Текст книги "Never Die Alone"

Автор книги: Lisa Jackson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 8

“I don’t have any comment,” Bentz said. He finished the last swallow of cold coffee and glanced at the clock mounted on the wall of his office: 4:57. Time to be thinking about heading home, and here he was cornered by Jase Bridges, a reporter pounding the crime beat for a local paper.

Bridges was all over the Father John case.

“You know the identity of the killer,” Bridges pointed out. Seated in a chair at Bentz’s desk, the reporter stared at Bentz as if watching for weakness, looking for a crack in Bentz’s responses.

Bentz nodded. “It’s just a matter of finding him. That’s all I have. Hopefully that will change soon. The public information officer will release a statement with any new developments.” He held the younger man’s gaze. They both knew the current PIO was stepping down. Jase Bridges was one of the few candidates for the job.

The reporter hesitated, then appeared to realize that he wasn’t going to get anything more from Bentz. “Good. Keep me posted.” Bridges placed a business card on Bentz’s desk, nodded, then ducked out the door.

Bentz swept the card into the trash. He knew Bridges by reputation—a wild, tough-ass kid who had somehow turned himself around and landed the crime beat for the Observer, a local paper still hanging on despite the downturn in the print newspaper industry.

Bentz had never had much use for the press. Sure, fine, the public needed to be informed or when the department needed the public’s awareness and assistance. But as for the reporters who made something out of nothing, creating a story when there was none, Bentz wasn’t interested. Was Jase Bridges one of those, so hungry for drama that he blended truth and fiction, or a real hard-nosed, truth-seeking reporter?

The jury was still out.

And the thought that Bridges might end up working for the department didn’t sit well with Bentz. His innate distrust of reporters had been honed years ago when he’d been working for the LAPD. Bentz had made the tragic mistake of shooting a kid who had a gun aimed at his partner. Turned out the gun had been a toy, and the press had ripped into Bentz.

“I’m looking for Detective Rick Bentz.” A woman’s voice out in the hall caught Bentz’s attention.

“Just a minute. Do you have an appointment?” demanded the higher-pitched voice of Nellie Vaccarro, a recent hire in the department. “Hey! Wait! What do you think you’re doing?” Petite and bristly, Nellie was the secretary and receptionist for the department, and she took her duty of guarding the gates to the inner sanctum to heart. “Did you hear me? Detective Bentz is—”

“In?” the other woman guessed, footsteps now rapidly approaching.

Bentz rolled his chair away from the desk and stood just as a thirtyish brunette stepped into his office.

“You’re Bentz,” she guessed without any preamble. “Right?” She wore faded jeans and a gray T-shirt, the strap of an oversized bag slung over one shoulder. The woman was slim, around five eight or nine, and serious as hell. No humor sparked in her eyes, no smile tugged the corners of her mouth.

“That’s right.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Nellie, barely visible in the doorway behind the newcomer, lifted her hands, then dropped them in frustration before wedging her body past the visitor. “I’m sorry, Detective,” she said, glossy lips pursed into a frown. In a short dress, heels, her straight, blond hair framing her heart-shaped face, Nellie always appeared ready for a surprise photo shoot. “I tried to stop her, but—”

“You checked my bag and practically frisked me,” the woman cut in, sending Nellie a withering glare. “I just need to talk to Detective Bentz.”

Spine stiffening, Nellie wasn’t about to be dismissed. “But—”

“It’s fine, Nellie,” Bentz said, raising a hand. “I’ve got this.”

She hesitated.

“Really,” Bentz nodded.

Her suspicious gaze skated from Bentz to the intruder, then back. Obviously unhappy, she said, “If you say so, Detective.” Not pleased in the least, she let out her breath and walked away, high heels clicking curtly down the hallway.

“I think you ticked her off,” Bentz said.

“Probably.” The woman stared at him. Her hair was piled loosely on her head, and if she was wearing makeup, it was invisible. “But I need to talk to you.”

“Okay. What about, Ms.—?”

“I’m Brianna Hayward.”

He turned her name over in his mind. It rang distant bells.

“Two girls are missing,” she said, her face etched in worry. “Zoe and Chloe Denning. They just turned twenty-one today, and no one’s heard from them since before midnight.” Before he could ask, she said, “We filed a Missing Persons Report in Baton Rouge, where they live, but they were last seen celebrating in New Orleans.” She slid a page across his desk. On it were three pictures. Two were head shots of nearly identical women, each with a big smile and streaked blond hair. One was marked Zoe, the other Chloe.

