Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 160

"We've got a DB down by the waterfront. Looks like a party gone bad. Not far from the casino. I'll be there in fifteen."

"I'm on my way," Bentz said, and felt a jab of regret when he saw the disappointment in Olivia's eyes. He hung up and started to explain but she placed a finger over his lips.

"I'll be waiting," she said. "Wake me."

"You got it."

He found his jacket, keys, wallet, and badge, then, making sure Hairy S. stayed inside, walked outside to his truck, an ancient Jeep that he kept threatening to trade in. So far he hadn't had the heart, nor the time. Climbing behind the wheel, he heard the familiar creak of the worn leather seats as he jammed the SUV into reverse, backing around Olivia's sedan. Ramming the Jeep into first, he managed to find a pack of gum and unwrap a piece of Juicy Fruit as he nosed his rig down the long lane and across a small bridge. Popping the stick of gum into his mouth, he slowed as he turned onto the two-lane road toward the city, then hit the gas. Olivia was right, he supposed, he had been out of sorts. Worried. He had his reasons and they all centered around his kid. The boles of cypress, palmetto, and live oak trees caught in the splash of his headlights while he thought about Kristi.

Headstrong and beautiful as Jennifer, her mother, Kristi had been described as "a handful," "stubborn," "independent to a fault," and a "firecracker" by her teachers both in LA where he and Jennifer had lived, and here in New Orleans. She'd certainly given him more than his share of gray hairs, but he figured that was all part of the parenting process and it would end once she'd grown up and settled down with her own family. Only, so far, that hadn't happened.

He took a corner a little too fast and his tires skidded just a bit. A racc.o.o.n, startled by the car, waddled quickly into the undergrowth flanking the highway.

Kristi seemed as far from getting married as ever and if she was dating anyone, she studiously kept that info to herself. In high school she'd gone with Jay McKnight, even received a "promise ring" from him, whatever the h.e.l.l that meant-some kind of preengagement token.

Bentz snorted, listening as the police band crackled, the dispatcher sending units to differing areas of the city. Kristi had claimed she'd "outgrown" Jay and broken up with him when she'd attended All Saints the first time around. She'd found an older guy at the school, a TA by the name of Brian Thomas who'd been a zero, a real loser, in Bentz's admittedly jaded opinion. Well, that had ended badly, too.

Gunning the engine, he accelerated onto the freeway and melded with the spa.r.s.e traffic, most vehicles driving ten miles over the speed limit toward Crescent City.

Now, Jay McKnight had finished college and a master's program. He was working for the New Orleans Police Department in the crime lab and Bentz would defy his daughter to think of Jay as "boring" or "homegrown" any longer. A little turn of the screw was that Jay was going to teach a night cla.s.s up at All Saints. Maybe Kristi would run into him.

And maybe he could be convinced to check in on Bentz's daughter....

He inwardly groaned. He didn't like going behind Kristi's back, but wasn't above it, not if it meant her safety. He'd nearly lost her twice already in her twenty-seven years; he couldn't face it again. Until the Baton Rouge Police figured out what was happening with the missing coeds, Bentz was going to be proactive.

Easing off the freeway, he headed for the waterfront. In the moonlight, the decimated parts of town looked eerie and foreboding, abandoned cars, destroyed houses, streets that were still impa.s.sable.... This part of New Orleans was hardest hit when the levees gave way and Bentz wondered if it could ever be rebuilt. Even Montoya and his new wife, Abby, had had to abandon their project of renovating their home in the city, two shotgun row houses that they had been converting into one larger home. The house, which had survived over two hundred years, had been in its final phase of reconstruction when the wind and floodwaters of Katrina swept through, destroying the once venerable property. Montoya, p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l, was commuting from Abby's cottage outside the city.

They were all tired. Needed a break.

He sped to the crime scene, where two units were already in position, lights flashing around a roped off area where officers were keeping the onlookers at bay. Montoya's Mustang was parked half on the sidewalk, and he, dressed in his favorite leather jacket, was already talking to the officer who'd been first on the scene.

