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Almost.
But not quite.
She stood and stretched.
The kitten, who had been curled on a pillow near the window, opened one eye.
Kristi picked up the tiny bit of black fluff and heard Lenore start to purr. Kristi pressed her lips into the soft fur of the kitten’s tiny head just as she felt a wet nose against her leg.
“Uh-oh,” she said, glancing down and finding Dave looking up at her, his tail slowly swinging side to side. “Do you think you need some attention?” She set Lenore onto her pillow again, then scratched Dave’s ears. “Yeah, I suppose it’s your turn, eh? Maybe you and I should go for a walk.”
The dog was on his feet in an instant, twirling in circles near the door.
Only then did she glance outside and realize that night had fallen.
“Great,” she said under her breath, but she wasn’t going to live her life in fear.
No way.
CHAPTER 18
Montoya knew that Abby was pissed.
He didn’t blame her.
And yet, as he and Bentz drove back to the city, he couldn’t help thinking that they were finally making progress, that what they’d learned from Cyrus Unger, CU, would finally put them on track.
Bentz, too, was pumped. He was driving faster than usual, thank God, instead of like an old man, and the lights of New Orleans were visible through the windshield. They’d already called in the license plate of the car CU had taken pictures of and had copies of everything on his camera’s footage. Including the 2005 black Chevrolet Impala with out-of-state plates.
By the time they reached the station, Bentz half jogged to their office, Montoya just a few steps behind. “Now we’re cooking with gas,” Bentz said, as much to himself as Montoya as he kicked out his desk chair and switched on his computer. He was still eyeing the screen while calling to find out if they’d gotten an owner for the car that had shown up on the footage from CU’s camera near the edge of his property.
The preliminary check had shown that Florida had no record of a 2005 Impala with the plate numbers listed, and on closer look, the tags had expired by a month. So the plates were stolen and placed on a stolen car as well—possibly switched. It was after hours, but Bentz called their guy who dealt with the DMV and cross-checked that kind of information. The call was short. “Still no answer,” Bentz muttered, frustrated, and leaning back in his desk chair. “So our guy steals a car in Florida, switches the plates, and drives to New Orleans.” He scratched his jaw where a silvery beard shadow was showing itself. “He must’ve left his own car there.”
“If he had one.”
“Or maybe the car was here and he brought the stolen plates back here to Louisiana, found a car, and stole it as well.”
Montoya pulled up the image of the license plates again. “Maybe we’ve got it wrong,” he said, enlarging the screen. “Take another look.” When Bentz had come around and stared at the computer image, Montoya pointed to the screen. “Could one of those eights actually be a three that has been doctored? Painted to appear, at least from a distance, to be an eight?”
Bentz’s eyes narrowed. His lips compressed into a razor-thin line. “Let’s find out.”
Montoya was already on the phone to double-check.
Sure enough, within the hour they had a hit.
“Bingo,” Montoya said, pleased. “Looks like we have a winner, one Opal Guidry, original owner was her husband Harold. But the car isn’t a Chevy Impala.”
“So what’re we looking for?”
“2004 Oldsmobile Alero.”
Opal Guidry turned out to be a seventy-five-year-old woman originally from Tallahassee who owned that year and make.
Bentz was on the phone in an instant. He got hold of Mrs. Guidry, who knew the plate was missing and thought the plate might have been stolen here as she’d moved permanently to New Orleans a few months back. Possibly they had been swiped while she was at the grocery store or at the church she not only attended, but where she volunteered her time.
Bentz seized on that point and stared across the widths of their desks at Montoya once he’d disconnected. “The church,” he pointed out, “is Our Lady of the Grove.” His eyes narrowed. “Just a few blocks from Lake Pontchartrain and Dr. Sam’s house.”
“So you think Father John is using this place as what—his cover?” Montoya asked. “The guy’s not a real priest.”
