"How—how did you find me?" Sam asked, her mind still foggy.
"Navarrone knew that Kent had a place here—the only thing his mother had given him when she cut him off. Basically we got lucky."
"Lucky? I was hoping you would say it was all because of brilliant police work."
"There was a little of that, but luck played a major part."
"That's so reassuring," she said, shaking her head and holding the blanket tight around her shivering body.
"It's meant to be."
"God help us." She felt the streaks of mud on her skin and saw, in the headlights, drips of red. Blood. Not hers but Kent's. Diluted with swamp water, but still running down her legs. Shuddering, she wiped the vile fluid from her skin. "Can we get out of here?" she asked.
"You bet." Ty whistled to the dog and kissed the top of her head. "Let's go home."
Epilogue
"So it's 'case closed'," Montoya said as he walked into Bentz's office and sat on the corner of his desk. Ever cool, Montoya was in his signature leather coat, some dark slacks and a white T-shirt. He'd traded in the goatee for a moustache and instead of one earring, he sported two.
Through the open window, the sounds of the night seeped into the building—a solitary riff from a saxophonist, the hum of traffic, the buzz of laughter. It was night in the city of New Orleans.
"The case is closed except for the fact that we never found Kent Seger's body."
"You figure he got out alive?"
"With all those gators? Nope." Bentz leaned back in his desk chair and found a piece of gum in his desk. "I think he got what he deserved."
"You give up smokin' again?"
"For the time being."
"Probably a mistake."
"Probably."
"So what's happening with Dr. Sam?"
"All good things," Bentz said with a grin. He'd talked to Dr. Sam and was surprised at how well she'd survived her ordeal. She was one tough cookie and now she was calling the shots. "The way I hear it she's got a new assistant and refused to expand the program to seven days a week. George Hannah's going along with it, because he's afraid to lose her. And he would. There are other bigger stations who would hire her in an instant. One as far away as Chicago."
"So why's she stayin'?"
"One reason is Ty Wheeler." Reaching behind him, he flipped on the fan and the hot air blew from one end of the tiny office to the other.
"Thought you didn't like him?"
"I don't. Anyone who gives up being a cop to write books is a candy-ass."
"Or smart. You let him and that dog ride with you," Montoya reminded him.
"The dog, I like."
"So Kent Seger was just one messed-up mother."
"Yeah, I've seen some hospital records. Depression, drug use, violence."
"And what about Ryan Zimmerman?" Montoya asked.
Bentz frowned. "He'll probably try to patch things up with his wife if he ever gets out of the hospital. The story is that he ran into Kent one night in the bars—he'd just lost his job and been kicked out of the house. Kent was an old friend, or so he thought and Kent was connected, had a virtual candy store of drugs. They hooked up and once Ryan was out of it, Kent took him hostage. Held him prisoner. Tortured him in that lair of his."
"The one Navarrone discovered."
"Yeah. Where we found the trophies." Bentz chewed hard on his gum. Seeing the jewelry had gotten to him— everything from earring studs to ankle bracelets and a locket with Kent and Annie's picture inside—probably taken off his sister on the night she'd died, though no one had mentioned it. The way Bentz figured it, Kent had swapped Ryan's picture for his own. The world was no worse without Kent Seger.
"So Zimmerman's sworn off drugs, for good, or so he claims. You can't trust junkies," Bentz said. "The combination of drugs Kent gave him the night Melanie was killed messed him up bad enough that Kent had no problem setting him up. Kent made the call to the station the night Melanie was killed, then pushed Zimmerman into the street. He just happened to get hit by the car. That wasn't necessarily planned. If the hospital hadn't pumped his stomach, he would have died."
"As would have Samantha Leeds."
Bentz scowled. "She nearly did anyway." He glanced out the open window to the city lights and remembered how Kent Seger had gotten past her security, with the one key she didn't duplicate when she changed the locks, a small key she'd rarely used, the one to the trap door under her stairs. All Kent had to do was slip under the verandah, make his way to the trap door and let himself into the house. Easy as pie. What a bastard. And his body had never been recovered from the swamp, as if the dark vile water had claimed one of its own.
Montoya leaned against the file cabinet and crossed his booted feet in front of him. "So what happened to that brother of hers. Pete or Peter or whatever he went by? I thought he might have been involved."
"From all I know he's as elusive as ever. Hasn't surfaced. He worked for a cell phone company for a while, but quit his job. No one's heard from him. Not Sam, not her father, not even the damned IRS."
"What's up with that?"
"Maybe he's just a private person."
"Or a junkie."
