Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 98

Cole walked over to the mirror, glaring through the gla.s.s and seeing only his own reflection: harsh blue eyes; thick brows drawn down in simmering anger; high, flat cheekbones and a razor-thin mouth compressed to the point that white showed around his lips. The crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes and bits of gray in his dark hair seemed more p.r.o.nounced than they had three months earlier. He'd aged a lifetime in the h.e.l.lhole of a cell where he'd been locked away. His clothes were a mess: the pair of faded jeans and T-shirt were wrinkled and still smelled of perspiration, his own nervous sweat from the quick ride in the patrol car the night he'd been taken in. He'd been barefoot at the time; thankfully Deeds had brought him a pair of battered Nikes, even if they were a size too small and pinched.

In the reflection, he noticed a muscle working on one side of his jaw.

So did Deeds. "Sit down, Cole."

"I can't."

"Do it." Sam Deeds's voice was calm. Firm. Insistent.

Just as Cole's had been with all of his own clients. That is, when he still had clients, still had a law practice, still had a house, a membership in a country club, a Jaguar, a G.o.dd.a.m.ned life. Things had taken a turn for the worse. A real bad turn. Now he knew what it was like to have zero freedom, to have to do what he was told, to feel the cold grip of steel around his wrists and ankles.

Turning away from the mirror, he rubbed the back of his arm, where the handcuffs had cut into his flesh. There was still the hint of a scar. A reminder of the night the police had shown up at his house, read him his rights, and hauled him to jail. He'd just stepped out of the shower, was wearing nothing but a pair of worn jeans and was pulling on a shirt when the banging had started. He'd opened the door, seen blue and red lights strobing the night sky as his neighbors and the press had watched the circus. Cameras had flashed, his bare feet had sunk into the loam of his yard, and despite his immediate request for a lawyer, he'd been pushed into a cruiser and driven to the station, where, after being booked and Mirandized again, he'd had to wait three hours for Deeds. In that time he hadn't said a word but, from the questions put to him, had surmised that he was being held in a murder investigation involving Eve Renner and Roy Kajak.

His jaw slid to one side as he thought about it.

Eve. Jesus, he'd loved her.

Pa.s.sionately.

Wildly.

Without regard to consequences.

That was the problem: he'd loved her too d.a.m.ned much.

His ardor for her had been unhealthy.

And she'd used it against him.

Now, not only had he lost her, he'd lost everything.

From this day forward, he would have to start over. From scratch.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

He clenched a fist then straightened his fingers, stretching them, only to do it all over again.

Catching another harsh glance from Deeds, he decided not to fight it. He could pound on the d.a.m.ned two-way, scream that he was innocent, rail to the G.o.ds, and threaten all kinds of suits against the parish for false arrest.

But that would only make things worse.

And he'd already done a fine job of that, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his bail as he had. h.e.l.l, he couldn't win for losing.

The whole d.a.m.ned case against him reeked of a setup. One he planned to prove, once he was out.

But it wouldn't be easy. The d.a.m.ned d.i.c.ks were determined to lock him away, to prove that he'd been there the night Roy Kajak died, to find a way to show that he had indeed pulled the trigger of the gun that had nearly killed Eve Renner.

He couldn't risk another screwup.

Even if he were completely innocent.

Which, of course, he wasn't.

CHAPTER 2.

"He's guilty." Montoya glared through the two-way window in to the room where Cole and his attorney were waiting. He jabbed a finger in Cole Dennis's direction. "Guilty as G.o.dd.a.m.ned sin."

Bentz grunted but gave a quick nod of a.s.sent. They stood in a darkened room that smelled vaguely of ancient cigarette smoke.

Montoya would have killed for a drag about now, but he'd given up the habit, his beloved Marlboros replaced first by the patch and then, in the past few months, by tasteless gum that was supposed to give him a nicotine hit but, in reality, was nothing more than a useless oral subst.i.tute. It was times like this, when he wanted to concentrate, when he missed his smokes the most. He scratched his goatee and tamped down the urge to go flying into the next room, to slam Cole Dennis up against the wall and force the truth from the self-serving jerk.

