Hot Blooded Page 17

  "Detective Bentz," she said as she swept through the door. Layered reddish hair bounced around a heart-shaped face with cheekbones most models would kill for. Green eyes zeroed in on Bentz and didn't let go.

  Montoya gave her a quick once-over, and, apparently liked what he saw. He'd been about to leave, but now resumed his spot near the file cabinet as she gave him a cursory glance, then leaned across Bentz's desk.

  "Can I talk to you?" Sam demanded. "Now?"

  Bentz's phone rang again.

  "Yeah. Just hold on a sec." He held up one finger and took the call. It was a short conversation from someone in the lab about the type of fibers found on the bodies of the two prostitutes—what manufacturer used the synthetic material for the wigs, specifically the red wigs that were missing from the murder scenes. The report was being faxed to Bentz, and the technician confirmed that the hairs were identical. As every piece of evidence had confirmed they were dealing with one killer and two victims. So far. The Feds would go nuts. He hung up and focused his attention on the woman standing in front of his desk. She was trying to look cool and composed, but she was nervous as a cat. Her fingers fiddled with the strap of her purse, and she shifted from one foot to the other.

  "Have a seat," he offered, then motioned to Montoya. "My partner. Detective Montoya. Reuben—Dr. Leeds, A.K.A. Dr. Sam."

  Samantha eased into one of the worn chairs on the far side of the desk.

  "Pleased to meet you," Montoya oozed, slathering on his Latin charm.

  "Thanks." She nodded. "I assume you were told about what happened last night."

  "Just got the report."

  "What do you think?"

  "That this guy isn't going to give up. That he's got a real vendetta against you." Rolling his sleeves over his elbows, he asked, "What do you think?"

  "I think whoever sent the card thinks I killed Annie Seger and that the caller who identifies himself as John is somehow linked to Annie—though I don't know how. She is dead, you know."

  "Tell me about her."

  Samantha took a minute, leaned back in the chair and cradled her purse in her lap. "I hosted a similar program in Houston nearly ten years ago. A girl who said she was Annie phoned in. She was sixteen, pregnant and scared out of her mind. I tried to help, to steer her in the right direction, but…" Samantha paled and looked out the window. One of her hands fisted, then slowly opened. "I wish… I mean I had no idea how desperate she was and…" Sam's voice trailed off for a second. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat before she controlled herself. "… Annie swore she couldn't confide in anyone and… she killed herself. Obviously someone blames me."

  "And last night someone impersonating Annie called your program," Montoya said.

  "Yes." Sam fiddled with the gold chain surrounding her neck, avoided Bentz's eyes for a second. "It wasn't Annie, of course. I… I went to her funeral, I mean… I was asked to leave, but Annie Seger, the Annie Seger who called me in Houston nine years ago is definitely dead." She blinked hard, but didn't break down.

  "You were kicked out of the funeral?" Bentz asked.

  "The family blamed me."

  He reached for his pen. "The family?"

  "Her parents, Estelle and Jason Faraday."

  "I thought her name was Seger."

  "It is—was. Her mother and biological father were divorced."

  Bentz made a note and caught a glimpse from Montoya as the sound of a track rumbling by on the street below rumbled through the small room. "What about her father?"

  "I—I don't know. I mean, I did some research after the fact… oh, God, I think he lived in the Northwest somewhere." Her eyebrows drew together, and her smooth brow furrowed.

  "His name?"

  "Wally… Oswald Seger, I think. Something like that." She managed a tight, humorless smile. "I knew all this stuff nine years ago. In fact I fed on it. Tried to make some sense of it, but then… well, I decided to let it go."

  Bentz didn't blame her, but it all had to be dragged up again; whoever was terrorizing her had made sure of that. "You have notes? Names, addresses, anything?"

  She hesitated, her eyes thinning. "I think so. I saw the box of notes and tapes and all when I moved. I almost threw it out, but packed it away in the attic with the Christmas ornaments and old tax records. I can get it for you."

