Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 68

Montoya had seen enough. He didn't understand why in each case the bodies had been positioned in a way to suggest the victims were lovers. What was the point of that? Skirting the central part of the crime scene, he walked with Bentz through the front door to the porch, where an officer stood guard, the sign-in log in his hand. Headlights and klieg lights were visible through the trees; the press was still camping out. Overhead the steady whoop, whoop, whoop of helicopter blades accompanied the beam of a searchlight from a local television station.

Bentz and Montoya lingered under the porch's overhang rather than be caught by the sweep of the searchlight or the cameraman's lens. "Courtney LaBelle always wore a diamond cross, and it was left in favor of the promise ring." Bentz looked thoughtful.

"As I said, our boy ain't about money." His back to the breeze that was carrying the scent of damp earth and rain, Montoya automatically reached into his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes. His fingers sc.r.a.ped the empty pocket liner before he realized what he was doing. If Bentz noticed, he didn't comment.

"Serial killers don't do it for the money. It's about power, ego-stroking, showing off, or some kind of personal mission."

"And they don't usually cross race lines," Montoya said. "Whites kill whites, blacks kill blacks. But now, it appears we've got three white bodies, one African-American."

"Usually. Yeah." Bentz scowled and jammed his hands into his pockets. "What makes you think there's anything usual about this case? Our guy has an agenda. This isn't random. So he might not fit the profile."

"Agreed." Montoya knew that statistically serial killers were usually white, male, and somewhere in their twenties or thirties. They may have been abused; they probably had a history of childhood violence. It wasn't true in every single instance, but it was the norm. However, there was always the exception to the rule, and Montoya wondered if this guy just might be it. "It's obvious he's trying to tell us something. With the things he's taken, the way he stages the crimes. Why are the men naked, the women dressed and lying on top? Is he showing that there's s.e.x involved? Or is he signifying physical or psychological dominance? Why make it appear as if the woman killed the man, then turned the gun on herself ?"

"If we knew all that s.h.i.t, we'd have him." Bentz scratched the back of his neck and gazed into the surrounding darkness. Another chopper joined the first, and arcs of blue light sliced through the night. He glanced up at the sky. "Give me a break," he muttered.

Montoya's cell phone chirped and he answered, "Montoya."

"Hey, it's Zaroster. You aren't by any chance listening to the radio?"

"I'm at the crime scene."

"Take a break and listen to WSLJ, Gierman's Groaners Gierman's Groaners. It could be that the killer's surfacing."

"Got it." Montoya was already on his way to his cruiser, long strides tearing up the ground, Bentz at his side. The sweep of the helicopter's light zeroed in on them, but he didn't care.

"What is it?"

"Zaroster thinks the killer's contacted the radio station."

He turned the ignition to ACC, flipped on the radio, and found WSLJ. Maury Taylor's nasal voice was on the airwaves.

". . . that's right, so I'm not sure if this is the real deal, or a fake," he was saying. Every muscle in Montoya's back grew taut. He hardly dared breathe he was concentrating so hard, glaring at the radio's digital display. "I mean it doesn't take a brain surgeon to send a simple, and I mean simple, simple, note to the station here. Any idiot can do that. So, if you're listening A L, I don't get it. I mean, I know that you're trying to creep me out and all, but I'm not all that convinced you're the real deal." note to the station here. Any idiot can do that. So, if you're listening A L, I don't get it. I mean, I know that you're trying to creep me out and all, but I'm not all that convinced you're the real deal."

"What?" Bentz asked softly.

"I mean, I'd expect something a whole lot better than this to prove that you're the killer. So I'm going to a.s.sume that it's a fake, that whoever you are, A L, you're just out for your fifteen minutes. Sorry, Pa-A L, you won't get 'em from me. So, okay, enough with cowards and fakes, let's get down to the topic of the night: Cheating on your spouse. If you can get away with it, who does it really hurt?" you won't get 'em from me. So, okay, enough with cowards and fakes, let's get down to the topic of the night: Cheating on your spouse. If you can get away with it, who does it really hurt?"

