Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 195

"You talkin' to me?" Bonita Washington asked as she walked into the lab area, eyeing the microscopes and careful not to touch the gas chromatograph.

"Talking to myself, I guess," he said, rolling his chair back.

"Notice anything unusual about that arm?" She pointed to the picture lying on his work area.

"It's missing a body."

"Smart a.s.s. Anything else?"

"Her fingernail polish doesn't go with her lipstick, oh, wait-"

Washington, usually stoic or grim, actually cracked a smile. "I was talking 'bout this," she said, stabbing a finger at a spot of skin in the lower arm. "What's it look like to you?"

"I'm not sure."

"How about freezer burn?"

Jay looked again.

"Like when you put chicken in the freezer and the package isn't sealed, or even if it is, if it's been in there a good, long time?"

He rolled his chair back to the desk area and, using his microscope, studied the blemish on the arm. "You think the arm...no, the body was frozen before being dumped into the swamp."

"Uh-huh."

"So our perp doesn't keep them alive," he thought aloud. His hope that they would find the missing coeds alive took a direct hit.

"Don't know what he does to them, but at one point, I'd be willing to bet my new Porsche that this woman was frozen."

"I thought you drove a Pontiac."

"So far. But if I had a Porsche I'd make the bet." She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. "Couldn't take a chance on losing the Grand Am."

Why would the killer keep the bodies on ice? Why not just dump them fresh, after the kill? Did he not want them to rot and smell, could he not get them to a dumping ground fast? And why was there no blood in the severed limb?

Jay tapped the eraser end of his pencil on the desk.

What kind of a nutcase was behind all of this?

Again, he thought of Kristi and this time, he couldn't keep his dread at bay.

By midweek, Kristi was no closer to the truth than before. No one had dared come into her apartment; her meeting with Dr. Grotto had left him unruffled; he'd even had the nerve to call on her in cla.s.s and smile almost benignly. The chat rooms, which she frequented every night, hoping to catch DrDoNoGood or JustO online, were a bust. They'd gone fairly silent, maybe with midterms looming in the next few weeks. Things on campus were quiet.

Almost too quiet.

The calm before the storm, she told herself as she rode her bike through the quad, heading for her writing cla.s.s. She locked her fifteen-speed in the rack, then hurried into the building, a few steps behind Zena and Trudie.

Perfect.

They were in no hurry and she walked briskly, closing the gap between them so that when they reached the door to the cla.s.sroom, she was on their heels. Zena found an empty desk. Trudie took one next to it and Kristi snagged one nearby. She glanced around the room. Wasn't Ophelia-JustO-in this cla.s.s? If so, she was nowhere in sight. Kristi definitely wanted to try and buddy up to her after their last meeting at the play. O, she thought, had secrets to spill.

Nor was Ariel anywhere to be seen. In fact, as Kristi thought about it, Ariel hadn't been in any of her cla.s.ses all week.

And Kristi had witnessed her changing from color to black and white, which, recently hadn't meant much.

Still...

If it weren't flu season, Kristi might have gotten suspicious. Instead, she made a mental note to check on the girl.

As Preston started his lecture, she glanced over at Zena again but didn't catch the other girl's attention. She would have to wait. She pretended interest in Dr. Preston as he lectured on the importance of perspective and clarity when writing, and she hoped she didn't fall asleep.

Today, he seemed more content to rest his jean-clad hips on the edge of his writing table, rather than pace. Still, he flipped the chalk, his expression affable enough, but beneath his tan and California good looks, she thought she noticed a harder edge.

But then hadn't she experienced just that same feeling with Dr. Grotto and Emmerson? Even Professor Senegal, the mother of twins, seemed to have a darker side to her, one she hid behind her sleek gla.s.ses and burgundy-colored lips.

Most of the students seemed to be in the same Zombie-like state as she. Kristi was beginning to recognize some. A few desks over was Marnie, the blonde she'd followed into Wagner House. Marnie, it seemed, was also a part of the group of friends including Trudie and Grace. Then there was Bethany, another girl in most of Kristi's cla.s.ses. She was busily taking notes, her fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop as if Dr. Preston were giving out the answers to the universe.

