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“Uh—” The shorter man looked about to argue, but changed his mind. “Fine,” he said, but wasn’t happy about it.
Neither was Montoya, especially when he had to swat at a hornet that followed him through the soggy ground. They searched for signs that the would-be killer had stalked through the ground and Bentz pointed out cattails that had been bent. “Coulda been a wild boar,” Bobby-Dean said, “or a bear. Probably not a gator.”
“Good news,” Montoya muttered sarcastically as they rounded a bend, and just past several cypress trees saw the canoe, a small craft tied to a low-hanging branch. “You’ve never seen this before?”
Bobby-Dean was nodding, adjusting his cap as rays of morning sunlight sliced through the mist to dapple the water. “That’s right.”
Bentz asked, “And you fish these waters regularly?”
“Me and Clive, yes, sir. This here is our fishin’ grounds.”
And hunting, Montoya thought, because Bobby-Dean had admitted to having a rifle with him in the night, that he’d shot at a gator who’d been a little too close to the woman they’d been trying to save.
“You got gloves?” Bentz asked Montoya.
“Always.” He reached into his back pocket and Bentz did the same. “Let’s check this out.” A single oar was tucked into the hull. “Let’s test this for prints,” Bentz said, a satisfied smile creeping onto his lips.
What were the chances that this craft actually belonged to Father John? “Slim and none” leapt into Montoya’s mind, but not so Bentz, who was searching the hull.
And then Montoya found it. The proverbial nail in the coffin in the form of a single bill, folded neatly and tucked into a crack in the wooden stern seat. He plucked the bill from its hiding place, unfolded it, and found himself looking into the blackened eyes of Benjamin Franklin.
CHAPTER 29
This is a mistake.
Kristi pulled into the small parking lot for the television station at seven forty-five and wished she’d never agreed to the interview. She wasn’t ready. Wasn’t up for it. Not even after getting up at five in the morning, taking Dave out for a run, showering, and downing a yogurt, berry, and banana smoothie. Even the coffee she’d picked up on the drive over hadn’t helped. Then again it was decaf. “You did this,” she said to her abdomen, as Dr. Vale had suggested she cut out caffeine.
Glancing in the rearview, she saw the indecision in her eyes and hated it. She’d always been a person who knew what she wanted and, if anything, had been impetuous, even daring, but not indecisive. “Get it together,” she said, grabbed her purse and stepped into the clear morning.
As it turned out she was the second guest to arrive. She buzzed in at the door, was allowed to enter, and registered before being given a name tag allowing her to be in the station. A harried production assistant with short, tousled hair dyed a faint pink, the barest of lip gloss, and a no-nonsense demeanor named Jen walked her through a rabbit warren of hallways. “The studio is just there,” Jen said, pointing to a closed door with a light that glowed with the words “On Air.” Then a few more steps down the hallway. “You’ll just wait in the green room with the other guests and I’ll come and get you before your segment. Right now, you’re on second—segment two—but that all depends on if our first guests get through the traffic that’s supposedly slowing them down.” Her lips were pursed, her expression exasperated, as if she’d heard the same excuse a thousand times and really didn’t believe it. “Also, it all depends on if our musical guest shows. Right now that’s a pretty big ‘if.’” Her lips pulled down at the corners at the prospect as she opened a door at the end of the hall.
Inside the windowless green room, a large TV was mounted on one wall, the current news program being broadcast. Several chairs, a few tables, and a long, faux leather couch were scattered around the room, and a long counter with a coffeemaker, water bottles, and a few snacks dominated one wall. “Help yourself,” Jen said, and gestured with one hand to the coffeepot and accoutrements while texting with amazing dexterity. “I’ll be back.” And, then lifting the phone to her ear, she stepped through the open doorway. “They are? Good. I’ll be right down. And what about Bigelow? Have you heard from him . . . ? Okay, then we’ll go to plan B unless he surprises us all.” Her voice faded and the door finally clicked shut.
Kristi sat in one of the chairs not far from a worn couch where a prim woman holding a long-haired cat upon a tufted pillow was sitting. “Trouble,” the woman said, her eyebrows arching over wire-rimmed glasses. Her ash-brown hair was feathered and surrounding a doe-eyed face with a very serious expression that complemented her business suit, glasses, and ankle-high boots. “I’m Dana, by the way,” and it was said as if Kristi should recognize her.
Kristi didn’t.
When that was obvious, the woman added, “Dana Metcalf?”
Again Kristi drew a blank.
“As in president of PCNOLA.”
“Oh.” Like that meant anything.
Dana sighed, as if Kristi were an absolute dimwit. “Purrbred Cats of New Orleans, Louisiana,” she clarified. “Purrbred rather than purebred.” Her eyes twinkled. “It’s a play on words. Even though we would never allow an owner to join unless his or her cat had legitimate papers, of course.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And sometimes people think we’re the Personal Computers of New Orleans or the Politically Correct of New Orleans.” She tittered and rolled her eyes at the inanity of it all. “If you can believe that!”
Kristi didn’t respond.
“I’d give you my card, but I don’t want to disturb Mr. Precious, here.” She stroked her pet lovingly. “He’d be so upset. Wouldn’t you, MP?” she whispered to the cat.
The big gray cat just stared at Kristi, its green eyes unblinking. Definitelynotupset.
The door swung open again and this time Jen was with two people.