“Twins?” He felt his stomach tighten. “Just turning twenty-one?” Memories of other cases came to mind, double homicide cases of twin sisters who had been ritualistically murdered the moment each became a legal adult.

“Yeah.” She didn’t mince words, but met his gaze and he felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his gut. Not that there was any connection. There couldn’t be. He turned his attention to the photographs.

The third photo showed the two young women dressed in short dresses and tall high heels. It was a glamour shot, their streaked hair pulled away from their identical faces to fall in loose curls down their backs as they hugged each other.

“Where’d you get these?” he asked, pointing at the images.

“Internet. The photo of the girls together is the last picture they posted, taken last evening. From the daylight in the shot, I’m guessing it was probably taken around eight last night, an hour before all communication was lost. And from the landmarks, it looks like they were on Bourbon Street, near Toulouse.”

He agreed. “I guess I don’t understand why you wanted to talk to me.”

“Because I’m . . . I’m afraid this isn’t just a matter of girls going missing,” she admitted and again her gaze held his. “I think it’s probably worse.”

“You think they met with foul play? Were abducted?”

The fear in her eyes said it all and that knot in his stomach twisted painfully.

“You worked on a couple of cases years ago, where twins were abducted and killed on their twenty-first birthdays.”

Bingo. No reason to beat around the bush.

“You think the 21 Killer is behind this?”

“God, I hope not,” she said fervently. She bit her lip before adding, “But, yeah. I think so.”

“He’s in prison.”

“Donovan Caldwell isn’t the 21 Killer,” she said, shaking her head. “The LAPD sent the wrong man to prison.”

“Really?” Bentz squinted at her and told himself not to leap to conclusions. “Why don’t you slow down and start over?” he suggested.

After a moment’s hesitation, she dropped into one of the side chairs and launched into a tale that only caused the knot in his gut to twist. As if she’d been practicing her spiel, she delivered an explanation of Caldwell’s innocence, claiming that charges against him had been trumped up. The case was circumstantial. Caldwell was snagged in a bad sting operation, but since the LAPD needed to make an arrest on the high-profile case, the charges stuck. “And it didn’t help that Bledsoe was the one making the arrest.”

Bledsoe, now retired from the police department, had been the arresting officer who had put Donovan Caldwell behind bars for the murders of his twin sisters. A thorn in Bentz’s side while he’d been with the department, Bledsoe was adequate at best in Bentz’s opinion.

“I even went to LA to talk to the police there,” she went on, “but no one was interested. Bledsoe’s retired.”

“So I heard,” Bentz admitted.

“So I ended up with Detective Hayes, your old partner. He worked the case with you, before you left, then with Bledsoe, so I figured he’d want to hear what I had to say.” She held Bentz’s gaze. “Turned out he didn’t. No one in the department, including Hayes, was interested. I was told that the case was closed and was politely but firmly given the brush-off.” Her jaw tightened visibly, bone showing through her skin.

“They’ve got their convicted killer,” Bentz pointed out. “The murders of twins stopped when they locked up Caldwell.”

“For a while.”

“You think 21 is killing again?”

“I know he is, but I hope to God that he’s not behind the Denning twins’ disappearance. Oh, dear God . . .” Some of the starch seemed to leave her.

Was it possible? Was the wrong man imprisoned, leaving 21 still at large? Bentz was skeptical, despite his own gut fears, the similarities to long-ago crimes. He looked back at the photos of the girls. “Tell me what you know about these young women.”

Brianna gave him a rundown on the Denning twins’ disappearance, how she was involved, what she and the girls’ mother, Selma Denning, had learned this morning in Baton Rouge before returning to New Orleans, where Brianna only stopped to print out photos of the missing girls. She explained how unlikely it was that they wouldn’t show up for work or respond to phone calls and texts. She told of the lack of concern they’d encountered in Baton Rouge, and why she felt the twin girls were at risk.

“What’s your personal interest in the 21 Killer?” he prodded.

She explained that she was a twin herself, as well as a cousin of the Caldwell twins and their brother, Donovan. She’d begun studying the case because of the family connection, and then sort of fell into it. And therein lay the kicker. Not only had she studied the crimes of record; she thought she’d found two more recent incidences of the 21’s macabre activity.

