She still wasn't buying it, but played along. "Okay, just for argument's sake, let's say you think the killer could be Jason Faraday."
"One possibility. He split from Estelle fast and practically gave her everything in the divorce, then pulled up stakes and got the hell out of Dodge so to speak. He started a new life for himself with ties down here."
"Who else?" She picked at the dying fronds of a Boston fern.
"Annie's brother. Kent and she were pretty close. They'd lived through their parents' divorce and their mother's remarriage. Kent was pretty messed up after Annie died. He didn't work, didn't go to school and suffered from some kind of depression. All this time his mother's second marriage was breaking up. He was the man of the house and during that time he was committed to a private mental hospital for a while, one in Southern California, Our Lady of Mercy."
"Catholic? For rich kids, right?" she asked, noticing how his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck.
"Troubled kids."
"But it was run by the Catholic Church."
"Estelle's a devoted member of the church, so her kids were raised that way." He slanted her a look. "It's not a sin you know."
"I do know. Guess how I was raised?" she asked, walking into the kitchen and dropping the brittle fronds into the trash.
"I don't have to guess. It's all in my notes."
"Oh, right. You know, Ty, I should be ticked off about this. It's called invasion of privacy, I think." She was dusting her hands as she padded back into the living room and resumed her position leaning over the back of the couch.
His smile wasn't the least bit abashed. "So I'm a bastard, what can I say?"
"Add in insufferable, bullheaded and inflexible."
"Your kind of man."
"In your dreams."
"There, too," he admitted, sending her a hot glance that caused a catch in the back of her throat. Things were moving quickly, probably too quickly. Right now her life was turned inside out, she needed room to breathe, to think, to figure out why some twisted man was tormenting her. It wasn't the time to get seriously involved with anyone and yet… and yet…
She cleared her throat and picked at a piece of lint on the back of the cushions. "You were telling me about the members of Annie's family," she reminded him.
"And I had a thought." Rotating his head to look her square in the face, he said, "You know, since you're a hotshot celebrity-psychologist, maybe you could make inquiries to the hospital about Kent, find out about his depression and illness."
"I'm a psychologist, not psychiatrist… big difference in the medical world. They like that MD tagged onto the end of your name."
"This is a mental hospital, they'll take you seriously."
"I think I'm known in the medical community as an 'entertainment shrink.' That doesn't sound too serious to me."
"You lived in the area?"
"Yes," she admitted. "The last I heard one of my college friends is practicing there."
"So, you've got an in."
"Patient files are still confidential."
"I'm not asking you to do anything illegal," he said, but the undertones in his voice suggested otherwise. "Just see what you can find out about Kent."
"So you can print it in a book. I think that's more than illegal. Unethical and morally corrupt might be thrown in."
"Anything you find out, I won't use."
"Oh, yeah, right. Look, I'll call my friend, but that's all. This is strictly, strictly off the record."
"Absolutely."
"So tell me more about Annie's family. The brother, Kent, where is he… no wait, he's here, isn't he?" she guessed. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be so interested. He's in New Orleans."
"Close enough. Baton Rouge. He's finally gotten his act together and finished school at All Saints College. He graduated in general studies, worked at the college part-time, though his mother supported him all the way through school."
"Is he married?"
"Not Kent. He goes through girlfriends like water. Broke up with the last one at the end of May, though he's probably dating again. He always seems to have a woman."
"And a job?"
"He works part-time through a temp agency. I think Estelle is still paying most of the bills."
"You've done your homework," she said, feeling edgy.
He snorted a laugh. "It's called research when you're an adult."
Could Ty possibly be right? For years Samantha had believed that Annie Seger had taken her own life and now, if his theory was right, everything she'd believed had changed and the horror of the past, the secret guilt for Annie's death that she'd tried so hard to bury, was back again, stronger than ever.
"John's" calls are proof enough of that. She rounded the couch, and straddled an overstuffed arm. "So you really think a member of her family is responsible for her death? Her father or stepfather or brother?"
"I'm not limiting the suspects to her family. But I'm sure it's someone she knew. It could have been her boyfriend. Ryan Zimmerman lives in White Castle, just up the Mississippi a few miles. His schooling was interrupted, just as Kent's was, and he went through a period where he was drugged-out all the time. Eventually, through drug treatment, he went back to school and finished Loyola, no less. Transferred in from a smaller school in Texas."
"You've talked to him?"
"Not yet. I'd originally thought I'd start with the smaller players in all of this, get their interpretations of the people closest to Annie, so that I didn't tip my hand. Maybe had a little deeper insight, but now, I'm not so sure."
"Because of the calls I've been getting."
"Yeah." He plowed his fingers through his hair and scowled, obviously angry with himself. "I worry that somehow I started this ugly ball rolling, and you got in its path."
"But then, again, maybe you didn't. There's no use in dwelling on that. Tell me about Ryan. What about his love life?"
He checked the computer, but Sam guessed he knew all this information like the back of his hand. "Ryan got married last year… but he separated about three months ago. She's a local girl he met while going to school. She wants a divorce, he's against it." Ty's gaze held hers. "He doesn't believe in divorce, it's against his faith."
