Sam wasn't listening. "Tiny!" Sam yelled, storming to the corridor, her blood pumping hard, anger, disgust and shame spurring her to the booth where Tiny was adjusting the volume and the pretaped program. He looked up, saw her and held up a finger to keep her quiet and at bay. Her fists clenched and it was all she could do not to burst into the glassed-in room and rip him up one side and down the other. By the time he lumbered into the hallway, her fingernails had dug into her palms and she was livid.
"You look like you could spit nails."
"I can," she bit out furiously. "I found the cake."
"The cake," he repeated dully. "What cake?"
"Annie Seger's birthday cake."
"Her what? The girl who called in the other night? What the hell are you talking about?" He seemed genuinely perplexed.
"Don't you know?"
"For God's sake, Sam, you're talking like a lunatic." His face was red now. Anger? Shame? Regret?
Melanie had followed Sam halfway down the hall. "I think you'd better see for yourself."
"Jesus Christ, now what?" Lips compressed, beads of sweat appearing on his pockmarked skin, Tiny strode through the maze of hallways and into the kitchen. Sam was right on his heels, following him step for step. Around the corner, into the kitchen, to stop dead in his tracks. "What the—Shit."
"My sentiments exactly," Sam said.
"But who would do this? How could they?" he asked, turning. His skin had paled, leaving the red blotches of his acne even more pronounced.
"My guess is it's either you or Melanie. No one else is here."
"Except the security guard," Melanie put in.
"He doesn't even know me." Sam wasn't buying it, though, for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why either Melanie or Tiny would want to sabotage her this way. Melanie was her assistant and friend, a person she'd trusted to look after her job, house and cat while she was away and Tiny was half in love with her from the minute she'd walked into WSLJ. He was too smart to be reduced to schoolboy antics to garner her attention.
But then who?
Melanie said, "The guard could've been put up to it."
Tiny seemed genuinely disgusted. "Are you accusing me, Sam? You really think I'd do something like this to… to… you?" he asked, a wounded look crossing his eyes behind his thick glasses.
"I don't know." It did seem far-fetched. Irrational. If whoever was behind it had wanted to rattle her… mission accomplished.
"And Gator was here not an hour ago, and so was Ramblin' Rob. I saw him at the record case looking for some moldy-oldy to play tomorrow," Tiny said.
"The boss was here earlier, too. I saw George in his office, on the phone," Melanie added.
"Great." So half the staff could've done the job.
"Don't you trust me?" Tiny asked. His lips folded in on themselves, and he glared at Sam as if she was named Judas.
"Of course."
"Then knock it off." He looked like a wounded bear.
"And don't look at me," Melanie said, backing up, palms outward. "I've been with both of you all night."
Tiny shook his head and held up a finger. "You took a break."
"To go to the bathroom, for God's sake!" she said. "For the first time in my life I wish George was perverted enough to have some surveillance cameras installed."
"You and me both," Sam said, then felt the tickle of a breeze against the back of her neck and noticed the muted sounds of the city filtering into the room—traffic, a solitary trombone, the wind sighing through the palms in Jackson Square. Heart in her throat, she walked to the French doors that opened onto the unused balcony. They were unlocked, just slightly cracked. "Someone was in here," she whispered, goose bumps rising on her skin. "They came through here." She pushed the doors open and the sound of traffic and voices drifted in with the warm breath of the wind. Laughter and the moan of the trombone.
"They? You think it was more than one guy?" Tiny asked, following her onto the balcony.
"I wish I knew," she whispered harshly, crooking her neck to see around the corner of the building and searching the night-dark streets of New Orleans. Who had broken into the office and how had he done it? Wrapping her fingers around the decorative railing, she stared across the square to the cathedral, splashed with light, the clock face glowing as bright as a full moon, the tall spires black and jutting toward the dark sky. In front of the cathedral was the park, where palm trees blocked her view of the statue of Andrew Jackson and his rearing horse. The park was supposed to be empty now, pedestrians were locked away from the circular sidewalks at night. Had her tormentor scaled the fence, and was he lurking there, hiding in the shadows, watching her now with hidden eyes?