One of those, those, Kristi thought as the girl asked a question to clarify a point on symbolism. A real suck-up. Kristi thought as the girl asked a question to clarify a point on symbolism. A real suck-up.

Hiram glowered in his chair, and Mai was tuned into the lecture, taking fastidious notes.

Save me. This cla.s.s was too basic for her taste. She'd already sold articles on true crime and she just wanted to hone her skills for the book she was putting together. She wasn't certain Dr. Preston was the answer.

He must've read her thoughts. "Miss Bentz?" he said, his voice simmering with authority.

She froze.

"Am I boring you?" he asked, and when he stared at her, she wanted to melt into the floor. "Or you?" he said, swinging his gaze back to Hiram Calloway.

"Yeah," Hiram said insolently. "You kinda are."

"Kinda?" Preston said, snapping his chalk into his fist.

"Okay, no, you are. You're boring me. I just want to write. I don't think we need to study symbolism or imagery. We all took that in high school. Isn't this supposed to be a college course? Sheeeiiiit." With that he closed his laptop, stuffed his books into his backpack, kicked back his chair, and left the cla.s.sroom.

Kristi thought all h.e.l.l would break loose. But the anger in Preston's face quickly disappeared. "If anyone else feels the way Mr. Calloway does, I invite you to leave at this time."

The room went absolutely silent. No one even dared cough.

Preston's glare traveled over each student and once he decided no one else was intent on leaving, he cleared his throat. "Good. Let's continue..."

Once again he began flipping his chalk and pacing.

Kristi tried her best to pay attention. But it was hard. Hiram was right, the cla.s.s was seriously boring.

She glanced at the clock and spent the next forty-five minutes noting that Trudie and Zena pretended interest in the cla.s.s while texting each other. They held their cell phones just under the desk and were adept enough at working the keyboards to effectively "pa.s.s notes" without getting caught, which was a little weird. This was college, not junior high. But Kristi did her part as well, trying her best to read the information they sent back and forth.

It proved impossible, for the most part. The screens were too small, but she did pick up a line or two and quickly jotted down the piece of shorthand she saw. WH came up frequently...Wagner House? Or was she just willing it so? She also saw: Grto, which she a.s.sumed was in reference to Dr. Grotto, and a series of numbers, which, she thought, referred to Friday, which was more than just the start of the weekend, it was also the date of the last performance of Or was she just willing it so? She also saw: Grto, which she a.s.sumed was in reference to Dr. Grotto, and a series of numbers, which, she thought, referred to Friday, which was more than just the start of the weekend, it was also the date of the last performance of Everyman. Everyman. The rest of the information made no sense whatsoever, but she jotted notes down just the same. The rest of the information made no sense whatsoever, but she jotted notes down just the same.

When cla.s.s was over she was once again behind the two girls but saw no reason to break into their conversation, nor did she overhear anything worth noting.

It was as if the whole world were holding its breath.

Outside was the same. The air was still. The sky filled with pewter clouds that didn't seem to move.

The hairs on the back of her arms raised and though there was nothing obviously wrong, she knew, deep in her heart, that evil was lurking in the shadows.

It was after four on Friday and Portia was a little jangled from the eight-or had it been nine?-cups of coffee she'd had throughout the day. She had had to ease back on that. Today, she'd stopped counting when she'd reached six, even though she'd switched to decaf in the early afternoon. She was still feeling the effects as she parked her car in the lot at the station. Probably more from lack of sleep than the caffeine. She'd been working twelve-hour shifts, eight on the clock, four on her own time. When she got home, she walked on the treadmill for forty-five minutes, ate some microwavable, fat-free, low-carb, vitamin-fortified, tasteless meal, then hit it again, only taking a break for a gla.s.s of wine with the news. All to get rid of the twenty pounds that had crept on once she'd turned thirty and given up cigarettes. to ease back on that. Today, she'd stopped counting when she'd reached six, even though she'd switched to decaf in the early afternoon. She was still feeling the effects as she parked her car in the lot at the station. Probably more from lack of sleep than the caffeine. She'd been working twelve-hour shifts, eight on the clock, four on her own time. When she got home, she walked on the treadmill for forty-five minutes, ate some microwavable, fat-free, low-carb, vitamin-fortified, tasteless meal, then hit it again, only taking a break for a gla.s.s of wine with the news. All to get rid of the twenty pounds that had crept on once she'd turned thirty and given up cigarettes.