"A lot of those out there." Bentz glanced into the night. "My guess is that Samantha and her father won't hear from him until the coroner comes knocking—if then."
"So that's it," Montoya said. "The case is closed."
"There're a few loose ends," Bentz allowed. "I still want to talk to some people who conveniently dropped out of sight when the bodies started piling up. Roommates, exes, pimps and the like, but I think they're all clean, probably just had other issues with the law that they didn't want to go into and decided it was time to disappear." He thought of Marc Duvall, the pimp and Sweet Cindy AKA Sweet Sin, to name a couple persons of interest who had conveniently turned up missing. Sooner or later he'd track them down. Especially Duvall. "But yeah, for all intents and purposes it's over."
"Good." Reuben snapped to attention. "Then we're done. Right? Maybe you should celebrate with one of those near-beers."
"We still have a couple of murders that haven't been solved," Bentz reminded him, and glanced at the computer screen where images of two dead women, one Jane Doe burned and left in front of the statue of Joan of Arc, the other, Cathy Adams, the stripper/student/prostitute who had been found with her head shaved in her apartment.
So close in age to his own daughter. The only kid he'd ever raise. That thought bothered him, but, hell, it was working out. She was a great kid. A great kid.
"We'll figure the other murders out," Montoya said, never doubting himself for a minute.
"I hope so." But Bentz wasn't convinced. In his gut he knew another serial killer was stalking the streets of his city. Another sick bastard with strange rituals. A signature? God, he hoped not. Maybe the two cases on his desk weren't related. And yet… he sensed they were.
Damn it all to hell.
"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm definitely celebrating tonight. Definitely."
"Probably a good idea," Montoya agreed.
"A damned good one. Hey—what time is it?" He looked at his watch, a knock off of a Rolex, then walked over to the file cabinet and switched on the radio just as the first few strains of "A Hard Day's Night" faded away and Samantha Leeds's sultry voice floated from the speakers.
"Good evening New Orleans, this is Dr. Sam at WSLJ. You're listening to Midnight Confessions, and tonight we're going to be talking about luck…"
Dear Reader,
Okay, the truth of the matter is that I loved writing HOT BLOODED. I mean, I really loved it. Maybe it was the romance and intrigue of the city of New Orleans, or maybe it was the characters who became a part of my life for so many months, or maybe I just can't let go. Whatever the reason, I decided to write a companion book to the first story.
COLD BLOODED is my next romantic suspense novel from Zebra Books and I absolutely adored writing it. Basically COLD BLOODED picks up where HOT
BLOODED left off.
Remember the murders that Detective Bentz and Montoya hasn't quite figured out at the end of HOT BLOODED? They get their chance in COLD BLOODED.
And, boy, do they have their work cut out for them. Another signature killer is on the loose in New Orleans. Women from all walks of life are being stalked, then ritualistically killed. This time the killer is very clever, leaving behind few clues. For some reason the victims seem to trust or know the man who cruelly takes their lives.
The press is going wild with the story and some of the people you met in HOT BLOODED reappear, as well as a host of new characters, including Olivia Benchet, a woman whose dreams remarkably recreate the murders. The police write her off as a nut case, but Rick Bentz sees a connection. Not only does Olivia, descendent of a voodoo priestess, have incredible insight into the murders, but she's the first woman who's interested Bentz in a long, long while. Pretty, smart and outspoken, she's obviously terrified of her visions.
The story heats up when Olivia turns to a local priest for comfort and an old secret that has plagued Bentz for years surfaces.
Everything Rick Bentz believes in, everything he holds dear, is suddenly at risk, thrust into horrifying, mind-numbing danger. Including Olivia Benchet and his own daughter, Kristi. Unless he stops the killer.
Putting an end to the terror running through the narrow streets of the city becomes Bentz's personal mission. Even if it means compromising his career.
I hope you pick up a copy of COLD BLOODED in June 2002. I don't think you'll be disappointed.
Let me know what you think of HOT BLOODED and COLD BLOODED. You can either e-mail me through my website at www.lisajackson.com or write to me through my publisher: Lisa Jackson, c/o Kensington Publishing, 850 Third Ave, New York, New York, 10022.
Best Wishes,
Lisa Jackson
Lisa Jackson has been writing novels for nearly twenty years and is currently at work on her next romantic suspense thriller for Zebra Books. She, along with the three generations of her family, call Oregon home. You can contact her through her website at www.lisajackson.com or through Kensington Publishing, 850 Third Ave, New York, New York, 10022.
Lisa Jackson, Hot Blooded
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