Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 70

Abby couldn't believe what she was seeing and hearing on her television.

Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson were dead? dead? Killed in the same manner as Luke and Courtney LaBelle? Killed in the same manner as Luke and Courtney LaBelle?

Sitting on the edge of her couch, staring at the screen, she felt sick inside. How could this be happening? What kind of lunatic was stalking the streets of New Orleans and making his way clear out here, far from the city?

The reporters kept speculating and talking, showing exterior shots of a hunting lodge owned by Asa Pomeroy, the latest crime scene. From there they flashed to the Pomeroy estate, just down the road from her, before panning on the Crescent City Center, a small mental health clinic that helped the poor and the homeless.

Something inside Abby p.r.i.c.ked and prodded at her brain . . . Gina Jefferson worked for a mental health clinic. Had she once been a member of the staff at Our Lady of Virtues? Was that why the black woman with the even features seemed familiar? Or was it because, like Asa Pomeroy's, Gina's face and deeds had been a part of the local news for years?

Nervously she plucked at the arm of the couch, playing with the gold chenille pile without realizing what she was doing. What was it about the mental health worker she should remember?

As if a window were open, a sudden chill swept through Abby, cutting to the marrow of her bones. Something tugged at her memory, something important, but she couldn't quite latch on to it. The thought was just out of reach.

Yet she knew instinctively that it had to do with her mother and Our Lady of Virtues . . . What was it? What was it?

She glanced outside to the dark night and tamped down the sensation that someone was watching her, that deep in the thicket of oak, swamp berry, and buckthorn were hidden eyes, that something or someone malicious was peering into her house and studying her every move. "Stop it," she admonished. Still, she climbed to her bare feet and snapped every blind shut so tightly no light escaped. Now, no one would be able to see more than her silhouette on the blinds.

For once the dog was sleeping on her favorite spot on a rug near the cold, blackened fireplace. Ansel lay curled on the back of the couch. The cat's eyes were closed and he was purring softly, unaware of the turmoil Abby couldn't shake as she returned to the living room and flipped through the channels. She saw more of the same scenes: a helicopter shot from the air of the hunting lodge, taken before night had fallen, and another image of the old cabin where Luke and Courtney LaBelle had been found. Pictures of all the victims alive and smiling were shown and short bios reported, including the fact that Gina Jefferson had publicly harangued Pomeroy Industries, and Asa Pomeroy personally, for not giving enough to the needy, especially those with mental problems.

The two, according to the media, had often been at odds over Pomeroy's stingy nature.

Vanessa Pomeroy, a pet.i.te, perky woman, not a hair out of place, nor a tear in her eye, chatted easily about "the tragedy" of her husband's death. On the other hand, Walter Jefferson, so distraught and grief-stricken that he had to be propped up by a relative, was clearly undone, his face awash in tears.

"The poor man," Abby whispered and clicked to another channel, where the Reverend Billy Ray Furlough was standing in the middle of a crowd on the steps of his church. It was still daylight on the tape, so this scene, too, had been shot earlier in the day. The tape rolled and Abby, curled into a corner of the couch, watched in utter fascination as the charismatic preacher turned the horror of the day into his own personal revival meeting. He ranted and raved, gesticulated wildly, and prayed with a pious sincerity that could melt even the most stubborn atheist's icy heart. A natural-born public speaker, the Reverend Billy Ray had literally found his calling.

"Why is this happening?" he asked rhetorically as he faced the camera. "Why is G.o.d striking down some of our finest citizens?" A tall, good-looking man, with broad shoulders and a firm physique, he was somewhere in his late thirties, Abby guessed. Charisma practically oozed from him, with his clear skin, brown eyes, gleaming straight black hair, and white teeth that flashed disarmingly when he found the camera's eye. He wore his clerical collar with pride rather than humility and there was something about him that also seemed familiar, something she couldn't name, something that caused the hairs on the back of her arms to p.r.i.c.kle.

"Perhaps we should not question G.o.d's wisdom. Let us not forget that G.o.d helps those who help themselves, and in our hour of grief, our time of tragedy, let us reach out to the Lord and tell him, 'Yes, Father, I will trust in you.'"

She flipped the channel, bothered by the display. It was almost as if the preacher were capitalizing on the tragedies, hoping that through his downplayed showmanship he could entice more people into his fold, more dollars into his church's coffers.

