Cold Blooded

by Lisa Jackson

  But here, in New Orleans, there was a killer. And he was waiting, ready to strike again.

  Chapter Thirty

  “I told you I know nothin’ about any of these murders and I don’t ‘precíate my ass being dragged down here on Thanksgivin'.” Reggie Benchet’s eyes glittered angrily as he sat under the harsh fluorescent glare in the interrogation room. His scrawny butt was balanced on the edge of a battered chair, his elbows propped on the table. Thin to the point of being gaunt, appearing older than his sixty-eight years, he spat a stream of tobacco juice into a tin can on the floor. “Now, do I need a lawyer? You gonna charge me with somethin’ or you gonna let me walk out of here?” Pointing a gnarled finger at Bentz, he added, “I know my rights. You cain’t hold me without chargin’ me, so unless you boys come up with somethin', I got me a Thanksgivin’ dinner to go to.”

  “Where?”

  “It don’t matter none, but at my girlfriend’s place.”

  Bentz checked his notes. “Claudette DuFresne?”

  “Yeah, but don’t you be botherin’ her now, not on the holiday. She’s got herself a bad heart and she don’t need any trouble.”

  “She was arrested for selling crack,” Bentz said, flipping through a two-page rap sheet that included everything from soliciting to dealing. “Yeah, she’s a real sweetheart.”

  “That was a few years back. She’s cleaned herself up and taken Jesus into her heart. She’s a good Christian woman, takes care of her sick ma and works down ta the senior center in Lafayette.” He scrabbled in a pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of Camel straights. “Mind if I smoke?” He didn’t wait for an answer and lit up, chewing and smoking all at once. A tobacco company exec’s dream consumer.

  “You found God yourself, didn’t ya?”

  “That I did and you all can rest easy that I’ll be sendin’ up prayers for your souls.”

  “You’re not a priest,” Montoya interjected from his spot near the door. His arms were folded over his chest, his usually neat goatee a little ratty, and he was wearing an I’m-not-buying-it expression.

  “Nah. ‘Course not. I’m born again. Found Christ in stir … hell, that sounds like a great country song, now, don’t it?” he asked, coughing as he laughed at his own joke.

  “But you were Catholic?”

  “Me? Hell, no. That was my wife. ‘Scuse me, my ex-wife. Bernadette.” He shook his head violently, as if he were trying to dislodge water from inside his ear. “Now there’s a woman I should never have gotten myself hitched to.”

  “Let’s talk about that.”

  “Ancient history.”

  “You had three children with her.”

  His smile faded. He spat again.

  “We know that one daughter survived and another drowned as a toddler, but you had a son as well.”

  “For all the good it did me. No one ever told me ‘bout the boy, y’know. I suspected, though, found some old doctor bills when I was married to Bernadette, but she always got real quiet and claimed she had a miscarriage. Years later, when I was locked up, she came clean. I guess her conscience got the better of her and she wrote me a letter, told me the boy was out there, she just didn’t know where. I did what I could from prison, which wasn’t much. Once I tried to get more information from her, then from her mother, and even from the doc. But he was dead. I didn’t get squat.”

  “And that’s where you left it?”

  He paused, took a long drag, then blew a smoke ring to the ceiling. “Not me. That there’s my only boy and he was took from me. Thirty damned years ago. I ain’t done lookin’ for him.”

  “Maybe we can help,” Bentz offered.

  “And why would you do that?”

  “We’re looking for him, too.”

  Reggie was instantly wary. “Why?”

  “We just need to talk to him, like we’re talking to you,” Montoya explained.

  Reggie’s eyebrows drew togther. “I don’t see how. If you don’t know who he is, why do you need to talk to him?”

  “We think he can help us.”

  Reggie wasn’t buying it. “No way—”

  “I thought you wanted to see your boy. Tell us what you know.”

  Hesitating, stalling for time, Reggie mashed out his Camel, leaving a piece of it to smolder. “You’ll quit hasslin’ me then?”

