AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Montoya took a final drag of his Marlboro and stuffed the butt in an outdoor ash can near the entrance of the crime lab. One booted foot propped against an exterior wall, he let the smoke drift from his lungs into the clear morning air. Irritation bunched his shoulders and his eyes narrowed on the horizon. If he’d thought he would find any bit of discontent with Jay McKnight’s work, or dig up a colleague who hated him enough to kill him, he’d been wrong.
He hadn’t.
He’d just been crossing t’s and dotting i’s, covering every base in the investigation.
The only important bit of information he’d gathered was that there had been some blood collected at the crime scene. Some smeared against the outside of the walls of St. Louis Cathedral that hadn’t matched Kristi Bentz’s, nor Jay McKnight’s. It wasn’t even a matter of DNA as those test results hadn’t been returned.
So now they knew that the killer had B negative blood, rarer than most and certainly different from the victims’. Montoya had requested medical records on Father John and hoped that there were some and that his blood type would be revealed. Then, at least, they would know whether the murderer who had been lurking at Pirate’s Alley had been resurrected from his grave in the bayou all those years ago.
He pushed himself off the side of the building and found his car.
Once in his Mustang, he thought about another smoke. It calmed him and right now he was jazzed.
And so when his phone buzzed and he didn’t recognize the number, he answered before he’d even started the Mustang. “Detective Reuben Montoya,” and half expected his brother to be on the other end of the connection. He was wrong.
“Yes. This is Vincent Laroche,” a deep voice said. “Hugo’s son.”
“Yeah.”
“And I know we’re supposed to meet at the department in an hour or so, but . . . Hell. Look, I was wondering if we could speak in private. About my stepmother.”
“You have something private to say?”
“Yeah. I think it would be best if we meet somewhere before I connect with my family at the station.”
“Where? Your place? Office?”
“No . . . no, oh, God no. Could you meet me at someplace less . . . public?”
Montoya didn’t like the sound of that but started his car, glanced in the rearview, and waited for a van to pass before he eased onto the street. “Where?”
“How about on the Riverwalk near the steamboat station? There’s a bench there, overlooking the river.”
“Sure.”
After Vincent Laroche gave more specific directions, Montoya headed to the river and parked not far from the old JAX Brewery in the French Quarter. Once an actual brewery, the huge building had been converted into shops, restaurants, and individual residences. And it was far from private, but Montoya got it. Here, they would blend in with the crowd and obviously Laroche believed that no one would recognize him. Montoya made his way around the building and saw the bench.
No one there. His cell phone rang again. Same number.
“Hey,” he answered. “I’m here.”
“I know. I can see you.”
What? Fuck. Montoya’s cop radar went up.
A little late.
“I’ve got a condo in the brewery.” He gave the address. “Come in.”
Montoya bristled. “I don’t like being jerked around.”
“I’m not. Seriously. I’m just being careful.”
“Okay.”
But he texted Bentz the address and told him if he hadn’t heard from him in five minutes, to show up. Then he turned the recorder of the phone on. Just in case. If everything turned out to be cool, he’d turn it off. If not, Bentz would hear everything that went down.
He headed into the building, took the elevator to the third floor, found the unit, and with one hand on his sidearm, rapped on the door with the other.