Don't go there, Abby. Who are you to judge?

Hershey's head lifted. She gave out a "woof " and Abby heard the sound of a car's engine as it approached. "Now what?" she wondered and again felt the uneasy sensation that had been with her for most of the evening. Padding to the front windows, she tilted one slat of the thin blinds and peeked through. Montoya's black Mustang slowed to a stop in front of her garage.

Good, she thought, relieved to see him slide from behind the wheel and slam the car door shut. Her heart did a quick little flip, which she completely ignored, but she couldn't stop a smile from curving across her face. Watching him, she noted again how his jacket stretched over his shoulders, the way his hips nearly rolled with his long, athletic stride, and how his jeans fit snugly but hung low on his hips. For once, his black hair was mussed and he shoved it out of his face as he climbed the two short steps and into the illumination of the porch light. Lines of strain were visible on his face, and his jaw was set in steely determination. Deep in his goatee, the razor-sharp line of his lips, drawn downward, gave him a stern, don't-mess-with-me expression that didn't bode well. she thought, relieved to see him slide from behind the wheel and slam the car door shut. Her heart did a quick little flip, which she completely ignored, but she couldn't stop a smile from curving across her face. Watching him, she noted again how his jacket stretched over his shoulders, the way his hips nearly rolled with his long, athletic stride, and how his jeans fit snugly but hung low on his hips. For once, his black hair was mussed and he shoved it out of his face as he climbed the two short steps and into the illumination of the porch light. Lines of strain were visible on his face, and his jaw was set in steely determination. Deep in his goatee, the razor-sharp line of his lips, drawn downward, gave him a stern, don't-mess-with-me expression that didn't bode well.

The minute he rang her bell, Hershey went nuts. Abby threw open the door and folded her arms over her chest. "Surprise, surprise," she said. "If it isn't Detective Montoya."

"I know." His mouth lost some of its hard edge. "I'm making a habit of this. Sorry." Was it her imagination or did his brown eyes grow even darker with the night?

"I don't remember complaining," she said, then mentally kicked herself for sounding so eager.

One of his black eyebrows c.o.c.ked.

And she couldn't help herself as she gestured him into the house. "I figure you're just out here hoping for more of my fantastic home cooking."

"Yeah, that's it." Some of the tension eased out of his face, and he looked past her to the living room, where the television was still blaring the news of Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson's murders. He stepped inside and Abby shut the door behind him. "So you do know about Pomeroy."

"It's awful."

"Amen." He walked to the set, standing not five inches from it, and stared at the screen. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"You'll catch him." She flipped the dead bolt. "Right?"

Montoya glanced up at her, his dark eyes deadly serious. "d.a.m.ned straight."

"Well, do it soon, okay?"

"That's the plan."

From the couch, Ansel opened an eye, saw the stranger, and was instantly on his feet, back arched and looking as if he'd just stuck his tail into an electric socket. The tabby hissed, then sprang to the floor. With his tail drooping behind him, he slunk swiftly out of the room. "Not a fan of mine," Montoya observed.

"Of anyone else, save myself."

Montoya actually cracked a smile. "Have you tried Prozac? I'm serious. One of the beat cops was going crazy with her cat spraying and refusing to use the litter box, and she put the stupid thing on some kind of antidepressant."

"You're kidding."

He held up a palm. "G.o.d's honest truth."

"So, now you want me to get a fiercer dog and a sweeter-tempered, mellower cat?"

"I think any cat would fill the bill."

"Hear that, Ansel? The cop thinks you need to be replaced," she said, turning her head toward the hallway, where Ansel had disappeared. She smiled. "I think I'll stick with the pets I have, all the same." To reinforce her stand, she bent over and scratched Hershey behind her ears. "Yeah, baby, you have nothing nothing to worry about." Glancing up at the detective, she added, "Loyalty. It's my thing." She saw something change in his eyes, a sobering, and she knew in an instant what he was thinking. to worry about." Glancing up at the detective, she added, "Loyalty. It's my thing." She saw something change in his eyes, a sobering, and she knew in an instant what he was thinking.

"Uh-oh," she warned. "Don't go there. The answer to the question cutting through your brain is yes, I was loyal to my ex. Disgustingly so. I said 'I do' and I meant forever, but in all those vows, you know, sickness, health, good times and bad, never once did I say, 'No matter how many affairs you have, I'll stick it out. It's okay. I forgive you.'" The minute she said the last three words, she felt a slight change in the atmosphere, and she remembered her recurring dream, the one where her mother, before she died, always whispered, "I forgive you." All Abby's lightheartedness fled into the darkest corners of the room.

