Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 115

Even though he'd let several cars weave between them, she'd been aware of his truck.

He realized immediately she would try something; a trick to read his license plate or get a better look at him.

Fortunately, he'd figured what would happen. Sure enough, she'd gunned it through a red light and turned quickly at the next corner, her tires squealing a bit. He'd known that she was on the attack. Quickly, across oncoming traffic, he'd wheeled into an alleyway then driven behind two restaurants and back to a tree-lined avenue where the moving van was nearly filling the street. He'd been forced to pull in behind the truck while two burly guys struggled with a refrigerator. From his hiding spot, he could observe the main street, expecting her to wheel onto it again, though he couldn't be certain where her little Toyota would appear. Then he'd spied her car, trapped by a sign-wielding construction worker.

The Reviver had waited.

Now his heart was pounding like crazy, and he licked his lips in antic.i.p.ation. The Voice had been clear that he was to follow Eve, to observe her, yet there were others to come before.

Frustration burned through him.

She was the one he wanted. was the one he wanted.

But he would hold back, listen to the instructions, leave his life in G.o.d's hands. Hadn't G.o.d, through the Voice, told him what would be?

Your patience and your acts will be rewarded. Fear not, Reviver.

He felt thrilled when G.o.d called him by his name. Only G.o.d would tell him who would die and who would only suffer, to be revived again.

Had that not happened with Eve?

Had she not nearly died, only to be revived?

He wasn't certain that he could really be credited for her return to the living, but he was glad she'd been revived all the same, because he could kill her again, more slowly this time, more intimately.

She would look into his eyes, and she would know.

A shudder of desire snaked through his body, touching his soul, its forked tongue flicking at his genitals, touching both b.a.l.l.s, making his palms sweat in antic.i.p.ation and his c.o.c.k thicken.

He was breathing shallowly and fast when he saw the flagger wave Eve through the intersection. She turned onto Poydras Street, heading toward the freeway, but he couldn't follow. He had too much to do. As much as he wanted to pursue Eve, there would be time later. For now, he would return to his life on the outside, deal with the idiots who knew nothing about him and thought they understood him. Fools, every one.

He pulled slowly from behind the moving van, waiting as another couple of husky movers eased a recliner down the ramp from the interior of the truck. Once they'd packed the chair out of the way, he drove around the van and stopped at the intersection. Far in the distance, he spied Eve's Camry. He imagined her nervously checking her rearview mirror or glancing anxiously at the pa.s.sing side streets, the other vehicles.

So how do you feel now, Eve? You, the princess.... Do you sense me watching you? Or do you think you lost me? Do you know I can see you? Do you even suspect that I'm under your skin? Oh pampered, spoiled Eve.

Just you wait.

CHAPTER 13.

"This is the best I got." Ivan Petrusky, a penny-ante grifter, un-locked the door to what he optimistically had referred to as a furnished "studio" apartment. In truth, the entire unit was one twelve-by-twelve room that had been narrowed to allow for a minuscule bathroom and a closet that hid a tiny sink, an impossibly short counter, and a microwave/refrigerator.

A sagging sleeper sofa, table, and lamp with its burned shade, where a lightbulb had overheated, were the extent of the furnishings, but the apartment was cheap. Better yet, Petrusky took cash and kept no records.

Cole needed that.

"You off the hook for that murder a while back?" Petrusky asked. A short, wiry man pushing seventy, he had bristly white hair and sported an unlit cigar forever tucked in the corner of his mouth. His gla.s.ses were thick, his eyes sharp, his mind as clear as it had ever been. Petrusky had known Cole's father, and then, a few years back when one of his three ex-wives had accused him of battery, he'd hired Cole to fight the charge. It had been a slam dunk as far as Cole was concerned. Belva had set the chump up by having her new boyfriend beat on her, then claiming Ivan had a.s.saulted her. Cole had smelled a scam from the get-go. He hadn't done all that much, as the police were on to Belva, but Ivan, who had experienced his share of run-ins with the law, had decided Cole was his savior. Since that time, as far as Cole knew, Petrusky had sworn off marriage for good. "You know the one I'm talking about," he added. "That one that happened up in the cabin. The Kajak murder."

"I didn't do it."

"That's not what I asked." A bushy eyebrow was raised over the tops of tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses. "Here ya are, looking for a place..."

"And I came to you because you usually don't ask a lot of questions."

The older man shrugged. "Okay. But this is a gem, let me tell you. I could rent it for a lot more, but you..."

"You don't have to sell me. I'll take it." He reached into his wallet and peeled off two months' rent then waited until Ivan got the hint and left.

The place wasn't much, but it would have to do. He could set up the computer he'd purchased and pirate into someone else's wireless connection so that he had Internet access. Along with purchasing the new laptop, he'd already copied everything he could from Renner's briefcase. His next step was to download all the information he could from Renner's computer onto discs then find a way to get the information to the police.

