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That was the problem. He’d come up with a few anonymous trolls online who continually barraged Kristi’s Twitter account with nasty comments, people the department was still attempting to ferret out. And there were several other suspects connected to Bentz who could have killed Jay, killers Bentz had arrested and helped convict, many of whom had voiced their loathing and hatred of the cop who relentlessly hunted them down. Most, though, were still behind bars.
But there were a handful who had, for one reason or another, been released.
The first Montoya considered was Ned Zavala, a man who’d escalated from assault to homicide and was out after serving his time and was on parole for good behavior.
He glanced at the stack of books Kristi had given him. He picked up a copy of the tome dedicated to Zavala:The Bayou Butcher,a psycho if there ever was one. Montoya had been a part of the case, but Bentz had been lead detective who had brought the killer down.
Montoya had seen a lot of bad shit in his career, people capable of unbelievable cruelty, and Zavala was right up there. He’d been a butcher at one point in his life and the body they’d found in his freezer had been sliced with a meat-cutter’s precision and wrapped in butcher paper, some of the parts even filleted.
Even now the story got to him. And he’d never really bought the story that Zavala’s mother had sworn to, that her dead husband, a brute named Corrin Hebert, had done the deed—some unbelievable story about Hebert taking his victim’s blood and drizzling it over his stepson, Ned’s, jeans.
Upon his release Ned had sworn to get back at Rick Bentz, the detective who had zeroed in on him. He might have regained his freedom, but his wife had left him, hauling his kids to Alaska where they remained estranged, and Kristi’s book had ensured that people forever saw him as the Bayou Butcher.
Now, Zavala was taking care of his dying mother right here in New Orleans.
Could something have set him off?
Would he have actually come after Kristi and then been surprised by Jay and killed him instead?
Maybe . . . but maybe not.
Leaning back in his desk chair, he rubbed the back of his neck and tried to dispel the feeling that he was barking up the wrong tree, that maybe Bentz, with his damned Rosary Killer theory, might be closer to the truth.
And what the hell was Cruz doing at Kristi Bentz’s house? That worrisome thought had chased him around all day, nagging at him, picking at his brain. Cruz had said he was coming to New Orleans and had told Montoya when he arrived he’d call him, but no—he ends up with Kristi’s damned dog on their great-grandfather’s belt.
What was that all about?
The belt was lying on a corner of his desk, the hand-carved initials visible from his vantage point.
He’d thought about calling the authorities in Oregon. Shit, he didn’t have much choice but to inform them that he’d heard from his brother, but he was waiting until Cruz contacted him again. He’d be in deep shit for that—called on the carpet at the very least—and he was running out of time and excuses for not notifying the officers in charge.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath, and told himself to give Cruz until the morning, then deal with his latest mess. This time a homicide. Of a woman he’d known for over half his life, maybe longer.
Montoya glanced at the clock and told himself to put thoughts of his brother aside. For now. He had work to do.
The door to the office he shared with Bentz was hanging open, and through the opening to the hallway he heard noises indicating the shift was changing. Cops going off duty, more coming on, so the outer hallway was loud with footsteps, conversation, and bursts of laughter. Cell phones jangled and every once in a while, from a distance, a sharp voice would cut through the din, someone shouting angrily, usually a person protesting his arrest, or the loud voice of a friend or family member of the dirtbag being hauled to jail. All of this over the scream of saws and the rapid-fire bursts of a nail gun as construction continued.
Enough to give him the start of one helluva headache.
Chaos, that’s what it was.
Pure chaos.
CHAPTER 16
Montoya’s back ached and he felt as if he’d been spinning his wheels all the damned day.
“I’m telling you, it’s Rosary,” Bentz said when he returned and noted his partner’s frustration.
“You got any proof of that? That Father John is back?” Montoya asked.
“Not yet. But . . . it’s just gotta be.”
“Maybe.” Montoya wasn’t going to discount any theory at this point.
Bentz spent less than fifteen minutes at his desk, checking his computer and in-box, then was on his feet again. “I’m meeting a guy. Rents old cabins on the bayou and he might have met with Father John.”
“And you know this how?”