Sometimes she wondered if she'd made the right choice.

The rest of every evening, she was buried in her work and she didn't even want to think about what she really earned per hour. It would be too depressing. "Remember the benefits," she reminded herself over and over again as she sweated on the treadmill, cranking up the music with her increasing pace. And then there was the simple fact that she loved her work. Loved Loved it. Nothin' better. Even if it meant sleeping in her big king-sized bed alone most nights. it. Nothin' better. Even if it meant sleeping in her big king-sized bed alone most nights.

She had to remind herself of that fact as she walked through the doors to the station house the following afternoon and made her way to her desk. She'd spent the past four hours talking to witnesses in a domestic violence case, and she was cranky from the conflicting testimony. Half the people at the party where the alleged incident had taken place insisted the wife was at fault; she'd baited her husband by flirting with his brother, then really heated things up by punching him in the gut. The other half said the husband, a possessive jealous type, known to use a steroid or two, had overreacted: he'd grabbed his gun and shot his wife dead.

Overreacting...no s.h.i.t. How could people be so stupid?

Portia had about two hours of paperwork, and then she was going to call it a day. Shifts were about to change and there was a lot of activity in the office: phones jangling, computers humming, suspects in cuffs and shackles seated at desks protesting their innocence and bad treatment by the cops.

She pa.s.sed by one of the young secretaries' desks. A burst of color in the form of carnations and roses indicated that someone was thinking of her. Portia peeled off her raincoat and hung it on a peg near her desk while laughter erupted from somewhere near the fax machine. Then she stared at what appeared to be a mountain of reports to be processed.

So much for the whole "paperless society thing."

She plowed through some of the files. Reminding herself she did not not want a cigarette, she sorted through the paperwork as well as a b.u.t.t-load of her e-mails. want a cigarette, she sorted through the paperwork as well as a b.u.t.t-load of her e-mails.

The phone rang sharply. She picked up the receiver, her eyes still on her computer monitor. "Homicide, Detective Laurent."

"This is Jay McKnight from the crime lab. I got your name from Sonny Crawley. I think he made a request for me."

"Oh, right. I've been wanting to talk to you." Her interest was immediately diverted from her paperwork and she started typing commands on her keyboard. "It just so happens I was gonna give you a buzz a little later. Just had some final loose ends to tie up...here we go." She found the correct file and brought it up. "Let's see. It's taken a little time but I've got a list of potential vans, all domestic and dark, Louisiana plates, owned by people who work at the college. I'll send them if you give me your e-mail address."

"Great." Jay rattled it off. Portia would verify it before sending, even though she recognized the URL as belonging to the state police.

"I'm driving up tonight," McKnight added. "I could stop by the station, exchange information."

"Good idea. Maybe by then I might have more info on the background checks you requested. Still working on those." She pulled up Jay McKnight's file on her computer. Though she'd never officially met him, she'd seen his name and observed him once at a crime scene. So far so good.

"It'll be late. I work until seven. By the time I get there it could be close to nine. As long as things stay calm and I don't have to pull any overtime."

"Doesn't matter, I'll be here," she a.s.sured him, grateful that someone in the department was starting to believe they had a problem at All Saints. A big problem.

"See you then."

Portia hung up and not only sent the list of vehicles to McKnight but printed out another copy for herself. She was surprised at how many of the workers there owned a dark van. Along with a gardener and a security guard, the parish owned a black '98 Chevrolet full-sized van; an a.s.sistant professor named Lucretia Stevens owned an ancient Ford Econoline that looked like it had once belonged to someone else in her family; another person named Stevens, Natalie Croft's husband, owned a dark green van that he used in his construction business; and Dr. Dominic Grotto's brother, too, owned a black van. Portia had widened the swath a little, just because she was suspicious of the guy. She'd interviewed him twice. He was too smooth for her. One of those who thought he was smarter than the rest. His conversation with her had brushed on supercilious, though he'd acted concerned, as if he wanted to help.

