Cold Blooded by Lisa Jackson
“We found someone.”
Oh, God. Deep inside she’d harbored the tiniest shred of hope that she’d been wrong. That, as this detective had thought, she’d just experienced a really bad nightmare. But of course, even that iota of hope had been misguided. “It’s the woman I told you about. The one in the fire.”
“I’d like to talk to you about her.”
About time. “Come in.” She pushed the door open further and the dog bolted through.
“Thanks.” Hands in the pockets of his slacks, he walked into her house, his gaze skimming over the bookcase, potted plants, lumpy couch, and scattered chairs. “We’ll have to backtrack some, go over some of the things you said earlier.”
“No problem. I’ve got most of the afternoon, then I’ve got to meet my professor around four.”
“That late on a Friday?” He seemed even bigger in the kitchen, taking up space in this little cabin with its low ceilings and yellowed pine walls. Pushing six-two or -three, he ducked around a hurricane lantern that hung from the ceiling, a fixture Grannie Gin had refused to replace just in case the electricity was ever cut off. From her cage, Chia shrieked as she moved from one end of her perch to the other, warily eyeing the intruder.
“Hush, Chia!” she ordered. “Another of my grandmother’s orphans. Chia doesn’t like to go unnoticed. Has to have her say.”
“Typical female.”
“What?” Olivia’s eyes narrowed.
“It was a joke,” he explained.
“A poor one.”
“Right. So, you have to meet with your professor later.”
“Yes. Dr. Leeds at Tulane.”
She felt it then, as surely as if she’d turned on the air-conditioning, the atmosphere in the room got suddenly colder. It was as if Bentz’s sense of humor evaporated.
Something glinted in his steely eyes.
“You know him?” she asked.
“We’ve met.” From his pocket he withdrew the same small recorder he’d used earlier. “This shouldn’t take too long.” He set the recorder on the kitchen table, where a Thanksgiving cactus was trying to bloom. Speaking into the small microphone, he said that he was continuing the interview, gave the date and time, and after spelling Olivia’s name, indicated that he was in her house with her. But he didn’t sit down at the table, instead stood resting his hips on the counter.
“You said you moved back to Louisiana recently. When was that? Last summer?”
“Yes. I came in late July when my grandmother got sick.” She pointed to one of the framed photographs she’d hung on the wall near the back porch.
“This is a picture of us. A long time ago.” In the shot, Grannie, gray hair braided in a single plait, was swinging a bare-footed Olivia off the ground. Olivia was dressed in ragged shorts and a T-shirt, had been around five at the time, and her head was thrown back in pure delight. Sunlight streamed through the trees and dappled the dry grass. In the background a hedge was in full bloom, showing off pink blooms, and the only dark spot in the photo was the hint of a shadow creeping from the bottom of the frame.
Bentz noted it as well. “Who took the picture?”
The muscles in the back of Olivia’s neck tightened. “My father. One of the few times he deigned to show up.”
“He didn’t raise you?” Bentz asked.
She took in a deep breath. “My father? He wasn’t exactly the Ward Cleaver type of model dad. He didn’t hang around much. For the most part, Grannie Gin raised me.” She didn’t like talking about her family. “Dysfunctional” didn’t begin to describe it. “Oh … I’m sorry … could I get you some coffee … or, God, I don’t think I have anything else.”
“Only if you want it.”
“Desperately,” she admitted. “This is … nerve-racking.”
To her surprise, he actually smiled, showing off just a hint of white teeth. “I know. Sure. Coffee would be great.”
She knew he was just trying to calm her, but that was fine. She needed to be calm. Standing on her tiptoes, Olivia stretched to reach onto the top shelf of one of the few cupboards, the one where she kept the “good” dishes she never used. Bentz came to the rescue and retrieved two porcelain coffee cups.
“Thanks.” She set the cups on the counter and checked the glass pot of hours-old coffee still warming in the coffeemaker. “Okay … you asked about my family, which isn’t my favorite subject. My grandfather was killed in the war. My grandma never remarried. She spent most of her time taking care of everyone else.”
“Who’s everyone else?”
“Basically me. My mother when she was around. My sister, Chandra, until she died. She was only two. Wading pool accident,” Olivia said, using the same phraseology she always did when anyone asked about her family. Accident. So simple. But it hadn’t been. Maybe death never was.
“Where’s your mother now?”
“Good question.” She poured the coffee. “Actually, I think she’s in Houston with her husband, Jeb Martin, who, for the record, is a real SOB.”
“You don’t like him.”
Lifting a shoulder, she said, “He’s as good as any of them, I suppose, but no, I don’t like him, and I really don’t see what all this has to do with what happened this morning.”
“Maybe nothing. But it’s not every day someone charges into my office claiming to witness a murder the way you did.”
She didn’t argue. At least he was listening. She handed him a cup. “I’ve got milk, no sugar.”
“Black’s fine.”
“I inherited this house and haven’t decided how long I’m staying.”