The body was lying face up on the sidewalk. Bentz's gut clenched and the taste of bile climbed up his throat. The woman was Caucasian, in her early forties. Two gunshot wounds stained a short red dress. There were signs of a struggle, a couple broken fingernails on her right hand and several scratches across her face. Bentz stared at her long and hard. She wasn't one of the missing women who had disappeared from All Saints College. He'd memorized the faces of Dionne Harmon, Tara At.w.a.ter, Monique DesCartes, and now Rylee Ames. Their images haunted his nights. This unidentified woman was none of them.

He felt a second's relief and then a jab of guilt. This victim belonged to someone, and whoever it was-mother, father, brother, sister, or boyfriend-would be devastated and grief-stricken.

"...so I'm thinkin' it was probably a robbery gone bad. No wallet or ID on her," the officer was saying.

Jane Doe.

"She was found by those guys over there-" He hitched his chin to a sober group of four, two men and two women, who'd been separated from the lookie-loos wandering by. "They're just partiers on their way home from the Hootin' Owl, a bar on Decatur," the officer said.

Bentz nodded. He knew the place.

The officer continued, "They claim they didn't hear or see anything, just nearly stumbled over her body. But then, they're pretty wasted."

Bentz glanced at the two couples, dressed in glittery clothes and looking suddenly sober as judges.

"I'll talk to them," Montoya said, easing toward the couples, both African American. The girls rubbed their arms as if chilled to the bone, their eyes wide with fear. Their dates were both tight-lipped and tough-looking. The slimmest girl stared at the body, the other looked away, and the tallest of the group lit a cigarette that he shared with his date, the thin one.

Bentz's cell phone rang as the crime lab van arrived with Bonita Washington at the wheel. She double-parked behind a cruiser. Inez Santiago, hauling a tool kit, climbed out of one side, while Washington cut the engine of the big rig.

Bentz glanced down at the digital readout on his phone. Police dispatch. No doubt another homicide.

c.r.a.p.

"Bentz," he answered, watching as Bonita, in all her self-important fury, ushered the uniforms and gawkers away from what she considered "her" crime scene. She was an intense black woman with a don't-mess-with-me att.i.tude and an IQ rumored to be in the stratosphere. She loved her job, was good at it, and didn't take flack from anyone. Santiago was already taking pictures of the dead girl. Again Bentz's stomach twisted.

Over the phone, the dispatcher gave him the location and a quick rundown of what looked like a hit-and-run closer to the business district.

"I'll be there ASAP, as soon as I'm done here," he said, hanging up.

"Move away," Washington yelled at one of the uniforms near the yellow tape, waving him off with one hand. "Who the h.e.l.l has been tromping all over here? d.a.m.n it all-Bentz, get these people back, will ya? And you," she said to the uniformed cop, "don't let anyone, and I mean not even Jesus Christ himself, across that line, you got that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Just as long as we understand each other." She flashed him a smile with zero warmth and got down to the business of collecting samples, gunshot residue, footprints, and fingerprints as the medical examiner's van pulled up.

"Don't tell me," Montoya said as his phone began to play a salsa melody. "d.a.m.n." He checked his watch. "Fifty-three friggin' minutes into the new year and already two DBs."

"There'll be more," Bentz predicted as he glanced once more at the victim. Two hours ago, this woman had been ready to celebrate the new year.

Now she'd never see another day.

His cell phone rang again.

His jaw clenched.

It promised to be a h.e.l.luva night.

Midnight.

The witching hour.

A time when the last day was done and the next starting, and, in this case, a new year. He smiled to himself as he walked through the rain-washed city streets, hearing the sounds of firecrackers and, he supposed, champagne corks, all sounding like the rapid-fire reports of guns.

Not that he was into that type of weaponry.

Too impersonal.

Being so far from a victim, hundreds of yards in some cases, took away the thrill, the feeling of intimacy that came when the lifeblood drained from the body, the light in the victim's eyes died slowly, and the frantic, fearful beating of her pulse at her neck slowed to nothing. That was personal. That was perfect.

