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“Not soon enough!” Montoya said, then smelling the scent of a recently smoked cigarette, asked, “You got a smoke?”
“For you?” Brinkman laughed, his lungs rattling. “I thought you quit.”
“I did.”
“Good. Then fuck off.”
“You’re in my office,” Montoya reminded him. “Youfuck off.”
Brinkman pursed his fat lips and raised pudgy fingers close to his head where he wiggled them. “Oooh. Sorry,” he said in a mock apology. “Touchy today, aren’t we?”
“Always.” Montoya glared at him.
Brinkman gave off another series of laughs that ended in a coughing fit, but he walked off, leaving Montoya visibly steaming.
“Let’s get out of here.” Bentz was already pushing back his chair.
“And go where?”
“Anywhere. You need to cool off.”
“Oh, fu—Okay, fine.” He slipped his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.
Once in Bentz’s Jeep, Montoya slipped on his sunglasses and leaned back in his seat. “So, really, where are we going?”
“Out to visit Dr. Sam. I texted. She’s expecting us.”
“Didn’t we already talk to her?” he asked, but it was a moot question.
They both knew it. Soon after Teri Marie Gaines’s body had been discovered, Bentz had contacted Dr. Samantha Wheeler, a radio psychologist who went by the moniker of Dr. Sam. A radio personality, Dr. Sam dispensed her brand of counseling to those who called in during her show,Midnight Confessions.
In their recent interview with her, Dr. Sam had insisted she hadn’t received any calls from the murderous fake priest. “Security’s really tight at the station and all of the callers are screened,” she’d assured them, “and anyway I would have recognized his voice.” She’d given a little shudder. “I’ll never forget it,” she’d said, her expression turning dark, her gaze settling on a middle distance only she’d been able to see. Years before, Dr. Sam had been the Rosary Killer’s ultimate target and Bentz figured she still would be.
If Father John were still alive.
“So what do you think has changed since we talked to her a couple of months ago?” Montoya asked, then answered his own question. “Oh, right. McKnight’s murder. I’m telling you it doesn’t feel right to me. It’s off, y’know?” When he saw Bentz about to argue, he held up his hands. “I know, I know. You’re linking them but I’m sayin’ that’s bogus.”
Bentz shot him a skeptical look. “And you think we’ve got two killers.”
“Maybe . . . but you gotta admit, the MO isnotthe same. We’ve got the guy who dresses up like a damned priest and makes an appointment with a hooker, then before they can get down to business, he strangles her with a rosary—a rosary, Bentz, something sacred, at least in my book. Then he leaves a C-spot with Ben Franklin’s eyes blacked out. Weird shit.” He shook his head as he thought about it.
“So?”
“So, on the other hand you’ve got a random attack on the street. Yeah, the guy was wearing black, and yeah, the murder took place next to the cathedral, but it just doesn’t match up.”
“He could’ve changed over the years. Maybe he’s still stalking pros, y’know, in the priest’s getup, but then he has this other part of him that isn’t interested in rituals so much as just getting back at me.”
“By?”
“By killing my daughter.”
“That’s a stretch, man,” Montoya said, stroking his short beard, “a real stretch.... Oh, pull over here.” He pointed to a convenience store on the corner and before Bentz had parked, Montoya unhooked his seat belt. He threw open the door and jogged inside. Within minutes he was out again, cigarette clenched between his lips. He paused to light up, took a deep drag, then he jogged back to the car. Before he climbed inside, he inhaled again, then crushed the butt out and slid into the SUV.
“All better?” Bentz asked as they drove off.
“Yeah. Almost.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a chocolate bar, which he unwrapped, and then broke off a piece and promptly tossed it into his mouth. “Now.”
Bentz took a corner, then slowed for a group of musicians, hauling instruments in cases, who were jaywalking across the street. As he drove to the Lakeview area of the city, he prompted Montoya, “You were telling me about Cruz.”