But he wasn't going to hand it over himself.

No way.

"I'm telling you he's dirty," Montoya said, resting a shoulder against the filing cabinet in Bentz's office. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack came the buzz of conversation, click of computer keys, ringing of phones, and every once in a while the protestation of innocence from some sc.u.mbag giving his statement. Montoya found a pack of nicotine gum in the pocket of his leather jacket. As he unwrapped a piece, he stared at the computer monitor, where gruesome pictures of the Terrence Renner crime scene were displayed. "Somehow Cole Dennis is involved."

Bentz leaned back in his chair until it creaked in protest. "Give me a for instance."

"I don't know." Montoya frowned darkly, popped the gum into his mouth. Under the fluorescent lights, his black hair gleamed almost blue, and his eyes glittered like obsidian. He was angry and not afraid to show it. "I'd like to say he's our guy, but..." He chewed furiously. "You're right. He's not stupid, and I don't make him for a psychopath. A killer maybe, and I can see him offing someone for messing with Eve, but...I don't make him for a bloodthirsty psycho."

"So who is?"

"The same guy who did Roy Kajak."

"Not Dennis."

Montoya wouldn't answer. Just chewed his nicotine gum.

"Back to square one," Bentz muttered. The Kajak and Renner murders weren't the only unsolved homicides in the department's case file. There had been a stabbing on the waterfront two nights earlier, a drug deal gone bad from the looks of it, an a.s.sault in the French Quarter over a woman, and what appeared to be an accidental shooting: a kid had found his old man's gun and hadn't known it was loaded when he'd pointed it at his friend and pulled the trigger.

Sometimes the job got to him. Bentz glanced at the computer screen and felt a little of the same queasiness that always attacked him when he first stepped into a murder scene. "When can we expect the preliminary autopsy report?"

"I think they're putting a rush on it, but it'll be at least another day; the complete by the end of the week. And the lab? Trace evidence? Fingerprints?"

Bentz sighed. "I made the mistake of asking Washington and about got my head snapped off." Bonita Washington was in charge of the crime lab and a force to be reckoned with, a black woman with coffee-colored skin, green eyes, and, Bentz guessed, an IQ pushing the genius level. She also didn't take any c.r.a.p from anyone, so Bentz had learned to tread lightly. He'd even resorted to bringing her coffee upon occasion. The first time he'd showed up at her office door with a steaming cup in his hand, she, seated behind her desk, had looked over the tops of her reading gla.s.ses and nodded to herself. As if something she'd figured out long before had just been proven.

"You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Detective?"

He'd nodded and handed her the cup. She gave the contents a cursory glance then took a sip. He thought he'd scored major points.

"You know, if you're gonna try to bribe me, I'm partial to diamonds. A caramel macchiato latte with whipped cream and drizzled in chocolate is d.a.m.ned nice, but, really, diamonds would work so much better. h.e.l.l, for a measly carat, your case might just miraculously work itself to the top of my in-box." She grinned and took another swallow. "Think what two carats would get you."

"It's just a coffee."

Those intense green eyes had narrowed. "I know your story, Bentz. Heard about what happened in LA, and I realize that you're here because the DA stuck her neck out for you. Without Melinda Jaskiel going to bat for you, you could very well be out of a job. As for this?" She held up the paper cup he'd given her. "It just happens to be my favorite kind of coffee, which means you went to a lot of trouble and used those keen California surfer-dude detective skills to find out exactly what I like."

He felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten warily and an embarra.s.sed heat crawl up his face. The woman was a barracuda.

"You want something, Bentz, and we both know it. Trouble is, you're just gonna have to wait in line. I'm understaffed and overworked. But you knew that, right? If not, you do now."

After her sharp-tongued tirade in front of her staff, he'd learned his lesson. As she'd turned back to the work on her cluttered desk, she'd muttered something under her breath about "smart-a.s.s, know-it-all d.i.c.ks" and then added, just loud enough so that he could overhear, "Good thing I like you."

Within three hours, the report he'd wanted had landed on his desk-a good two days before she'd promised it. Since that initial conversation, they'd had an understanding.

Montoya's cell phone beeped, and he took the call. With a nod to Bentz, he walked out of the office and was about to shut the door when Bentz's daughter, Kristi, pushed it open. In a tight denim skirt and a fuchsia tank top, she said, "Hey, Reub" as he pa.s.sed, then dropped onto a chair in front of her father's desk.

"Hi!" she said a little breathlessly, and he was reminded of her mother, Jennifer, his first wife. Though Jennifer was long dead, she wasn't forgotten. Kristi had recently cut her hair, her coppery curls now in unkempt layers to frame a face that was as intelligent as it was beautiful. Curiosity filled her green eyes, and, at least in his opinion, she was so full of energy and life, she seemed to light up a room when she walked in. Then again, he might not be objective, as she was his kid.