Reaching into her beat-up leather bag, she found a sheaf of papers and slid them across his desk. “Zoe and Chloe Denning are . . . or might be the latest of his victims, but they’re not the only ones. I couldn’t prove that he was still working when I went to LA.”

“But you can now?”

Her gaze drilled into his and silently assured him that she was dead right. At least in her mind. He glanced down at the pages, most of them articles taken from the Internet. Two sets of twins who had gone missing in the past six months, twin brothers in Phoenix, a sister and a brother in Dallas.

“These kids all disappeared not long before their twenty-first birthdays. To my knowledge none of them has been located.”

“They’re still considered missing, right?” He narrowed his eyes, the knot of dread in his stomach tightening as he scanned the pages of information. “No bodies?”

“Not yet.”

He glanced up.

“They’re out there, somewhere.” She was nodding, as if agreeing with herself. “He’s hidden them.”

“Just because they can’t be located—”

“Twins. Every one of them. Twenty years old. Went missing only weeks or days before they turned twenty-one. Don’t you find that strange?”

“Could be unrelated.”

“But not necessarily.” Her eyes darkened a bit. “Look, Detective,” she said. “I wish to God that I believed for even a second that they were still alive. But I don’t. And my guess is, when you dig a little deeper into this, you won’t either.” Her anger washed away into worry. “And now, Zoe and Chloe . . . Jesus, I hope I’m wrong.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. Bentz had never been completely convinced that Caldwell had been the killer, but he’d been off the case since he’d moved to New Orleans, long before Donovan was collared.

“LA was his killing ground.”

“Was,” she repeated. “He’s on the move. Heading east.”

She held his gaze for a second as he scanned the news articles again.

“Now, he’s here because of you.”

“Me?” He lifted his head to stare at her. “Why?”

“Because you were one of the first detectives on the case. There was a big gap when he killed, twelve years, right?” When he nodded, she went on. “The first time when you were the lead detective on the case, and then a dozen years later when you went to LA on a different case, something more personal,” she said.

The muscles in his back tightened when he remembered that trip and the reasons he’d ended up in LA, a place he’d left years before and a place he’d vowed to never return. He met this serious woman’s gaze. So far, she had her facts straight. “That’s right.”

“And I bet there was some speculation at the time that the reason he’d quit was that he’d moved on, or had been imprisoned or was somehow out of commission. Did anyone suggest that your appearance in Southern California might have spurred the new killings?”

“There was discussion, yeah. Never any real proof.”

“So what if that’s right? What if you are the impetus for him to start killing again?”

“I’ve never worked in Phoenix or Dallas.”

She waved away the argument. “He was on his way east and opportunity struck.”

“21 doesn’t leave much to chance.”

“Whatever,” she said, her gaze level. “My guess is he’s taunting you, but really, who knows?”

He wanted to dismiss her, to believe that she was dead wrong and the killer was locked away forever, but he saw desperation in her eyes. “Okay, so just for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right, so 21 does what? Drives to Phoenix to find his next victims?”

“Maybe he didn’t choose Phoenix. Maybe he found out via the Internet or mutual acquaintances that there were twins about to turn twenty-one, so he drove there.”

Bentz sifted through the papers and found the Missing Persons Report for Garrett and Gavin Reeves, who had disappeared in early February, three days before their twenty-first birthday. “Men?” he said, staring at the photos from the driver’s licenses of the two brothers. They appeared identical.

“I know that 21 usually targeted women.”

“Only women.”

“That you know of,” she said, then added, “or until now. Sometimes a killer’s MO changes due to outside influences.”

Unlikely. The homicides had been ritualistic, the victims left naked, a sexual element to them. And yet . . . Bentz shifted the pages and read the next reports. As he scanned the information, the knot in his gut twisted. According to what was written, Beau January of Dallas, Texas, and his twin sister, Belle, had vanished. Beau, who lived in east Dallas, hadn’t shown up for work about a month before his twenty-first birthday. After his family had no luck locating him, his twin sister, Belle, had gone looking for him nearly three weeks later and never returned. “Beau January went missing the middle of April and his twin sister the first week in May?” he said aloud, scanning the reports, then their pictures. “Their twenty-first birthday was May tenth.”

“That’s right.”

