Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 51

"Let me get this straight," Brinkman said, folding his arms over his chest. "She freaked freaked you you out?" out?"

O nodded. "Amen and end of story."

They questioned her a little more, then, after securing the file from Dean Usher of all of Courtney's cla.s.ses, they visited the chapel and met with Dr. Starr, a man in his early thirties. Fit and lean, Starr blinked as if his contacts were ill-fitting. He showed them into his tiny office, a room barely larger than a closet, which was situated on the second floor in one of the ma.s.sive stone and brick buildings that surrounded the quad. There were two padded folding chairs on one side of his chipped wooden desk and on the other, a rolling executive-type chair upholstered in oxblood leather. "Please, have a seat," he suggested after introductions were made. His desk was huge, but neat, as if he spent his days patting the piles of essays and phone messages into precise stacks. The bookcase behind him was carefully arranged, not one bound volume out of place, and Montoya, though he didn't say it, thought the room looked as if it were more for show than work. At the station, Montoya's own desk was organized, but functioning, and always changing with the reports, files, and messages that landed in his in basket. Bentz's was cluttered, in an order only he could decipher, and Brinkman's was a pigsty, with seven or eight coffee cups in the litter of reports, newspapers, messages, and jumbles of pens.

But this guy's . . . it just looked too perfect.

"I know this is about Mary," Starr said as he snapped on a desk lamp that glowed in soft gold tones. Montoya made a note that he was familiar enough to call her by the name she preferred. "What a tragedy. It's shocked the faculty and student body, I a.s.sure you."

"How well did you know her?" Brinkman asked, getting right to the point.

"Enough to see that she was a talented writer. Her essays were insightful, her observations in cla.s.s, deep, though theologically narrow." He smiled and slid a glance at his watch.

"Small cla.s.s?" Montoya asked. "Enough that in the first few weeks of school you know all of your students?"

"This one was," he said patiently. "And yes . . . eight in the morning isn't a popular time for most students. The cla.s.s is only twenty-six." He blinked. Frowned. "Or was."

Brinkman said, "We were told you had Luke Gierman come and speak to the cla.s.s."

"Luke Gierman, yes, I know, the shock jock who was killed. His body was found with Mary's. I saw it on the news." Some of Starr's cool facade slipped and Montoya thought a few beads of sweat showed at his hairline. "I asked Gierman to speak to PC 101 because-"

"PC 101?" Brinkman asked. "As in Politically Correct?"

"Personal Communications," Starr explained, a slight edge to his voice. "I thought the kids would like him and that it would shake up the system here a little. The only time he could make it was the eight o'clock, so we set it up." Starr glanced away, looked through the tiny window in his office. "Of course, I had no idea what would happen."

"Of course," Brinkman said, and Starr looked up at him sharply.

"I a.s.sure you, all I did was invite a speaker from a radio station." He rearranged his pens around the ink blotter covering the wood desk. "You know, I would appreciate your keeping my name out of this investigation as much as possible . . . I'm fairly new here and though I wanted to, you know, create some interest by bringing a radio personality to the cla.s.sroom, I . . . I, well . . . I don't need this kind of trouble."

"We're investigating a double homicide," Montoya said, unable to hide his irritation. "We're not trying to mess with anyone's reputation, but we have a job to do and we're going to do it."

"I understand, but-"

"Have you had trouble with the law before?" Montoya asked and the man paled.

"A little, yes," Starr admitted, then was quick to add, "It wasn't anything serious. Some eco-terror stuff. I didn't do anything, was just involved in a protest, but . . . this is a very conservative school."

"And they don't know?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so, no."

"If you've done nothing wrong, then you've got nothing to hide," Montoya said, sick of the theatrics. One of his students had been killed and Starr was worried about his reputation. What a d.i.c.k.

From that point on, the interview was straightforward, and they didn't learn anything that would help. If Starr was to be believed, and Montoya wasn't convinced the guy was being completely honest, the professor had landed in the middle of a murder investigation through circ.u.mstance.

Starr was obviously relieved when the detectives left.

As they walked across the quad, Brinkman lit up and said, "The jury's still out on that guy. You see how he played with his pens? Nervous Nellie. Means guilt to me."

"Of what?"

"Don't know, but I'd like to run him in for being a pompous a.s.s. Too bad that ain't a crime."

For once, Montoya agreed.

They stopped at the chapel, found the priest on duty, Father Stephen, a small, slight man with thick gla.s.ses and a hearing aid that he kept adjusting. They learned nothing more than the elderly priest thought of Mary LaBelle as a "breath of fresh air," or a "good girl," or any and all the antiquated cliches about young women who had chosen "a path of devotion over a more selfish and material lifestyle."

