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“Thank God,” she said aloud, and thought that maybe now her father would be happy. If that was even possible.
Her phone buzzed again and she recognized the number of the animal shelter. “Hello?” a bright voice said. “Is this Kristi Bentz?”
“It is.”
“Hi, it’s Heather at the animal shelter. And I think we may have found the perfect dog for you. A two-year-old neutered male, around eighty pounds and a love. He’s part Staffordshire terrier, pit, you know. And . . . from the looks of him, he’s got a little lab, or boxer, or both, we’re really not sure. Haven’t done any DNA on him, you know.”
A dyed-in-the-wool mutt, it seemed.
The woman was going on about the dog. “His name is Dave and he came in from another shelter. He’s been quarantined and already seen by the vet. He’s healthy, neutered, and you could meet him tomorrow if you’re still interested.”
She didn’t hesitate, said she’d fill out the application online and be at the shelter in the morning, and disconnected. The picture of Dave came through in less than a minute and in that instant she fell in love with a floppy-eared, caramel-colored dog with a black snout and a pink tongue lolling from one side of his mouth. He looked like a mutt. Pure and simple. Maybe part lab. Maybe part pit bull, but definitely a mutt. And—because of his silly pose in the picture—not that intimidating. But that was okay, she thought. This dog would guard her, yes, but have to get along with her newly adopted kitten and be gentle with children as well.
Absently she touched her still-flat abdomen.
A baby was coming.
CHAPTER 11
Atall, rawboned man with wide shoulders and a shock of snow-white hair, Hugo Laroche was stoic as he stood in the doorway of his home, his body blocking entrance to the mansion, a three-storied brick house painted a pastel pink and trimmed in black wrought iron filigree.
“Homicide?” he repeated as Bentz and Montoya stated their reason for arriving on his doorstep. His jaw was tight, his eyes dry, his shoulders square as he learned about the death of his wife. “You’re saying Helene was murdered?” he asked, a muscle working in his jaw.
“Yes,” Bentz said, and kept more information to himself, including his theories about Father John.
“That’s . . . impossible. I mean . . . who—?” He let out a sigh and wiped a hand across his forehead.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“Yes . . . yes, of course.” Stunned, he led them inside, down a massive hallway to a door tucked beneath the sweep of a grand staircase. “We can talk in here,” he said. “No interruptions.”
They stepped into a large den equipped with a massive flat screen that took up most of one wall. On the opposite side of the room, French doors framed by floor-to-ceiling windows opened to a private pool area that was surrounded by a rock wall. Palm trees shaded the scattered tables and lounge chairs and a massive waterfall emptied into the pristine waters of the pool.
Laroche motioned Bentz and Montoya into the chairs facing the television, which was tuned into a financial news channel. He picked up a remote, muted the volume, and said, “Can I get you anything? Sweet tea, a soda, or something stronger?” He made his way to a built-in bar located between massive bookcases. A fireplace now empty stood on one side of the room, and a desk was pushed into a corner with a view of the private gardens and glistening water.
Bentz and Montoya declined the drinks while Laroche poured himself a tumbler of scotch and added two ice cubes. While waving them into the two leather recliners, he sat in an executive desk chair that he rolled from behind his wide desk. After taking a deep swallow, he said, “Tell me. Where and when did this happen?” Then he held up a hand. “And for God’s sake, how did it happen? She told me she was spending the night with her sister in Baton Rouge, they were going to do shopping and spa-ing, manicures, pedicures, facials, and massages, that sort of thing, then have drinks, and she didn’t think she’d want to drive. Told me she’d be home sometime this afternoon. In time for dinner.” He glanced at his watch. Saw that it was nearly four. His eyebrows quirked. “I wasn’t even worried. Dear God . . . is this for real? Can I . . . can I see her?”
He seemed more curious than grief-stricken, Bentz thought. Not that he was acting, it just seemed that Hugo Laroche wasn’t all that concerned.
As if he’d read Bentz’s thoughts, he said, “This is terrible. Horrible, but—” He took another swallow from his drink and moved the swivel chair back and forth, just slightly. “—I’m not surprised.”
“You’re not?” Montoya asked.
“She’s a risk taker. Helene always pushed the envelope, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t.” Montoya leaned forward in his seat.
“I met her at a strip club. No big deal. My wife and I were having problems, and I started, well . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “You know, looking for action.”
Bentz kept his face neutral.
“So I saw Helene dancing and I met her.” He looked away, to a middle distance only he could see. “She called herself Helen then, of course.”
“Of course.”
“That was before she added, ‘of Joy.’” He shook his head at the thought. “So, anyway, we went out a few times and she wanted to do everything extreme. To the max. I’m not just talking about sex but, you can imagine, that was fantastic. She wanted to do parasailing and rock climbing, parachuting and helicopter skiing. Whatever it was, she was in.” He got lost in thought for a second, swirled his drink. “She was exciting, you know. And in bed? Like I said, we role-played, and well . . . did things I’d only dreamed about, you know? She’s always, always up for a good time and likes to spice things up. Even, you know, with more partners. Three-ways or whatever. Took me to a couple of orgies.” His eyebrows shot up. “Wild.” Another long drink. More thoughtful swirling of the ice cubes and movement of the chair. “She was like an addiction. I couldn’t get her out of my head. She wanted to get married and I guess I thought that would be a good idea. I could tame the tigress, so to speak, or at least have her for my own.”
He shrugged. “You probably know the rest. I divorced Beverly and that cost me a pretty penny, let me tell you. My kids, Vince and Marianne, disowned me, at least at first, but wow, I had Helene.” He was nodding to himself. “Until I didn’t.” He took another swallow, draining his glass. “That’s the trouble with taming the tigress. She’s always looking for a way to escape and make her way back to the wild.”
