Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 120

"As I said, let's pool our resources." He walked over to her as she lined the coffeemaker with a paper filter and poured in the dark powder. "I don't like it that someone's following you, breaking into your car."

"That makes two of us."

"So I think I should camp out here."

"No!" She spun so quickly she knocked into the coffeemaker, and water sloshed onto the counter. "You're kidding, right?" When he didn't respond, she laughed, grabbed a paper towel from a roll sitting on the counter, and began blotting up the spill. "You can't 'camp out' here, for G.o.d's sake! What do you think you can do, protect me? Oh, Cole, think about it. I was the one who said you tried to kill me."

"But you don't believe that, do you?"

"I don't know what to believe!"

"Eve..."

"All right. Yes, I don't think you would want to hurt me. I don't think I ever really thought that, but when I go back to that night and concentrate...I see your face and a gun that fires." She finished wiping the counter and tossed the soggy towel into the trash. "But you still can't stay here. That's out of the question."

"We're going to have to have a little faith in each other if we're going to do this."

"That works two ways, Counselor." As Mr. Coffee gurgled and spat, she folded her arms under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I wasn't involved with anyone other than you," she said positively. "But the police say I wasn't raped during my blackout period, so..." She shuddered. "I don't know. I can't explain it. But I don't remember anyone but you, Cole. I was in love with you. I hoped to marry you and..." Her eyebrows slammed together as she studied a coffee stain on the tile. "I never cheated on you." She rubbed at the stain then lifted her gaze to meet his. "I would know if I had, wouldn't I?"

It killed Cole to see her indecision. Looking past his own anger and betrayal, he suddenly understood how truly devastating her memory loss was for her.

But Eve, hearing her own confusion, seemed to shut down, cut herself away emotionally. "If this is going to work, we both have to start over," she said briskly.

He nodded. Resisted the urge to pull her close to him again. "I know."

"It'll take trust, and that's a pretty tall order for each of us."

"The way I figure it, we don't have much choice."

She handed him a cup of coffee. "Okay then."

"Okay."

Cole gazed at her over the rim of his mug. A tenuous pact had been formed between them, an alliance, whether Eve realized it completely or not.

They were together!

Eve and her lover.

From his vantage point on the property of the vacant house whose yard ab.u.t.ted the grand Renner home, he had a perfect view of the kitchen. He rarely dared come this close, but he'd taken a chance, been drawn to stop as he drove past when he noticed the battered old Jeep: Cole Dennis's rig.

Through the watery gla.s.s he saw him kiss her, force himself upon her, and she, of course, did little to resist.

His nostrils flared. He chewed nervously on a fingernail. He swore that, even from this distance, he could smell them together, the stink of their rutting, the reek of their s.e.x. His skin wrinkled in revulsion, and the stench of it burned his airways.

Eve the princess.

Now Eve the wh.o.r.e.

Sensual, flirting, and dangerously cunning.

How she used her feminine wiles so indiscriminately!

And yet he wanted her.

Desperately.

Achingly.

A bad girl. The kind his mother had warned him against.

If he closed his eyes, he could hear his mother's voice as clearly as if she were standing next to him beneath the protective branches of this willow tree.

"You mustn't want her! She's unclean! A wh.o.r.e! Sp.a.w.ned by Satan!"

Though Mama had been dead for years, he still heard her recriminations, her dire warnings, her heartfelt prayers, her quiet sobs...

Hers had been a low, soft voice, one that on the surface seemed kind and caring. But beneath the warm, dulcet tones there had always lurked a warning. Strict. Insistent. But sugarcoated with a false Southern gentility. A voice that had permeated his days and nights and sc.r.a.ped through his brain.

"Oh, sweetie, don't you ever go near those girls," she'd admonished him time and time again. At school, where the nuns had still worn voluminous habits, on the playground where other children were laughing and running and screaming in delight, in the car as they drove. An image from his youth flashed behind his eyes.

He'd been eight years old, and she was dragging him through the city to ma.s.s at St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter.

