Cold Blooded

Book 2: Bentz/Montoya Novel

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Best-selling author of Hot Blooded, Lisa Jackson reunites detectives Rick Bentz and Reuben Montoya in this gripping psychological thriller. As a serial killer terrorizes New Orleans, the detectives enlist the aid of psychic Olivia Benchet. As the beautiful Olivia paints a vivid portrait of the man they seek, Bentz finds himself thinking of nothing but seducing her. But as the killer claims yet another victim, Bentz realizes that both Olivia and his daughter Kristi are the next targets.

Release date: December 30, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 480

Sample

He saw her.

Half-running, head bent, fingers clutched at the hood of her coat, she hurried through the darkness to the small church.

From his hiding spot beneath the magnolia tree, The Chosen One waited. His blood began to sing through his veins as he crouched in the darkness, every muscle tense, nerves strung tight as piano wire.

How easy it would be to catch her. In three swift strides he could be upon her and drag her away. While her father waited inside. That particular thought appealed to him, was warm seduction.

But it wasn’t her time, he reminded himself. There were others.

She paused beneath the overhang near the front doors, tossing off her hood and shaking her hair free. Long and wavy, the strands gleamed a tempting red brown in the lamplight. The Chosen One swallowed and felt the first stirring between his legs.

He wanted her.

So badly he ached.

Just looking at her, his senses were heightened. He heard his heart beating, felt his blood pulse through his veins, smelled the heavy odor of the Mississippi River winding dark and slow through the town where traffic whined on slick streets and sin was waged at every corner.

As she disappeared through the doors, he edged deeper into the dense foliage of the grounds to his hiding spot near the flawed stained-glass window. A tiny panel of glass had been removed and replaced by a small clear pane, giving a perfect view into the nave. Crouching, The Chosen One peered through this portal and he watched as she walked down the aisle, genuflected, then slid into the pew to take her seat next to her father. The bastard cop.

They exchanged a few words before she planted herself next to him.

Once seated, she fidgeted in the pew. Looked bored. As if she’d rather be anywhere than at evening mass with her father. She flipped her long hair this way and that, glanced at the others as they entered, slumped onto her lower back to bite at one fingernail as dozens of candles burned.

The Chosen One let his gaze move to the cop.

The enemy.

He was a solid man, over six feet. His jaw was square, his eyes deep-set and world-weary, showing his forty-plus years. Rick Bentz was a detective whose tarnished reputation had been polished to a recent sheen, his past sins forgotten if not forgiven. In his black suit and starched shirt, he appeared more uncomfortable than his daughter, definitely out of place in the house of God.

As well he should be.

Tugging on his tie, Bentz leaned closer to the girl and whispered into her ear. Immediately she stopped biting at her nails and straightened in the pew. She folded her arms over her abdomen defiantly and inadvertently raised her breasts, making them plump a bit at the neckline of her dress. White supple flesh against turquoise silk.

The Chosen One imagined what was hidden beneath that smooth fabric … rosebud nipples, virgin skin, and lower, a dark nest of curls the same reddish brown as that luxurious tangle of copper that tumbled to her shoulders.

He thought of her as the princess.

Her father’s pride and joy.

Athlete, scholar, and … a little naughty. Rebellious. It was there, in her eyes. He’d seen it before. Heard it in her deep, sexy laughter.

She glanced toward the window with her wide green eyes. The Chosen One froze in his hiding spot.

Her mouth pulled into a tiny, defiant pout.

His cock responded. Just a little twinge.

He imagined what those lips might do with the right sort of prodding … Closed his eyes, felt the cool caress of the rain running down his neck as his fingers strayed to his crotch.

His erection stiffened to full mast. Hard. Throbbing. Anticipating.

Soon, Princess, he thought. Soon. But I must take care of the others first. Then it will be your turn.

Be patient.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

His eyes flew open at the sound of his watch’s timer. He clicked off the alarm and bit back a swear word. That was careless. Unlike him. Angry with himself, The Chosen One took one last glimpse of the church’s interior and found the princess still staring at the window. As if she knew he was there.

Quickly he ducked from beneath the tree and jogged through the curtain of rain. He’d stayed much too long. Furious with himself, he picked up his pace, long legs sprinting easily across the wet lawn to the corner, where he turned down a narrow alley, ran three blocks, then doubled back to a parking space in front of an abandoned, boarded-over building that had once been a garage.