"Don't tell me."
"It's not all that surprising," Ty pointed out. "Annie and Kent are from the same family. She met Ryan through the church, and, let's face it, Catholics are a distinct minority in Texas unless you happen to be a Mexican-American."
"So, Ryan got married in the Catholic Church and less than a year later his wife wants a divorce. Why?"
"I'm still working on that. It could be his lack of ambition. He's got a teaching degree but still drives a truck." Ty moved the mouse around. "But I spoke to a couple of other girlfriends he had who have insisted that he never got over his first love."
"Meaning Annie," Sam guessed, cold inside as she slid onto the cushions from the arm of the couch.
"Right. She stole him from her best friend, Priscilla McQueen, another cheerleader."
"This sounds like it's out of Peyton Place. What happened to her?"
"Prissy still lives in Houston. Married now and has a baby. Her husband works for an oil company."
"You've got this all on computer?" she asked, motioning toward the laptop.
"And on disk as well."
"Okay, so I'm trying to make sense of all this. You think that Ryan wasn't the father of Annie's unborn baby, and you know this because of blood types."
"Right again."
"So who is?" She nestled into the corner of the couch and twisted so that she was able to place her bare feet against his jean-clad thigh.
"There's the catch. Since there are no DNA tests, it could have been any of several of the men or boys involved in her life. The baby's blood had a RH positive factor, and because Annie's RH factor was negative, the father's had to be positive. Ryan Zimmerman's is negative. But Annie's father, her brother, her stepfather all are positive, like the baby. I checked?
??have a friend in the Houston PD who somehow got hospital records. So the baby couldn't have been Ryan's."
"I get it." Sara curled her toes into the fabric covering Ty's thigh. "Both my brother and I are positive, because Dad is. But Mom was negative and she had to get an injection after Peter was born and again after me so as to prevent problems with any future pregnancies."
"This doesn't narrow the field a lot," Ty said, wrapping his fingers over her toes. "Most of the population is positive."
Sasquatch wandered up and Sam reached down to scratch him at the base of his ears, but her thoughts were on Ty's theory and how it all connected. "I wonder if 'John's' positive or negative—or what his type is. Don't the police have that information?"
Ty sent her a smile that was nearly sinister. "I'm already working that angle. I don't think they'd give it to me outright, so I'm doing 'research' through a friend—the man you saw me with last night."
"He's going to get the information for you?"
"I'm counting on it." He turned off the computer. "While I'm in Houston, interviewing Estelle." He slid her a glance. "Don't suppose you want to come along?"
"I think it would be better if I didn't." Sam remembered Annie's cold, grief-stricken mother. "I don't think my presence would be appreciated. You might get more information from her one on one."
"I could use the company," he said, linking his hand with hers and tugging her closer to him. He nuzzled her cheek. "We could have some fun."
It was tempting. "No doubt, but I have things I've got to do here."
"Like?" He slung his arm around her shoulders.
"Catch up on my sleep for one. Someone's been robbing me of it."
"Are you complaining?" His lips were warm against her skin, and she felt the rush of heat she always did when he touched her.
"Complain? Moi?" She feigned innocence. "Never. But I do have things I need to do. You work on your end of this case, and I'll try to start figuring out the other."
"Meaning 'John'." His smile fell away, and the arm he'd wrapped around her shoulders tensed.
"To start with. How does he know the number for the second line? He called in after hours, line one—the one listed in the phone book—was free and yet he dialed in on line two."
Ty's jaw hardened. "You think he's someone who works at the station?"
"I don't know, but it's definitely a possibility."
"Have you told the police?"
"Not yet I didn't want to say anything last night because I didn't want to freak out anyone who was working there."
"Or tip them off," he said.
"Neither Tiny nor Melanie could have called in."
"But they could be working with an accomplice."
She shook her head. "It's possible, yes… but I don't know why they would. More likely it would be George Hannah or someone who would directly benefit from the increased listenership. Melanie wants my job, whether she admits it or not. She's always hoping I'll retire or move on, so she would prefer it if my audience fell off and she could step in… well, that's a little far-fetched. And Tiny… the guy's got a major crush on me. I know that sounds vain, but it's true."
"I believe it," Ty said.
"Neither of them would want to hurt me. We're too close. I'm thinking that someone at the station inadvertently gave the number to a friend or acquaintance."
"Or on purpose," Ty added, his lips compressing. "There's still the very strong possibility that 'John' is someone who works with you." He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze, but the look in his hazel eyes was deadly. "And if the son of a bitch has any connection to the station, trust me, we'll get him."
Chapter Twenty-seven
"Take a look at her neck," Montoya was saying as he squatted next to the victim in the seedy hotel room. She was posed, just as the others had been, hands folded in prayer, legs splayed. "Same markings as the others, but check this out," he pointed to a spot just above the hollow of her throat. "There's something different here, another mark, like something was dangling from the chain like it had a tail… See here… maybe a medallion or a charm or a cross. You know, like she was strangled with her own necklace."
"Or his," Bentz said, his gut twisting. "He brings his own special noose."