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Montoya hit the dashboard with his fist. "The killer's contacted him. That scrawny-necked piece of c.r.a.p!"

"Maybe the killer's contacted him, maybe not. Remember who we're dealing with. Maury Taylor would sell his soul to the devil, then renege on the deal if he got a better offer and higher ratings were involved. This could all be just a publicity stunt."

Montoya, ready to spit nails, swore again. "d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l, I think it's time to visit our friends over at WSLJ."

"Good idea. I'd better finish up here. Call me." Bentz glanced at the dash where Montoya's fist had hit. "Careful with the car," he said, climbing out of the Crown Vic. "It's publicly owned."

"Shove it, Bentz. Get the h.e.l.l out of the car so I can go throttle that little d.i.c.k-head."

Bentz slid across the seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

Montoya backed up then hit the gas, tearing down the lane, only to have to slow for the cl.u.s.ter of vehicles at the gate. Cop cars, lights flashing, half barricaded the drive while press vans collected as close to the crime scene as possible. Vehicles from rubberneckers lined the street, and knots of people stood and stared through the open gate, hoping for a glimpse of a victim or G.o.d knew what. Montoya wished they'd all go home. "Get a life," he muttered under his breath as one woman wearing a yellow slicker barely moved out of his way. She stared after him. He wondered vaguely if the killer was among the curious and had left instructions for the cops guarding the gates to check and keep track of anyone who wanted a closer look.

Once through the tangle of vehicles, cameras, klieg lights, and humanity, Montoya hit the gas again. He gripped the wheel as if he could strangle it and listened with half an ear to the police band. As the Crown Vic's tires. .h.i.t the pavement of the country road, he switched on his lights. He was nearly an hour away from the city. He planned to be there in half that time.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

His muscles screamed at the punishment, but he kept persisting, going through set after set of push-ups as he listened to the remains of the Gierman program. He strained hard and sweat ran down his naked body, along the cords of his neck, and dripped from his nose.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

The disk jockey was an imbecile. An insult to the human race, a pea-brain who was awkwardly, and so obviously, attempting to lure him into exposing himself.

It didn't matter. The important thing, the only thing that mattered, was that the note had been delivered.

Though the audio reception within the bas.e.m.e.nt of the hospital was sometimes difficult, tonight the radio waves were getting through; he could hear the Gierman show with perfect clarity in this-one of the padded cells where those patients who had been out of control had been contained. It was a perfect room for honing his muscles. He was just finishing his daily routine-one that had been outlined by the armed forces-a regimen of sit-ups, pull-ups, push-ups, jumping jacks, and running in place. He had one elastic band he used for resistance as well as a set of graduated weights. A bench was tucked in the far corner. He worked out each day during the airing of the Gierman show. He'd intended to not interrupt his routine, but he couldn't help himself today. He would finish later, perhaps do an extra set, but for now, he drew himself into a sitting position and crossed his ankles. Naked and sweating on the mat, his elbows resting on his knees, he picked up a towel from the floor and blotted his body as Maury Taylor, thinking himself so smooth and sly, tried to bait him.

". . . it doesn't take a brain surgeon to send a simple, and I mean simple, simple, note . . ." note . . ."

"How would you know, you idiot?" he said, swiping the sweat from his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, still smelling the bleach they'd used here when the hospital had been fully operational, when she she had been alive. had been alive.

". . . but I'm not all that convinced that you're the real deal."

It doesn't matter, you cretin, they they will know. The police will understand. Don't you get it? You're just the sorry little messenger. will know. The police will understand. Don't you get it? You're just the sorry little messenger.

He'd heard enough, so he snapped off the radio, satisfied his plan was working. Refocusing, he went back to his workout, did the other seventy-five push-ups, then finished off by lifting weights for nearly an hour, until his toned muscles screamed with fatigue and he was covered with sweat again.