As the tape recorded, Bentz walked to the window and stared at the bayou, sunlight filtering through the trees, murky water stretching away from the cabin and small yard. “What about your father?”
She closed her eyes. May as well get it over with. “I haven’t heard from him in years. He … he’s in jail—prison in Mississippi, I think. The last time I saw him, I was in grade school.” She expected more questions about her father, but thankfully he let the subject drop.
“So what about Tucson?”
“What about it?”
“Why’d you leave?”
“I thought I explained that. My grandmother was sick, and I’d already applied for grad school. I got accepted at Tulane, and I decided it was fate, or destiny, so I moved back. My partner bought out my interest in the shop.”
The dog whined at the door to the porch and Olivia cracked it open to let him in. Hairy S shot through, a streak of scraggly fur. “My grandmother’s,” Olivia explained before Bentz asked. “I inherited him. Hairy S … named after Grannie Gin’s favorite president, only spelled a little differently.”
“Not much of a watchdog.”
“Au contraire, Detective. This guy’s tough as they come, aren’t you?” she asked, scratching the dog’s ear.
“I usually advise a rottweiler or pit bull.”
“Thanks, but I’ll keep Hairy.”
“And the bird.”
“Definitely the bird.”
He glanced around the little house. “You’re a long way from the neighbors and you have pretty damned scary nightmares. Aren’t you afraid? You reported that you sensed the killer caught a glimpse of you somehow. It’s so isolated out here. Aren’t you nervous that he might come after you?”
“I don’t think he knows who I am.”
“Yet.”
She remembered the feeling that someone had been watching her through the windows, the cold sensation that had run through her blood. “I try not to live my life in fear. I’ve got the dog, my grandmother’s shotgun, and I keep the place locked. I’m careful,” she said. “You have to remember. I grew up here. It’s home.”
“A security system wouldn’t hurt.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she agreed. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard.” Bentz scooted out one of the cane-backed chairs at the small table. “Okay, let’s talk about last night,” he suggested
“Here, at the house … no … I was alone … hey, wait a minute,” she said, disbelieving. “Now … what are you saying? Do I need an alibi?”
“Do you?”
“No. I’m the one who brought this to you, remember? I just told you I live alone. With my dog.”
“I’m just establishing what happened. You went to bed as usual and …”
“And I was asleep for about three hours, I guess.” She glared at him as she took a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Look, I don’t know how to explain it, okay? I used to get these … dreams or visions as a little kid … things that were happening … but it wasn’t all the time and it was … different, I suppose.” She glanced out the French doors and frowned. How many times had she tried to explain what she saw? How many times had she been disbelieved or laughed at or called a freak? Rick Bentz, detective or not, was just the same as all the others she’d tried and failed to convince.
Gray eyes assessed her.
“I came to the station to try and help you. I assume you’re here for the same reason, that after you found that woman, you actually want my help. I can’t tell you any more than I already did.”
“What about the killer? Tell me about him.”
“I’ve thought about that,” she said, trying to tamp down her anger. The nerve of the man, even to suggest … She took a deep breath and told herself to just get through this. “As I said, he was dressed like a priest and kept demanding that the girl confess her sins. But I’m not sure he really was a priest, I mean, there’s no way I could know if he actually took vows.”
“You didn’t see his face because of the mask, but you heard his voice.”
“Yes. Over the organ music that was playing from the radio.”
“Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”
“I don’t know,” Olivia admitted, thinking hard. “He whispered.”
Furrows deepened in Bentz’s brow. “How tall was he? Could you tell when he stripped off the vestments? What size of man?”
“He was fit … athletic-looking. Probably around six feet, but that’s just a guess. It didn’t seem that he had much body fat, but he wasn’t rail-thin either. He didn’t look like a long-distance runner. Maybe it was the outfit, but I thought … I had the impression that he was built like a skier or maybe a swimmer because he had wide shoulders but a narrow waist and hips.”
“You said you thought he looked at you.”
“Yes. He looked up and stared hard.”
“But you weren’t there,” Bentz clarified, finally picking up his cup and taking a swallow.
“No—it was as if he sensed me.”
“So you have some what? Telepathic link to him?”
She shook her head. “I wish I knew or understood it … but when it happens, I get a headache and afterward I’m exhausted.”
“How many times has this happened before?”
“Several,” she admitted. “But never this clear. Never so vivid.” She sipped her coffee, but didn’t taste a drop.
“What color were his eyes?”
“I didn’t see a color,” she said with a sigh. “The room was smoky and he was squinting …”
Bentz looked annoyed. “So even though you had some kind of view of him, you don’t remember anything that could distinguish the priest in a crowd.”
“No.” She gritted her teeth. Bit back the sharp retort that formed on her tongue because Detective Bentz was going through the motions but he still didn’t believe her. “You think I’m making this up.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “It’s all pretty farfetched.”
“Then how could I know this much?”
He leaned forward, and for the first time she noticed the striations of color in his gray eyes, the brackets deepening at the corners of his mouth. “That’s the question, isn’t it? How do you know this much?”