  “If you’ve kept your nose clean.”

  “Shit, yes, I have. You talk to my parole officer. He’ll tell ya so hisself.”

  “So what’ve you got?”

  He snorted and finally lifted a thin shoulder. “Not much. I told you that already. All I know is that Virginia told me it was a private adoption, and by that I’m sure she meant illegal, and no one would ever find out. A priest had handled the whole damned thing and he was sworn to secrecy. But while I was doin’ time, I remembered another inmate who told me about a Father Harris or Henry, who got himself in a passel of trouble. Not only was he sellin’ babies and pocketin’ the money, but he got caught with his pants down. With a fifteen-year-old boy.”

  “He was charged?” Bentz asked. Now they were getting somewhere.

  Montoya’s eyes glittered in interest.

  “I don’t think so. According to the inmate—Victor Spitz—the boy was paid off, the charges dropped, and the priest was moved out of state.”

  “You say his name was Henry or Harris?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “First name? Or last?”

  “That I don’t know.” Reggie shook his head. “That’s all I can tell ya,” he said and checked his watch again. “Now… I expect a ride back ta Lafayette before my damned dinner gets cold and I find myself in the doghouse.”

  “You didn’t! You didn’t invite a priest to dinner,” Sarah said, horrified. She was folding bread cubes into sautéed vegetables, turkey giblets, and oysters, all of which she claimed were part of her mother’s “famous” stuffing. “Why?”

  Peeling parboiled sweet potatoes, Olivia said, “I could lie to you and say that he seemed lonely and that I like him and that I wanted him to feel included in some kind of Thanksgiving tradition and it wouldn’t really be a lie, but the real reason is that I did it because of you, because you seem depressed and I thought—”

  “That what? I needed to confess something? Jesus H. Christ, Livvie, that’s nervy of you!”

  “You don’t have to say a word to him, okay?”

  “Good, ‘cuz I won’t.” Sarah was livid. She stirred the giblets with a vengeance.

  “I was just trying to help.”

  Sarah set her mixing spoon aside and let out a long, calming breath. “Yeah, I know and I appreciate it, really, but … I just need to talk to Leo.”

  Olivia wasn’t about to argue.

  Two hours later when the doorbell rang and Hairy S ran howling to the front door, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. “Great, the priest’s here,” Sarah said, still keeping her distance from the dog. “Just what we need.”

  “You’ll like him.”

  “Oh, come on …”

  “Just … relax. Have a good time.” Olivia threw open the door and found Father James dressed in slacks, casual sweater, and a bomber jacket. Bent on one knee, he eyed the damage to her lock. Beside him on the porch mat was a bottle of wine.

  “Have a little trouble?” he asked, looking up at her, and she was reminded that he was too good-looking to be a priest. Square jaw, thick hair, wide shoulders, and a killer smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes.

  “A little. Alarm system malfunction.”

  “And the door blew up?”

  “Was kicked in by the police,” she said and realized he probably thought the security company had sent the cops. No reason to explain. “Come in,” she invited as, while still crouched, he extended his hand, allowing the dog to sniff it cautiously. “That’s Hairy S, he came with the house.”

  “No doubt a selling feature.” Blue eyes flashed humor.

  “Depends upon your point of view.”


  He straightened and dusted off his hands. “I can fix that for you,” he said, motioning toward the doorjamb.

  “That’s right, you’re the handyman priest. That would be great. But maybe later. Right now, come on in. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Sarah stood by the bookcase inside the front door.

  Olivia motioned to her friend. “Sarah Restin, Father James McClaren.”

  “You’re a priest?” Sarah was obviously skeptical as she eyed his casual attire.

  “That’s right, but I left my alb in the car,” he joked and took her hand in his. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You … you, too.” Stunned, she looked him up and down as Olivia ushered them into the kitchen.

  Father James offered the bottle of wine. “My contribution to dinner.”