"Can't hold him any longer. The DA's dropping the homicide case." Bentz too was disappointed. And angry. His jaw was set, the corners of his mouth pinched, his lips flat against his teeth.

"h.e.l.l." Montoya wanted Cole Dennis so bad he could taste it. He tugged at the diamond stud in his ear. Though he felt a bit of satisfaction that Dennis had been cuffed and shackled, then spent nearly ninety days in lockup, had been forced to wear the stiff cotton of jail attire long enough to wipe the c.o.c.ksure grin from his face, it wasn't enough. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had spent most of his adult life wearing designer-label suits, hanging out at all the right golf and tennis clubs, and managed to get some of the biggest, wealthiest sc.u.mbags off on crimes ranging from tax evasion to a.s.sault. It was well past his time to pay.

But the d.a.m.ned case had fallen apart.

Even after Dennis had made bail, walked out of the jailhouse then been busted again for failing to adhere to the rules of his bail, the d.a.m.ned case had fallen apart. Montoya shook his head. The guy had lost a cool million, but he was still going to walk. Montoya scratched more vigorously at his goatee then caught Bentz watching him, and scowled. "What?"

"Let it go."

"I can't, d.a.m.n it. Dennis was there that night at Roy Kajak's cabin. There was a footprint outside the door, size twelve and a half, same as Dennis."

"So where's the shoe or boot?"

"Ditched. Along with the clothes. Had to have been a lot of blood from Kajak, slicing his throat like that. We caught Dennis in the shower, you know."

"And we tore his house up looking for something-the shoes, clothes, blood. Nothing there."

Montoya lifted a shoulder. The forensic team hadn't found any evidence of blood, not even in the pipes. But there had been traces of bleach.... The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had known enough to cover his tracks. And fast.

Bentz, always playing devil's advocate, said, "Maybe Cole didn't kill Roy. Just shot Eve Renner."

"Then who slit Roy's throat?" Montoya asked for the hundredth time. He and Bentz had been over this same conversation daily. They got nowhere each time. Every once in a while they'd come up with a new idea, only to run headlong into a dead end. And what the h.e.l.l did the number 212 mean? Written in blood, for G.o.d's sake, with the index finger of the victim's right hand.

And tattooed into his forehead. The same numerals. When they'd cleaned up the victim, they'd found that chilling surprise. Was it some kind of code? A number for a post office box? An area code? A pa.s.sword on a computer? A birthday? The police had come up with nothing.

Same as with Faith Chastain. She had been murdered years before at Our Lady of Virtues Mental Hospital. And a tattoo had been discovered beneath her hair.... Coincidence? h.e.l.l! He could use a smoke about now. Maybe a drink too.

Who would go to the trouble and time of tattooing a victim? The thought of someone inking dead flesh...weird. Just the idea made his skin crawl.

Montoya glanced again at Bentz. The older cop's flinty gaze was trained through the gla.s.s. His lips were pulled into a thoughtful frown, creases sliding across his brow, and he was chewing a wad of gum. He might show a calmer exterior than Montoya, but he was aggravated. Big time.

For now, they had to release the son of a b.i.t.c.h.

Through the gla.s.s, Montoya watched as the release officer entered the interrogation room to literally hand Cole Dennis his walking papers.

h.e.l.l.

His stomach clamped. This was wrong. So d.a.m.ned wrong.

A few strokes of a pen and that was that.

Cole Dennis was once again a free man in his wrinkled T-shirt and faded jeans. He might be a million dollars poorer, his license to practice law in question, but he couldn't be locked up any longer.

s.h.i.t!

Montoya, his eyes still trained on the gla.s.s, hooked his leather jacket from the back of an unused chair.

As he walked through the door, Dennis had the b.a.l.l.s to look over his shoulder at the two-way mirror, but he didn't smile. No, his eyes narrowed, his lips compressed, and the skin over his cheekbones stretched tight. He was p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l.

Good.

Montoya only hoped the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was angry enough to make another mistake.

When he did, Montoya intended to slam his a.s.s into jail for the rest of Cole Dennis's miserable life.