But Grotto wasn't the only person on campus she thought was hiding something. The whole d.a.m.ned English Department was filled with secretive sorts. Even the woman in charge, Natalie Croft, was a lofty, self-important academic whom Portia didn't trust for a second. The curriculum had been changed to add in the popular "hip" and "cutting edge" cla.s.ses such as the vampire thing, a cla.s.s on the history of rock and roll, and others to draw students to All Saints. Then there were the Wagner descendants. She could have a whole file on them alone. Georgia Clovis was a major pain in the backside, acted as if she were royalty. And her brother, Calvin Wagner, a rich b.a.s.t.a.r.d who didn't hold a job as far as Portia could tell, was certainly an odd duck. The third child, poor frail Napoli, was only one short step away from a permanent breakdown.

Beyond the Wagners was the clergy. Father Anthony "Tony" Mediera was a forceful priest with his vision of what the college should be, and Father Mathias Glanzer, the burdened priest in charge of the drama department, seemed riddled with secrets.

Portia would love to hear what each of them needed to confess.

There were others as well, new faces in the college. She was doing background checks on all of them, not that she had found anything even hinting of illegal activity. But then, she'd only gotten started and everyone had something they wished to hide. Everyone.

Besides, who was to say that the suspects were limited to the faculty of the college? What about other students? Or someone who wasn't enrolled but used the campus as his personal hunting ground?

Slow down, you still have no bodies...just a single arm wearing nail polish that, according to the lab, was about as popular as grits for breakfast.

She looked again at the list of dark vans and wondered if any of the vehicles could be connected with the missing girls.

She was about ready to run to the employee lunch room in search of a diet soft drink when her phone rang. Sweeping the receiver to her ear, she balanced it between her chin and shoulder. "Homicide, Detective Laurent."

"Yeah, this is Lacey, in Missing Persons." With the fire-engine red hair and tight clothes. The one with the att.i.tude. "I was hopin' to catch y'all."

"What is it?" Portia asked, but she felt that tingle, that little sensation telling her more bad news was on the horizon.

"I figured you'd want to know 'bout this. We have another missin' person, over to the college. All Saints. A student. Ariel O'Toole. Her mother faxed over the report from Houston, that's where they live, well she and the stepfather. They're on their way. She hasn't heard from her daughter in over a week and none of her friends, the ones she knows, have seen her. The daughter's not returning her calls and that's supposedly unusual," Lacey said with a bit of sarcasm in her voice. "Imagine that."

"Are you sending a uniform over?"

"A car's already been dispatched. Thought you might want to tag along."

"You got that right. I'll pick up a copy of the report on my way." She hung up. Another one. d.a.m.n it, another one Another one. d.a.m.n it, another one.

Sliding on her shoulder holster, she strapped in her sidearm, then threw on her coat, and grabbed her purse. She was heading toward the hallway to Missing Persons when she ran into Del Vernon. She gave him the abbreviated version of what was happening as he fell into step beside her.

"I'll come along," he said, jaw set, dark eyes cold. "I hate to say it, Laurent, but there's more to this than kids disappearing by choice," he said, holstering his weapon and grabbing his overcoat.

"Glad you finally got there, Vernon," she said as they walked toward the doors of the station together.

"We've got a floater." Montoya, coffee cup in hand, strode through the doorway of Bentz's office sometime after four. Wearing his trademark black leather jacket and diamond stud in one ear, he added, "A bit upriver from here. Still in the city limits. Female. African American. Been in the water awhile. They just fished her out."

Bentz looked up from his pile of paperwork and saw that his partner was holding back. He dropped his pen. "And?"

"And she had a tattoo on her back, just over her b.u.t.tocks. The word 'love' along with hummingbirds and flowers."

Bentz sat up straighter. "Dionne Harmon," he said aloud, and that bad feeling that had been with him ever since he'd heard about the girls missing from All Saints just got worse. Lots worse.