Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 60

"Luke? Admit to being hung up on a woman who would have nothing to do with him? Nah. Not his style." Maury raised his slim shoulders and shook his head. "But then who knows, maybe I got it all wrong."

"The ex-wife couldn't have liked the attraction to her sister."

"Ooh, no. Ouch! You know what they say about love and hate."

Bentz didn't disagree, but he knew from personal experience that the line between love and hate was so thin as to be invisible at times. Pa.s.sion was a hair-trigger emotion.

"Anyone mind if I look through his desk and his closet?"

"Knock yourself out, but that other cop-"

"Brinkman?"

"Yeah! Geez, why can't I remember that guy's name?" Taylor snorted. "Not a good sign. I need my memory man, need to think fast on my feet or in my seat." He offered up a proud, toothy smile. The high school geek who'd just made a touchdown. "The station manager's talking about making me the next Gierman. How 'bout that?"

Bentz figured the station manager wasn't doing the listening public of New Orleans any great favors. "What about Brinkman?"

"Oh. Right. He already looked through Luke's stuff. Took what he wanted. Luke's desk is this way." Maury guided Bentz down the main hallway, known as "the aorta," through the labyrinthine corridors of the old building. They pa.s.sed other employees as well as gla.s.sed-in sound booths and editing rooms. "What about Gierman's girlfriend?"

"Nia?" Taylor snorted. "Nice a.s.s. But not much upstairs, if ya get my drift." He tapped his temple with two fingers. "Not exactly a brainiac, and Luke, he'd get bored quickly if the woman couldn't keep up with him. The physical chemistry was nice, always got him goin', but that only lasts awhile, y'know."

As if this guy were Casanova or Dr. Phil. The trouble was, in Bentz's opinion, this time Maury Taylor was right. Wasn't Bentz, himself, a prime example? He'd never planned to remarry after his first wife, but in Olivia Benchet he'd found a woman who was, he'd discovered, his mental match as well as drop-dead gorgeous. What combination was s.e.xier than that?

Taylor, pa.s.sing by a showcase of vintage LPs, was still rambling on, "Nia and Luke broke up-I guess you know that. From what I heard, she'd already found some new guy, a jock . . . even more of a workout nut than Luke, if ya can believe that. 'Tall, dark, and handsome,' she told Luke, then really stuck it to him. Claimed this guy was the best lover she'd ever had. Can you beat that? Ouch!" He looked over his shoulder at Bentz and gave him the we've-all-been-there look. "Turns out, little Nia had been seein' this guy on the sly for weeks. How's that for a turn of events? The cheater got cheated on. Some kind of cosmic justice." look. "Turns out, little Nia had been seein' this guy on the sly for weeks. How's that for a turn of events? The cheater got cheated on. Some kind of cosmic justice."

"Except that the cheater ended up dead."

"Yeah," Maury said, grimacing. "Except for that. Double ouch! Sucks, ya know?"

"Big time." They reached the back of the building, where a rack of built-in desks vied for wall s.p.a.ce with lockers. "What about Gierman? Did he have any other girlfriends, or exes that he might have teed off ?"

"Don't think so. On the air he always acted like he had a girlfriend whether he did or not. That was part of the routine," Maury said as he pointed out Gierman's desk, where Sharpie pens were kept in one of those personalized cups with a picture of a chocolate Lab on it. On the bulletin board over the desk were snapshots of Gierman sailing, skiing, playing tennis, leaning against the fender of a sporty BMW, or romping with the same brown dog that was on the coffee mug-a virtual shrine to himself and his hobbies. An ego-maniac if Bentz had ever seen one. The only other photo was a small one of a woman Bentz recognized as Abby Chastain. In the picture she was staring out to sea, her curly red-gold hair was tangled in the wind, her lips parted into a s.e.xy smile that showed a hint of dimple. She had the kind of eyes that seemed to delve straight into a man's soul.

Yep, he figured, Maury Taylor was right. No one would keep a picture like this unless he was seriously hung up on the woman.

Bentz glanced back at Taylor. The smaller man, too, was staring at the snapshot.

"What did I tell you?" Taylor said, his jaw sliding to one side. "The only woman Luke Gierman ever really gave a d.a.m.n about was his ex-wife."

Montoya eyed the crowd, mentally checking off each of the mourners who had come to stand around the chapel door at All Saints College. A young priest, Father Anthony, stood straight-backed on the steps in front of the lancet-arched doorway. Flanking the fresh-faced priest was the old relic, Father Stephen, his bare head bent in prayer. Beside him was Dean Usher, the brim of her hat dripping in the rain.

