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Bentz shook his head. “Figured you could do that.” He pulled out the notepad, ripped off the top page, and handed it to his partner.
Montoya glanced at the scribbled note, a muscle working in the corner of his jaw. He stuffed the message into his pocket. “Come on,” he said, striding to the door. “Let’s do this.”
Five minutes later they were inside the largest of the interview rooms and it was crowded.
Bentz and Montoya sat on one side of the table.
On the other side: Hugo Laroche, and his attorney, Alan Thayer. Hugo’s children were on either end. This was their meeting, one they’d requested, insisting on coming in together, refusing to be split up, and for now, Bentz decided to hear what they had to say. If he wanted to interview anyone separately, he’d schedule another time.
Marianne was as vocal as ever. Her brother, Vincent, who was a younger, more fit version of his father and obviously quieter than his sister, wore a dress shirt and slacks. Clean-shaven and expressionless, he answered every question asked him, succinctly and emotionlessly, his hands in his lap. Vince’s eyes were a little red as he met Bentz’s gaze evenly and calmly, while Marianne, true to their first meeting, was as loud and accusing as ever. In the background, through the door, noise drifted in, the sound of saws and nail guns, men shouting, now and then a burst of laughter, all muted, but distracting a bit.
After the quick introductions and Bentz explaining that, as yet, they had no suspects in her stepmother’s homicide, Marianne leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest. “So you’re telling me that you have no new leads on Helene’s murder.”
“The investigation is ongoing,” Montoya said.
“I thought you knew who it was, this . . . this Rosary Creep. What was his name?”
“Father John,” Vince supplied, still calm and unmoved.
“Right. It’s been all over the press. You can’t turn on a local station without someone bringing up ‘Father John,’ and his resurrection from the swamp or something like that. I’ve seen pictures of the victims from way back when and now . . . now you can’t find him?”
Montoya said, “We don’t know it’s the same—”
“Are you kidding me?” she said, and actually stood.
“Marianne,” Alan Thayer said reproachfully. “Please sit—”
“What? Sit down and shut up? Well, no thank you, Alan. I want answers.” She jabbed a finger at the tabletop, her rings glittering under the harsh light, her bracelets jangling. “These people came into Dad’s house and practically accused him or me or Vince, here, of having something to do with Helene’s death.” She let out a huff, and as the attorney was still holding up his hand to silently ask her to sit, she plopped back into the chair. “We need answers.”
“She’s right,” Hugo said. “The press have been camped outside the house and I’ve been contacted not just by friends but by other people on the board of two of the charities I’m attached to. They’re . . . Well, they’re uncomfortable having the Laroche name attached to them.”
“Big surprise! You marry a psycho tramp, some kind of nympho, and it all comes out and what do you expect?” she asked, glaring at her father.
Vincent said, “Marianne, just—”
“Just what, Vince? Huh? Just shut up?”
He cleared his throat and a little flush climbed up his neck. “I couldn’t hope for that,” he said, glancing at Montoya, “but let’s just hear what the detectives have to say.”
Marianne rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard it and it hasn’t changed.”
“Marianne,” her father intoned.
“Oh, God, you’re all against me and that’s just crazy! We’re all on the same side.” Then she sent a scathing look at the detectives, indicating that they—the cops—were the enemy. Why was that? Bentz wondered as she ranted on. “Look, we want this wrapped up. Dad’s right, it’s not good for us to be in the middle of this media circus involving hookers and priests and . . . ugh.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “It’s . . . it’s too bad about Helene, but there it is. We all have to deal with it. We’d just like you to release the body so we can bury her and move forward.”
Hugo visibly winced at her statement, but the attorney didn’t interrupt her, and for once, it seemed, emotionless Vincent was in agreement with his sister. He finally asked, “What about Helene’s roommate? She had one, right, a place she shared with another woman? I—I read about her. Sherry something-or-other.”
“Sherilynn Gordon,” Marianne supplied, and glanced at her father. “You know her, right, Dad?”
“We’ve met.”
“Ooooh-kay,” Alan Thayer said, slapping his hands on his knees and standing. “Do you have any more questions for my clients? Because if not, we all have places to be. And Marianne’s right. The family would like Mrs. Laroche’s body released so that we can schedule a service. ASAP.” He glanced at Hugo, who nodded his agreement.
“It should be soon,” Bentz assured them, as the evidence had been collected, the autopsy finished. “Possibly as early as tomorrow.”
“Good!” Marianne said the word, but skepticism was written all over her face; she thought they were being played.
“Let us know.” Thayer was scooping up his briefcase. The meeting was over. As Marianne and Vincent scooted back their chairs, Hugo remained seated, his face seeming longer than ever, the lines in his cheeks more pronounced. “Just get him,” he said quietly. “Whoever did this to Helene, get him.”
