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But he’d been wrong.
And now the terror the fake priest had inflicted upon the city so long ago had returned. Already there was one dead prostitute in his wake, his latest victim being Teri Marie Gaines aka Tiffany Elite, the unlucky working girl who had been caught in Father John’s web and ended up strangled. The same marks, unique marks, had bruised her throat, a pattern of little cuts that mimicked the bead pattern of a rosary that had appeared on the victims years before. Also, a hundred-dollar bill, with Ben Franklin’s eyes blackened out, had been left at the victim’s apartment.
Father John’s signature.
A mocking display meant to taunt Bentz and had ended up haunting him.
Now, the “Rosary Killer” was back, a ghost of a murderer who had eluded Bentz in the past, who had disappeared and now resurfaced, Rick Bentz’s own personal white whale.
Or, unlikely as it seemed, was the killer who had staged Tiffany’s body so perfectly a copycat, a killer who had studied his mentor’s methods and style to a T?
Bentz couldn’t help but wonder if that killer had decided Bentz’s daughter would be his next victim.
Even though she hadn’t died, Kristi had been permanently wounded. Not only physically but emotionally as well.
“Dear Jesus.” He shoved his hand through his hair in frustration.
Every time he’d seen Kristi, his heart twisted. Oh, she’d always put on a brave face, but he’d been able to look through her facade. He’d recognized the bone-tired weariness no amount of makeup had been able to conceal. He’d noticed the wan pallor of her skin, the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the lack of animation in her expression.
She’d always been lively—a “firecracker” or “pistol” while growing up—and reckless and headstrong as a younger woman. Now she seemed a shell of the woman she’d once been.
He suspected that despite her arguments to the contrary, she was experiencing survivor’s guilt, an emotion that had been his own burden for years whenever he thought of his first wife, Jennifer, Kristi’s mother. His eyes narrowed as he remembered Jennifer. So beautiful. So vain. So filled with deceit. Her lies . . . He stopped himself, wouldn’t allow his mind to wander down that dark and twisted path. He forcibly turned his thoughts to the present and to the simple fact that someone had nearly taken Kristi’s life and had, instead, made her a widow.
His fists clenched.
That sick son of a bitch would pay.
Bentz would make sure of it.
His stomach twisted again and he felt a rising swell of fury. Along with a jab of impotence at the thought of Father John or even a copycat stalking the streets of his city again.
Montoya cut into his thoughts. “There’re beignets in the bag. Plain, a couple of apple, and some chocolate. Help yourself. A sugar rush wouldn’t hurt you.”
Bentz took a sip of the hot coffee. Wished it was bourbon. Passed on the beignets. Already the coffee was mixing with the acid forming in his stomach and he figured a sugar-coated, fat-fried almost donut wouldn’t help. “Thanks.”
“No worries.” Montoya hit the brakes as a bicycle rider cut in front of him. “Idiot!” he muttered under his breath as the bike angled into a side street. “I should cite him.” Then he took a deep breath and, for once, didn’t chase the offender down. Montoya was still a hothead and he ran on adrenaline and testosterone, but since he’d become a father, some of his sharp edges had smoothed a bit. Fingers tight over the wheel, he shot his partner another glance and got right back up on his soapbox. “I’m just sayin’ take care of yourself, okay? Then you can take care of the case.”
Montoya had a point, Bentz grudgingly thought. It was all true that he hadn’t slept in days aside from a few catnaps here and there. At night his worries compounded, driving any chance at sleep away. Though he rationally knew the murderous attack wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t help but feel a needle of doubt prick deep into his soul, a sharp little reminder insisting that he was somehow responsible, that it was up to him to keep his family safe.
Another sip of coffee. “Message received.”
“Really? You’re going to take my advice?” Beneath his goatee, Montoya’s lips twisted and his dark eyes flashed as he switched lanes.
“Maybe.”
“And maybe not.” Montoya’s earring winked in the weak sunlight that managed to pierce through the windshield. “What is it you don’t understand about ‘random attack’?”
“Don’t believe it,” Bentz said. “Not when one victim is the daughter of a cop and the other victim works with the force.” He shook his head. “Not random.”
“Prove it then. And while you’re at it?” He shot another hard look Bentz’s way. “Get some fuc—effin’ sleep.” He scowled. “Shit.” Then let out a disgusted huff. “Abby’s trying to get me to clean up my language. Y’know, for the kid. Ben’s too young to understand but”—he shrugged—“who knows what he’s picking up?”
“I hear ya.”
“Do you? About takin’ care of yourself? I hope so.”
“Working on it,” Bentz assured him as Montoya parked.
“Well, for Christ’s sake, work a little harder, would ya?”