All in all, it made Montoya's blood boil, but he held his tongue and let the tired old man ramble on without learning much. When Luke Gierman's name came up, Father Stephen clucked his tongue, but didn't comment.

On the way back to the car, Brinkman muttered, "Jesus, can you believe that guy? Was he born in the sixth century or what?"

Montoya couldn't help smiling. Maybe Brinkman wasn't such a jerk after all, but in the car ride home, the older detective reverted to his usual, aggravating ways.

"That roommate was one weird chick," Brinkman said as Montoya drove through the gates of the university and headed past the grand estates on his way to the freeway. The night had cleared, and he only had to use his windshield wipers sparingly when trucks drove past.

"Ophelia?"

"Oh, wait . . . don't call her that. She's 'O' and Courtney's 'Mary.' Christ, doesn't anyone use their given names anymore? s.h.i.t. Did I hear the tail end of that conversation right? She wears her own blood in a little teardrop thing hanging around her neck?"

"So she claims." Montoya eased the Crown Vic toward the freeway heading east.

"Freakoid, that's what she is." Brinkman cracked his window, pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He fired up his last Marlboro and crushed the pack in his fist. "Can you imagine banging her? Jesus. Probably bite your d.a.m.ned neck just before you came!" He drew hard on the cigarette.

"She's just a kid. Trying to get a reaction."

"By wearin' a f.u.c.king thimbleful of blood?" Shooting a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth, he muttered, "Maybe she did it."

"Killed Gierman?"

"The girl's weird."

"She has an alibi."

"Yeah, freakoid friends like her." Smoke drifted out of his nostrils. "They all could have been in on it. A cult of some kind."

"No evidence that there was anyone there but the two vics and maybe one other person. The guy with the big feet."

"We don't know yet. I'm telling you that looney girl hasn't got all her marbles. That getup. The dark lipstick, the white face, those gloves without fingers."

"You've seen worse, man. A lot worse. You work in New Orleans. Haven't you been on Bourbon Street?" Where was this coming from?

"Yeah, yeah, but this sick-o c.r.a.p isn't in the Quarter. No way, Jose. It's at some frickin' Catholic college."

"Kids are kids."

"I'm just sayin' she could be involved." Another long drag on his smoke. "d.a.m.ned crazy chick."

Anyone could be involved, Montoya thought; that was the problem. His jaw slid to the side as he flipped on his blinker and accelerated onto the freeway ramp while the police band radio crackled and the tires sang. Brinkman studied the end of his cigarette. "But the more I think about it, my money's still on the ex-wife." He slid Montoya a look. "Just you wait and see, I bet she stands to inherit whatever Gierman had."

"They were divorced."

"Doesn't matter." Brinkman took one last drag, then slid the b.u.t.t through the window. "My money says Mrs. Ex-shock-jock is gonna end up with some cash from this, I tell ya, and when she does, she'll become suspect numero uno." numero uno."

Montoya didn't want to believe it, but as he drove through the night watching the stream of red taillights, he knew Brinkman was right. Abby Chastain was a suspect. Whether he liked it or not.

Abby stared out the window. The night was black and wet, a growing wind whistling through the trees. And something outside was bugging the h.e.l.l out of Hershey. The Lab was nervous, whining and growling at the back door. But that wasn't unusual. Every time Luke had brought the dog over for a visit, Hershey had been eager and anxious, wound tight with pent-up energy. Now, the dog danced and whined, ready to rip outside and tear into whatever night creature had the misfortune to wander too close to the house. Not that Hershey was that big of a threat. In a fight with a racc.o.o.n or opossum, Abby suspected Hershey would end up the loser.

"Cool it," she said to the lab. Hershey's antics made her jumpy, and for the first time in a long, long while she wondered what was outside peering in.

Or who?

She felt suddenly cold and rubbed her arms.

It hadn't helped that while the dog was going berserk to get outside, she'd received a phone call. Caller ID had identified the person on the other end as PRIVATE CALLER, so Abby hadn't picked up.

Whoever was on the other end hadn't bothered with a message.

Probably a telemarketer. Or a reporter.

And yet, she'd had a feeling . . . a sensation that there was something more to the phone call, something that bordered on sinister. The skin on the back of her arms p.r.i.c.kled.

"Get over it," she muttered, but all the same, she closed the blinds on the windows that ran across the rear of the house. She then poured a cup of coffee from what was left in the pot and warmed it in the microwave.

She was jittery because of the murders. That was it. The dog wasn't helping matters, nor was the rush of wind that rattled the branches of the trees and whistled around the corners of the house. She told herself there wasn't anyone hiding outside, that whatever she'd sensed, whatever the dog had heard, had been of the four-footed variety. Skunks, opossums, racc.o.o.ns, even a rare porcupine wandered these woods.