  "That would help. Call me when you find it, and I'll have someone pick it up. I'd like to see anything you've got." He made a note and asked, "What else do you remember about Annie? Did she have other relatives and friends?"

  "A brother. Ken, no… Kent."

  "And the boyfriend? The father of her baby."

  "Ryan Zimmerman, I think. He was a couple of years older. A big athlete, I think, but I really can't remember." She shook her head. "I've spent a long time trying to forget." Lines of strain evident around her eyes and mouth. The doc was putting on a pretty good show, but the harassment and threats were getting to her. She was sweating, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes indicated she hadn't slept much in the last couple of days.

  "I heard the tape," Bentz said. "John referred to you being a prostitute again. What's that all about?"

  "He's sick."

  "So there's no truth to it?"

  In an instant, she was out of her chair and leaning over the desk, her hands flat on a stack of letters and files. The defeat he'd witnessed seconds ago had disappeared. Two spots of color tinged her cheeks. "I thought I'd already made this clear!" she said, her green eyes snapping fire. "I have never, not one second in my life been a prostitute of any kind…" Her words faltered, and she closed her eyes as if to pull herself together. Bentz's gut tightened. He saw Montoya tense as well. They'd hit pay dirt. He felt it. "Listen," she said quietly, her face now draining of all color. "I have never sold myself for any amount of money, but there was a time when I was in college where, for a research paper, I got to know a couple of streetwalkers… here, in New Orleans. I went out with them, saw how they made their money, the kind of men who tried to pick them up, how they discerned a good trick from a bad, the whole psychology of the street life. It wasn't just about prostitution but the subculture of the city at night." She slowly sat down and looked straight at him.' "But I don't see what that would have to do with anything…"

  "You did this for a class?" Montoya cut in, obviously doubting her.

  "Yes!" She whipped her head around. "I got an A."

  "Any way we can verify that you were enrolled?"

  "Look, I didn't come down here to be humiliated. If you doubt me you could check with my professor… oh, God." She bit down hard on her back teeth and looked up at the ceiling as if searching for cobwebs. "What?"

  "He's my ex-husband," she admitted and gave her head a little shake. "I, uh, was his student. But you can call him. Dr. Jeremy Leeds at Tulane."

  "We'll look into it." She seemed suddenly tired, nearly wilted in the chair. As if her outburst had taken all the fire out of her. But she'd get it back. Bentz knew people, and this woman, he was certain, was a fighter.

  "Who knows where you park your car?"

  "Everyone at the station. We all use that garage. And… some of my friends, I guess. It wouldn't be hard to figure out as it's the closest garage to the building where I work, and my car is pretty distinctive, a 1966 Mustang." Her fists curled in her lap. "Look, Detective, last night I was scared out of my wits," she admitted. "And I don't like the feeling."

  "I don't blame you. If I were you, I wouldn't go out alone, and I wasn't kidding about changing the locks and getting a rottweiler. Maybe even a bodyguard."

  She was standing now, her backbone stiff again, her temper snapping. "A bodyguard?" she repeated. "That's rich. You know, it really ticks me off that this guy is winning, that he knows where I live, where I work and what I drive. I shouldn't have to change my lifestyle because of some creep."

  "You're right, you shouldn't have to, but you do," Rick said evenly, holding her gaze, hoping to get through to her. "In my opinion, Ms. Leeds, this gu
y is dangerous. He's escalating his threats, becoming bolder and since we don't know who he is and what makes him tick, you have to be extremely careful and take extra precautions whether you like it or not. I'll call the PD in Cambrai and make sure your street is patrolled frequently and we'll take care of the neighborhood of your offices when you're at work. We'll try to nail this guy's ass, but we can't do it without your help, okay?"

  "That's why I'm here," she said.

  "And we'll do the best we can."

  "Thanks." She stood, offered both him and Montoya her hand, then, swinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she walked out the door, unaware that Reuben was watching her hips sway beneath her skirt or the fact that she slightly favored one leg.

  He gave off a soft whistle. "If she decides she needs a bodyguard, you let me know cuz I would loooove to guard that sweet lady's ass."