Despite the humidity, she felt cold from the inside out "You bastard," she whispered, her eyes scouring the depths of Jackson Square before she swung her gaze south, past the stately old buildings, along the narrow streets to the levee and the dark river beyond. Was he skulking in a doorway, secreting himself on a small terrace such as this, taunting her silently with his presence.
"I'm calling the security guard," Melanie said from inside the building.
"Good." Sam's gaze swept the railing and floor of the never-used balcony. In the weak light she saw nothing other than pigeon droppings and dirt. "I'll phone Eleanor on another line. If I don't, she'll be ticked. You"—she turned and pointed a finger at Tiny's chest—"phone the police and make sure that Lights Out is on track—and that no one else calls in."
"You really think 'John's' gonna call again, don't you?" he accused hotly. Was there just a hint of jealousy in his voice?
She glanced at the table where the cake was still displayed. "No, Tiny," she admitted, walking inside and staring down at the rapidly burning candles. "I think he already did." Bending down, she blew out every one of the twenty-five damning flames just as the phone jangled.
Sam jumped.
"I'll get it," Melanie said, but Sam was already halfway to the nearest phone available, at the front desk. Line one was blinking wildly.
Bracing herself, Sam leaned over Melba's desk and grabbed the receiver. She punched the button. "WSLJ."
"Samantha?"
She nearly wilted at the sound of Ty's voice. "Hi," she said, rounding the computer extension and falling into Melba's chair. It was so good to hear from him. "What's up?"
"I wanted to see that you were okay," he said. "I listened to the show and wondered if you'd like me to pick you up."
At that moment the security guard, a beefy man of about thirty-five, with a shaved head and beginning of a pot belly, walked through the door. "I'll be fine," she said into the phone. "We did get a little surprise down here, and I was about to call the police." Quickly she told him about the birthday cake.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"I'm fine." She nodded toward the guard. "I'm sure Wes will walk me to my car."
"Wes, my ass. What good was he when someone broke in? Why didn't he hear it? Why the hell didn't the alarms go off? You wait for me and yeah, call the cops. Pronto. I'm on my way."
"You don't have to—"
He clicked off, and the light for line one died. "You'd better check out the kitchen," she said to Wes as she hung up, and then it hit her. Ty had called on line one. Because that was the number listed in the book or available from Directory Assistance. If line one was in use, the calls automatically switched to line two, then three and four depending upon how busy the lines were. Calls could stack up while waiting for a response.
But John had phoned in on line two, even when none of the other lines were busy. Somehow he knew the number. Either he'd been in the building, worked for the phone company, had access to the phone records or he worked at WSLJ.
A cold drip of fear slid through her blood. Was it possible? Was someone at the station responsible for the terror? How else would the cake be left in the kitchen? Either John or an accomplice knew the ins and outs of this old building, understood how WSLJ ran, and had a personal vendetta against
her.
Who?
George Hannah?
Tiny?
Melanie?
Eleanor?
She trusted every one of them. And those she knew less well, Gator and Ramblin' Rob, some of the technicians and salespeople, even Melba. They were all part of her family here in New Orleans.
But one of them hates you, Sam. Enough to scare the liver out of you. She stared at the phone, quiet now, no lights bunking in the semidarkness. The pictures of celebrities, the framed awards, the voodoo dolls and baby alligators all backlit in glowing neon seemed macabre tonight.
Whoever it was who meant to terrorize her had done a damned good job.
Until she found out who was behind the bizarre events of her life in the last few weeks, she'd never feel safe here again.
Chapter Twenty-two
This is your fault.
Ty ignored his conscience, but guilt settled deep in his gut as he opened the door to his wagon and whistled to his dog. He couldn't help think that somehow he trip-hammered someone's interest in Annie Seger. He'd done some research, knew the story inside and out, but he couldn't figure out how his writing a book about the case could ignite anyone's interest.