His jaw tightened. “And the LAPD knows about these?”

“They do now. I faxed over the information to Detective Hayes last week, once I found out about it.”

“Wait. You live here, right?” he asked, and she nodded. “So if you didn’t have proof when you went to LA, why did you go?”

Her gaze flickered and he wondered if she was going to lie to him. “I was out there visiting relatives. Including Donovan Caldwell,” she admitted. Then quickly added, “The point is, 21 is still at large. He didn’t just land in Louisiana, Detective. He came here with the express intent of flaunting the fact that he’s smarter than the first detective in the case against him.”

“You think you can see inside the mind of a serial killer?” he asked.

“Maybe.” She was suddenly defensive, her patience obviously wearing thin.

“Why’s that?”

“I’m a psychologist.”

Holy Mother Mary. A shrink. Just what he needed. “Criminal psychologist?”

“Crime isn’t my speciality, but I’ve taken classes—”

“Perfect.” A shrink, but also a student of criminal psychology? And related to Donovan Caldwell? This was going nowhere and fast.

As if reading his mind, she said, “My credentials aren’t important. If I’m right, it means that the 21 Killer is still out there and he’s got Zoe and Chloe Denning and we have to find them. ASAP. I need your help, Detective.”

He felt the chill of déjà vu run through his bones. Hadn’t another woman, one he thought might be a lunatic, come raging into this very office years ago? Swearing she could “see” the crimes of a killer, she’d ranted in front of his desk. Hadn’t he scoffed at her, written her off as a nut job, and then eventually become swayed that she knew something? That woman, Olivia Benchet, was now his wife.

“Unfortunately, Ms. Hayward, if you’re right, those girls are most likely already dead,” he said, deciding that there was no way to sugarcoat the truth. “According to you, the exact time each twin turned twenty-one has already past.”

She winced as if in pain.

“21 is precise. So let’s hope you’re wrong.”

A knot appeared in her jaw and her fingers stretched and curled on the arms of the chair. “All the more reason not to waste any time.” Frustration yanked her eyebrows together and she appeared to lose what little control she’d had. “The way I see it, Detective Bentz, a homicidal maniac is walking around free because your partner and Bledsoe arrested the wrong man and trumped up their case against him. Not only is the wrong man serving time in a hellhole of a prison, but the real killer is at large.” She was angry now, at the end of her rope, and she wasn’t holding back. “Any other victims who die at his hand, including Garrett and Gavin Reeves, Beau and Belle January, and now probably Chloe and Zoe Denning, will be dead due to police negligence. I was hoping you would be different from the other detectives I talked to, that you might actually give a damn since you’re some sort of hero cop around here.”

“I’m no hero—”

“I’ve read about the cases you’ve solved, how you’ve put your life on the line, nearly got killed a while back. But maybe they’ve got it all wrong about you here in New Orleans. Maybe that bad shooting, the incident in LA that has been conveniently swept under the rug, is what you’re really made of.” Her color was high now, her ire palpable. “I was hoping that you would actually give a damn about the 21 Killer, the fact that the wrong man is in prison and that twins have been kidnapped. I thought you would care, Detective, but I guess I was wrong!”

“Hey,” Montoya said, suddenly filling the doorway and taking in the scene. “Is there a problem here?”

Bentz scowled as he glanced at his partner. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Then do something!” Brianna said.

“Whoa!” Montoya was inside Bentz’s small office in an instant. He was bristling, his shoulder muscles bunching under his shirt.

Bentz lifted a hand to silently calm his partner. “I’ve got this.”

“I hope so, because I expect you”—she jabbed a finger in his direction—“you and every man on the force here and in Baton Rouge to find Zoe and Chloe Denning before it’s too late!” She flung a business card onto the desk, hooked the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and then motioned to the papers still in his hands. “Those are your copies.” She turned, giving Montoya the once-over as he stepped out of the way. “I’ve got my own. If you need to get in touch with me, my cell’s listed on my card.” With that she left, striding out of his office as quickly as she’d stepped inside moments before.

As Olivia had years ago. Olivia, too, had been spouting outrageous ideas as well, theories he’d disputed but had proved true. On first meeting Olivia Benchet, he’d thought her a bona-fide nut job and tried to dismiss her. So, who was to say that Brianna Hayward was wrong? Hell, was it possible the LAPD had made a mistake? That the 21 Killer was still at large? And here, in New Orleans. Nah, that was crazy. Right? The evidence, though circumstantial, had been sufficient to sway a jury to convict the brother of Delta and Diana Caldwell for their murders.