He was sweating, not from exertion but anxiety as he climbed into the older car with its tinted windows. He stripped off his running clothes and gloves, then folded them neatly into a leather duffel.

Soon it would be time.

Soon Rick Bentz would feel the pain of losing that which he held most dear.

But first Bentz needed to know what was at risk; he had to feel real fear—a dark, gnawing dread that would eat at him when he realized that everything he did, everywhere he turned, every place he’d once held sacred, would no longer be safe.

A smile crept across The Chosen One’s jaw as he withdrew a towel from his bag. Quickly he swiped the rough terry cloth over his face and neck. Then he took the time to check the rearview mirror. Blue eyes stared back at him. Hungry eyes. “Bedroom eyes,” he’d been told by more than one woman who was foolish enough to think he could be seduced.

But … beneath his gaze he caught the merest glimmer of a shadow, something wrong, out of sync in the reflection. As if someone were watching him. He snapped his head around, stared through the foggy rear window to see if the mirror’s reflection had caught someone peering into the car. He squinted through the raindrops and fog of condensation.

Nothing moved outside.

There was no one around on this deserted street. And yet he felt … a connection somewhere. This wasn’t the first time; he’d sensed a presence on several occasions. Each time the feeling became a little more certain, a tad more intense. Sweat rolled down his temples. His heart hammered wildly.

Paranoia … that’s what it is. Stay cool. Keep focused.

There was no one in this desolate part of town, no one who could possibly see through the smoky glass windows of the sedan on this gloomy night.

He had to calm down. Be patient. Everything was coming together.

Rick Bentz’s worst nightmare had already begun. He just didn’t know it yet.

“You need a woman,” Reuben Montoya observed as he pulled the police cruiser into the lot of Bentz’s apartment.

“Good. Maybe I could borrow one of yours.” Bentz reached for the handle of the door. What he didn’t need was any advice from a young cop with more balls than brains as evidenced by the earring winking in Montoya’s ear and the neatly trimmed goatee covering his chin. The younger detective was smart as hell, but still a little wet behind the ears. And he didn’t know when to keep his nose in his own business.

“Hey, I’m a one-woman man these days,” Montoya insisted and Bentz snorted.

“Right.”

“I mean it.” Montoya slammed the cruiser’s gearshift lever into park, then reached into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

“If you say so.”

“I could set you up.” Montoya was a young cop, not quite thirty, with smooth bronze skin, a killer smile, and enough ambition to propel him out of his poor Hispanic roots and through college on an athletic scholarship. Not only had he kicked the living hell out of a soccer ball, but he’d made the dean’s list every semester and then, upon graduation, with his future as bright as the damned sun, he decided to become a cop.

Go figure.

Montoya shook out a filter tip, lit up, and blew a cloud of smoke. “I know this nice older lady, a friend of my mother’s—”

“Can it.” Bentz shot him a look meant to shut him up. “Forget it. I’m okay.”

Montoya didn’t back off. “You’re definitely not okay. You live alone, never go out, and work your tail off for a department that doesn’t appreciate you. That’s your life.”

“I’ll bring it up when I’m up for my next raise,” he said and climbed out of the passenger seat. It was a cool night; the wind rolling off the river had a winter edge to it.

“All I’m sayin’ is that you need a life, man. Your kid’s gone off to school and you should have some fun.”

“I have plenty.”

“My ass.”

“ ‘Night, Montoya.” He slammed the door of the Crown Vic shut, then made his way into the building. A woman. Yeah, that would solve his problems. He grabbed the evening paper and his mail on the ground level, then climbed up the stairs to his second-floor unit. What did Montoya know?

Shit. That’s what the kid knew: shit.

Bentz had learned long ago that women only added to his problems; and he’d learned from the master.

Jennifer.

Beautiful.

Intelligent.

Sexy as hell.

His wife.

The one woman he’d given his heart to; the only woman he’d allowed to break it and break it she had. On more than one occasion. With the same damned man. He unlocked the door and snapped on the lights.

Hurt me once, shame on you.

Hurt me twice, shame on me.

Tossing his keys onto the desk, he shed his jacket and yanked off his tie. God, he could use a beer and a smoke. But not a woman. Trouble was, he’d sworn off all three. No messages on the answering machine. Montoya was right. His social life was nil. He worked out by pounding the hell out of a boxing bag that hung in the second bedroom, didn’t even belong to a bowling league or golf club. He’d given up sailing and hunting years ago, along with high-stakes poker and Jim Beam.

