A smile curved her lips and she winked at her own joke.

  “Very funny,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “I thought so. But it’s good to see you.” Her green eyes sparkled. “What’s up, Detective? Hoping to get some free on-the-air advice?”

  “Maybe later,” he said, then cut to the chase. “I need to talk to you, if you’ve got a minute.”

  “Always for my favorite cop,” she quipped. She led him through the maze-like innards of WSLJ, past rooms of sound equipment and glassed-in studios until they reached a small lunchroom. Dropping her bag onto a round table, she settled into one of the plastic chairs. “So, seriously, before we get down to business, tell me how’ve you been?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “No?”

  “What about you?”

  “I guess I can’t complain, either. I’m getting married,” she said with a wicked grin. “Next month. You’ll be getting an invitation.”

  “I thought you’d sworn off men.”

  “I had. Then I met Ty. What can I say?”

  “My guess is you’ll be saying ‘I do.’ ”

  She leaned back in her chair. “That’s what happens, you know, just when you’re ready to give up on the opposite sex, you meet someone. Watch out. It’ll happen to you.”

  He thought about arguing and decided against it. “I’ll take your word on it. After all, you’re the shrink. How’s Ty?”

  Her grin widened. “Just finishing his book on the Rosary Killer. He plans to ship it to his agent next week.” She sighed. “Then he can get his head into the wedding, but you didn’t come here to find out how many bridesmaids I’m having or if the reception should be catered. What’s going on?”

  Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table. “I was wondering if you’ve gotten any more weird calls.”

  “You mean weirder than usual,” she said with a shake of her head. “People who call up at two or three in the morning aren’t your usual nine-to-fivers.”

  “I mean along the lines of the calls last summer from Father John.”

  “No.” Her expression became instantly sober. “Why? Should I have?”

  “I hope not.” He outlin
ed what he could about the recent series of murders and noticed that Trish LaBelle was hovering near the doorway, taking in every word. He decided to ignore her as he explained, “The MO and signatures are slightly different from Father John’s, but I just have the feeling there’s a connection. Serial killers are rare and now we’ve got a second one within six months of the first. Even overlapping. It’s beyond unlikely.”

  “So you think that someone is copycatting?” she asked, her smooth brow wrinkling.

  Trish quit lurking and stepped into the room. “He thinks Father John might not have died in the swamp.” She pulled out a chair and took a seat. “Sorry, I’d like to say I just overheard, but I was eavesdropping.”

  “Nice,” Samantha muttered and Bentz remembered there was no love lost between the two women. They’d worked at rival stations with their call-in programs and then, just last summer, Trish had jumped ship and joined WSLJ. Bentz suspected they hadn’t warmed up to each other.

  Trish ignored Sam’s sarcasm. “I have to tell you, Detective, I find all this macabre stuff fascinating.”

  “You didn’t live it,” Sam said, but Bentz’s eyes had narrowed on the thin, sharp-featured woman.

  “Do you?” he asked. “Really find it interesting?”

  “Mmmm.” She crossed her slim legs and leaned forward to place an elbow on the table and rest her chin on her palm, using her half-turned body to cut Samantha out of the conversation. “The truth is, I’d love to spend some time with you, Detective Bentz, visit the crime scenes, watch you sift through clues, you know, try to catch the bad guy, that sort of thing.”

  “It can be gruesome. Grown men have been known to lose their lunches at some of the scenes.”

  “I think I could handle it,” she said, her eyebrows quirking upward, a coy smile tugging at her lips. She was practically begging for an invitation to be a part of the investigation, even flirting a little to get what she wanted. Which wasn’t lost on Samantha. Bentz considered the charred, mutilated body of the last victim and was willing to bet two weeks’ pay Trish LaBelle would faint dead away if she was ever to see a dead body. “It would be interesting and informative. I’m sure I could work it into my show somehow.”