Dressed in black, blending into the shadows, he crossed the campus, smelled the sweet odor of burning marijuana, and watched a couple clumsily fumbling at each other's clothes as they kissed and made their way toward a dorm, and presumably a small twin bed where they'd go at it all night.

He felt a twinge of jealousy.

The pleasures of the flesh...

But he had to wait.

He knew it.

Despite his restlessness.

His need. need.

Deep inside he craved release and knew it would only come through the slow taking of a life...and not just any life. No. Those who were sacrificed were chosen.

The ache in him throbbed, refused to be denied, and his nerves were strung tight. Electrified. Anxious.

He smelled their l.u.s.t. Their own special yearning. The blood singing through their veins.

He clenched his fists and cleared his mind of l.u.s.t, of desire, of the heat that pounded through his skull.

Not now.

Not this night.

Not them. them.

Giving the entwined, stumbling couple one last angry glance, he clamped down hard on the most basic of urges to follow.

To hunt.

To kill.

They are not worthy, he reminded himself. he reminded himself. And there is a plan. You must not stray from your mission. And there is a plan. You must not stray from your mission.

On noiseless footsteps he made his way swiftly through the campus gates and along several streets, zigzagging through alleys to the old building that had long been condemned, a once-grand hotel that was locked and boarded, where the only inhabitants were spiders, rats, and other vermin. He made his way to the back of the building, where once there had been a service entrance for deliveries. He hurried down the crumbling stairs and, using his key, unlocked a back door. Inside, he ignored the dripping, rusted pipes, broken gla.s.s, and rotting boards that had been part of a previous attempt at renovation. Instead he walked along the familiar hallway to another locked door and spiral steps leading downward. At the base of the steps, he unlocked the final door and stepped inside to an area that smelled of chlorine. Locking the door behind him, he waited a few seconds, headed down a short dark hallway to a large open area, then flipped a switch, where dim bulbs illuminated an Olympic-sized swimming pool, its aquamarine tiles shimmering silently in the ghostly light.

Stripping noiselessly, he cast his clothes into a corner and, once completely naked, walked to the pool's edge and dove deep into the bracing, unheated water. The shock puckered his skin, but he stretched his body and began knifing through the water, breathing naturally, turning at the far end, athletically, then swimming the length again. His body, honed by hours of exercise, sliced through the water as easily as a hunting knife through flesh. He stroked faster and faster, increasing his speed, feeling his heart pump and his lungs begin to strain. Five lengths. Ten. Twenty.

He only drew himself out of the water when he felt the first wave of exhaustion pulling at him, calming him, forcing the bloodl.u.s.t from his heart. There was time enough for that later. Cool air slid over his wet skin. His nipples tightened. His c.o.c.k shriveled. But he embraced the cold as he made his way through a dark hallway, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light as he turned two corners and walked into another chamber where his trophies were hidden.

There was a bare writing desk in the room, a squatty black table, and a few thick pillows upon the tired concrete floor. A computer screen from a notebook added a faint blue glow and he considered logging on. He communicated with them over the Internet; on pirated wireless connections throughout the city they knew him by several screen names, but he called himself Vlad. Not particularly clever but fitting for his purposes, he decided. What was the quote from Shakespeare? "What's in a name? That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet." Well, Vlad smelled sweet and tasted even better, he thought. So, for the purposes of this, his mission, he would be known as Vlad the Impaler. And was he not? Did he not impale each of the ones he chose?

Oh, irony.

Lighting a candle, Vlad sat cross-legged at the stubby j.a.panese table, opened a drawer within it and drew out the pictures, snapshots taken for student ID cards. He set the first four onto the glossy surface of the table.

Sisters, he thought, though not genetically related. he thought, though not genetically related.

He touched each photo with the tip of his index finger, in the order in which he'd taken them.