Rolling up his sleeves, he walked to the refrigerator and stared at the dismal contents. Even the freezer, where he usually kept a couple of those frozen man-sized microwave meals, was empty. He grabbed a can of nonalcoholic beer and popped the top, then clicked on the TV. A sportscaster started rattling off the day’s scores while highlights flashed in rapid-fire images across the screen.

He settled into his recliner and told himself that Montoya was way off base. He didn’t need a social life. He had his work and he still had Kristi, even if she was off at school in Baton Rouge. He glanced at the telephone and thought about calling her, but he’d phoned last Sunday and had sensed she was irritated; hated him intruding on her newfound freedom at college, acted as if he was checking up on her.

He turned his attention back to the tube, where highlights of Monday night’s Saints game was being replayed. He’d grab a sandwich at the local po’boy shop two blocks over then open up his briefcase and catch up on some paperwork. He had a couple of reports to write and he wanted to pull his notes together; then there were a few open cases that were going stale; he’d need to look them over again, see if there was anything he missed the first, second, third, and fourth times through.

He had plenty to do.

Montoya was wrong. Bentz didn’t need a woman. He was pretty sure no one did.

Olivia didn’t like the lawyer. Never had. Never would. She couldn’t imagine how her grandmother could have trusted anyone so obviously crooked. Ramsey John Dodd, who liked to be called RJ, was as oily as Grannie Gin’s fried chicken and twice as plump. “… so the estate’s all wrapped up, the taxes and fees paid, all the heirs having gotten their disbursements. If you want to sell the house, now’s the time.” From the other side of his oversized desk in this hole-in-the-wall he called an office, Ramsey John tented his pudgy hands together and patted his fingertips. Behind him, trapped between the blinds and the only window in the airless office, a fly that should have died days ago buzzed in frustration, banging against the glass.

“I’m still not sure about moving.”

“Well, when and if you decide, I could put you in touch with a good real estate man.”

I’ll just bet you could.

“Wally’s a real go-getter.”

“I’ll let you know,” she said, standing abruptly to end the conversation and help disguise the fact that she was lying through her teeth. She wouldn’t give any associate of RJ Dodd the time of day much less any business.

He shrugged the shoulders of his too-tight suit as if it were no matter, but Olivia sensed his disappointment. No doubt he would have gotten a kickback for any referral that panned out.

“Thanks for all your help.”

“My pleasure.”

She shook his sweaty palm and dropped it.

Her grandmother could usually smell a con man six miles away. How in the world had she ended up with this snake? Because his services come cheap, was the obvious answer. Aside from that, RJ was a nephew of one of Grannie’s friends.

“Just one thing that troubles me,” RJ said as he forced himself from his squeaky chair.

“What’s that?”

“How come you ended up with the house and contents, and your mama, she only got the insurance money?”

“You’re the lawyer. You tell me.”

“Virginia would never say.”

Olivia offered him a weak smile. He was fishing and she didn’t understand why. “I guess Grannie just liked me better.”

His fleshy jaw tightened. “That could be, I suppose. I didn’t know her very well, just enough to figure out that she was an odd woman, you know. Some people around these parts claim she was a voodoo priestess. That she read fortunes in tarot cards and tea leaves and the like, you know. ESP.”

“Well, you can’t always believe what you hear, can you?” she said, trying to change the subject. It touched a little too close to home.

“They say you inherited it.”

“Is that what you want to know, Mr. Dodd? If I’m psychic?”

“It’s RJ,” he reminded her, grinning and showing off the hint of a gold molar. “No reason to get your back up. I was just makin’ conversation.”

“Why don’t you ask my mother about all this?”

“Bernadette claims she didn’t inherit the gift if that’s what you want to call it, but that you did.”

“Oh, I see … it skips a generation. Of course.” Olivia smiled at him as if to say only an idiot would believe such prattle. There was no reason to confirm or deny the rumors. She knew only too well how true they were. It just wasn’t any of Ramsey Dodd’s business. She hoped it would never be.

“Listen,” he suggested, stepping more agilely around the desk than a man his size should have been capable of. “A word of advice. Free.” He seemed to drop his usual pomposity. “I know your grannie thought a lot of you. I also know that she was … an unusual woman, that because of her visions, she was considered odd. Some people trusted her with their lives. My aunt was one of ‘em. But others, they thought she was into the dark arts or crazy or both. It didn’t make her life any easier, so if I was you, I’d keep my mouth closed about any of that vision shit.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Do that … It would have behooved your grandmother.”

