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He’d sold his original bike for parts in northern California, then bought this smaller, older Harley and started out cross country.
He’d made it to New Orleans.
And then his good luck had run dry.
What were the chances of finding Rick Bentz’s daughter’s dog in this huge city? He’d parked in a lot, stopped for a chili dog and a beer, and on the way back to his bike, run into the mutt who had been in and out of traffic.
And then he’d run into Kristi Damn Bentz, or whatever her name was now. She was married, he’d thought, having noticed the ring on her finger. Though he hadn’t given his name to her, she had studied him, might even have recognized him as there was a strong family resemblance between all the Montoya brothers. And there was his belt. He shouldn’t have left it with her as it was unique, hand tooled, his great-granddad’s initials carved inside.
Stupid mistake!
He tried not to dwell on it, or the fact that Kristi Bentz with her tousled wet hair, flushed face, and bathrobe was sexy as hell. He’d heard once from his brother that she’d inherited her mother’s good looks. Cruz didn’t know the woman, but he could vouch for the beauty.
Not that it mattered.
But his brother might get the message that he was in town, and Cruz’s being in New Orleans would matter to Reuben, he thought, taking another bite of the sandwich. He would have to come clean to his brother sooner rather than later because Reuben would soon realize Cruz had lied to him if he put two and two together, which was all very likely.
Reuben had always been a smart son of a bitch.
“Hell.” What was he going to do about his cop brother?
There had been a time when Reuben had been more inclined to break the law than enforce it, but those days were long gone, and so somehow, Cruz had to get him on his side.
He finished the sandwich, wadded the greasy paper wrapper, and tossed it into the trash.
Could he trust his brother to help him rather than arrest him?
Time would tell.
* * *
Dinner consisted of frozen chicken nuggets she’d blasted in the air fryer, half an apple, and a bottle of vitamin water. “Not exactly gourmet cuisine,” Kristi confided in Dave as he’d scarfed down a ration of kibble and two of her nuggets while the kitten picked at some kind of canned “tuna delight.”
After leaving her single dish in the sink, she headed for the shower and, by the time she was out, towel-dried and in pajamas, most of her earlier worries had receded a bit. In the living room, she eyed the dying flowers, then tossed them all into the garbage, rinsed the vase, then flopped onto the couch with her phone.
Finally, she checked her texts, scrolling through, then saw one voice message from a number she didn’t recognize. She listened to the taped message from a producer of a local news program inviting her to be a guest on their morning talk show as the author of the definitive book on the Rosary Killer. “Brenda thinks this would be a great opportunity for you to promote your book. She’d love to discuss it with you.” Brenda Convoy was a reporter for WKAM who had worked her way up from a reporter at large to hostess of the morning show.
“Don’t think so,” Kristi said. She didn’t feel up to pinning a smile on her face and talking about the killer she’d thought was dead and gone. And invariably the questions might turn personal, to the attack at the cathedral and the loss of her husband. Nope—not yet. Not when her grief was turning to a dark, simmering rage.
She thought of being assaulted.
Of the cryptic, evil cards.
Of someone invading her house.
Of Jay’s murder.
Her blood boiled and she found she was gripping her phone so hard that her knuckles were white, her hand aching.
“You sick piece of . . .” She blinked back tears of anger and decided she had to do something.
Anything.
Don’t get mad, get even.
The old quote ran through her mind as she headed up the stairs.
Think, Kristi. Think. Try and keep your emotions out of it!