Picking up his towel, he walked to the bathroom, an addition that had been here since one of the later renovations to the asylum. He had rigged up one of the forgotten showers, such as it was, and knew the old nuns would never suspect someone was on the premises because there was no heat involved; no electric bill to give him away. The water came from a well on the property, so no one would be reading a water meter, and the runoff and waste from his one toilet would flow into the same septic tank that was used by the convent.

He smiled at his supreme cleverness. The plan was foolproof and no one would be the wiser that he spent so many hours a day here. If the ancient pipes groaned in the hospital above, who cared? No one walked these nearly forgotten grounds but him.

Almost no one.

She had come, hadn't she? The daughter. The one who looked so much like Faith. He sucked in his breath at the memory. Though he should have slipped away before she caught sight of him, he'd wanted to let her know that he was around, had closed the doors on the second floor of the sanitarium quietly while she was on the third floor testing the door to Faith's room. So intent was he on his task, he'd nearly been caught by the nun. Jesus, that old bag had nearly ruined everything. Nearly. He had personal reasons to dislike outwardly pious and meek Sister Maria. Upon hearing her on the stairs, he'd had to slip into 205 while the nun accosted Abby on the floor above. He'd had to think fast, realizing he'd trapped himself when he heard Abby and the nun descending. He hadn't been able to use the stairs without running into them, but he'd known that when Abby noticed the closed doors on the second floor, she would search each and every room. His only chance of not being discovered had been the fire escape, and he'd quickly slipped onto the rusted grate, barely closing the window behind him before the two women had reached the second floor.

Over the hammering of his heart, he'd heard them opening and closing doors, pacing the hallway. He'd considered hanging from the railing of the fire escape and dropping to the ground, but instead had waited breathlessly. Fortunately neither Sister Maria nor Faith's daughter had checked the window on the far end of the hall.

If they'd spied him, he would have been forced to alter his plan and that wouldn't do. Not after waiting so long for everything to be perfect.

Now, he stepped onto the moldy tiles of the shower and turned on the faucets. Cold water misted and dripped from the rusted showerhead. He sucked air through his teeth and lathered his body. He closed his eyes as he washed, his hands sliding down his own muscular frame, just as hers had so long ago . . . and had he not taken her in a shower much like this? Oh, yes . . .

In his mind's eye, he saw her as she had been. He had come to her room and gathered her up, not listening to her whispered arguments, not caring about anything but having her. He remembered being barefoot and forcing her down the steps in the middle of the night to the shower room, where he'd turned on the warm spray and pushed her up against the slick wet tiles.

Her nightgown had been drenched, molding to her perfect body, the blue nylon turning sheer and allowing him to see her big nipples-round, dark, hard disks in b.r.e.a.s.t.s large enough to fill his hands. Lower, beneath the nip of her waist, was her perfect nest of thick dark curls, defining the juncture of her legs through the wet nylon . . . so inviting. She smelled of s.e.x and want.

Even now in the cold spray he felt his erection stiffening as he remembered in vivid detail how she'd gone down on her knees before him, the water drizzling over her hair and how difficult it had been to restrain himself. Only when he couldn't stand her perfect ministrations a second longer without exploding had he hoisted her up and plunged into her.

He could still taste himself in her open mouth. "Faith," he whispered, remembering her tense fingers sc.r.a.ping down the walls, leaving tracks on the misty tiles in her want. He recalled the way she had opened her eyes, her pupils dark, her gold irises focused on him him just before her entire body had convulsed. She'd clung to him then, had clawed into his shoulders as she'd held back a squeal of pure, violent pleasure, her slim legs clamped around his waist, her head tossed back, exposing her throat and those wet, slick b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her body bucking as hot needles of water washed over them both . . . just before her entire body had convulsed. She'd clung to him then, had clawed into his shoulders as she'd held back a squeal of pure, violent pleasure, her slim legs clamped around his waist, her head tossed back, exposing her throat and those wet, slick b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her body bucking as hot needles of water washed over them both . . .

Oh, Faith, I vow, I will avenge you . . . your torment is not forgotten.