"Something wrong?" Montoya asked and she jerked, brought back to the present, to the man with the searching dark eyes and protective manner. She yearned for that protection.

"Are you kidding?" She tried to make light of it, but her attempts fell flat. "A madman is running around the area, killing people, including my ex and my neighbor for starters, and I've got a detective checking up on me regularly. Lots of things are wrong."

"But it's good I come here."

"Yes . . . yes, it is." She swallowed and looked away from his intense gaze. "Come on into the kitchen and I'll buy you a beer . . . I a.s.sume you're off duty."

"Until tomorrow morning unless I get the call."

"What call?"

"That our guy has struck again." He was stone-cold sober.

"So soon?" What a horrible thought! She glanced at the television screen, saw the exterior of Asa's hunting lodge again, and silently prayed the terror would end soon.

"It wasn't that long between the two sets of murders. This killer doesn't seem to have much of a cooling-off period between attacks, and oftentimes serial killers escalate."

"Serial killers," she repeated, a shiver chasing down her spine. "Maybe this one's finished. Maybe whatever it was he felt compelled to do is now complete."

He sent her a look that spoke volumes. She saw her words as wishful thinking. He knew otherwise.

In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and dug out two bottles of Lone Star, cracked them both open, and handed one to Montoya. Ansel, hiding on one of the bar stools at the counter and frightened all over again, hopped to the floor and made a quick beeline down the hall.

"An improvement," Montoya observed. "No hissing."

"He's really really warming up to you. Watch out if you sit on the couch-he'll probably hop onto the back and lick your hair." warming up to you. Watch out if you sit on the couch-he'll probably hop onto the back and lick your hair."

"Something to look forward to," he said dryly.

Abby grinned at his look of disgust. "Actually, Ansel would never-but my girlfriend Alicia's purebred Siamese was really into it. Always wanted to 'groom' her."

"I'd say the cat has a few screws loose. Or maybe it was into the kind of gel or shampoo she used."

"Well, I guess we all have our personal idiosyncrasies," Abby murmured, far too conscious of the way Montoya's presence filled a room.

"Some more than others," he agreed.

They returned to the living room, where on the screen again, Billy Ray Furlough was ranting on about the wrath of the Lord and how everyone had to look inside him or herself to help stop the poor, demented soul who was committing these crimes against G.o.d and man.

"Can you believe this guy?" Montoya pointed at the screen with the index finger of his beer-holding hand. "He's already called the department several times. Wants to meet with the lieutenant and the detectives in charge to pray for divine intervention."

"So much for the 'G.o.d helps those who help themselves' theory that I heard him spouting a little while ago." She walked closer to the set. The preacher stared straight at the camera and offered a bold smile, one that suggested he was a strong leader in the face of adversity. "Hasn't his church been investigated by the SEC or the IRS or something?" she asked, trying to remember.

"Maybe, I don't know. He's pretty much off-limits, though, being the head of a religious organization. Believe me, he's buried so deep in tax lawyers, accountants, spin doctors, and I'd guess, makeup artists and hairstylists that it would take a backhoe to try and find him." He took a swallow from his bottle. "Just my opinion, though. I'm not speaking for the department." He rubbed thoughtfully at his goatee. "Odd thing though-I think his organization tried to buy the Our Lady of Virtues property."

Abby felt that whisper of fear, cold as death, sc.r.a.pe the back of her neck again as she sat in one corner of the couch, he on the other end.

"Along with a lot of other businesses and moguls, including Asa Pomeroy."

"Wait a minute . . . Asa Pomeroy? What? Did he expect to construct a munitions factory next to the convent?" she asked in disbelief.

"I think he wanted the entire piece of property, convent and all. And I'm not certain it was for a factory. It didn't matter. The nuns balked and the archdiocese pa.s.sed on the offer."

"Why haven't I heard of this before?"

"I hadn't either. It happened a few years back," Montoya explained. "I only found out earlier today as I've been checking on the victims. Pomeroy seems to have a fascination with the place, though, mind you, he was an elder with the First Baptist Church in Cambrai. Makes you wonder why he donated so much money to the hospital while it was open. He's not exactly known for his philanthropy. I figure maybe he knew someone who worked there or was a patient."