His jaw slid to the side and he didn’t like where his thoughts were carrying him.

“What the hell was that all about?” Montoya craned his neck to peer out the doorway and watch her leave.

Bentz reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a near-empty bottle of antacids with his free hand. “Something I’ve got to look into.” He popped the pills, jammed the cap back onto the bottle, and pushed back his chair. As he stood, he stole a glance at his computer screen and noted the leering image of Father John freeze-framed in the security video from the prison.

Great, he thought.

It looked like two of his most difficult cases, both of which he’d thought were closed and nailed shut, had suddenly reopened to converge at this point in time.

What were the chances?

And why had the 21 Killer or a copycat struck right here in Louisiana? “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Montoya asked.

Bentz grabbed his jacket from the hall tree in the corner. “Probably on our next wild-goose chase.”

Zoe opened a bleary eye.

Where was she and why was she so damned wet? Oh, crap! She was only partially wet. The other part of her was covered in mud. Half of her body was in the water, half out on the riverbank. Her arms still hugged the branch that had carried her to this spot, where she must have gotten hung up as the tree limb locked with other snags protruding into the river. Water lapped at her legs. The water, along with the dappled shade provided by the tangled tree limbs, had probably saved her skin from burning in the intense sunlight.

She tried to think past the ache in her forehead. She noticed that the sun was lying low and figured that she’d lain here, from the early morning hours of last night until now when it seemed to be late afternoon. Her thoughts went to Chloe and her heart cracked. Surely she’d gotten away from the madman. Surely she was somewhere safe and alerted the cops. This very minute there were probably hordes of police and volunteers, along with Zoe’s own family and friends, looking for her.

Zoe raised her head.

Pain exploded behind her eyes.

“Ouch! Crap!” Slowly lowering her head, she let out her breath. Geez, that hurt. Even staring upward burned her eyes. Her bare skin was red; though painful as it might be, a sunburn was the least of her problems. As far as she knew the sicko was still after her. After them.

Oh, God, she hoped not. She hoped that psycho was dead.

Nonetheless, she couldn’t just lie here, exposed to the elements, waiting for that creep show to appear. If he wasn’t dead or incapacitated, he’d be looking for her, and he would realize that she had drifted downstream.

Dear God, he could be nearby for all she knew.

Paddling a canoe. Driving a motorboat or hiking through the swampy forest.

“Damn it all to hell.” She watched as several pelicans drifted on the air currents high above, beaks long and wings wide against a sky where clouds moved slowly . . . Or was it her head swimming? She tried to roll over and felt a shaft of pain sear through her ankle. Oh, God, she couldn’t move. She was stuck in this muddy shoreline of twisted tree roots and weeds, a veritable haven for alligators and snakes and God knew what other slithery, dangerous creatures.

But the gators and cottonmouths, copperheads and rattlers were far less dangerous than the beast who had captured Chloe and her just hours before midnight. Had it been yesterday? Or the day before? Surely she had only been “out” for less than a day. Right?

Did it matter?

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her it had been forever since she’d eaten, and her bladder suggested she might want to find a place to relieve herself.

“Great,” she muttered.

More slowly this time, she lifted her head and closed one eye as she suffered through the throbbing beneath her skull. Trying to ignore the worst headache of her life, she surveyed this bend in the river. Surely there would be fishing boats or pleasure craft passing? Even one of those jet boats that roared up and down the slow-moving river, bayou, and inlets.

She squinted, searching through the brush and trying to determine where she was and how she could get out of these swampy woods and back to civilization. She must’ve passed the spot where she’d seen lights in the night. Now there was no sign of civilization. She had to get moving, couldn’t hang around with the vague hope that someone other than the freak would find her. No, she had to find a road, steal a boat, locate someone in a farmhouse or a cabin, or flag someone fishing from a dock. Anyone who could help her.

As she attempted to move, pain splintered up her ankle. She lifted her head to survey the damage. Sure enough a baseball-sized knot, blue-green and bulging, appeared above her foot. Broken or sprained, it didn’t matter. She had to leave this spot. But as the sun lowered even farther to the west, she eased her throbbing head back down and closed her eyes.

Just for a second.