Shuddering at the vivid memory, he let the lather run down his legs, and then twisted off the faucets. There was so much to do. He didn't bother with a towel. The bracing feel of air evaporating the moisture on his skin snapped him to the present. It helped him focus, and he needed his mind clear now more than ever.

He couldn't become careless.

Too much was at stake.

Walking down a long corridor illuminated dimly by a few lanterns he'd left burning, he opened the door to his special room, the one where all his fantasies were born and replayed. Once inside, he lit candles, watching the flickering shadows dance on the wall and on the framed picture of her sitting on the desk. Faith. Staring at him with eyes the color of pure, raw honey. How he missed her.

Deftly he opened the old secretary and found his treasures. His most recent: the fat, old man's money clip. Pure gold and in the shape of a dollar sign. "Self-involved greedy b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he whispered, remembering with blood-racing clarity the fear in Asa's eyes as he'd stared down the barrel of the gun. He'd been filthy, had soiled himself, had been brought down to the most basic of needs, and still had thought he could buy or barter his way out of death.

It had been exquisite pleasure to help the black woman end his life. He remembered feeling her shake so hard she nearly dropped the gun. But he'd helped her, forced her finger to pull the trigger, watched the blooming surprise and horror cross Asa's face. Only when he'd been certain the old man had breathed his last, rattling breath had he forced her to turn the gun on herself. Oh, the joy in that . . . feeling her fear palpitating between them, knowing that she was praying to G.o.d even as the gun blasted!

Now, he fingered her necklace, holding it up in front of his eyes, letting the tiny gold cross dangle before him as it caught the candlelight. "You did the world a favor by killing him," he said, as if Gina Jefferson could hear him.

But the world didn't know it yet. Didn't even know that Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson had breathed their last. Soon, though, the news would break, the police would scurry around, and plans would be made to bury the bodies.

Could he risk going to the ceremony for Gina Jefferson? The cop, Montoya, would be there, no doubt, pretending to pray, and all the while snapping shots of the grieving crowd just as he had at the virgin's candlelight vigil. He'd seen Montoya in the crowd, holding the camera and clicking off photographs, and yet he'd lingered, couldn't stop himself from watching the mourners, feeling their grief, his own body thrumming with the power of life and the pure knowledge that he was the one behind it all. It was he who had brought them to their knees. He who had meted out the perfect punishment.

The virgin had been the first.

The philanthropist the second.

But he was just getting started and he felt antic.i.p.ation sizzle through his blood when he thought of the third . . .

CHAPTER 19.

Montoya slid his cruiser into a no-parking zone, stood on the brakes, and switched off the ignition in one swift motion. Blood pounding at his temples, he stormed inside the building near Jackson Square that housed WSLJ.

Ignoring a pretty woman with coffee-colored skin and corn rows who sat behind the reception desk, he headed straight down the hall.

"Wait a minute." From the corner of his eye he saw her look up from her computer. "May I help you?"

Montoya kept walking.

"Sir, sir, you can't go down there!"

He heard the click of high heels as if she intended to physically stop him. Digging out his badge, he flashed it behind him and kept walking so fast he was nearly jogging.

"Officer, please!"

The inside of the building was a rabbit warren, but he'd been here before. He homed in on the gla.s.sed-in studio with its lights warning ON AIR. Through the window he saw the weasel, headset on, seated at a console, talking to everyone who was tuned into this edition of Gierman's Groaners. Gierman's Groaners. Disregarding the illuminated sign, Montoya yanked open the door, strode into the room, and glared at the skinny, balding disk jockey whose claim heretofore had been Luke Gierman's a.s.s-licker. "You stupid, dumb son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Montoya growled, not caring that all of greater New Orleans and the surrounding parishes could hear him on their radios. Disregarding the illuminated sign, Montoya yanked open the door, strode into the room, and glared at the skinny, balding disk jockey whose claim heretofore had been Luke Gierman's a.s.s-licker. "You stupid, dumb son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Montoya growled, not caring that all of greater New Orleans and the surrounding parishes could hear him on their radios.