Hundreds of students surrounded the chapel steps, each holding a candle, each listening raptly to the priest's smooth, calm voice at this, the vigil for Courtney Mary LaBelle.

Chapel bells tolled softly as Father Anthony, a rapt, fervent individual, recounted the joy of knowing "Mary" and the tragedy that she, who had pledged herself to the service of G.o.d, was struck down, so young. So innocent. So trusting in G.o.d. Father Anthony's white collar, a stark beacon in the night, stood in deep contrast to his black shirt and suit. The priest lifted his hands in supplication.

But he wore no vestments, Montoya noted, a.s.suming the formal robes would be saved for the real funeral ma.s.s.

Wind rushed through the campus, causing the Spanish moss to dance from the branches of trees overhead, as Father Anthony warned that no one should be "heavy of heart" as Mary was with the Father now, she was safe and cared for, in a place far better than the rest of the crowd was.

Montoya listened with only half an ear.

The group of mourners prayed and cried, holding their candles in the darkness, and as they did, Montoya photographed them with a small, hidden camera. The pictures would be blurry at best, but they were at least something; he was certain Father Anthony would not approve a video camera with lights filming the students, faculty, and whoever else happened to stop by in his or her hour of grief.

Montoya only hoped that the killer would be hyped up enough to attend. Often times the murderer wanted to be a part of the investigation, to be close to the action, to revel in what he considered his superior intellect while the lowly police attempted to track him down. The killer would show up at the crime scene or the wake, or a vigil, joining with the others or hiding in the shadows, eager to be connected to the investigation and grief. It fed his ego to know that he was the mastermind behind the tragedy. It was usually only a matter of time before he showed his hand.

So, Montoya pretended to pray, to listen heedfully to the priest's words of wisdom, but all the while he was checking out the faces in the crowd, noting which seemed out of place . . . not that appearances would matter. Some killers had the innate ability to blend in, to look more than normal, to appear so boring and bland that no one would suspect them of being able to slice their wife's throat, or shoot the neighbor for scratching a borrowed lawn mower, or plan with meticulous detail the deaths of a string of victims.

At first no one had suspected serial killer Ted Bundy, a good-looking guy with a degree in psychology and a bright political future. Bundy had actually worked at a rape crisis center in Seattle. Then the BTK killer in Wichita was a compliance officer, a religious man who looked like an Average Joe. Closer to home there had been Father John and The Chosen One, neither of whom had raised anyone's suspicions as they'd gone on their gruesome killing sprees. Dr. John McDonald, a brilliant young surgeon, was serving time for butchering his family, though he still vehemently protested his innocence.

No one, by looks alone, could identify a killer.

Meticulously Montoya photographed each and every individual who either genuinely or fraudulently expressed grief for Courtney Mary LaBelle. Someone who felt so fervently about the killings that they'd ventured out on this miserable, wet, bl.u.s.tery night.

As if to reinforce his thoughts, the wind gusted, causing candles to flicker and die, umbrellas to be whipped out of clenched hands, and in one case turned completely inside out.

"Let us pray to the Father," the priest said, lifting his hands toward the heavens again, "and then come into the chapel for the rest of the service." He folded his hands and bowed his head.

Everyone standing near the chapel did the same.

Except for Montoya.

"You said you'd call back," Zoey accused as Abby answered the phone in the kitchen.

Abby's gaze darted around the room. She was still creeped out by her experience at Our Lady of Virtues and couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Which was just plain paranoid.

No, not not paranoid, just overly cautious. paranoid, just overly cautious.

The refrigerator door was hanging open, Hershey standing expectantly beneath it, while Abby, with her free hand, searched through the bottles of half-used salad dressing and sauces to find a container of yogurt.

"I waited for hours," Zoey pouted.

Oh, get over yourself, Abby thought. "I know, I know, Zoe. I'm sorry . . . time got away from me." She was irritated that she felt the need to explain herself and apologize to her older sister. She was thirty-five, for crying out loud, not a baby, not a recalcitrant kid, not Abby thought. "I know, I know, Zoe. I'm sorry . . . time got away from me." She was irritated that she felt the need to explain herself and apologize to her older sister. She was thirty-five, for crying out loud, not a baby, not a recalcitrant kid, not Zoey's Zoey's child. "I was busy. And no, I haven't heard a word about Luke's funeral." child. "I was busy. And no, I haven't heard a word about Luke's funeral."