"Like Gina Jefferson?" she said, trying to remember. "It's odd, but I have this feeling . . ." She frowned, forced her mind back to the day her mother died and the weeks before. "I think she might have been employed at the hospital."

Montoya ignored his beer and his facial muscles tightened. "I'll check it out."

"You think it's important?"

"Could be. Any connection between the victims will help us understand what's going on, who might be behind all this"-he gestured toward the television-"c.r.a.p."

"Do you think there's some connection to the hospital?" she asked. "I mean, Clyde LaBelle was a doctor there, Asa gave money, Gina Jefferson may have worked on the premises . . ."

She felt his gaze upon her.

"What about Luke?"

She shook her head and tucked her feet under her. "That's where it all falls apart. Luke's only connection that I know of is that my mother was a patient-and died-there."

There was a moment of silence between them, then Montoya said, "I guess we'll just have to keep digging." He watched Hershey settle onto her spot by the unlit fire and suddenly asked, "Can we light that?" He indicated the dry stack of wood sitting in the grate. And then, as if he felt the need to explain himself, he added, "I've never had a house with a fireplace."

"Sure." She climbed off the couch, found the long, tapered barbecue lighter that she always used, flicked on the flame, then touched it to the paper and dry kindling beneath the chunks of pine and oak.

The paper caught quickly and the kindling, bone dry, snapped and sparked, hungry flames eagerly licking the dry wood.

"Oh, d.a.m.n." Smoke began to billow and boil into the house and she reached quickly over the flames to pull the lever on the flue. With a rush, the fire burned more brightly and the smoke was sucked up the chimney. "Sorry," she said, feeling like an idiot, "I always do that."

"Are you okay?"

"No third-degree burns or singed eyebrows this time," she said and laughed. "Just this." She showed off the black soot on her fingers. "Give me a sec and I'll wash up."

It took longer than a second but she managed to clean the oily, black film from her hands, scatter some crackers onto a platter, and slice up some cheese, carefully cutting off a little mold from the end of the brick. When she returned, Montoya had kicked off his boots and was staring at the fire.

"Sustenance," she said. "Such as it is."

"Looks great."

"Well . . . it looks decent." She set the platter on the coffee table and took up her seat on the couch again.

Montoya grinned. "Beyond decent." Sitting low on his back, he cradled his beer between both hands and asked, "So did Luke know anyone named Al?"

"Al? Probably. Doesn't everyone?" When he didn't respond, she said, "Okay . . . let me think. He must have. Wait. Yeah. There was someone in college, someone I never met. Alan . . . Alan . . ." She snapped her fingers in rapid succession, thinking hard. "Oh, what was that guy's name? O'Brian! Yeah, Alan O'Brian. I think they might have been in the same fraternity. He lives . . . somewhere in the North-east, maybe Boston now. I don't think Luke kept up with him. They both went to the University of Washington."

"Okay."

He seemed to be waiting for more, so Abby thought hard. "Oh, yeah. Later, Luke had a sailing buddy who owned a boat that he docked on Lake Union in Seattle. His name was Andrew Allen and I think some people called him Al or Allen, but Luke always referred to him as Drew."

Montoya rotated his bottle between his palms "What about you?"

"Do I know any people named Al?" she asked, and he nodded. "Well . . . I'm sure I've had clients or cla.s.smates when I was in school, but the only person I've ever called Al is my friend Alicia . . . the one who lives in the Bay Area."

"Where you're planning to move."

"When I sell this place, yes. Or if I ever do." She thought of Sean Erwin, who had come by earlier, moving furniture, measuring every room, window, and door, then taking notes. "So," she asked Montoya, "what's this all about?" But before the words were out of her mouth, she knew. "Oh, wait a minute. I get it. I heard part of the radio program today, I was in my car and just checked out what was happening at good old WSLJ. Luke's old program was running again, and Maury was talking about someone named Al, right? I'd just turned on the radio when someone showed up at the station and shut him down and Dr. Sam took over . . . hey, wait, was that you?"

The detective gave a quick nod.

Abby smiled at the thought of Montoya busting in on Maury's program. She could imagine the moron freaking out. "Way to go." She leaned over toward Montoya and clicked the neck of her beer bottle with his. "I think we deserve this drink."

He smiled. "Well, I know I I do." do."