It was ironic, she thought, because part of the original attraction of this isolated cottage had been the nature that surrounded it. When she'd first viewed the place, she'd noticed a snowy egret and minutes later a deer. She'd been sold. When they'd first bought the house, she'd sat in her grandmother's rocker by the window, or on the back verandah, and loved to watch the wildlife, the herons and pelicans, the squirrels and deer . . . but that had been before things had gone bad, when she'd still had hope.

Well, she had no room for nostalgia.

The microwave dinged. Using a potholder, she removed the cup and took a tentative sip that nearly scalded her lips.

The phone rang again and she jumped, sloshing some of the hot liquid onto her arm. "d.a.m.n it," she growled, dropping the cup. It shattered, shards of blue ceramic smashing against the floor. Coffee sprayed up against the cabinets and ran on the floorboards.

Hershey, tail between her legs, studied the mess and the d.a.m.ned phone jangled again. Abby yanked up the receiver, read the number on caller ID, and braced herself. "Hi, Dad," she said, dabbing at her sleeve with the potholder and cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder.

"Hi, honey." Jacques Chastain's voice was a rasp, a whisper of what it once had been, and she imagined him sitting in his chair, his oxygen tank at his side, plastic tubes running into his nose. Cancer and emphysema had slowly and determinedly taken their tolls upon his body. Surgery had removed part of his throat and chemotherapy had zapped him of his strength. He was better now, improving even, but he would never again be the tall, robust, full-of-life man he'd once been. A mountain climber, a white-water rafter, a tennis player.

No more.

"Hey, Dad, how're you doing?" she asked and tried to keep the catch out of her throat.

"Still kickin', so I guess I'm all right. How about you?"

"Okay."

"I heard about Luke," he said. "A shame. I'm sorry."

"Me, too." She ignored the red welt on her hand where the coffee had burned.

"I know things weren't good between you, but . . . I liked him."

"I did, too. Once." And she felt betrayed that her father would even say the words, admit to feelings that hurt her. Jacques, always the dreamer, had thought she should have stayed married to her ex-husband, that Luke would have eventually "come to his senses" if she would have just given him another chance. Abby had disagreed. She'd been of the opinion that she should finally cut her losses. She'd tried reconciliation once. It hadn't worked.

But then, her father had never known about Luke's fascination and affair with Zoey. And he never would. There was just no reason to ruin Jacques's relationship with his firstborn. Besides, as they say, it was water under the bridge now. Old, stagnant water.

"Do you know when the funeral is? I'd like to come."

"I don't. I don't think the police have even released his body yet. But when I find out, I'll let you know." Her hand was beginning to sting, so she leapt across the mess of coffee and pottery, turned on the cold water, and let it cascade over her wrist.

"The girl that was found with him, did you know her?"

"No."

A second's hesitation and Abby guessed what was coming. "I hate to ask, but was he involved with her?"

"I don't know, Dad."

"No, I suppose not," he said as she ripped a kitchen towel from the handle of the oven door, bent down, and while holding the receiver to her ear in one hand, picked up the biggest pieces of the cup and tossed them into the trash can under the sink.

"But it was a double murder, right. Not the murder-suicide that was first reported?"

"I'm not certain of anything," she admitted. Carefully, she swabbed at the floor where the coffee had spilled onto the hardwood. How could she answer his questions about Luke? She wasn't even sure of the truth herself and the police weren't talking. No one seemed to know for certain what had happened, least of all her.

"Oh . . . well," Jacques continued as she finished mopping the floor and threw the stained, dripping towel into the sink. "So how are you you doing? This has got to be difficult." doing? This has got to be difficult."

"Still kickin', so I guess I'm all right," she said, repeating his answer.

Her father chuckled.

"How's Charlene?" she asked, though she'd never been close to her stepmother, a vain woman who was pushing sixty, looked fifty, and claimed to be in her "late forties." Where nature had failed her, plastic surgeons had come to the rescue, which was no big deal if she would just own up to it. She didn't. These days, who cared? The woman bugged Abby.

"Char's fine, fine. Keeping busy," he said and his voice brightened with hope. "As soon as the doctor says it's okay, she's going to bring me back home."

A lump tightened Abby's throat. "And when will that be?"

"Oh, soon, I think."

It was a lie. They both knew it. But Abby wasn't going to call her father on it now. Let him hold on to some false hope that he would return home to be with his wife in their rambling house on half an acre in Shreveport. Why take away his dreams? Maybe there was a chance that he would get better. As she talked to him, she crossed her fingers and fought tears.

"Well, I was just checkin' on you, honey. You let me know if you need anything, okay?"

"Sure, Dad. You, too."

"And let me know about that funeral."