No one knew about his project aside from his editor, agent and himself. He hadn't even been honest with Sam, and when she found out she was gonna be angry as hell.
Sasquatch barked loudly from inside the house, causing a ruckus.
"Be good," Ty warned as he slid behind the wheel and rammed his keys into the ignition. He hadn't intended to touch off a new crime spree, nor had he intended to get involved with Sam, though he'd planned on meeting her from the start.
Throwing the car into drive, he gunned the engine and flipped on the headlights. The street was deserted, Sam's house dark, a light glowing on Mrs. Killings worth's porch.
His idea of getting to know Samantha Leeds and in the process learning what she knew about the case had backfired big-time. Before he'd even started, whoever the hell John was had started calling into Midnight Confessions. And then this latest bit—with the breathy-voiced girl claiming to be Annie. What the hell was that all about? Who was she?
He slowed for a stop sign, men took the corner, heading through the outskirts of the tiny lakeside community of Cambrai and rimming the lake, heading toward the bright lights of the city, visible in the distance.
The names of people connected with Annie Seger swirled through his head—her mother, Estelle, a cold, religious bitch if ever there was one and Wally, her natural father, a man who drifted from job to job. Then there was her brother, Kent, a year and a half older and not as popular as his sister. She'd been raised by Jason Faraday, her stepfather, an ambitious, driven, A-type doctor, and her boyfriend had been Ryan Zimmerman, a boy who'd fallen from being an A student and captain of the lacrosse team into partying and drugs. Annie's purported best friend had been Priscilla "Prissy" McQueen, a backstabbing self-indulgent teenager who'd had a crush on Annie's boyfriend.
He wheeled around a corner and saw the city limits of New Orleans loom in front of him. He reached for his cell phone and punched out a number he knew from memory. It was time to call in the cavalry, much as he hated it.
Otherwise, someone was going to get hurt.
Brrring.
No, Bentz thought, his eyes opening to his dark apartment. Not now.
The phone jangled sharply again.
Rolling over, he glanced at the clock and groaned. Two-thirty in the damned morning. He'd been asleep less than two hours. No doubt it was bad news. No one called in the middle of the night just to chat. Snapping on the bedside lamp, he snagged the receiver before the damned telephone could ring again. "Bentz," he said, wiping a hand over his face, trying to wake up.
"Looks like we got ourselves another one." Montoya sounded much too alert for this gawd-awful time of day.
"Hell." Bentz swung his legs over the side of the bed. His mind instantly cleared, and he thought about the warning Samantha Leeds had received. "Where?"
"Near the Garden District," Montoya said, giving off the address. "Second floor."
"Same MO?"
"Similar. But not identical. You'd better get over here." Montoya rattled off the address.
"Give me twenty minutes. Don't let anyone disturb anything."
"Would I?" Montoya asked before clicking off, and Bentz wondered why he hadn't been called first. He hung up, grabbed a pair of jeans he'd thrown over the end of his bed and kicked his shoes from beside the dresser. He didn't bother with socks and yanked on a T-shirt. In one swoop he gathered his keys and ID, then grabbed his shoulder holster and Glock from the bedside table. Stuffing his arms through a jacket and shoving a Saints cap on his head, he took the stairs to the front door of the apartment building.
Jesus, it was hot. At two-thirty in the morning. Not the dry heat of the desert but that moist, cloying warmth that brought a sweat to his skin at seventy degrees. He jogged to his car, unlocked it and had fired the engine before he strapped on his seat belt.
Another woman dead.
Silently he berated himself. He shouldn't have paid so much attention to Dr. Sam and the damned threatening notes. Not when there were murders being committed. Murders he needed to solve.
But killings that just might be connected to the radio shrink.
His tires squealed as he took a corner too fast and he clicked on the police band, only to hear that there had been trouble down in the French Quarter. He heard the address and recognized the building. Realized it housed WSLJ. Was certain the trouble involved the lady shrink. His gut tightened. John had warned her, then struck again.