  "I'll keep it in mind," Bentz said dryly, and wondered at the connection of the caller to a dead girl in Houston. "Let's find out everything we can on Annie Seger. Who she hung out with, where she lived, her family, boyfriend, the whole nine yards. Check out everyone associated with Dr. Sam." He tapped a pencil eraser on the edge of the desk. "This case is getting weirder by the minute."

  "Maybe it's supposed to," Reuben offered, scratching at his goatee as he stared thoughtfully at the path through the desks Samantha Leeds had taken.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You've tuned in, haven't you? Aren't you interested?"

  "It's part of the case."

  "I know, I know," Reuben said, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, "but I'm just willing to bet that ratings are up on Dr. Sam's show, and that's got to be good for business. So bring on the weird. In fact the weirder the better."

  "You think it's a setup?"

  "I think it could be." He flashed his sly smile. "It's just like those tell-all television programs where the host introduces a normal-looking couple, then brings out the chick the guy is cheating with and the two women get into it… it's all set up ahead of time. It has to be, and the audience and viewers get into it. The next thing you know, another guy comes out—the husband's brother or sister and it turns out the wife has been banging him… or her. Now the audience is in a frenzy."

  Bentz leaned back in his chair, holding the pencil in two hands, rolling it in his fingers. "You figure Dr. Sam is in on it?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. She seems genuinely scared, but then she might be a trained actress; she's on the radio for Christ's sake. But this happened before and the same team worked with her, right? George Hannah and Eleanor Cavalier for starters? Maybe there are others. I'll bet next week's paycheck that someone at the station knows what's going on and that there's money involved."

  "You always think money's involved," Bentz grumbled, though, he'd had similar thoughts himself. He'd met George Hannah, thought the guy was a pompous ass at best, a downright cheat at worst. The station manager, a sharp black lady, was known as a ball-breaker, and Montoya was right, they'd both worked with Dr. Sam in Houston—that much Bentz did know. He cracked his knuckles and thought. What bothered him most was that he had a gut feeling that somehow the guy who called in to Dr. Sam in the middle of the night was connected to the murders of the prostitutes. There wasn't much to go on—just the hair from red wigs, so like Samantha Leeds's, the photograph with the cut out eyes, like the blackened eyes on the hundred-dollar bills. Not much at all.

  "And I'm right," Montoya was saying, "99 percent of the time in these types of crimes, money changes hands."

  "Why then would John call after hours? What good would that do? No one heard him."

  "It could be all part of the scam, let that leak out to the press that the stalker has been calling not only during the program but after, and if the doctor isn't in on it, she'd be even more freaked out. The nutcase is making it personal."

  That stuck in Bentz's craw, but he couldn't argue the logic. "Then prove it," he said to Montoya, and the cocky young buck threw him a self-assured I'm-a-bad-ass smile.

  "I will."

  Morons.

  The police were morons.

  Didn't they get it? Didn't they see a connection?

  Couldn't they put two and fucking-two together?

  Outside the cabin bullfrogs croaked. The steamy bayou night floated in through the open windows and the cracks in the walls. He slapped at a mosquito as he read the article on his most recent killing, buried deep in the paper, about as far from front-page news as it could get.

  No word had leaked to the press about the murders being linked, yet he'd been careful to leave all the clues… fuck it, he thought, clipping out the pathetic article with his knife, making sure he cut straight, leaving some margins, as moonlight sliced through the rising mist, filtering into the tiny room to add an opalescence to the light of his single lantern. He was hot. Uncomfortable. Restless. He'd have to do something more to get their attention. And it was time. He glanced through the window, saw the shadow of a bat as it flew by, and felt his heart rate accelerate.

  His breathing was shallow as he switched on his radio and heard the familiar strains of "Hard Day's Night" playing over the static, and then her voice. Low. Sultry. Sexy as hell.

  "Hello, New Orleans, and welcome. This is Doctor Sam at WSLJ, and it's time again for Midnight Confessions, a program that's as good for the heart as it is for the soul. Tonight we'll be talking about high school. Remember? For some of you it's going on right now, for others it's been a while, maybe longer than you want to admit."

