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“Of course.” How could she forget? The previews had been shown twenty-four/seven, it seemed. And four of her books that had been turned into made-for-TV movies were going to be shown in rotation during the last week of the month, just before Halloween, all part of Murder Month, a promotion for the network. She’d seen the promos forThe God Complex and Murder, American Icon/American Killer,The Bayou Butcher,and of course,The Rosary Killer.
Zera was still talking at a breathtaking pace. “This is a no-brainer. I’ve already got a call in to your editor.” Zera was pressing her case about Kristi writing a sequel toThe Rosary Killer. “And truthfully, Kristi, as I said before, you’re the only one who can tell the story the way it should be told. You wrote the first one, you’re intimately involved, and it could be . . . could be like a catharsis for you and what you’re going through. You could work your way through it.”
“It’s way too early.”
“I know, I know. Seriously, I do, and I feel for you, I do. You know I do, but I’m just saying that an opportunity has presented itself. Unique to you, so just tell me you’ll consider it, okay? Can you do that much?”
Kristi bit her lip. “It feels wrong.”
“Too soon. It’s just too soon. I know. I shouldn’t have brought it up. But, there it is. Give yourself some time, but think about the future. You’re a widow, now, sadly—”
A widow. She recoiled from the word.
“—and you have to think about what’s best for you.”
And the baby.
Involuntarily her hand cradled her abdomen, her thoughts straying to the child growing within her. She blinked, surprised that tears she’d thought had all dried sprang to her eyes.
“I’ll give it some thought,” she said.
“Good. Good. Keep me informed, okay? Let me know how you’re doing, how the investigation is going?”
“I will,” Kristi promised as she disconnected and stared blankly at the phone. Her agent was right, of course, but it all seemed surreal. Nonetheless she heard Jay’s voice again; this time he was telling her that this was, indeed, her story to pen.
She just hoped she could discover where the killer was hiding and expose him before he harmed anyone else.
Only then would she think about writing theRosary Killersequel.
CHAPTER 10
Bentz’s stomach roiled.
Just as it always did when he walked into the scene of a homicide.
No matter how many years had passed, no matter how many gory scenes he’d witnessed over his career, his reaction was always the same and oftentimes he’d end up hurling on the street outside. His reaction was a concern for Montoya and a point of amusement ending with ridicule from Brinkman, who could see a victim carved to ribbons, eye the scene and smoke a cigarette afterward as if it was all nothing.
This scene was no different.
“Who called it in?” he asked his partner as they stepped inside the small apartment in the French Quarter. The victim, a white woman somewhere between twenty-five and her mid-thirties with exaggerated makeup and a short dress, lay face-up on the floor.
“Roommate,” Montoya said, careful to step around the body.
“And first on the scene?”
“That would be me,” a young patrolman in a crisp uniform said. “Ray Connors.” He was standing in the doorway to the apartment and couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, a fresh-faced black man with a shaved head and athletic build. “Got the call. Came over. Talked to the roommate. Saw the victim. Called it in.” All business.
“Who found her?”
“Roommate.” Connors checked a notepad. “Sherilynn Gordon.” He answered Bentz’s question before he could ask. “She’s in the patrol car outside. Thought you might want to talk to her.”
“Good. We do,” Bentz said. He and Montoya had gotten the call, shown up here, and after signing in to the crime scene, donned protective footwear and walked carefully so as not to disturb physical evidence as the Crime Scene Unit was on its way. As was someone from the coroner’s office. Now, they surveyed the small studio apartment with its eclectic bits of furniture that included a wide bed, one chair and a desk with a lighted mirror and jars of makeup, nail polish, brushes and the like, scattered across the surface, some on the floor next to the victim, the obvious results of a struggle.
“She was wearing a wig,” Montoya said, staring at the victim’s face. “Jesus, I think I know her.” Then he shook his head, crouching down to get a closer look.
“What?” Bentz, too, leaned down for a better view as he eyed the dead woman’s neck. The telltale marks were there, deep impressions, contusions in a specific pattern, that he knew were of the beads in a rosary. “It’s him,” he said, looking up. “Father John.” The same sick-o who used a sacred, holy artifact to kill.
Bentz glanced to a side table. Sure enough, the C-note was there, complete with Ben Franklin’s eyes blackened. “Son of a bitch.” He straightened and fought the urge to vomit. He’d known the bastard was back, had seen the evidence at the previous scene where Teri Marie Gaines aka Tiffany Elite had been killed. “You know her?”