This was turning into one helluva night.
He drove like a madman, found the address Montoya had given him and parked between two cruisers. The night was sticky, not much wind. Sweat ran down his back as he wove through the crowd that had already gathered around the grand old house cut into individual apartments.
On the second floor, he found the apartment and stepped inside.
The place was already crawling with the crime-scene team. A police photographer was taking pictures of the dead woman as she lay facedown on the carpet. She was naked, and her head had been shaved, nicks visible beneath the dark stubble covering her skull. A thick braid of shiny black hair was twined in one of her hands and an odd, sweet smell accompanied the usual stench of death. Her skin was smooth, a soft mocha color.
With one quick look, he knew they had another killer on their hands. "This is all wrong," he muttered to himself, his gut tight, his jaw clenched as he viewed the latest victim stretched out on the area rug.
"You're telling me." Montoya slid past the photographer and had heard Bentz's observation.
Bentz squatted down, balanced on the balls of his feet.
He touched the skein of hair wound through her fingers. It was oily. Smelled faintly of patchouli. As in Kama Sutra. What the hell was that all about?
"Who's the victim?" Rocking back on his heels, Bentz glanced up at Montoya.
"Cathy Adams, according to her driver's license, but she was sometimes known as Cassie Alexa or Princess Alexandra."
"Working girl?"
"Part-time prostitute, part-time student at Tulane, part-time exotic dancer down at Playland."
He knew the place. An all-nude "dance club" on Bourbon Street.
Straightening, Bentz surveyed the room. Neat. Tidy. Furniture worn, but clean. A few pictures on the wall. Martin Luther King Junior was positioned above a tattered recliner and directly above her head, a colored portrait of Christ gazed down on her. "This her place?"
"Yeah. According to the landlord she had been sharing this place with a boyfriend, who the landlord thinks might have doubled as her pimp, but the guy—Marc Duvall— moved out about three weeks ago after they had one of their usual knock-down-drag-outs. Same old, same old, she calls 911 but by the time the officers show up, she's calmed down and even though she's got one helluva shiner, won't press charges, claims it was all a mistake.
He gets hauled in, but he makes bail. Anyway she gave Marc his walking papers, he skips out, and no one's seen him since. The landlord has had it and served Cathy an eviction notice. I've got an APB out for Marc, but my guess is he's not only out of town, but probably the country."
Bentz was still surveying the crime scene. "Whoever did this isn't our boy," Bentz said, sensing he'd just stepped into an unfamiliar evil. Again he bent down for a better view of the victim. She'd been strangled, from the looks of the bruises on her neck, but the ligature was different from the other victims.
"I know. More upscale neighborhood. No mutilated C-note, no radio playing, garrotted by something different."
"All the other victims were white," Bentz muttered.
"But she was a prostitute, and she was killed in her apartment, and she was posed," Montoya pointed out. That much was true. No one would have fallen on the floor completely facedown, arms outstretched over her head, legs together, toes pointed, a thick braid of her own hair twined in her fingers.
"Differently. She was posed differently." Bentz thought hard as he stared at the smooth mocha-colored skin of Cathy Adams. He wondered about the woman—did she have children? A husband tucked away somewhere? Parents still alive? His jaw hardened. "Check on the next of kin, friends, family, boyfriends other than Marc. Find out what else she was into. Talk to the other girls and the owner of the club."
Montoya nodded, frowned down at the victim. "Maybe our boy's escalating or mutating. Maybe that's why the signature's changed."
"It's too different, Reuben." Bentz didn't like the turn of his thoughts. "I'll bet we've got ourselves another bad guy. If nothing else, a copycat."
"Two?" Montoya reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. Shook one out. Didn't bother to light it. "No way. They're not that common—what? Maybe 10 percent of the serial-killer population."
"Somethin' like that."
"What are the odds of that happening?"
"Not good, thank God." And yet… Bentz's gut told him differently as he walked through the rest of the small apartment, away from the cloying smell of patchouli.