Hot Blooded (33 page)

Sometimes he wondered why he kept at this damned job.

Because someone has to nail these guys, and, for the most part, you’re good at it, you sick son of a bitch.

He found a half-f pack of Doublemint gum in his top drawer and jammed a stick into his mouth, then walked to the window and looked outside to the street below. Cars spewed exhaust as they crawled down the narrow streets, and people crowded the sidewalks, but Bentz hardly took any notice. He yanked at his collar. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back. He didn’t hear the hum of computers or conversations of the outer offices though his door was ajar. No, he’d blocked out the noise of the station and the scene below as he considered the prospect of two serial killers in the city, at least one of which was connected to the terrorization
of Dr. Samantha Leeds. Some way. Somehow. He didn’t have any concrete evidence, no tangible link, but the knot in his gut told him whoever was calling was somehow involved with the murders. The mutilated C-notes so like the ruined publicity shot of Samantha Leeds, the radios tuned to her program at the time of death, the fact that the women who’d been killed were hookers and John had accused her of prostitution, but why sin? What redemption? What the hell did it have to do with Annie Seger, for crying out loud?

He walked to the tape recorder on his credenza and pushed the play button so that he could hear for the hundredth time some of the calls, particularly the one from the woman who called herself Annie…he’d played it over and over, as had the lab, and he’d come to the conclusion that the call from Annie had been prerecorded. There hadn’t been a live person on the phone. The woman proclaiming herself to be Annie hadn’t answered Sam’s questions directly, but only paused between her own statements…As if someone had anticipated what Dr. Sam would ask on the show that night. As if a woman was involved in this mess.

But who?

Someone who knew Annie Seger?

Someone connected to Dr. Sam?

Someone working with “John”?

And how had the call gotten through the screen at the radio station before being played on the air?

He snapped his gum, reached in his back pocket and found his handkerchief, then ran it over his forehead and mopped his face. How the hell did Montoya wear leather jackets in this weather and manage to keep his cool? The day was sweltering. Unforgiving. Intense. Bentz needed a beer. A sixteen-ouncer—ice-cold in one of those frosty mugs, yeah that would do the trick. And a pack of Camel straights. That old ache for booze and nicotine haunted his blood and he
chewed his gum furiously as he walked back to his desk, where copies of telephone records were strewn.

The billing that interested him was from Houston, a cell phone registered in the name of David Ross. Not only had he called Sam’s home number, but the station as well, on a few of the nights that “John” had phoned, but his cell number had a block on it and his name had never shown on caller ID. Just his number. But those calls hadn’t even gotten through, not according to the station records. He must’ve called, then chickened out…or decided to use a pay phone. Ross had also been in New Orleans a couple of times in the past few weeks…but Samantha had insisted her love affair with the guy was over.

Maybe he didn’t like it.

Maybe he was getting back a little retribution.

The phone jangled. He grabbed the receiver. “Bentz.”

“Looks like we got another one,” Montoya said, his voice serious. “I’m driving over to a hotel on Royal, the St. Pierre. The story is that we’ve got another Jane Doe, strangled with a series of weird cuts on her neck. The maid let herself in with her key, ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign as it was after checkout time. The guy who rented the room is gone, but we might have gotten lucky because the clerk working the desk last night remembers him. I’m on my way to the St. Pierre now. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Bentz said, and slammed the phone down. Maybe they were finally catching a break.

Sam was nervous as she walked into the den. The edge that she’d felt after taking “John’s” last call had never quite left her. She was missing something, something important, a clue as to his identity.

Earlier, Ty had taken her into New Orleans to retrieve her car, followed her here, then made a quick trip home to
pick up Sasquatch and his laptop computer. Now, he was seated on the couch, computer glowing on his knees, his notes splayed upon the coffee table. While the television flickered with images of the noon news, and his dog lay near the French doors, he started sorting through the box of Sam’s old, musty folders that he’d brought down from upstairs.