“I already told you, Detective, but obviously you don’t trust me. You seem to think I was somehow involved in this macabre murder and then I was stupid enough to run to the police station so that I could be ridiculed and then found out!”
“That’s pretty farfetched, too.”
“Then why’d you come all the way out here?”
“I’d like to get to the truth.”
“Believe me, not any more than I would,” she shot back, angry. What a fool she’d been to think he might actually believe her. That he’d see the evidence and trust her.
A muscle throbbed in Bentz’s temple. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?”
“That should do it, but I might have more questions later.”
“Of course.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice even though she told herself not to bait the man.
He clicked off his recorder and slid it into his pocket. “If you think of anything else—”
“Trust me, you’ll be the first to know.”
He flipped his notebook closed.
“You know, Bentz, I was hoping that you would believe me.
“Whether I believe you or not isn’t the issue,” he said as he kicked back his chair. “What does matter is if you can give me information so that I can catch this sick bastard. Before he strikes again. Maybe you should time your visions a little better. Like before something happens. Rather than afterward. Now, that would help.”
Chapter Nine
“Okay, let’s fire this baby up,” Montoya said as he slipped a cassette into the small television/VCR that sat on the end of one filing cabinet in Bentz’s office. As usual, he was wearing his trademark leather jacket and smelling of smoke. “This is a copy of the Hendersons’ video of the fire. I had it converted from the camera disk onto video tape and a CD so that we can play it on the computer. The original’s in Evidence.”
Bentz climbed out of his chair and rounded the desk as Montoya pushed the appropriate buttons and images of the fire flashed onto the screen. The tape was shaky and blurry in spots as the cameraman panned the street. Neighbors and gawkers had gathered. Bits of conversation and gasps punctuated the sounds of street traffic, as clusters of people stood gaping at the house. With a crash of breaking glass, a window exploded. “Jesus!” the cameraman yelled as flames licked skyward from the roof. “Monica, for God’s sake! Keep the kids back … I said … no, get them in the house. Now! They can watch the tape later. Move it.” Some younger voices complained and a baby cried, but the cameraman kept his lens trained on the conflagration. Black smoke billowed upward as sirens screamed. The camera moved to catch a fire truck with its lights flashing as it roared up the street. It was followed by another truck, a rescue van, and police cars. Rescue teams spilled from the vehicles. “Get back,” policemen yelled as firefighters trained hoses onto the building. “Can you get inside … Here …” Stan Pagliano’s voice yelled from a distance. Bentz watched the firefighters push through the door to battle flames and check for survivors.
His jaw tightened when he thought of the woman trapped inside … chained to the damned sink. Firemen rushed and barked orders, cruisers with their lights flashing parked at the perimeter of the roped-off area while the crowd of onlookers grew. Here we go, Bentz thought as he stared at the indistinct images.
“Okay, those two …” Montoya said, pointing to an elderly man and woman. “They’re the Gerards. They called in the fire. Live next door and that one”—he indicated a bald man in his early thirties—“lives on the next street …” There was a family huddled beneath one of the trees, and a tiny frail-looking woman with her dog. There were other images as well, mostly indistinct as the cameraman focused his lens on the burning house.
“Not much here,” Montoya said, sipping coffee from a paper cup as he stared at the screen.
“Wait.” The camera panned the crowd again to show a group of teenagers, three boys and a girl staring at the flames, th
Montoya froze the picture. The frame was fuzzy, but there was a lone person, barely in the shot, too blurred to tell if it was a man or woman. “What about that guy?” Bentz pointed to the screen where the shadowy figure lurked beneath a tree.
“What about him?”
“He’s the only one in the crowd who’s not with someone else. He’s alone. Standing off by himself.”
Narrowing his eyes at the small screen, Montoya said, “There could be others with him who were just out of the shot, though.” He pointed to the screen. “See there to his left. Someone could be just out of the frame, someone Henderson didn’t catch on the video.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“And there could be more people on the other side of the street that Henderson didn’t catch on film.”
“But we’ve got this guy. Mark that frame. Have it enlarged and refocused if possible to try and get a sharper image.” Bentz squinted, staring hard at the murky figure. Could this be their guy? Could they have gotten that lucky? He didn’t believe it; couldn’t trust luck, but right now, it was all they had. “While you’re at it, have every frame that shows any of the bystanders blown up, too. Our guy will try to blend in, not look out of place.”
“I’ll get paper and digital copies.” Montoya hit the play button again and they watched the rest of the tape in silence. There wasn’t much more. Carl Henderson had trained his viewfinder on the blaze and the subsequent shots were of firemen with hoses trained on the house and huge geysers of water arcing over the roof, attempting to douse the flames.
When it was over, Montoya punched the tape from the player and pocketed the cassette. “I’ll get the pictures to you ASAP. Did you talk to our star witness again? The nutcase?”
“Olivia Benchet? Yeah.” Though Bentz agreed that Olivia was certifiable, it rankled him to hear Montoya voice his thoughts.