“Is there anything else?” she asked.

“Nope. That’s it. You take care.”

“I will. Thanks again for all your help.” She stuffed the manila folder he’d given her into her backpack.

“It’s been a pleasure workin’ with you. Now, if you change your mind about Sellin’ the place, just give me a jingle and I’ll have Wally call ya …”

She didn’t wait for him to escort her to the door, but showed herself out through the paneled reception area where a single secretary was poised at a desk situated on a shabby carpet that stretched between three offices, two of which looked vacant as the name plates upon the doors had been unscrewed, leaving telltale holes in the thin veneer. Grannie sure could pick ‘em.

Outside, she crossed a parking lot where the potholes had been patched and climbed into her truck. So RJ knew about her trips to the police department. Great. It was probably all over town, would probably get back to her boss at the Third Eye and even to the University, where she was taking graduate classes.

Wonderful. She rammed the old Ford Ranger into gear and roared out of the lot. She didn’t want to think about the visions she’d had, the glimmers of evil that she sometimes felt rather than saw. Disjointed, kaleidoscopic shards of horrid events that cut through her brain, made her skin rise in goose bumps, and troubled her so much that she’d actually visited the local police.

Where she was considered a nutcase and had been practically laughed out of the building.

Heat climbed her neck at the thought. She flipped on the radio and took a corner a little too fast. The Ranger’s tires screeched in protest.

Sometimes being Virginia Dubois’s granddaughter was more pain than it was worth.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” the naked woman whispered, unable to speak loudly, unable to scream because of the tight collar at her neck. On her knees, chained to the pedestal sink, she obviously didn’t begin to recognize the magnitude of her sins or the reason that she was being punished, that he was actually saving her.

“Tell me,” The Chosen One whispered. “What sins?”

“For … for …” Her terrified eyes bulged and blinked as she tried to think, but she wasn’t penitent. Just scared. Saying what she hoped would convince him to set her free. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “For all my sins,” she said desperately, trying to please him, not knowing it was impossible; that her destiny was preordained.

She was quivering with fear and shivering in the cold, but that would soon change. A bit of smoke was already beginning to waft into the tiny bathroom through the vents. Flames would soon follow. There wasn’t much time. “Please,” she rasped. “Let me go, for the love of God!”

“What would you know about God’s love?” he demanded, then, tamping down his anger, he placed a gloved hand upon her head, as if to calm her, and from somewhere outside, through the cracked window he heard a car backfire on the wintry streets. He had to finish this. Now. Before the fire attracted attention. “You’re a sinner, Cecilia, and as such you will have to pay for your sins.”

“You’ve got the wrong woman! I’m not … her … I’m not Cecilia. Please. Let me go. I won’t say a word, I promise, no one will ever know this happened, I swear.” She clutched at the hem of his alb. Desperate. And dirty. She was a whore. Like the others. He turned his attention to the radio sitting on the windowsill and swiftly turned the knob. The sound of familiar music wafted through the speakers, fading to the sound of a woman’s sultry voice.

“This is Dr. Sam, with one last thought on this date when John F. Kennedy, one of our finest presidents, was killed … Take care of yourself, New Orleans. Good night and God bless. No matter what your troubles are today, there’s always tomorrow … Sweet dreams …”

He turned the dial, switching stations, and heard the static and chirps of announcers’ voices until he found what he wanted: pipe organ music. Full. As if echoing in a cathedral.

Now it could be done.

As the whore watched, he withdrew his sword from behind the shower curtain.

“Oh, God. No!” She was frantic now, pulling at the chain as the collar tightened even further.

“It’s too late.” His voice was measured and calm, but inside he was shaking, trembling, not with fear but anticipation. Adrenalin, his favorite drug, sang through his veins. From the corner of his eye he noticed flames beginning to lick through the screen of the vent. The time had come.

“No, please, don’t … oh, God …” She was clawing at her tether now, vainly trying to hide behind the pedestal as the collar tightened, her wrists and ankles bleeding and raw from her bonds. “You’ve got the wrong woman!”