"Hi, yourself."

"I thought you might want to go to lunch or coffee or something." She was grinning at him widely, again reminding him of her mother. Bentz was a little wary of all this enthusiasm.

"Lunch?" He glanced at his watch. "It's almost three."

"Okay, make that a late lunch, or, like I said, coffee. We could even indulge in a beignet at Cafe Du Monde."

He made a point of checking his watch again. The last thing he wanted in the middle of the afternoon was something sweet, like fried dough dusted with powdered sugar. "Kristi, what's up?"

"What do you mean?" she asked so innocently, he couldn't fight the smile that threatened his lips.

"How long have I worked here at this station?" Before she could answer, he held up a hand. "That was a rhetorical question. Okay? But the point is, I've been here, at this desk for years, and this is the first time you've just popped in and suggested lunch. So as I asked before, 'What's up?'"

"Your detecting skills are amazing," she said as if she meant it.

He knew when she wanted something. "You didn't come down here to flatter me."

"Well...no..." she admitted. She wasn't quite looking at him. Her gaze had strayed to his computer screen, where the pictures of the Renner homicide were still visible. "Oh wow. That's Dr. Renner, right?"

"Yep." With his mouse, he clicked the file closed, and instead of gruesome shots of Terrence Renner, a rotating screen of his favorite spots in New Orleans came to view. "Level with me. Why're you here?"

At least she didn't throw the can't-a-daughter-come-down-for-lunch-with-her-father line at him. She exhaled a disgusted breath and looked out the window for a second. When her gaze found his again, she was decidedly more serious. "I want to work a case with you."

He shook his head. "You're not a detective. Not even a cop. And you're my kid."

"I don't mean that kind of work," she said, making air quotes around the last word.

"What other kind is there?"

"I want to write about it."

Now she had his full attention. She'd mentioned writing before. English had been her best subject in high school and at All Saints College in Baton Rouge. One of her English professors, a Dr. Northrup, had called her essays "brilliant," and though Kristi had admitted that she thought the guy was a weirdo, she'd basked in his praise nonetheless. So she'd toyed with writing, had inquired to several magazines, even mentioned a book before, but this?

"I'd love to write true crime, and I figure that I've kinda got an inside track, what with you being a detective and all."

"Whoa. I can't let you be a part of an ongoing investigation. You know that. It would be unethical and potentially compromise the case."

"Even if I promised to keep everything confidential until it was solved?"

He stared at her long and hard, this bull-headed, smart-as-a-whip, athletic daughter of his. "No."

"I'll talk to Montoya."

"He won't buy into it either."

"Then Brinkman," she countered, her chin thrusting just a bit, the way it had when she was a child and was determined to get what she wanted, no matter what. "Or Noon."

"You wouldn't last two seconds with Brinkman," Bentz said, thinking of the irritating detective. Though good at his job, Brinkman was misogynist, bigoted, and had a foul mouth. The thought of his daughter being anywhere near the man caused bile to climb up Bentz's throat. "And Noon's a p.r.i.c.k. Somethin' not quite right with that guy." Noon was a younger detective and on his own kind of authority trip. "You know, you're right. Let's go to lunch."

"You're trying to change the subject."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, it's not working. I mean it, Dad," she insisted, climbing to her feet and letting him hold the door for her. "I want to do this. Working for Gulf Auto and Life isn't my idea of a career."

"You just started with the insurance company."

"Nine months ago!" They were wending through the cubicles and desks where detectives and clerks were typing, answering phones, taking statements, or finishing up paperwork.

"Not exactly a lifetime."

"But why not do what I really want?" she countered as they started down the stairs. "Why waste any more time?"

"There's the matter of bills. You know, gas, rent, cable, you name it."

"I'm not quitting," she insisted, "at least not right away. Not until I write the book and it sells."

"If it sells."

They were on the first floor, and she shot him a harsh glare. "Way to be supportive, Dad."

"I am supportive. Just being realistic. Come on, cross here," he suggested. He yanked at his collar. Only May, and already the temperature was over eighty. "There's a restaurant up about three blocks, open all afternoon, has great gumbo."

She wrinkled her nose, and again he was reminded of Jennifer, so beautiful but so different from Olivia.

At the thought of his new wife, he couldn't help but shake his head. She was an enigma, that was for sure. Olivia Benchet Bentz was a beautiful woman who was as smart as she was mystical. He still didn't understand the little bit of ESP that seemed to flow through her blood, but she was the best thing that had happened to him. Even if she had brought a feisty mutt named Hairy S and a parrot into the marriage.

"I'm not really into gumbo," Kristi said as they crossed the street against the light.

"Don't worry, they'll have something you'll like."