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Montoya remembered the case well. The killer had been a real nut-job and went around killing people as martyred saints had been slain. It was sick and ugly and the public had eaten it up.
“Does he live around here?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. In the South somewhere. Wait a sec. I’ll be right back.” She hurried out of the room, dog on her heels, and he heard her footsteps as she continued up the stairs. She was back in less than two minutes holding a hardback book that she handed to Montoya. The title wasToo Little, Too Late,by Drake Dennison. The pages had yellowed, the paper jacket ripped slightly.
Kristi explained, “This is Dennison’s last book that I know of. It was written about four, maybe five years ago, I think.”
Montoya flipped the book over to view a black and white picture of the author in his early thirties. He had thick dark hair, tinted glasses, and a heavy beard and mustache. His smile was slight and mysterious and the entire head shot seemed staged. His bio was short, that he’d studied criminology at LSU, had worked as a private investigator and settled in Atlanta, where he was currently working on his next book.
He glanced up at her. “It says he’s working on his next book.”
“Maybe he was.”
“And maybe he wasn’t?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Probably he had something going. Writers write, whether they have contracts with publishers or not. And at the time that this book was published,” she said, pointing to the hardback in Montoya’s hands, “some authors had begun to move on to self-publishing, or podcasts or whatever. I don’t know that he did, but he must have a new book in the works if he’s got another contract. But I probably shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know him. He’s a recluse. That was part of his deal—you know, an air of mystery that surrounded him.”
“Is he still that way?”
“Again, I don’t know.”
He thought about it. Made a mental note to check out the author. “Anyone else you could think of?”
“Who might resent my career? Sure, I suppose, but no one that I know about, no one who would try to terrorize me. And . . . and certainly no one who would kill my husband!” She let out a frustrated puff of air.
“How about online?” he asked. “You’ve got Twitter and Facebook, Instagram accounts and the like.”
“Of course.”
“Anyone there hassling you?”
“Hassling? You mean like a troll?” she asked, then shrugged. “You know how it is these days. There’s always someone online ready to be a hater, but if you’re asking if there’s anyone in particular who posts inappropriate stuff?” She thought about it a second, then shook her head. “Not really. Nothing that’s so out of line it stands out.”
“I’ll take a look,” he said, and studied the card in his hands. Bible verses. What was that all about? Could Bentz be right, was Father John or whoever was copying him also doing a side number on Kristi? Had he morphed over the years into something more than the killer obsessed with Dr. Sam, who killed prostitutes bizarrely with a rosary?
That part had really bothered Montoya. He’d been raised Catholic and the religious symbols and artifacts were sacred to him. The fact that the killer had impersonated a priest made his blood boil. Yeah, he no longer attended mass, but his kid was baptized in the church and Montoya still had his own kind of faith all wrapped up in Catholicism. And he liked it that way.
Was it possible that the same whack job turned his attention from Dr. Sam to focus on Kristi Bentz, who had not only written about him but was the daughter of Rick Bentz, the detective who had nearly killed him in the swamp all those years ago?
Montoya told himself to keep an open mind as Kristi’s cell phone vibrated and scooted across the kitchen counter about the same time a black kitten hopped onto a bar stool, then the counter. “Nope,” Kristi said, glancing at the phone number appearing on the cell’s screen and scooping up her kitten. As if she needed to explain, she said, “It’s my agent again. I’ll call her back.” She must’ve seen the question in his eyes and she added, “Zera—that’s my agent—she wants me to do another book, a sequel to the one on the Rosary Killer. You know, because she thinks he might be back and I have this unique perspective, but”—she shook her head, her wet hair sliding over her shoulders—“I think I’m too close to it, not ready.”
“Have you got copies of the books you wrote?” he asked. “Maybe I should read them.”
“Sure. Tons of author copies. I’ve got them upstairs,” she said, and was off again before he could tell her it could wait. Again Dave padded after her up the stairs, then back down as she returned to the kitchen, this time with an armload of her own books. “Take them,” she said, stacking them on the counter next to him.
“Thanks.” He eyed the titles, then asked, “Which ones should I read first? What I mean is,” he explained, tapping the top of the stack, “which book is about someone involved—the suspect or family members or friends or whatever—who threatened you or made you feel uncomfortable?”
“Oh, geez, too many to mention,” she said. “I wasn’t exactly popular with the killers.”
“Okay—but if you were to read them?”
“What order? Okay.” She eyed the spines and pulled out the first. “Okay, well, this isThe Rosary Killer; if the murderer is alive, he’d probably be really pissed. But”—she shook her head—“we think he’s dead.” She put that book aside and pulled out another. “This isThe Bayou Butcher,about Ned Zavala. Everyone in his family was upset about the book, and yeah, he threatened to sue me and ‘fuck’ me up.” She used air quotes. “Swell guy.” She set that book aside, too, as she looked over the other titles. “Oooh. Now here’s one.The God Complex and Murder. It’s about Hamilton Cooke, kind of a big deal surgeon before he was convicted of killing his first wife.” She thought about that. “Ended up collecting insurance money and marrying the second wife, Reggie Lucerno, who was his lawyer.”
“Lucerno? Oh, right. She was married to someone else at the time,” Montoya said, nodding.
“Aldo Lucerno, big businessman in town. Inherited an oyster-packing business. ‘The Oyster King.’ That’s what they call him. He fought the divorce and lost. After all, Reggie is an attorney.” She addedThe God Complex and Murderto the suggested reading pile while perusing the other titles. “Oh. Here you go. Here’s another.” She pulledAmerican Icon/American Killerfrom the rest of the stack. “Mandel Jarvis—his story.”
“The football player turned preacher.”