"It has to be soon, doesn't it?"

"I don't know when it 'has' to be. If his family decides to cremate him, they might hold a service later. Look, Zoey, I'm not sure what my role in this is. Or even if I have a role. Ex-wife isn't particularly high on the food chain, y'know. It doesn't exactly mean I have royal status or even real ties to the family. But that said, I'll pay my respects. It's just that I'm not sure I had any. Not in the end."

Zoey sucked air in through her teeth. "That bites, Abby."

"You didn't hear his last radio program." She opened the cap, then tugged off the plastic seal of her yogurt container. Her conscience twinging a bit, she decided there was no time like the present to fess up. "I went out there yesterday."

"Out where?"

"To the hospital."

There was a pause and the silence stretched thin. "Why?" Zoey finally asked.

"They're going to tear it down and-"

"Good!"

"-and I thought I should visit the place."

"Because some know-nothing shrink told you to?"

Abby felt her back bristle. She'd been to several psychiatrists since her mother's accident, some better than others, but all, she a.s.sumed, knew what they were talking about. "Because it felt like the thing to do."

Her sister mumbled something under her breath she didn't catch, then louder, asked, "So? How was it, Abby? A grand old time?"

"Not funny, Zoe," Abby said through her teeth. Why had she even brought it up? "To tell you the truth, it was weird as h.e.l.l, okay? And spooky. Really spooky. The place is crumbling into total decay. I met a nun who used to work there. She saw me going over there because I had to park at the convent. Maybe you remember Sister Maria. She's tall. Pretty. Latino, I think."

"Yes, I remember her," Zoey said a trifle tersely.

"She was there the day that Mom died."

Zoey didn't respond.

"It was weird. She got me confused with you, I think. She seemed to think that I'd run into the hospital ahead of you and Dad, at least I think that's what she meant." Abby pulled open a drawer and found a spoon. "That I was running upstairs while she was coming down and that she met you with Mom's present . . . or something like that." Abby felt her eyebrows pulling into a knot. "At least I think that's what she was getting at. As I said, it was all weird." She dipped her spoon into the yogurt and took a small bite. Zoey still hadn't responded. "Zoe?"

"Yeah."

"What do you think of that?" The cool yogurt slid down her throat but she barely tasted it.

"I-I don't know why she would say anything of the sort. She must be pretty old. Probably confused."

"Most of the time she seemed pretty clear."

"Most of the time," Zoey repeated, seizing on her words. "It's been twenty years, Abby."

"Hey." She held up her spoon and wagged it at the window, as if she were pointing at her sister. "Why do I get the feeling that you're lying to me?"

"Because I'm uncomfortable discussing the hospital and Mom's death, that's why. I know you don't have closure on it, Abby, but I do and I don't don't need to revisit it every time you have a birthday on the anniversary of her death." need to revisit it every time you have a birthday on the anniversary of her death."

"And her birth," Abby reminded her sister.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You had this special bond with her, this unique, G.o.d-granted karma or whatever you want to call it that no one but you understands. I get it. But I don't get get it, and as far as I'm concerned, we should move on." it, and as far as I'm concerned, we should move on."

"To Luke's funeral?" Abby's voice was dry.

"Yes! Let's get some closure there, too. And once he's in the ground or cremated or whatever, then I say you and I, we have ourselves a couple of cosmopolitans, toast him-then bury him, the past, and the d.a.m.ned hatchet, okay?" She was talking faster and faster, her voice rising nearly an octave. When she'd finished, she was breathless.

"Okay. Fine."

"So I'm coming to New Orleans."

"Perfect," Abby said with a false smile, "then Zoey, we can talk about a lot of things before we have that drink, okay? Including Mom and the day she died. I think you know more about it than you've ever said. If you won't go back there with me, fine, but we're going to discuss it."

"Oh, Abby . . ."

"I need this, Zoe," she said, then hung up, hard. She tossed her uneaten yogurt into the sink. Where had that that come from? She'd always had a feeling that her sister and father hadn't been completely honest with her about that day, but she'd never baldly questioned them. She'd been content to be wrapped in her little coc.o.o.n of innocence, afraid of what she might find if she ever emerged. come from? She'd always had a feeling that her sister and father hadn't been completely honest with her about that day, but she'd never baldly questioned them. She'd been content to be wrapped in her little coc.o.o.n of innocence, afraid of what she might find if she ever emerged.