TGIF
went through her head as it was Friday, her weekend, and she didn’t have to work at the station again until Sunday night. Nonetheless she was burdened with the feeling that something bad was going to happen or had happened. “John’s” warning replayed through her head:
All you need to know is that what happens tonight is because of you, because of your sins. You need to repent, Sam, beg forgiveness.

So familiar, so direct. He’d called her Sam.

At first she’d thought he’d meant the damned cake, that he was just trying to freak her out, but as she’d remembered the tone of his voice, the cold warning, the pure evil of his threat, she was convinced that there was more.

But nothing had happened.

Yet. Nothing’s happened
yet.

This is just the calm before the storm.

She tried and failed to take heart in the fact that Annie’s birthday had come and gone. If the cake was the worst that had happened, she should be relieved. But she couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that the cake was just the tip of the iceberg.

In the den, she sat at her desk and noticed Charon cowering on the top of the bookcase, eyes round.

“Sasquatch is okay,” Sam assured the cat. “You’ll get used to him.”

Just like you’ll get used to having Ty around? Remember, he lied to you from the git-go, and now he’s pursuing this half-baked theory of his.

She crumpled a wad of paper and tossed it at the cat, who couldn’t help himself and swiped at the “toy.”

Ty was convinced that Annie Seger had been murdered and the killer had gotten away with it. Sam wasn’t so certain.

Could the Houston police have been so wrong? So negligent? Or had they covered up? It seemed unlikely, and even if Annie’s murder had “slipped through the cracks” nine years ago, how did “John” and the call from the woman posing as Annie link to the past? Why was this all happening now?

Could it have been someone in the station trying to rekindle interest in a nearly forgotten case, all for publicity? Was someone at the station involved, or had one of the employees inadvertently passed along information about the phone lines into WSLJ?

Stop this. It could be anyone. A phone company employee, or someone who had worked at the station in the past, or any guest or repairman or visitor who just looked the system over when Melba’s back was turned. Someone else might have stumbled across the number. With all the computer links and technoknowledge available, any nutcase could have figured out the phone-line numbers. It’s not that big of a deal.

Scraping back the chair from her desk, she reached for the phone. She needed to call her father and tell him that Corky had seen Peter, that her brother was alive, and seemingly clean and sober.
This is Peter’s responsibility,
her voice nagged, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t bailing Peter out, as she might have been accused in one of the upper-division psychology courses she’d taken. This was real life, and her father deserved to have his mind put at ease about her brother. After talking to her dad she’d call Leanne Jaquillard.

She’d picked up the receiver and had started to dial before noticing that the answering machine light was flashing. Her stomach knotted. She hadn’t picked up her messages in
nearly two days. Had she somehow missed another call from John? Another threat? She pushed the play button and heard a hangup. “Damn.” Then another click. Her skin crawled. It was “John,” she was certain.

A second later Leanne’s voice came through the small speaker. “Hey, Doctor Sam, I was wonderin’ if we could get together? I need to talk to you about somethin’ and it really can’t wait until group. I mean…I want to talk to you about it alone, if that would be okay? Call or e-mail me if you get this.”

Click.

The machine stopped.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. There were no other messages, no contact from “John.” She switched on her computer, checked her e-mail, and found yet another note from Leanne asking her to call.

Charon hopped onto Sam’s lap and she stroked the cat out of habit. Something was weighing heavily on Leanne, she thought. The girl had never before called her at home. Quickly, she looked up Leanne’s phone number on her computer screen, then picked up the phone and punched out the numbers. “Be home,” she said, picking up a pencil and tapping the eraser end on the desk as the phone rang.

On the fourth ring a woman answered, “Hello?” Sam recognized Leanne’s mother’s irritated voice, and she braced herself.

“Hi, this is Samantha Leeds, Leanne’s counselor at the Boucher Center. Is she in?”

“No, as a matter of fact, she isn’t. That little fart didn’t bother comin’ home last night. I was just about to call the police and report her missin’, but I imagine she’ll come draggin’ in later this afternoon.”

Sam bristled and tapped the pencil again. The cat jumped off her lap and slunk cautiously out of the den. “Leanne
left me a couple of messages, and I’d like to get in touch with her.”