Hands curled around the steering wheel in a death grip, Eve rolled the kinks out of her neck and tried to ignore the headache that had only intensified as she'd driven south toward New Orleans. The rain had come and gone, spitting from the dark sky in some spots, pouring in sheets a few times, and then disappearing altogether when she'd driven through Montgomery and the sun had broken through the clouds to bask the hills, skysc.r.a.pers, and the Alabama River in a shimmering golden glow.

At that point poor Samson had given up his hoa.r.s.e cries and, if not sleeping, had grown silent.

The good weather and Samson's silence had been fleeting, however. Now, a few miles outside of Mobile, the clouds had opened up again, drenching the Camry in a loud torrent. The wipers struggled with the wash of water, Eve's stomach rumbled, and Samson whimpered pathetically.

Nerves stretched raw, Eve noticed a road sign for a diner at the next exit and decided, since her progress had slowed with the storm, to grab a quick sandwich and wait out the deluge. She pulled into a pockmarked asphalt lot littered haphazardly with only a few vehicles. Using the umbrella she always kept in the car, she skirted rain puddles, her nostrils picking up the acrid scent of cigarette smoke. A couple of teenagers who obviously worked at the place had lit up and were puffing away under an overhang near the back door, and one lone guy was seated in a dark pickup, the tip of his cigarette glowing red in the dark, smoky interior.

Eve didn't pay much attention, just shouldered her way past a thick gla.s.s door into the horseshoe-shaped restaurant, where an air conditioner wheezed and fryers sizzled above the strains of a Johnny Cash cla.s.sic. The smells of frying onions and sizzling meat a.s.sailed her as she slipped into one of the faux-leather booths that flanked the windows.

A waitress carrying a large tray whipped past, muttering, "I'll be with y'all in a sec," before flying to another table. Eve fingered a plastic-encased menu, scanning the items before the same waitress, a breathless, rail-thin woman with her hair pulled into a banana clip, returned to take her drink order. A U U-shaped counter, circa the sixties, swept around an area housing the cash register, milk-shake machine, revolving pie case, and soda fountain. "Now, darlin', what can I getcha?" the woman asked, not bothering with pen or paper. "Coffee? Sweet tea? Soda? I gotta tell ya, our chef's meatloaf, that's the special today, is ta die for. And I'm not kiddin'!"

"I'll have sweet tea and a fried shrimp po'boy."

"You got it, darlin'." The waitress left in a rush, only to deposit the tea seconds later. Eve shook out the last three ibuprofen from the bottle in her purse then washed down the pills with a long swallow of tea and prayed they'd take effect soon. She wondered fleetingly if Anna Maria had been right, if she wasn't ready for this trip.

Don't go there. You'll be fine. Just as soon as you get home.

She closed her eyes. Home. Home. It seemed like forever since she'd walked up the familiar steps of the old Victorian house in the Garden District. She envisioned its steep gables, paned, watery-gla.s.sed windows, delicate gingerbread decor, and the turret...Oh Lord, the turret she loved, the tower room Nana had dubbed "Eve's little Eden." From that high tower, looking over the other rooftops and trees, she felt as if she could see all of the world. It seemed like forever since she'd walked up the familiar steps of the old Victorian house in the Garden District. She envisioned its steep gables, paned, watery-gla.s.sed windows, delicate gingerbread decor, and the turret...Oh Lord, the turret she loved, the tower room Nana had dubbed "Eve's little Eden." From that high tower, looking over the other rooftops and trees, she felt as if she could see all of the world.

Crash! A tray of gla.s.sware hit the floor, gla.s.s splintering. "Oh no!" A tray of gla.s.sware hit the floor, gla.s.s splintering. "Oh no!"

Eve nearly leapt from the booth. Her heart pounded erratically as flashes of memory cut through her mind. Blinking rapidly, she was once again standing in that darkened cabin, the muzzle of a gun spewing fire, gla.s.s shattering loudly, and Cole's harsh face glaring at her. She glanced down, saw that both her fists were curled. Her breathing was thin and ragged. Slowly she unclenched her fingers, counting to ten. It was only an accident. Eve could see a busboy already rounding the corner with a broom and dustpan as a girl no older than sixteen, flushed and embarra.s.sed, apologized all over herself for losing control of the tray.

