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“But I don’t. What’s with you two that you don’t understand common English. I don’t know anything about her clients. And that was intentional. We had a deal, Helene and I. No pimps. And we never talked business.” Her eyes were round and she actually looked scared. “I have no idea who she was seeing.”
Unfortunately, Bentz believed her. He glanced at Montoya, who had gotten more intense during the interview. It seemed like his partner was finally starting to understand that Father John, the Rosary Killer, was back in New Orleans.
And he was back with a vengeance.
* * *
Try as she might, Kristi couldn’t concentrate on the sequel to her book about Father John, nor could she get her head into her new book, and it wasn’t because Lenore was batting at her bare toes with a tiny paw while hiding under the desk. No. Her agent’s suggestion that she drop everything and concentrate on delving deep into the sequel was still too new of an idea to even think about writing. For God’s sake, the investigation was just starting.
However the real problem was that she was too caught up in her own life, the fact that she was now a widow.
She’d told herself that she just needed to bury herself in the work to get through the too-long days and harrowing nights that she spent, sleepless, the claw hammer now under her pillow, the kitten usually under the covers with her. She’d checked with the neighbors, several vets and rescue groups, along with posting online. No one yet had laid claim to the cat and, with each day that passed, Kristi hoped more and more that no one did.
She eyed her desk where notes, books, newspaper clippings, and magazine articles were scattered. She was still in the research phase on her book about New Orleans’s most recent string of murders. She’d spent several weeks on research while organizing her notes, adjusting the synopsis she’d written about the 21 Killer, a grotesque serial killer who murdered twins on their twenty-first birthday. 21’s reign of terror was over, thank God, and Kristi’s publisher was interested in the story, but as Kristi sat in her office, going through the evidence against 21 and digging into his psyche as to why he would kill the twins, she found her mind straying and finally, hauling the kitten, gave up and headed downstairs where she poured herself a glass of water and checked the time.
The tech from the security company she’d called to upgrade the system had canceled the first appointment as there had been a foul-up in the shipment of some essential part of her new security system, but the part had come in and the technician was supposedly on his way.
He was over half an hour late, though, the digital display on her desk clock registering 2:47. Just as she thought about calling the company, she received a text from an anonymous number, indicating “Lance” was on his way and would arrive by 3:00.
Good.
Maybe the new system would ease her mind and she would sleep better.
“Fat chance,” she said aloud as reports of the return of the Rosary Killer had overtaken the local news and were permeating via the Internet to the national level. Many people, including her father, had speculated that Father John had survived in that bayou where it was thought he had died only to return to New Orleans and wreak havoc on the city.
“As if we don’t have enough,” she said.
Worse yet, the rumors were flying that the killer had taken his vengeance out on Rick Bentz, the detective who had unmasked and nearly killed him, by murdering Jay McKnight, Bentz’s son-in-law. And, of course, those maniacs who fed on bizarre murders were all over social media, chatting it up, making it worse.
“Careful, Kristi, those maniacs are the people who buy your books.”Jay’s voice echoed through her brain, clear as a bell. After being silent for two days.
“I know,” she said under her breath, then checked her e-mail where Zera had left her a quick note:
Good news!Rosary Killeris definitely going to be reprinted. Early as next summer. Publisher already promoting. Let’s talk!
Not now.
A headache started at the base of her skull.
It was all too much.
She decided to hang it up for the day.
The story would wait, she told herself. Every day she was feeling a little stronger, a little more like her old self. She’d even agreed to meet with her friends for coffee in a couple of days after declining drinks and karaoke, which sounded just awful. She hadn’t liked it when she was single in her twenties and was certain it wasn’t for her. Besides, she was avoiding alcohol for the baby’s sake, though there was nothing she wanted more than a tall drink to numb her mind and her body from the grief. And the guilt.
“Baby steps,” she told herself.
The doorbell rang and she hurried down the stairs, and rather than just fling the door open as she usually would, she peered through the sidelight and saw the repairman, in a gray uniform stretched tight over his middle. Around five-nine, wearing thick glasses, shaggy black hair showing signs of silver, he stared back at her. Three or four days’ worth of a beard darkened his jaw and a badge on his uniform proclaimed that he was Lance with Eastside Security and Alarms.
She opened the door a crack, noticing that the day was hazy.
“I’m Lance with Eastside,” he said, the name on his uniform confirming that he was, indeed, Lance, the laminated badge he offered her that included his picture in agreement. “I texted.”
“Right.” She nodded, but was still unsure. Didn’t move from blocking the doorway, though the van he drove had the logo, phone number, and name of the security company painted along its side.
“Sorry about the mix-up a couple of days ago.” Lance shrugged, his expression slightly perplexed about the whole situation. “Parts, right?”
“Until I can put in a whole new system.”