“You and me both, I should a been ta work two hours ago, and I ain’t got no one to watch Billy. That’s Leanne’s job when she ain’t in school. I’m tellin’ you this is the last time she pulls this kind of stunt on me. I was up half the night worried about her.” There was an edge to Marletta’s voice, a fear that she couldn’t quite mask. “She’s usin’ again, I swear. God, don’t you discuss this with her in that stupid group she goes to?”

“What we discuss doesn’t leave the room,” Sam said, trying to remain patient and worrying about the girl.

“Well it ain’t doin’ any good, now, is it? Otherwise, she’d be home.”

“Does she do this often?”

“Much as she can.”

“But you might call the police.”

“What for? Ennytime I do, they jest give me the run-around. I’ve called too many times already and then Leanne she strolls in here like it ain’t no big deal. I’m sick and tired of chasin’ after her.”

“Still—”

“It’s not yer problem.”

Sam wasn’t sure about that. She dropped her pencil onto the desk. “Just tell her I called.”

“Yeah, yeah, if she ever shows up.”

“Thanks,” Samantha said, and hung up. Her heart twisted for Leanne. The kid had just never had a chance, with no father and Marletta for a mother. Sam decided that she’d call back tomorrow, just in case the message didn’t get through, then typed a quick e-mail to ensure the girl knew Sam was trying to reach her. She then dialed her own father, who, she decided for about the thousandth time, was no less than a saint. When he didn’t answer she felt a second’s disappointment but left a message.

“Hi, Dad, it’s Sam. You’re out, probably with the cute widow, right? Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do and call me when you get the chance. I just want you to know that Corky ran into Peter, and he’s doing great. I haven’t talked to him, of course, but I thought I’d pass on the word about brother dear. Call when you’ve got a chance, okay? Love ya!” She hung up in frustration, then heard Ty’s voice from the living room.

“Samantha—I think your cop’s on television.”

“My cop?” she said, walking into the living room, where Ty was standing, the remote in his hand, watching the television. Detective Rick Bentz filled the screen. A reporter was interviewing him as he and his partner were exiting a huge house in the Garden District. While the reporter tried to ask questions, Bentz kept muttering “no comment.”

“What is it?”

“A murder, apparently,” Ty said as the reporter stared into the camera.

“…so that’s it. Another woman murdered. Another one linked to prostitution. The question that has to be asked is are the killings linked? Do we have a serial killer, here, in New Orleans? It’s starting to look that way.”

“Bentz has been busy lately,” Ty observed as he clicked the remote and the image on the television faded.

“Criminals don’t have weekends off,” she said, bothered by the report. The possibility of a serial killer was sobering and reminded her that there were other problems beside hers in the city. “So what have you found out?” she asked, motioning toward the notes, pictures and files spread over the coffee table.

“Not much more than I knew before.” He rubbed the back of his neck as if his muscles were strained. “I’ve got a partial list of people who were acquainted with Annie, what they’ve been doing for the past nine years and where they are now.”

“That’s a start. Tell me about them.”

“Okay.” He walked back to the couch, sat down and leaned over the coffee table to his computer. Squinting, he clicked the mouse and said, “Oswald—Wally, Annie’s
father, is still up in the Northwest…in…Kelso, Washington—that’s Washington State.”

“I know where it is. He’s the guy that asked you to look into this.”

“Yep, good old Uncle Wally. As mismatched with Estelle as he could be. She was white-collar society, he, strictly blue-collar. One job to the other. I never could figure them out, but they were young when they hooked up and she got pregnant with Kent, so, they got married. Then, of course, divorced when the kids were young and Estelle found someone more suitable in Dr. Faraday. Wally never remarried, lives alone in some kind of modular home park and works for a logging company.” Ty glanced up at Samantha. “Since he wanted me to investigate what happened to his daughter, I don’t think he’s a viable suspect, but I haven’t ruled him out completely. Stranger things have happened.”

“I guess.” Samantha rounded the couch and leaned over the back, reading the computer screen over Ty’s shoulder, her head next to his.