  “Thanks. We’ll eat in about half an hour. In the meantime, you can do the honors.” Olivia handed him a corkscrew. He poured wine and they each had a glass. Any reservations Sarah had seemed to melt away as they talked and got to know each other. Father James carved the turkey as Olivia placed dishes on the table and Sarah lit candles. Hairy S settled into his spot near the back door, Chia chortled, and once he’d held chairs out for each of the women, Father James sat at the table, bowed his head, and said a short grace. They talked about everything and nothing and Olivia thought again what a waste it was that he’d accepted a calling with the Church. He would have made someone a great husband and, she assumed, would have been a fabulous father.

  He joked, was effusive about the meal, and helped clear the table. After the dishes were stacked near the sink, he insisted that Olivia bring out her grandfather’s tool box, then went to work on the door.

  “He’s not like any priest I’ve ever met,” Sarah said as she whipped cream for the pie while Olivia wrapped the leftovers in plastic wrap. “I mean … he looks like he should be on a soap opera, for God’s sake. He brings wine and then fixes things … and, if I didn’t know better, I think he’s got the hots for you.”

  “The ‘hots'? Come on. He’s married to the Church.” Olivia felt heat crawl up her neck.

  “Church-smurch, he’s still a man.” Sarah sneaked a peak past the archway and bit her lip. Over the whir of the mixer she said, “I know he was trying to hide it, but I’ll bet you the deed to the store that he would be great in bed!”

  “Don’t even say it! Sarah!”

  “Come on, admit it. Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to do it with a priest?”

  “No!”

  “Why? Because you’re in love with the cop?” She pulled a face.

  “I’m not in love with anyone,” Olivia insisted as Chia whistled and the mixer whined. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and started to pour coffee. “So hush.”

  But Sarah’s smile was positively naughty. “I’m just telling you if I was single and that man looked at me the way he looked at you over dinner, I don’t know if I could contain myself.”

  “Enough!” She glared at her guest, and Sarah, rolling her eyes, turned her attention to the cream again.

  “I think we’re about there … See, it’s the stiff peak stage.”

  “The stiff peak stage … ?”

  Sarah burst out laughing as she switched off the mixer and disconnected one of the beaters.

  “You’re bad, Sarah Restin.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Licking whipped cream off the beater and winking, she proved her point.

  “Save me!” But Olivia laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Father James asked as he appeared in the doorway. He was wiping his hands on a handkerchief.

  Both women laughed even harder.

  “I think I missed the joke,” Father James said.

  “It’s nothing. We were just being silly.” Olivia shot Sarah a warning glare. “My houseguest has a vivid imagination.” To change the subject, she walked through the archway and looked toward the front of the house. “So, is my door fixed?”

  “Good as new.” He showed her his handiwork and explained how he’d managed to fix the lock. “A little paint and no one will be the wiser.”

  “How can I repay you?” she asked and from the corner of her eye saw Sarah lift a suggestive eyebrow.

  “Dinner was a start,” he said, and one side of his mouth curved upward. “Maybe I could convince you to attend mass once in a while.”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” she teased, “but sure. Maybe. Now, come on, we can have dessert in the living room. Why don’t you see if you can find something decent to listen to on the radio and I’ll light a fire?”

  “Leave that to me,” he said. “Just point me in the direction of the woodshed. I was an Eagle Scout, you know.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  For the next hour, while a fire crackled in the old grate and smooth jazz compliments of WSLJ played through Grannie Gin’s ancient radio, they made small talk. Father James was as charming as ever but Olivia noticed that beneath his veneer of affability and calm, there was a hint of tension, a disturbance that was visible only upon occasion, something dark in his blue eyes.

  Sarah was right. He was handsome. Even drop-dead gorgeous. Though Olivia tried to ignore the feeling, she noticed a little spark, a connection whenever he looked at her. It was almost as if there were an unspoken message in his gaze—an unasked question, one, she was certain, would scare her to death if she knew what it was.

  And it bothered her. He was a priest, for God’s sake. Any bond she felt for him was unthinkable, perhaps her imagination working double time. She couldn’t think of Father James McClaren as anything but a man of God. She wouldn’t.

