Cold Blooded

  “Is that what you are?” he asked.

  A small smile lifted one side of her mouth. This time when her gaze found his, she wouldn’t let it falter. “What do you think?”

  When he didn’t answer, her smile twisted into a self-deprecating smirk. “Let me guess. That I’m not playing with a full deck? I’m a bottle short of a six-pack? That the gates are closed, the lights flashing, but a train ain’t coming? I’ve heard ‘em all. You have to believe, Detective Bentz, I’m not one of those idiots who tries to make a scene with the police just to get some attention. And you know it. Because that girl in the house the other night was murdered just the way I told you she would be. And there was at least another one. Maybe more. Someone was left in the dark with those”—she pointed to the paper spread in front of him—“those damned markings!”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s start over. Calm down, okay. I’m sorry. I’m here, aren’t I? Listening to you. Trying to make some sense of it.”

  Her blood was still boiling, but she nodded, tried to rein in her temper.

  “Okay … so what do you make of these?” he asked, picking up the sheet and indicating her sketches. “I saw this in Brinkman’s report, but they didn’t mean anything to me. Chicken scratches. What do you think?”

  She leaned over his shoulder and silently cursed herself for catching a waft of his aftershave. Pointing a finger at the symbols, she said, “I’m not sure what they mean. Remember, I caught only glimpses of these things as a light—probably the beam of a flashlight—swept the room.” She stared at the images she’d memorized. “I think the first one is an anchor and those”—she moved her finger to indicate a group of pointed lines—“those three are probably arrows—one with an arc over it, like it’s supposed to be a bow or something or on fire. At least that was the impression I got.” She touched the next image. “This is some kind of flower, I think, but the rest … I don’t know. This”—she indicated a group of letters with her fingertip—“is the inscription, but I only caught quick looks at the letters and I tried to write them down in the order they were scratched onto the walls of the tomb but they were just flashes, glimpses, all that I could remember.”

  She read the strange message she’d tried to decipher a hundred times before: LUM … NA … PA … E … CU …FI

  “Lum-na-pa-e-cu-fi,” he pronounced.

  “Some of the letters are missing,” she said, “and I’ve tried a million times to fill in the blanks. Luminary, luminous … Napa—like Napa Valley in California … I don’t know. It could be a foreign language or part of an acronym or … anything. Maybe even gibberish. Maybe it was written on the wall before the woman was held captive, maybe it has nothing to do with her. I don’t know.” She gazed over his shoulder at the partial words and they made no more sense to her than they did the first time she’d seen them. Squinting, she leaned forward for a closer look, her breasts brushing the back of his sweater until she felt the muscles of his back tense. Realizing just how close she’d gotten, she quickly stepped back, breaking contact.

  Embarrassed, she pulled out a chair and dropped into it. She motioned toward the sheet of computer paper. “It’s like one of those word-jumble puzzles in the Sunday paper. Except you can’t go to page fifty-one and find the answer.”

  His eyes narrowed a fraction. Not a hint of a smile. All business again. “Mind if I take this? It’s clearer than Brinkman’s copy.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Any other visions?” He was staring at her as if trying to sort out the lies from the truth, the smooth sanity from any shards of craziness.

  “Off and on.”

  “All different?”

  “Yes. Nothing as clear.”

  “Done by the same guy?”

  “I … I don’t know … But it seems that way as I obviously don’t visualize every murder committed, not even some that happen in my town, but I see some, Detective Bentz, and they’re so clear they literally make my skin crawl.”

  Nodding, he flipped to the second page and scanned it quickly. “Names, addresses, and phone numbers.” He glanced up. “I’m impressed.”

  “I’m determined to catch this bastard.” She leaned back in the chair. “So … are you going to keep following me? Like last night.” She’d seen his Jeep in her rearview mirror as she’d driven home last night.

  “Maybe I just wanted to see that you got home safely.”

  “And maybe that’s a cop-out. Literally.”

  His jaw slid to one side. “Okay, I’ll level with you.”

  “That would be a plus.”

  “I did want to see where you went and there’s something else. I’m starting to believe you and I’m starting to get worried. I wasn’t kidding about an alarm system and a Rottweiler.”

  “So now you’re going to be my own private bodyguard?” she asked, tilting her head and trying to figure him out.

  “I think my boss might have some issues with that although you’re pretty damned valuable—with this gift and all.”

  “And all, Detective Bentz?”

  He folded the paper and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. “You can drop the ‘detective,’ “ he said.

  “And call you what?”

  “I go by Rick but most people refer to me as Bentz.”

  She realized this was an olive branch of some kind and figured she could use all that was offered. “Okay, Bentz, only if you call me Livvie or Olivia. I answer to both.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “So you finally believe me?” she asked and he slanted her half a smile.

  Something flickered in his gaze. “Let’s just say I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “And it’s killing you.”

  His grin stretched wider. “It’s not what I’m known for.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Thanks for your help,” he said as they walked through the house and onto the front porch. Hairy S streaked off, whining, hot on the trail of some invisible creature. “I’ll let you know if we find anyone trapped in a crypt somewhere.”