His pulse throbbed, pounded in his brain. For a second he felt a tingle against the back of his neck, like the breath of Satan. He glanced at the mirror, searching the shimmering surface, looking beneath the reflection of his own image, his face hidden in a tight black mask, but feeling as if someone were watching through the glass. Witnessing his act.

But that was impossible.

Sweat slid into his eyes as he lifted his sword so high his arm ached. Smoke burned in his lungs. Blood lust ran through his veins as he grabbed a fistful of hair in his free hand. He stared down at her perfect neck surrounded by the choke collar. He was hard between his legs, his erection nearly painful. Oh, how he would love to thrust into her body, to taste of her before absolving her of her sins. But that was not his mission. Denying himself of such wicked pleasure was his own act of martyrdom.

“For your sins, Cecilia,” he said, biting out the words as ripples of pleasure passed through him, “and in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I commit your soul to God.”

“No!”

Olivia’s eyes flew open.

Her own scream echoed through her small bedroom. The dog gave up a sharp “Woof!”

“Oh, God, no.” Her heart was a drum, her body drenched in sweat, the vivid dream lingering as clearly as if she’d just witnessed a murder. Again. Oh, God, it was happening again.

The vision was so damned real. Her nostrils still stung from the smell of smoke, her ears rang with that eerie pipe organ music, her mouth was dry as cotton, her throat raw from her scream. A blinding headache started at the base of her skull and moved upward.

She glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen. Her hands shook as she pushed the hair from her face.

At the foot of the old bed, her grandmother’s mutt lifted his head and was staring at her. Yawning, he emitted another warning bark.

“Come here, you,” she said, patting the pillow as Hairy S stretched. He was all scraggly bits of fur, mottled gray and brown with splotches of white, heavy eyebrows that hinted of some schnauzer hidden back in his bloodlines. He whined, then belly-swamped up to the pillows next to her. Absently, she pulled him close, needing something to cling to. She ruffled his coarse coat and wished she could tell him it would be all right. But it wouldn’t. She knew better. She buried her face in his fur and tried to calm down. Maybe it was a mistake … maybe it was just a dream … maybe … no way. She knew what the images meant.

“Crap.”

She scooted up to a sitting position. Calm down. But she was still shaking, the headache beginning to pound. Hairy S wriggled out of her arms.

“Damn you, Grannie Gin,” she muttered as the sounds of the night floated in through the open window, the rustle of the wind moving through the trees underscored by the hum of traffic, eighteen-wheelers on the distant freeway.

Dropping her head into her hands, she massaged her temples. Why me? Why? The visions had started at a young age, before she could really remember, but they had been less defined then, and rare. In the off-and-on-again times when her mother had lived with them, the times between husbands.

Bernadette had never wanted to believe that her daughter had inherited her grandmother’s psychic gift.

“Coincidence,” Bernadette had told her child often enough, or, “You’re making this up. It’s just a cheap attempt to get attention! Now, knock it off, Livvie, and quit listening to Grandma. She’s touched in the head, you know, and if you aren’t careful … You hear me?” she’d said sharply, shaking her daughter as if to drive out the monsters in her brain. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll be touched too, not by some ridiculous gift of sight as Grannie claims, but by the devil. Satan never sleeps. Do you hear me? Never.”

Once Bernadette had pointed a long red-tipped nail at the end of her eldest daughter’s nose. They had been in the kitchen of this very house where the smells of bacon grease, wood smoke, and cheap perfume had adhered to pine cabinets yellowed with age. A fan had sat near the ancient toaster, rotating on the corner of the countertop and blowing hot air around the tiny, sparse room.

As Olivia recalled, Bernadette had just gotten off the day shift down at Charlene’s restaurant at the truck stop near the Interstate. She was standing on the cracked linoleum floor in bare feet, a white blouse, and the ever-present black skirt of a waitress. One strap of her bra was visible and a tiny gold cross hung from a chain around her neck and lay nestled in that deep cleft between her breasts. “Listen, child,” she’d said seriously, her expression intense. “I’m not kidding. All this mumbo jumbo and hints about voodoo are just bullshit, you hear me? Bullshit. Your grandma has delusions of being some damned voodoo priestess or some such nonsense, but she’s not. Just because way back when there was some octoroon blood mixed in with the rest, doesn’t make her a … a … damned fortune teller, now, does it? She’s not a psychic and neither are you. Okay?”