  "Nonetheless, we've all experienced going to high school either private or public, run by the church or the state. And we all felt peer pressure and the urge to rebel, experienced the sweet pangs of first love and the sting of rejection."

  "Remember your first day of school? How nervous you felt? How about the first time you saw your high-school sweetheart? Your first crush? Your first kiss… and maybe a whole lot more. Tell me about it, New Orleans… Confess…"

  Blood thundered through his brain. High school? The cunt wanted to talk about high school? And first love?

  Sweat broke out over his forehead and slithered down his spine. He walked to the cupboard and as he pinned his trophy—the minuscule scrap of newsprint—inside the door, he conjured up Dr. Sam's face.

  Perfect white skin, hair a deep, dark red, full lips that covered a razor-sharp tongue and eyes the color of jade. And just as cold. God, she was a turn-on. And a bitch. He listened to her voice, luring the innocent to call in, to confess, to ask her for advice.

  "Who's on the line?"

  "This here's Randy."

  You and me both, he thought, his erection pressing hard against the fly of his jeans.

  "What's going on, Randy?"

  "Well, uh, high school was a big deal for me. I was a football player, down in Tallahassee and, um, I met my wife there. She was the homecomin' queen and man, she was purty. I never seen a woman so purty as Vera Jean."

  Oh, yeah, yeah, so who cares?

  "And what did you do about it?"

  "I married her, that's what I did. Thirty-five years now. We got us four children and two grandchildren with another on the way."

  "So high school was a good experience for you?"

  "Yes'm. It sure was. But fer my kids, it was a different story. The oldest he got involved with drugs, the second, well, she did all right I guess, but the third. She got herself in a family way as a junior and the boy was a no'count. Wouldn't marry her."

  "How's your daughter today?" Dr. Sam asked, as if she cared, as if she could offer some advice.

  His lip curled. He had two hours, then he'd call. Give a warning… yeah, tell her it was about to come down. And then he'd hunt.

  Another woman would do tonight, he thought as he listened to her voice and wanted to jerk off. If only he could be with her. He touched himself briefly, the tips of his fingers brushing against his fly, but no… not this way… not until the time was right. There were things he had to do. Wrongs he had to right. Women… a
ll those women who reminded him of Annie, lying, whoring cunts and the one man he had to deal with, a man who had betrayed Annie. Judas! You, too, will pay. Rage seared through his blood and screamed through his head as he heard Dr. Sam's voice.

  Blood pounded in his ears as the low, dulcet tones of her voice reached out to him, from the city, across the swamp.

  And he couldn't have Dr. Sam—not tonight. The timing wasn't right. And he had something else planned for her, a surprise. For Annie's birthday. If all went according to plan, Dr. Sam would find his special present tomorrow night. He only wished he could see her face when she got his gift, but he couldn't risk it. He'd have to wait. Until just the right moment.

  But soon… Oh, God, it had to be soon… Lust, anger, revenge and need, his need was so great. His cock throbbed. He'd have to substitute again… find another whore to quiet the rage that tore through his soul, to sate the need coursing through his veins, to sacrifice.

  He knew he was a sinner, but he couldn't help himself… His blood was on fire.

  He reached into his pocket and drew out his special rosary. The sharp beads glittered in the light from the lantern, winking at him, promising him they would do his bidding.

  Then he fell on his knees and began to pray.

  As Dr. Sam spoke to him through the little radio, he fingered the sharp beads and whispered, "Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit…"

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sam nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw the man on her porch. Then she realized it was Ty. She hadn't expected to see anyone, but smiled to herself. There was something right about him reclining on the front-porch swing, jean-clad legs outstretched, a bottle of beer cradled between his hands, his face cast in shadow where the weak light of the single bulb on the porch didn't quite reach. He seemed at home there. Calm. Rocking gently to the music of the wind chimes and cicadas. And yet there was a restless quality to him, a darkness she didn't understand, a danger that lured her as much as it frightened her.