Quit jumping at shadows, Eve silently scolded herself as she turned her attention out the window. The storm was really going at it. Rain slanted across the parking lot, blurring her view of the freeway ramp and traffic. Her cell phone rang, startling her, and she banged her knee against the table. Eve silently scolded herself as she turned her attention out the window. The storm was really going at it. Rain slanted across the parking lot, blurring her view of the freeway ramp and traffic. Her cell phone rang, startling her, and she banged her knee against the table.

"d.a.m.n."

Dr. Byrd's right: you're a head case.

She answered the phone on the second ring, carrying it to the foyer, where she might have a chance at privacy. Caller ID displayed Anna Maria's number, and her sister-in-law's picture flashed onto the small screen. "Hey there," Eve answered, her heart rate finally slowing a bit.

"Where are you?" Anna demanded.

"Not far from Mobile."

"So you haven't heard?"

"I guess not. Heard what?"

"Cole was released today. Just like I told you. All charges dropped."

Eve's stomach clenched. "We knew this was going to happen."

"But on the same day you decide to return to New Orleans? What're the chances of that? It's a bad sign, Eve, I swear. I know you don't believe in it, but I'm tellin' ya, there are forces at work that we just don't understand. Unless you knew about this and that's why you were so h.e.l.l-bent to leave today."

Eve heard the hint of accusation in Anna Maria's voice. "I had no idea," she said, which was the G.o.d's honest truth.

"Then it's a coincidence."

Better than a sign from G.o.d.

"It's all over the news," Anna went on, "but I figured if you didn't have the radio on, you wouldn't have heard, and you know what they say, 'Forewarned is forearmed.'"

"Thanks for the forearming."

"That man is dangerous to you, Eve. We both know it. If not physically, then emotionally."

"I'm over over him, Anna. I thought we were clear on that." him, Anna. I thought we were clear on that."

"Yeah, right."

"I mean it. When someone points a gun at you, you kinda lose all that warm, touchy-feely feeling you had for him."

"Good," Anna said, though she didn't sound all that convinced. "Keep those thoughts and watch your back. If you need to, you can always turn around and come back here."

"Thanks, I'll keep it in mind." But she was lying. She was going home, period. She hung up, refusing to let the thought of b.u.mping into Cole again intimidate her. However, as she reentered the restaurant, she turned in the opposite direction from her booth, down a darkened hallway and past a cigarette machine to the bar, where a couple of men hanging out at the counter were sipping beers. Another twenty-something guy with tattoos covering his forearms was sharpening his skills by playing pool solo, and the televisions over the bar were turned to sports stations. No image of Cole Dennis leaving a police station in the company of his high-powered lawyer, saying "No comment" as he avoided a gauntlet of reporters with microphones and ducked into a waiting car, played on any of the screens.

Get over it, she told herself as she returned to her table, where an oval plate held her steaming po'boy, a slice of corn bread, and a cup of coleslaw. b.u.t.ter oozed and melted across the corn bread while the cabbage nearly drowned in the dressing. Eve's appet.i.te had all but disappeared with Anna Maria's phone call, but she slid into her seat and bit into the sandwich. Nourishment, Nourishment, she reminded herself, barely tasting the spicy fried shrimp as she chewed. she reminded herself, barely tasting the spicy fried shrimp as she chewed.

What would she say if she ran into Cole? What would he he say? Would he avoid her? Or try to find her? She swallowed another tasteless bite of the sandwich and tried not to remember his penetrating blue eyes, thick, dark hair, and severe jaw. But that proved impossible, and as she stared out at the gloom, her mind's eye saw him as he'd been when they first met. say? Would he avoid her? Or try to find her? She swallowed another tasteless bite of the sandwich and tried not to remember his penetrating blue eyes, thick, dark hair, and severe jaw. But that proved impossible, and as she stared out at the gloom, her mind's eye saw him as he'd been when they first met.