Bernadette had straightened, adjusted her short black skirt, and sighed. “ ‘Course it doesn’t,” she’d added, more, it seemed, to convince herself than Olivia. “Now, go outside, will ya, ride your bike or skateboard or whatever.” She picked up an open pack of Virginia Slims on the counter, shook out a cigarette, and lit it quickly. With smoke seeping out of her nostrils, she stood on her tiptoes and reached into an upper cabinet, where she pulled out a fifth of whiskey.

“Mama’s got herself a whopper of a headache,” she’d explained as she found a short glass, cracked ice cubes from a plastic tray, and poured herself a healthy drink, which she’d explained was her reward for a hard day’s labor while enduring the leers, winks, and occasional pinches at the truck stop. Only after taking a sip and leaning her hips against the counter did she look at her daughter again. “You’re an odd one, Livvie,” she’d said with a sigh. “I love ya to death, you know I do, but you’re different.” With the cigarette planted firmly between her lips, she’d reached forward and grabbed Olivia’s chin, moving her head left, then right. Narrowed eyes studied Olivia’s profile through the smoke.

“You’re pretty enough,” Bernadette finally allowed, straightening and flicking ashes into the sink, “and if you use your head and don’t go spouting off all this crazy talk, you’ll land yourself a good man, maybe even a rich man. So don’t go scarin’ ‘em off with all this weird talk, y’hear me? No decent man’ll have you if ya do.” She’d rolled the drink in her hands and watched the ice cubes clink together. “Believe me, I know.” A sad smile had curved her lips, which showed only a hint of lipstick applied much earlier in the day. “Someday, honey, you’re gonna git yerself outta this dump”—she fluttered her fingers to take in all of Grannie Gin’s cabin—“and into a fancy house, just like Scarlett Damned O’Hara.” She managed a wider grin, showing off straight, impossibly white teeth. “And when you do, you’re gonna take care of your mama, y’hear?”

Now, thinking back, Olivia sighed. Oh, Mama, if you only knew. Olivia would have done anything to make the demons in her mind be still. But lately, those dreams she’d repressed had come back with a vengeance.

Ever since she’d returned to Louisiana.

She had to do something about the visions. She had to do something about tonight.

The woman’s dead, Olivia. There’s nothing you can do for her and no one’s going to believe you. You know that. You’ve tried to contact the authorities before. You’ve tried to convince your family, your friends, even your damned fiancé. No one believed you then. No one will now.

Besides, it was a dream. That’s all. Just a dream.

Slowly she edged off the bed, dragging her grandmother’s quilt with her, then unlocked the French doors to the verandah. The dog trotted after her as Olivia stepped into the cool winter of early morning, the floorboards smooth beneath her bare feet. The bayou was quiet, mist rising slowly, huge cypress trees guarding the sluggish waters that lapped near the back of the house. She leaned a hand against the rail, worn smooth by the touch of human hands over the past hundred years. Some creature of the darkness scuttled through the brush, rustling dry leaves and snapping thin branches on its way into the swamp. Goose bumps sprouted on Olivia’s arms. As she gazed across the still, dark waters, she tried to shake the dream from her mind, but it remained steadfast, clinging with razor-sharp talons, digging deep into her brain, refusing to be dismissed.

It was more than a nightmare.

Olivia knew it with horrid certainty.

It wasn’t the first time she’d “witnessed” someone’s death. They had come and gone over the years, but whenever she was here, in this part of bayou country, the visions had preyed upon her. It was one of the reasons she’d stayed away so long.

Yet, here she was. Once again in Louisiana. And the nightmares had already begun, back with a blinding, soulscraping fury that scared her to death. “It’s your fault,” she muttered as if Grannie Gin, bless her voodoo-lovin’ soul, could hear her.

Olivia’s fingers gripped the railing. As clearly as if she’d been in that minuscule bathroom, Olivia saw the murder again. Smoke rose as the masked priest lifted his sword and swung downward, not once, but three times….

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, but the vision wouldn’t go away. A priest. A man of God!

She had to do something.

Now.

Somewhere tonight a woman had been murdered. Violently.

By rote Olivia sketched a quick sign of the cross over her chest. She rubbed her arms and pulled the quilt more snugly around her as a soft November breeze sighed through the trees overhead and the dank smell of the swamp filled her nostrils. She couldn’t pretend this hadn’t happened even though no matter what, no one would believe her.