He remembered standing in front of the old church, feeling small as the three whitewashed spires knifed upward against a cloudless summer sky. Horse-drawn carriages creaked by, big wheels turning, horseshoes ringing on the cobblestones. People were bustling around the Cathedral and Jackson Square.

His mother caught him looking at a curlyhaired girl who had been about his age. The girl, wearing a yellow sundress and matching ribbons in her hair, was walking with her mother across Jackson Square, pausing at the statue of Andrew Jackson upon his rearing horse to look back over her shoulder and smile at him, her brown tresses bouncing.

His mother had intercepted the glance and recognized pure evil in the girl's innocent brown eyes.

"Stay away from her," his mother had said, spinning him around to face her tall, trembling, furious form. "She's one of them." She hissed this into his ear, and he'd smelled the scent of the same perfume she always wore, a cloying scent he could remember decades later.

"Do you hear me, Son? That girl will make you want to do vile, nasty things that will take you down a path that leads straight to the depths of h.e.l.l. They're all sinners. Oh, I know they look pretty and innocent. Believe me, I know. But they are all the same. Never, Son, do you hear me, never never trust them. They are all like Eve with the apple in the Garden of Eden. Born of original sin. You understand, don't you? You must never, never touch them." Mama had s.h.i.+fted, placing her body directly in his line of vision, casting a cool shadow over him. Bending slightly so that she was peering through the black lace of her hat, she had glared hard then, her eyes wide and unblinking, her pupils mere pinpoints in pale blue irises. "Girls like that one are heathens, honey. Daughters of Lucifer. Do you hear me?" Her glossy red lips pulled into a tight smile. Her fingers dug into his arm so deeply, the sharp, polished nails had pinched his skin, painfully etching tiny white crescents on his flesh, nearly drawing blood. trust them. They are all like Eve with the apple in the Garden of Eden. Born of original sin. You understand, don't you? You must never, never touch them." Mama had s.h.i.+fted, placing her body directly in his line of vision, casting a cool shadow over him. Bending slightly so that she was peering through the black lace of her hat, she had glared hard then, her eyes wide and unblinking, her pupils mere pinpoints in pale blue irises. "Girls like that one are heathens, honey. Daughters of Lucifer. Do you hear me?" Her glossy red lips pulled into a tight smile. Her fingers dug into his arm so deeply, the sharp, polished nails had pinched his skin, painfully etching tiny white crescents on his flesh, nearly drawing blood.

"Yyes, Mama," he'd said, shamed.

"Good." She pushed him in the opposite direction, toward the whitewashed towering walls of St. Louis Cathedral. The girl turned away. Bells were tolling, people bustling and talking, a saxophone wailing from a street corner two blocks down. The August sun was high in the sky, s.h.i.+ning down in hot, blistering rays that bounced against the pavement.

"Don't ever forget." Mama straightened then adjusted her hat with one hand, making certain the partial veil covered her eyes before shepherding him through the yawning doors of the cathedral.

Now, years later, he felt that same hot shame burning through him. Because of Eve. Always Eve.

He itched to call her again, to warn her...to remind her...to let her feel that icy drip of terror that would chill her wanton soul.

All in good time, he told himself as he headed back to the nondescript silver sedan he'd parked three blocks away. All in good time.

Everything had to go according to plan.

Eve was forbidden. A sick sin and yet he couldn't help his l.u.s.t. Yet, as much as he wanted to feel her writhing beneath him, hot for him, her legs strapped over his ribs, it might never happen. But, he thought, biting off the tip of another fingernail and spitting it out into the street drain, he knew with infinite certainty, he and Eve would die together.

He would make it so.

It was their destiny.

Montoya lit up, took a long drag, then crumpled the pack of Marlboros in his fist and tossed it into the trash can on his way into the station. He'd bought the pack at a convenience store the night before and smoked three cigarettes, counting this one. His last.

At least for a while.

But the Renner case had gotten under his skin in a way that only nicotine could salve.

He paused at the steps and inhaled again.

