Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 71

She laughed and it felt good to let go of some of the tension of the past week. "I'll have you know you're not the only one who's been working hard. While you were out fighting crime and keeping the streets of New Orleans safe from serial killers, I've been busy cropping wedding photos and paying bills. So, you tell me. Who has the more dangerous job?" She pointed the top of her bottle at him. "Have you ever seen the mother of the bride react when she sees a shot that shows off her double chin, or panty line? How about a candid one that catches her husband kissing the maid of honor?"

He laughed despite himself, his teeth showing white against his dark beard. Brown eyes glinted. "You're the one who should be wearing the gun."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, if I had had one. Mine's missing." His smile fell away and she shrugged. "It was Luke's dad's .38. I kept it after the divorce, which really ticked my ex off. It was here the other day and now it's missing." one. Mine's missing." His smile fell away and she shrugged. "It was Luke's dad's .38. I kept it after the divorce, which really ticked my ex off. It was here the other day and now it's missing."

"For how long?" he asked, his expression suddenly hard.

"I don't know. Just a few days."

"You think you misplaced it?"

"No . . . I've looked for it. I don't know what happened to it."

"Who, besides you, has been in the house?" He set his near-empty beer on the coffee table, all of his attention focused on her.

Abby found his intensity a bit unnerving. He was asking all the questions she'd been afraid to ask herself. "No one, well, except a few people who've looked at the house."

"You've got their names, addresses, and phone numbers?"

"Just numbers."

"I want them."

"You think it's significant?" she asked, feeling that nasty breath of fear crawl through her again.

"These recent murders," he said, "in both cases the victims were killed with the female victim's weapon. In the first case, your ex-husband's murder, the gun was a gift to Courtney LaBelle from her father, for protection. In the second murder, the weapon was stolen from the Jefferson house, part of a collection the husband kept."

She could scarcely breathe. Panic swept through her. She shot to her feet, pacing before the fire. "You think the killer was here"-she pointed at the floorboards in front of the fire and tried to calm her racing heart-"in this this house and he stole house and he stole my my gun so that he can kidnap me? Then kill me and some other person, a man, with that very weapon? Is that what you're saying?" She was nearly hyperventilating now, her breathing fast and shallow. gun so that he can kidnap me? Then kill me and some other person, a man, with that very weapon? Is that what you're saying?" She was nearly hyperventilating now, her breathing fast and shallow.

"I'm saying it's possible," he answered carefully.

"d.a.m.n it, Montoya, you're scaring the h.e.l.l out of me." Hershey lifted her head, watching as Abby crossed her arms over her chest. Restless, she walked from one window to the next, thinking about the unseen eyes she'd felt, the open window she'd discovered the day she'd found the gun missing . . . oh, G.o.d. Was it possible? Had someone been in her house? Had someone stolen Luke's gun? Or had it been misplaced? "Then I guess I should tell you that when I found the gun missing, someone might have gotten into my house."

She glanced over at Montoya, who was completely ignoring his beer.

"Who?"

"I don't know. I don't even know if someone was inside. It was the night you came over and I had the hammer."

"You didn't tell me."

"I didn't know until after you left. You suggested I get a gun and I double-checked. As I said, earlier that day, Hershey went nuts. She was nervous and growled. I thought it was just the cat, but I searched the house anyway. There was nothing missing, I thought, and I'd locked the house, but I found the laundry room window open."

"You didn't leave it open yourself."

"No . . ."

"You should have told me."

"I was afraid you'd think I was an alarmist-one of those weak, scared little women I detest."

"Don't sacrifice your safety for your pride," he ordered, sounding so imperative that her temper rose.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" she snapped. "I searched the house and found no one, okay? It wasn't until after you left that I found the gun was missing. Since then I've been looking for it and"-she shook her head-"it's gone."

"I don't like it."

"Neither do I."

He was staring at her so intently, she had to look away. "So, tell me," she said, rubbing her arms. She felt chilled to the bone. "Who's this Al?" she asked, then suddenly she knew. "Oh, my G.o.d. He contacted the radio station, didn't he? The killer. Maury's been in contact with him! He called or wrote or e-mailed the station."

"Someone did. It could be a fraud. Lots of times people pretend to be the doer, just to get some attention."

"But you think it was the real thing," she guessed, glancing at him as she shoved her hair from her eyes. "That's why you're here and asking all these questions. You may not be on duty but you're still working."

"I'm not sure the killer sent the note." Montoya stood, stretching. "But it's possible and we're checking out every lead."

"What did the note say?"

She came straight toward him, her fear and distress dilating her pupils. When she turned her earnest face to his, Montoya's concentration shattered. He should have been prepared for the question. But he wasn't. Nor was he prepared for the onslaught to his senses brought on by this little bit of a woman with her quick smile, sharp wit, and deep-set determination. She was close enough that he smelled a whiff of some perfume, saw the tiny streaks of gold in her hair, gilded by the firelight, noticed the way the cords in her neck were visible. The FBI wouldn't like it if he spilled his guts about the note, and he didn't want to do anything that would remotely compromise the investigation. However, this, he thought, was a mitigating circ.u.mstance. She was missing her gun, for G.o.d's sake, and that single fact scared the h.e.l.l out of him. So f.u.c.k protocol. The task force was just getting together. The message was only a single word, and who knew how many people at the station had heard or seen it?

"What did the note say?" she repeated.