Turning quickly, she hurried inside, Grannie’s quilt billowing after her. Hairy S was right on her heels, toenails clicking across the hardwood floor as she made her way to the desk. Flipping on a small lamp, she scrounged through the dusty cubbyholes, discarding pens, note cards, thimbles and rubber bands until she found the scrap of paper she’d been looking for, a tattered piece of newspaper. It was an article that had been in the Times-Picayune after the latest rash of murders in the Crescent City had occurred. According to the report, a detective by the name of Rick Bentz had been instrumental in solving the bizarre killings. He’d been the man who had discovered the link in the crimes and how they were related to Dr. Sam, Samantha Leeds, host of the talk-radio program Midnight Confessions.

The same radio show Olivia had heard tonight in the vision.

She shuddered as she scanned the article she’d torn from the paper months ago.

Bentz and his partner Ruben Montoya, were given credit for breaking the “Rosary Killer” case where several prostitutes had been killed by “Father John,” a man who had stalked the city of New Orleans a few months back. Father John. The killer who was obsessed with Dr. Sam and her radio show, a sadist who would demand his victims don red wigs so that they would look like Dr. Sam, a murderer who scripted the dialogue for his victims, insisting they repent for their crimes … just as she’d seen the priest in her vision demand his victim’s pleas for mercy and forgiveness.

Her blood turned to ice.

First a man calling himself Father John and now a priest.

She had to talk to Detective Bentz. ASAP. No one else at the police station had even listened to her—just written her off as a lunatic. But then, she was used to the ridicule. Maybe Rick Bentz would be different. Maybe he’d listen to her.

He had to.

She dropped the blanket and reached for her jeans and a sweatshirt she’d tossed over the bedpost and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from the night table. She downed four tablets dry and hoped they’d take the edge off her headache. She had to think clearly, to explain …

Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she slid into a pair of moccasins and flew down the stairs. Hairy S scrambled after her. But as she dashed past the bookcase in the alcove near the front door, she felt a draft—a whisper across her skin, something evil.

She stopped short. Glanced out the window. The dog growled, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Again, through the open window, she heard the rustle of dry leaves, a gust of wind through brittle branches. Was it her imagination or was someone outside … lurking in the darkness?

Fear pulsed through her blood. She moved close to the window, peered through the mist and darkness, but saw no one. The night was suddenly still, the rush of wind having died.

She slammed the window shut, locked it, and snapped the blinds closed. This was no time to get spooked. But at the bookcase she felt it again, that icy sensation.

You’re overreacting. Stop it, Livvie!

Her breath was shallow, the hairs lifting on the back of her arms, as if there were someone in the room with her. She caught her reflection in the mirror mounted next to the bookcase and shivered. Her hair was wild and uncombed, her face pale beneath a few freckles, her lips bloodless. She looked as scared as she was.

But she had to go…. She dug into her purse and grabbed her key ring, held the longest and sharpest key in her fingers as if it were some kind of weapon, then headed for the front door. Hairy S followed after her, his tail between his legs.

“You have to stay here,” she insisted, but as she opened the door, the scrappy little mutt streaked through, tearing through the fallen leaves to her beat-up truck. Olivia locked the door behind her, checked over her shoulder, and jogged to the driveway, where the dog was whining and jumping against the cab of her pickup. “Fine, get in.” She opened the driver’s side and Hairy S hurtled inside. He took his favorite spot on the passenger’s side of the bench seat, propping his tiny feet on the dash, his tongue lolling as he panted. “This isn’t a joyride,” Olivia said as she backed into a turnout, the beams of her headlights splashing over the face of her little cabin. She saw no strangers lurking in the shadows, no dark figure hiding behind the wicker furniture on the porch. Maybe her vivid imagination had run wild again.

It had to be.

Still her heart pumped wildly.

She shoved her old Ford Ranger into gear. With a rumble, the pickup shot forward, turning up gravel in its wake. The lane was long and wound through stands of cypress and palmettos, across a small bridge and onto the main road.

New Orleans was a good twenty-minute drive. She pushed the speed limit. But she didn’t want to bother with any other police officer, no other detective. No. She wanted Bentz. It was too early for him to be on duty. But she’d wait. As long as it took.

As the road turned south, she noticed a glimmer of light that grew into a faint glow on the horizon, an orange haze that was visible through the thick stands of cypress and live oak.

Her insides twisted.

The fire.

Dear God.

She knew before the firemen or the police that somewhere in that hellish inferno was the body of a woman; the woman she’d seen in her vision.