Sister Maria's insistence that Abby had been inside inside the hospital when her mother had plummeted to her death had brought back pieces of her memory, a memory she hadn't known had been shattered. Something about the way she'd recalled the accident was wrong-and had been for the last twenty years. the hospital when her mother had plummeted to her death had brought back pieces of her memory, a memory she hadn't known had been shattered. Something about the way she'd recalled the accident was wrong-and had been for the last twenty years.

She had had been inside the hospital. She remembered hurrying up the stairs, nearly running head-on into the tall nun who had warned her to slow down at the landing. But Abby hadn't paid any attention to the woman in the black habit with her stern expression and rustling skirts. She'd raced past and up the final partial flight, focusing on the doorway to 307 . . . been inside the hospital. She remembered hurrying up the stairs, nearly running head-on into the tall nun who had warned her to slow down at the landing. But Abby hadn't paid any attention to the woman in the black habit with her stern expression and rustling skirts. She'd raced past and up the final partial flight, focusing on the doorway to 307 . . .

After that, her memory failed her.

Now, closing her eyes, Abby tried to call up what had happened then and why, oh, why, did she see her mother's broken body on the cement? A headache started in the back of her skull, pounding, warning her she wouldn't like what she found. Still she fought to remember. Gripping the edge of the counter for support, she forced her thoughts backward. If she hadn't been outside the car, on the hospital steps, not only had her memory failed her, but so had her family. Her father. Her sister.

For twenty years she'd felt something wasn't right about that day, but she'd been afraid to ferret out the truth, unwilling to peel the blindfold from her eyes.

No more.

It was time to stop protecting herself, to unwrap the layers of lies, deceit, and guilt.

Zoey, whether she wanted to or not, was going to help.

The night had been a bust. Montoya had spent his time talking to the students attending the vigil, double-checking with Courtney LaBelle's friends. Then he caught up with Father Anthony for a few minutes before the priest had to rush off, h.e.l.l-bent, or perhaps heaven-bent in his case, to comfort Mary LaBelle's family. But Montoya didn't like him. Father Anthony Mediera was too smooth, too outwardly calm, too d.a.m.ned not-a-hair-out-of-place perfect for Montoya's tastes. The priest's faith felt worn like a badge.

Later, Montoya had stopped by Nia Penne's apartment to find her with her new boyfriend. Pet.i.te, to the point of being elfin, with white-blond hair feathered around a face Montoya thought was reminiscent of Tinker Bell, she'd politely answered a few questions, but she hadn't changed her story. Montoya noticed that the new man in her life was indeed sculpted, appeared strong, and for the most part, silent.

The boyfriend had stood near the fake fire, arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging beneath a too-tight black T-shirt that showed off a slim waist and what Montoya figured were "abs of steel." His name was Roy North, his feet were a size twelve, and Montoya intended to check him out. There was just something about Roy that was very territorial and angry and all muscled up on his own testosterone that bugged Montoya. And he hadn't been in Toronto last week with Nia and her friends.

As for Nia, she wasn't exactly the grieving ex-girlfriend. In fact, when he'd noticed the boxes scattered around the living room floor, she'd grinned naughtily and admitted that she was giving up the apartment and moving in with Big-foot.

Tinkerbell and Sasquatch. What a pair.

So much for love eternal, Montoya figured, as he strode to his cruiser parked on a side street near Nia's apartment. For a fleeting second, as he returned to his car, he thought of Marta . . . beautiful, vibrant, full of sa.s.s and charm. He'd thought she would be the one he'd settle down with and that chance had been ripped from him. And yet, the sadness he'd once felt, the blatant out-and-out anger that ate at him, had slowly faded, and now, not even nostalgia clung to him. It was hard to envision her face, her dark eyes and long, curly black hair. When he did, her features blurred, as if washed by the rain still falling from the sky.

Another woman's face appeared.

A beautiful woman with whiskey-colored eyes, untamed red-blond curls, and a full mouth. Abby Chastain. Luke Gierman's ex-wife, the woman right in the thick of this investigation. h.e.l.l. She was the last woman Reuben Montoya should be attracted to, the very last, and he knew it.

But wasn't that the way it always went down? The whole forbidden fruit thing? How many married women in the past had attracted him? Flirted with him? How many had been engaged to other men? He'd never crossed that line, but he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't been tempted. Sorely so.