"If I tell you, you need to keep this under wraps."

"Of course."

"I mean it."

"So do I, Detective."

"I'm serious, Abby, this could cost me my job or, worse yet, cripple the investigation."

"I'm serious, too. d.a.m.ned serious. What the h.e.l.l did the note say?"

He stared at her long and hard. "The only reason I'm telling you is that I have this sense . . . worry that somehow this is connected to you. I don't know how, and I could be way off base, but that's what I feel." He saw the fear deepen in her eyes. "I'm sorry. But you need to be aware and alert. And cautious. I don't want you to be taken by surprise." Frowning, he ignored the warnings running through his mind, including Melinda Jaskiel's last order concerning protocol. It was all he could do to keep from taking her into his arms. "There was only one word:-Repent-and it was signed by Al, Al, or more precisely or more precisely A L; A L; both of the signature letters were capitalized." He watched as little lines of confusion appeared between her eyebrows, how her full lips pulled into a knot of concentration, how a shadow of fear chased through eyes the color of aged whiskey. both of the signature letters were capitalized." He watched as little lines of confusion appeared between her eyebrows, how her full lips pulled into a knot of concentration, how a shadow of fear chased through eyes the color of aged whiskey.

"Repent? For what?" Her gaze was troubled. "Sins? Whose? Why?"

"We don't know yet. But the task force is looking into it."

"Shouldn't this information be made public?"

"It will, when the officer in charge of the task force thinks it should."

She shook her head. "It means nothing to me and I don't know anyone else named Al or even with those initials." Her shoulders slumped. "Why the h.e.l.l is this happening?"

"I wish I knew." And then he could restrain himself no longer. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. When she didn't resist, he rested his chin upon her head and drank in the scent of her hair. "I'm afraid until we catch him, we won't know."

She s.h.i.+vered and held tightly to him.

"We will catch him. It's just a matter of time."

"Good."

He closed his eyes for a second, lost in the feel and smell of her. It would be so d.a.m.ned easy to kiss her. They both knew it, and when she looked up at him, the question was in her golden eyes. With their bodies pressed so close together, their hearts beating faster, it was all Montoya could do to slowly release her. He had to. But when they were at arm's length, he felt bereft.

She didn't argue, nor try to nestle herself close against him, though he thought he noticed a glint of desire ripple through her gaze.

Don't go there, Montoya. Kissing her would be a stupid move. Stupid. She's involved in all of this somehow . . . remember that. She was married to one victim and could be the next.

His jaw tightened.

More to break the tension than anything else, he pointed to a picture on the mantel. "That you?" he asked, indicating a black-and-white head shot that was nearly identical to Abby, but just a little off.

"My mother."

"Really?"

"Yeah . . . I think it was taken around the time she was twenty-five, maybe thirty."

"You look a lot like her."

"So I've been told."

"It's a compliment."

"Then, thanks."

She tried to hide a yawn. For the first time he noticed how tired she looked, how hard this was on her. "Look, why don't you go to bed."

"Now?"

"You look beat."

She glanced toward the door. "You're leaving?"

"Not on your life, lady. Not until you get a security system installed, a trained Doberman pinscher, and an attack cat."

"But you can't just . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"All I need is a blanket and a pillow. I'll camp out here." He pointed to the couch. "Believe me, it's a lot better than some of the stakeouts I've been on."

"I . . . I don't know."

"You can throw me out if you want to, but I'll just park outside your door." He stared at her long and hard. "I'm staying, Abby, whether you like it or not."

"Thank you," she said simply.

The cop was there.

Had come late.

And stayed.

From his hiding spot in the trees beyond the veranda of Abby's house, he watched as the lights went out . . . all the lights, eventually even the bedroom lamp. He couldn't see through the drawn shades, but he noticed a soft flickering glow and smelled the smoke of a wood fire. It swept through the damp autumn air and reminded him of sitting by camp-fires as a child; fires he'd built, fires he'd watched alone. That same loneliness, that feeling that he was "different," "not quite right," "extremely smart-off the charts in his pure, crystalline intelligence, but you know, a little odd"-his mother's words, her way of explaining why he had no friends, why he was unlike his siblings-swept through him. He felt it again-that dark coldness of being alone. Segregated. Picked on.

Eventually he'd found solace being separate.

Then he'd met Faith.

And he was no longer alone.

Once more, he imagined her touch, her warmth, the feel of her lips grazing his skin . . .

But before he could sink into the delight of his memories, his gaze trained on the house. His jaw slid to one side. Rage burned through his veins, and his lips curled in disgust.

They were f.u.c.king.

He was certain of it.

Like a dog in heat, she was letting the cop screw her! Was even now probably writhing and wriggling beneath him, sweating, crying out, begging for more.

Fury and pain tore through his soul.

She was so much like her mother!

His stomach twisted. All over he felt tiny, little legs brus.h.i.+ng over his body. His skin was suddenly crawling. As if a million red ants were marching over him, stinging and biting, turning his flesh to fire, creating a black rage deep in his soul.

She'd betrayed betrayed him. him.

Memories a.s.sailed him.

He remembered Faith's laughter, that throaty, heart-stopping chuckle that was meant only for him. Yet he'd heard it emanating from her room. Late at night. When she should have been waiting for him. him.

He'd tried the door handle.

It had been frozen. Wouldn't move.

Locked.

He'd been locked out.

Why?