“Uh-oh.” Reuben Montoya’s voice held the knell of doom.

Bentz looked up from his stack of paperwork as Montoya, carrying two paper cups of coffee, slipped through the open door of his office.

He handed Bentz one of the cups, then leaned a hip against the file cabinet of Rick Bentz’s office. In his trademark black leather jacket and black jeans, he let his gaze wander back through the half-open door, past the maze of cubicles and desks in the outer office, to the stairway.

“What?” Rick asked from behind the desk and a mountain of paperwork that never seemed to diminish. Crime was big business in New Orleans.

“Trouble.”

“There’s always trouble.”

“No, you don’t understand, the resident nutcase is here again.”

“Again?” Bentz repeated, looking out the door to see the object of Montoya’s interest, a petite woman with wild gold-colored curls, smooth white skin, and attitude written all over her. In faded jeans and a New Orleans Saints sweatshirt that had seen better days, she was charging straight toward Bentz’s office.

“She’s been calling Brinkman, claims she’s a psychic and that she sees murders before they take place,” Montoya explained.

“And Brinkman says?”

“What he always says. ‘Bullshit.’ He doesn’t believe in any of that crap.”

At that moment, she barreled into the room. Her cheeks were flushed, her pointed chin set in what Bentz took as angry determination. Her eyes, the color of fine malt whiskey, bored straight through him.

“Detective Bentz?” she asked without so much as a glance in Montoya’s direction.

“Yeah. I’m Bentz.”

“Good. I need to talk to you.”

By this time Bentz was half standing. He flipped a hand at Montoya. “And this is Detective Reuben Montoya, my partner.”

“Reuben D. Montoya. I go by Diego,” Montoya added.

Bentz lifted a brow. Diego? Since when? Oh … Since a beautiful female entered the room. Montoya might have referred to this woman as a nutcase but he was interested in her—of course he was—it was the younger man’s MO whenever a good-looking woman was nearby. Regardless, apparently, of her mental condition. And in spite of his talk the other night of being a one-woman man. Montoya’s male radar was always on alert.

She barely gave Montoya a second glance as Bentz offered his hand. “I read about you in the Times,” she said.

Great. Another citizen who thought he was a damned hero. To her credit, her gaze leveled straight at Bentz and she didn’t give Montoya’s flirtation a passing glance. Her grip was surprisingly strong as she gave his palm a hand shake then released her fingers. “You can’t believe everything you read.”

“Trust me, I don’t.”

He waved her into a chair. “So what’s on your mind?”

“A murder.”

At least she didn’t beat around the bush. He pulled a legal pad from beneath a pile of half-finished reports. “Whose?”

“A woman.” She fell into a chair and he noticed the smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the little lines pinching the corners of her mouth. A faint scent of jasmine entered with her. “I don’t know. He called her Cecilia but she said that wasn’t her name and … and she never told him what her name was.”

“Told who?”

“The killer,” she said, staring at him as if he were as dense as granite.

“Wait a minute. Let’s start over,” he said. “You witnessed a woman being killed, right? You were there?” he asked.

She hesitated before answering. “No.”

“No?”

“But I saw it.”

Wonderful. Just what he needed to start the day right. Bentz clicked his pen. “Where did the murder take place, Miss—?”

“Benchet. I’m Olivia Benchet, and I don’t know where it happened … but I saw someone, a woman about twenty-five, I’d guess, being killed.” Olivia’s face paled and she swallowed hard. “She … she had shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, a few freckles, and … and kind of a heart-shaped face. She was thin, but not skinny … in … good shape as if she worked out or … oh, God.” Olivia closed her eyes, took in a deep, shuddering breath, then slowly let it out. A second later her lids opened and she seemed calmer, in control. Again the scent of jasmine teased his nostrils.

“Wait a minute. We’d better back up. You heard him say her name and you saw him kill a woman, but you weren’t there?” Shit. Montoya had called this one, and the Cheshire cat smile beginning to stretch across his chin indicated he knew it.

“That’s right.”

“Was it on film?”

“No,” she said, then rushed on, “I think I should explain something.”

That would be a good start. She leaned forward in her chair, and then, as if trying to grasp something, anything, she opened and closed her hands. Here it comes, Bentz thought. The part where it all falls apart but she tries to convince us that this outrageous story is true. She was, no doubt as Montoya had explained, a bonafide nutcase.

“I’m able. . .