"Hey, I thought you quit." Brinkman, the biggest d.i.c.k alive, was lumbering toward the station from a nearby parking lot. A smart enough detective, Brinkman was a royal pain in the a.s.s, always pointing out flaws or making crude remarks or being a general social mis-fit. Now he motioned to the filter tip smoldering between Montoya's fingers.

"I did." Montoya flipped the rest of his cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it with his boot as he started up the stairs.

Brinkman was right on his heels. He wore his hair long on the sides, just brus.h.i.+ng his ears, to make up for the fact that there was nothing on top, just a freckled pate. He was always fighting his weight and was wheezing as they reached the top step.

"I heard there was a bomb scare at your place."

Montoya didn't respond as he yanked open the door.

"But it turned out to be nothin', huh?"

"It was evidence from the Renner case. His laptop computer."

"Just dropped it off on your porch?"

"The guy called me and told me what he'd left, but I didn't trust him." Montoya figured he didn't owe Brinkman more of an explanation as he headed toward the stairs.

"Who was he?"

"Don't know. Probably the same p.r.i.c.k who called in the murder."

"The doer?"

"Maybe."

Brinkman paused at the elevator, but Montoya kept walking, taking the steps two at a time, glad to be rid of the other detective. On the second floor, he headed toward the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and watched as Lynn Zaroster, a smart, cute junior detective, slapped a packet of artificial sweetener against the counter. She'd been with the division a little over two years, and already some of her idealism was starting to wash away. She ripped open the packet and dumped a minuscule amount of fake sugar into her cup, where coffee steamed.

"That stuff'll kill ya," Montoya said.

"Oh yeah?" She c.o.c.ked a dark eyebrow and seemed amused as she blew across her cup. "Is that before or after you die of lung cancer?"

"He quit smoking," Brinkman said as he angled into the room and tried to hide a smirk.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Jesus, would the guy never transfer? Why not Kansas City or Sacramento or effing New York City, anywhere but here?

"I'll believe it when I see it." Zaroster headed back toward her desk.

Muttering under his breath, Brinkman lifted the gla.s.s pot from its warming tray. Only a swill of black gunk swam around the bottom of the carafe. "You know how to work this thing?" Brinkman asked Montoya, though his gaze followed after Zaroster and her tight little a.s.s, which, Montoya suspected, she swung a little more s.e.xily just to bug Brinkman.

"Yeah, but so do you," Montoya said. The I'm-incapable-of-doing-this-woman's-job act didn't wash with him. He opened a cupboard where the premeasured packs of coffee were kept and tossed one to the other detective. "Knock yourself out."

Quicker than he looked, Brinkman caught the packet. "Great."

Before the balding detective could grumble, complain, or whine any further, Montoya headed down a short hallway toward Bentz's office.

He found his partner poring over an open file that was labeled Royal Kajak. Pictures of the crime scene were scattered over his desk, along with notes and lab reports. His computer monitor, too, displayed pictures of the deceased along with interior and exterior shots of the cabin and woods.

Bentz looked up as Montoya arrived. "Heard you thought a bomb was left on your porch."

"Good news travels fast."

"Renner's laptop?"

"Yep. I didn't get a chance to look at it. Once the crime techs have done their thing, I'll see what I can find." He kicked out one of the chairs in front of Bentz's desk and sat.

"Who left it?"

"The guy who called me and told me that the briefcase and laptop were on the porch didn't ID himself, but I'm thinking the items were at Renner's house, and whoever called in the murder lifted them then got the h.e.l.l out."

"Why?" Bentz raked fingers through hair that was still damp from his morning shower.

"Don't know."

"A witness?"

"Maybe, but why not come forward?"

"Could be this guy's the doer."

"The number on the screen said pay phone, and I'm pretty sure we'll get nothing when we figure out which pay phone it was."

"But it could have been the doer."

They banged that theory around awhile, but neither one of them bought it. Why would the killer bother to return evidence?

"Take a look at this." Bentz picked up a couple of sheets of paper that had been lying on his desk then handed them to Montoya.

"Tox report. On Renner. Not complete, but interesting."