"And he took a trophy. See her left ear—all the metal— the earrings? One of them is missing."
"Was the radio on?"
"Oh, yeah. Tuned into WSLJ."
Bentz glanced at the night table… saw the hundred-dollar bill with the black eyes. All part of the sicko's signature, but what did it mean? Why was Ben Franklin blinded? So he couldn't see? So he wouldn't be recognized? "Time of death?"
"We're guessing around midnight. The ME's on his way, and then we'll have a better idea." Montoya clucked his tongue. "She's younger than the rest."
She's younger than Kristi, Bentz thought, his jaw clenching. This dead girl, hooker or not, was someone's kid, someone's friend, probably someone's sister and quite possibly someone's mother. His jaw was suddenly so tight it ached. What kind of bastard would do this?
"She's a local girl, been picked up for a few priors." He handed Bentz a bag with the victim's ID. "And check this out…" Through the plastic, Montoya shuffled the girl's driver's license, social security card and a few photographs until he came to a worn business card. "Isn't this what you've been looking for?"
The card was stock for WSLJ radio station, personalized in one corner for Doctor Samantha Leeds, host of Midnight Confessions, AKA Dr. Sam.
"Hell," Bentz said, glancing back at the body on the bed. The crime-scene team was vacuuming, and the photographer was snapping pictures of the area.
"You were so damned sure there was a link… well, it looks like you were right," Montoya said. "Somehow this girl knew the radio shrink."
Which wasn't good news. Bentz was working on a theory, one that he wasn't certain held any water, but an idea that wouldn't go away. What if the killer wasn't choosing victims at random any longer, what if he was escalating, the crimes getting more frequent, what if he was moving to his primary target… what if his intent was to kill Samantha Leeds?
That's not the way it usually worked; but this case wasn't usual. The guy wasn't tipping off the police or the newspapers or trying to gain some glory, except to call Dr.
Sam…He wasn't the usual creep…Bentz glanced at the ligature around the victim's neck and felt like there was something important in the spacing of the marks surrounding her throat, something he should understand.
"Didn't you say the hotel clerk got a look at the guy?"
"Yeah." Montoya was moving out of the way of the photographer. "She's in the hotel office right now." He flipped out his small notebook. "Her name is Lucretia Jones, has worked here about nine months, and already gave a statement to the first officers on the scene. I asked her to stick around cuz I figured you'd want to talk to her."
Bentz nodded. "Anything else?"
"We've got the original registration he signed as John Fathers."
"He gave an address?"
"Houston."
Bentz glanced at Montoya. "Anyone check it out?"
"Fake. He had the street right—Annie Seger's street— but there's no such number." Montoya's gaze met Bentz's as they walked into the outer hallway, where a few curious bystanders were craning their necks. "I'd say the address is another damned good link."
For once Bentz wasn't glad to have his gut instincts proved right. "Didn't John Fathers have to give a driver's license, offer up some kind of ID?"
"Apparently not Just anted up with cash—a hundred-dollar bill for a forty-nine-dollar room. No luggage. It's really not a big deal in a hotel like this. It's all pretty common—guys pick up a hooker, and they rent a room. No one asks any questions." They paused in front of the elevator. Montoya pressed the call button.
"You said the clerk's in the office?" Bentz asked. "Let's see what she has to say."
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into a cramped car which deposite
d them into a once-far-more elegant lobby that was now shabby at best. The chandelier, a glimpse of a more prosperous time, was dusty, with many bulbs dimmed, the potted plants near the doors drooping, the carpet threadbare, with a vacuum cleaner left unattended in one corner. What had been genteel eighty years earlier was now downright shabby, a musty, dark alcove with a desk that hadn't been replaced in the past century or two.
Two women in matching black skirts, jackets and white blouses, were working behind the desk, peering at computer screens that seemed out of place in the ancient building. A heavyset guy who could have been a bellman or a janitor was slurping coffee in the doorway leading to a back room. Bentz flashed his ID, explained what he wanted and the taller of the two women motioned both Bentz and Montoya around the desk. "Lucretia's back here," the receptionist said. "But she's already spoken to one of the officers."
"This'll just take a minute," Bentz assured her, as she led them down a short corridor to a brightly lit room, where a computer hummed, a table complete with coffee rings dominated the middle of the room and an old couch was pushed against a wall near the microwave and refrigerator. A rail-thin black girl sat drinking a can of diet cola. Her eyes, large to begin with, were huge today, as if she were scared, and seemed to bulge from a head supporting hundreds of tiny braids that were all pulled together at her nape.
She stood as he entered, and the receptionist explained who they were. Bentz waved her back to the couch and took a seat in a folding chair. Montoya lingered in the doorway.
"You were on duty last night?" Bentz asked, and she nodded quickly.
"Yes."
"And you took the registration for the guest who rented the room where the murder victim was found?"
"Uh-huh. I, um, I already gave the card he filled out to the other officer."
From the corner of his eye, Bentz saw Montoya nod slightly, indicating the police had already retrieved the registration form.
"So you got a good look at the guy as he registered last night," Bentz asked.
"Yes." Lucretia nodded, her tiny head bobbing beneath all that hair.