AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“No.” She thought about trying to explain, but decided it would do no good.
Reggie obviously thought she was lying, but Kristi didn’t care. She’d already said as much as she was going to. “I can’t believe that little bitch brought up Bethany and Aldo. Ancient history. Nothing to do with now.” She was nearly gnashing her teeth. “Anything for a buck, you know. To keep ratings in the stratosphere no matter what. No matter whom you hurt. And you—that’s your bread and butter, isn’t it? Exposing everyone’s little secrets, creating lies, all to sell a few more copies.”
“I told you—”
“I know what you said. So, what? Now you’re trying to tell me that this was what—random?”
Kristi reached her car and opened the door. “No. I doubt that. I’m saying I had nothing to do with it.” She slid inside. “But it’s over now.”
“Is it?” Reggie glanced back at the huge brick building housing the television station. “I hope so.”
At this point, there was no reason to continue the conversation. Kristi closed the door and started the engine. She was still infuriated with Zera for setting this up behind her back and yeah, the producer had to answer for manipulating the guests, but it was over. For now. And if Hamilton Cooke still felt the sting of his original sentence, too damned bad. The reversal of his conviction upon appeal because of some technicality his new wife had discovered didn’t alter the facts of the case or change Kristi’s opinion.
In her heart of hearts she believed Hamilton Cooke was a stone-cold killer.
* * *
From the passenger seat, Bentz swore under his breath. “The press. Already.” He eyed the news van as Montoya found a parking spot in the lot adjacent to St. Ada’s Hospital.
“It’s only gonna get worse.” Montoya cut the engine. “You’ve got to get over your attitude, man. The press can help us getting the word out. If we get a composite of the guy who attacked our victim, they can get it out on TV and the Internet, social media. Don’t fight it.”
“I just don’t like to be pressured,” Bentz grumbled as he climbed out of the car and headed inside St. Ada’s. He was walking briskly and Montoya, pocketing his keys, jogged to keep up. As he did, his cell phone buzzed and he saw it was the station. “Montoya,” he said as they walked through the doors.
“Brinkman,” the detective said, and Montoya felt an instant dislike coursing through his veins. He and Brinkman had never gotten along.
“What’s up?”
“Just got a call from a hooker,” Brinkman said, and Montoya braced himself for some kind of off-color joke.
“Yeah?”
“Her roommate never showed up last night. I figure that’s not a big deal, but she said the missing woman is young, about twenty, blond, and new to the profession.”
“This woman have a name?”
“Goes by Luna for her clients, if you know what I mean.” He sniggered on the other end of the connection and Montoya didn’t respond. Brinkman was a good cop, but a slimeball. “Her real name is Stacy Parker. Grew up in Wyoming on a ranch outside Casper. Been in New Orleans less than a year, but the roommate says she never stays out overnight. The latest she’s come in before was around three, maybe three-thirty.”
“Where does she live?”
“A motel, the All-Day-All-Night Inn. It’s a dive a few blocks off the Quarter. The place rents rooms by the day, week, month, and probably hour. She shares the place with the hooker who called it in, Louisa Abernathy, who, by the way, goes by Red. I’ve already sent a couple of uniforms over there.” He rattled off the address as well as Louisa Abernathy’s number, which Montoya typed into his phone as he ended the call.
He was standing in the vestibule of the hospital, one side of the wide hallway the admissions desks, the other a waiting area where people were seated in low-slung couches and chairs, potted palms in the corners, long tables scattered with magazines. He saw the sign for the elevators and noticed a sculpture, a bronze bust inset in a wall niche. The sign beneath the sculpted head read: CARLOLUCERNO, FOUNDER.
Lucerno.
As in Aldo Lucerno, the Oyster King?
As in Reggie Lucerno Cooke’s former husband?
He caught up with Bentz at the elevator bank. Montoya relayed Brinkman’s information on the ride up to the third floor where a tall, bald man in scrubs and a lab coat was just coming out of the victim’s room. His name tag read: “Douglas Baines, MD.”
He paused at the sight of them and the detectives quickly introduced themselves, showing ID and stating that they needed to talk to the patient in 326. “Five minutes,” the doctor said, holding out a big palm, his fingers outstretched to indicate the length of time. “Five. She’s still under sedation. Been through trauma and needs her rest.”
“We just need to ask her a few questions.”
“Good luck,” the doctor said. “She’s not giving us much information. Not even her name. Driving admissions crazy. Maybe you two can get somewhere with her. But still, five minutes.”
“Got it,” Bentz said.