Dionne, sweet and supple, her rich dark skin soft as silk. Oh, she'd been ripe and so hot...so d.a.m.ned hot and wet...Crying out her unwillingness, but her body responding to him as he made her ready, made that perfect body want him. His throat tightened at the memory of taking her, from behind, his hands kneading her abdomen, making her come just before he did.

He swallowed hard.

And Tara, the thin one with her gorgeous b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Full and white, with pale rose-colored nipples the size of half-dollars. He felt his p.r.i.c.k twitch at the thought of those glorious t.i.ts. He remembered suckling them, teasing them, biting them, sc.r.a.ping them with his teeth as she cried out in heated torment...again his blood began to sing. He touched Tara's photo, then looked to the next girl.

Monique. Tall and lean, an athlete's body. Muscles that had strained against him as he'd sculpted her with his palms, fingers exploring all her intimate, sweet crevices. He licked his lips as his c.o.c.k stood at attention.

He glanced to the next photo. Rylee. Small. Frightened. But oh, so delicious. Her pale yellow hair had caught his attention and when she was stripped bare, her white skin had been luminous, her veins visible beneath the surface, her beating heart apparent in the fluttering, frightened pulse throbbing so perfectly within the circle of bones at her throat.

Oh, G.o.d, how succulent she'd been...the taste of her...He turned the photo over where the smear of her blood was still visible on the back of the snapshot. Smiling in pure self-indulgent wickedness, he lifted the picture to his mouth and gently flicked the tip of his long tongue over the dark crimson stain. The taste of her filled his mouth and he sucked in his breath with the euphoria of it.

His c.o.c.k was rock hard now. Ready.

To impale.

Licking his lips, he laid the picture onto the table with the rest of his chosen ones, then searched the others...hundreds of them tucked into his hiding place.

He'd already pulled those he thought the most likely candidates, the girls who appealed to him. Though he was missing a few. The new ones. The coeds who had signed up for this, the second term, as new students. He didn't have their pictures yet.

But he would.

And soon.

Then they would join those he'd already identified, those who would soon join their sisters.

He smiled, running his tongue over his teeth, savoring the taste of poor, scared-out-of-her-mind Rylee Ames.

In the next batch, though he had yet to procure her photograph, Vlad thought of another, the cop's kid who had rented Tara's apartment. As if she were fated to do so, he thought, conjuring up her image in his mind.

He'd seen her. Watched her. Mentally claimed her. She was a gorgeous woman with just the right amount of spirit and the perfect body for his needs, for his sacrifice. When her time came. She was not slated to be the next, but her time would come soon enough. He could wait. He had no choice. All that was to be, had already been decided.

His blood flowed hot at the thought of taking her and he looked down at the pictures on the table before him.

Though she didn't yet know it, Kristi Bentz would soon join her sisters....

CHAPTER 5.

So this is what everyone was talking about, Kristi thought as she took a seat in the packed cla.s.sroom on the first day of the term. It was the Monday after New Year's at eight in the morning. Most of the students looked as if they'd just rolled out of bed.

Chairs sc.r.a.ped against the floor, shoes shuffled, voices buzzed with conversation, and in the background the soft strains of Renaissance music drifted from speakers mounted high on the walls of the large, auditoriumlike room. Rows of seats were situated on tiers that funneled down to a barren center stage that held a battered table, podium, and microphone. A stack of books and an open three-leaf binder were situated near a laptop computer on the table.

A man in his mid-to-late thirties, presumably Dr. Victor Emmerson, was already standing behind the table, one jean-clad hip thrown out as he leaned over his notes, his scruffy black leather jacket tossed over a white T-shirt, a pair of reflective sungla.s.ses folded and tucked into the shirt's crew neck. His hair was s.h.a.ggy, dark brown, and appeared not to have been combed since the day before. About three days' worth of beard-shadow covered a strong jaw. He looked as if he took road trips on a Harley-Davidson. Everything about him oozed "cool, moody biker." A far cry from the stuffy teachers she remembered from a few years earlier.

Maybe the cla.s.s would be as interesting as she'd heard. She'd signed up because it was required for an undergraduate English degree and it sounded interesting. Even more so now.