  First the cop; now the priest.

  No way. She sat on one end of Grannie Gin’s lumpy couch, he on the other. Sarah, more relaxed than she’d been since she’d shown up on Olivia’s front porch, kicked off her shoes and tucked her stocking feet beneath her as she slowly rocked in Grannie’s old swivel chair.

  Olivia thought about Sarah’s observation—what it would be like to make love to a priest.

  For God’s sake, it’s only been a few days since you were with Bentz.

  She felt the heat wash up her face but managed to keep up with the conversation, which was turning toward Sarah and her life in Tucson. Sarah, gesturing as she spoke, explained that she and Olivia had owned a store together and it had “never been the same” since Olivia had returned to Louisiana.

  This was a good time to make a quick exit and leave Sarah to talk to the priest. Olivia excused herself and started on the dishes, refusing all help in the kitchen, claiming the room was too small for more than one person and she could probably work faster by herself.

  Sarah didn’t put up much of a fight, and when Olivia hazarded a glance through the open doorway, she noticed that Sarah had moved to the couch, was deep in conversation with Father James, and was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Good. Now, if she could make herself scarce without being obvious about it.

  She washed, dried, and put away the dishes, wiped down the counters and table, even swept the floor. Over the soft hum of music, she heard Sarah talking rapidly, her words punctuated with sobs, then Father James’s deeper, calmer voice. Maybe he was helping her; getting through to her. Olivia crossed her fingers and sent up a prayer that Sarah would somehow find a way to come to terms with her marriage and Leo, the jerk of a husband.

  Olivia was about to offer an after-dinner drink when the phone rang, and for a heartbeat, she thought Bentz might be calling again. “Hello?”

  “Hello, darlin'.” She froze. Recognized the voice. Her heart turned to stone. What did she have to say to her father? “Just wanted to wish you a Happy Thanksgivin'.”

  “The—the same to you,” she managed, though she wasn’t sure she meant it.

  “I don’t have time to stop by today and like as not you’ve got other things goin’ on, but someday, Livvie, we need to see each other and catch up on old times. I’m a man of God now. A minister. You c
an talk to me.”

  “There were no old times, Reggie.” She had to nip this father-daughter thing in the bud.

  “See, here? That’s ‘xactly what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. We need to bridge some rifts, darlin'.”

  “Please, don’t call me that. Not ever again. You can call me Olivia.”

  “Hell, that ain’t no fun.”

  She was bristling now, angry that he’d disturbed her holiday. “You know, Reggie, for a minister, you swear a lot.”

  “Maybe I’m from the Church of Tellin’ It Like It Is. I just called to wish you a good day.” She could tell he was about to hang up and thought twice about her harsh words. After all, it was Thanksgiving.

  “Wait,” she said. “Look, I, uh, hope you have a good day, okay?” That was the best she could do.

  “I will, Olivia.”

  “Reggie? There’s something I want to ask you,” she said, barreling on. Since he’d called, she may as well take advantage of it. “I was digging through some things of Grannie Gin’s and I found a note that I have an older brother. Bernadette confirmed it, but she couldn’t tell me where he is or even if he’s alive. I was thinking you might know something.”

  “Well, don’t that beat all? Not a word about the kid in thirty years and now twice in one day. I don’t know nothin’ more than I told that detective who had the nerve to haul me down ta New Orleans on Thanksgivin'. I told him everything I know, which isn’t a helluva lot. The boy was kept a secret from me. Your damned mother, she never gave me a chance to know my own son!” He was agitated, his raspy voice strained. “Why all the interest now?”

  “Because I never knew about him before.”

  “What about the cop?”

  “That’s between you and him,” she said. “I assume it’s about a case.”

  “Hell, yes, a case. He had the nerve to ask me where I was when those women were kilt. Like I’d know! You fuck up once and the system gets ya, Li wie. I’ll never be free even though I did my time. Anytime there’s trouble, the cops, they’ll be knockin’ on my door.