"Oh, look, what we've got here-a visit from New Orleans's finest!" Maury said. He was smiling broadly, as if he'd known Montoya would show. "Officer, to what do I owe the honor of-"

Montoya keyed in on the main power switch and slapped it. Lights blinked off and Maury's mouth fell open. "Hey! You can't do that!" Maury was beside himself, pressing b.u.t.tons, reaching for the main switch.

"You've withheld evidence in a murder case and I'm taking your sorry a.s.s downtown-"

"What the h.e.l.l's going on here?" A big black woman strode into the room and he recognized her instantly as Eleanor Cavalier, the tough take-no-prisoners program manager for the station. "Detective, this program has to go on the air! p.r.o.nto." She shot Maury a look. "Turn it on. Go to commercial. There is to be no dead air. No No dead air!" dead air!"

Maury, looking for all the world like the cat who swallowed the canary, smirked at Montoya and turned on the appropriate switches.

"What the h.e.l.l is this all about?" Eleanor demanded. As a crowd gathered around her, she spied Samantha Leeds, better known as Dr. Sam, the radio psychologist whose program Midnight Confessions Midnight Confessions aired later in the evening. "Samantha, take over the booth and handle the controls. You don't have to say much, just run the tape of a previous show for a few minutes." aired later in the evening. "Samantha, take over the booth and handle the controls. You don't have to say much, just run the tape of a previous show for a few minutes."

Dr. Sam nodded, and there was a glint of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes. Walking into the studio, she whispered to Montoya, "Still getting into trouble, I see."

"Always."

She slid into the booth and Maury handed over the headset, then rammed a faded Saints hat onto his bald pate and ambled into the hallway, hands in his pockets as if he were taking a stroll along the Mississippi on a sunny summer afternoon.

Montoya glared at the man as Samantha settled onto the barstool, flipped a few switches and adjusted the mike. She was already speaking to the audience as Maury finally found his way into the corridor.

"Your boy here is withholding evidence in a murder investigation," Montoya told Eleanor before the door to the sound booth shut.

"And you're breaking more than your share of laws yourself, starting with parking in the no-zone, then ending up with I don't know how many FCC violations." Uncowed, Eleanor Cavalier took a step toward Montoya. "Don't you flash your badge around here and bully your way around this station, got it? If you've got a problem with what's happening here, you can d.a.m.ned well talk to me or the station's lawyers." She turned furious black eyes on Maury. "Now what the h.e.l.l were you thinkin'? I heard what Montoya's talking about and he's got a point. So, let's get down to it." She looked up, noticed the small crowd that had gathered, and said, "The show's over, people. Everyone get back to work." Her perfect eyebrows slammed together and she glared at each and every person who had made the mistake of letting their curiosity take them from their jobs.

They all scuttled away like bugs from beneath a rock. Satisfied with their reaction, Eleanor trained her fury on Montoya again. Her voice was steel as she said, "We'll talk in my office."

She motioned for Montoya and Maury Taylor to follow her, then led them to a small office where every book, recording, and file was in its place. On the desk was a bra.s.s paperweight in the shape of two golf b.a.l.l.s . . . someone's idea of a joke.

"What have you got?" She skewered the smaller man with a glare as she rounded the desk and dropped into her chair, the seat creaking a bit.

"I got a note. Well, the station did. Addressed to Luke. Maybe from the killer." Maury shrugged. He and Montoya were standing like boys called to the princ.i.p.al's office. "But it could be a fake."

Her lips barely moved. "Get it."

He was gone for less than a minute and returned with a small white piece of paper and matching envelope encased in a plastic sandwich bag. Somewhat less recalcitrant, he handed the package to Montoya. "All it says is 'Repent' and then it's signed A L, both letters in capitals. I touched it, yeah, when I opened it, but when I figured it might be important, I was careful to put it where no one else would find it. I used a copy when I was on the air."