  “I hope to God you don’t,” she said, “but I know someone will. Someday.”

  “Maybe by then we will have caught the guy.” He hesitated and for a second she wondered if he was going to shake her hand, give her a hug, or kiss her. Instead he just inclined his head. “I’ll let you know.”

  Olivia watched as he strode to his Jeep and got in. He backed the four-by-four into the turnaround by her truck, then waved and drove off, his rig bouncing down the rutted lane and out of sight behind the thick stands of cypress and oak. Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, she wondered how long he’d last, if indeed he would keep that open mind, then told herself it didn’t matter.

  The visions came to her.

  She was the one who had to figure out where they came from. Otherwise she’d never convince anyone to take her seriously. She wrapped her arms around her middle and wondered why it was so damned important that Rick Bentz trust her. After all, he was just another cop who’d seen it all. So what if she saw something deeper than the crusty, no-nonsense exterior he put forth? What did it matter that she noticed how wide his shoulders were and the way his jeans hugged his hips? Who cared that there was a deeper, more complicated side to the man than first met the eye? She couldn’t afford to find him attractive. Getting involved with him would be a major mistake. Major.

  Nor could she sit around and wait for Rick Bentz or anyone else from the police department to take her seriously. She’d have to find some more proof or a link or something. Before the killer, whoever the bastard was, struck again. She decided to start with St. Luke’s.

  Chapter Twelve

  Olivia pulled on the parking brake and looked through her windshield at the church. It was larger than she’d expected, a whitewashed building with arched stained-glass windows, a single spire, and a bell tower separated from the rest of the church as it rose toward the gray cloud-covered sky. She’d chosen St. Luke’s because of its proximity to the French Quarter. A few blocks off Espl
anade, the two-hundred-year-old bastion of Catholic faith was the closest church to the crime scene. It seemed the logical place to start when one was looking for a murdering priest.

  “A fool’s mission,” she told herself as she got out of her pickup and cinched the belt of her coat more tightly around her middle. She hoped that somewhere in St. Luke’s offices, or the vestibule, there might be information, pamphlets about the church, its priests and staff and hopefully something about the other churches in the city.

  It was Saturday. No one was hanging around in the vestibule. She tested the main doors and they opened easily. Inside, the building was vast but inviting. The ceiling was two full stories above the tiled floor and decorated with painted inlays framed in gold. The nave was lit by dim lights and dozens of candles, their flames flickering against the rough masonry walls. Most of the dark pews were empty, only a few devout individuals inside.

  Olivia paused to stare at the altar and felt something. A need. An ache to believe. She’d never been particularly religious, but had tagged along to mass at her grandmother’s prodding. “When your troubles are too much,” Grannie had said, clutching Olivia’s hand, “it’s time to talk to God. To visit His house.”

  Yet she was here not to pray, but to pry.

  She made a quick sign of the cross and began her search, looking for the church office or a rack containing information about when the services would be held. If she didn’t find what she wanted here, then she’d visit St. Louis Cathedral by Jackson Square. It was the oldest and most famous in the city, and it was half a block from the store where she worked. If all else failed, there was the Internet.

  Father McClaren watched the woman hurry into the vestibule and felt a forbidden emotion he quickly tamped down. She was windblown, her curly hair unruly and damp, her face flushed, her perfect lips turned into a pout. She crossed herself as if anxious or troubled and she seemed out of place with the regulars, the parishioners who made their daily pilgrimage to the church. Even in the half-light he noticed that her eyes were a unique gold color, that her teeth worried a pouty lower lip. She seemed as if she were searching for something. Or someone.

  Another lost soul who stopped long enough to sign the guest register he and Father O’Hara had placed near the front doors.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, approaching.

  “I think I’d like to speak to a priest.” She was slightly breathless and he noticed a few sparse freckles across the bridge of her nose.

  “You think?”

  “Yes. No. I mean I’m sure I want to.” She seemed a little rattled, but he was used to that.

  “I’m a priest,” he said, and she looked at him as if he had claimed he was from outer space or that she thought he was trying to pick her up in a bar. “Really. Father James McClaren.”

  Obviously she wasn’t one of the flock.

  “Oh.” Her eyebrows knit, and she still hesitated, almost as if what he’d told her was somehow a bit frightening. Strange. “I didn’t think you were allowed to wear jeans in church,” she clarified, still eyeing him with what? Suspicion?

  “It’s probably not a great idea,” he admitted, indicating the faded Levi’s, “but I was just cutting through on my way to the cloister. I didn’t think anyone would catch me and I’m pretty sure God won’t mind.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. Obviously he wasn’t what she’d expected. But then he never was.

  “Are you here for reconciliation?” he asked, motioning to the confessionals positioned near the altar. “Father O’ Hara is officially on duty and I’ll round him up for you.”

  “No,” she said suddenly. “I’m not here to confess anything, I just need to talk… to someone.” She stared steadily at him with those whiskey-colored eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes and mounted over cheekbones that didn’t quit. She was, all in all, a gorgeous woman.

  Women were the bane of his existence. Especially beautiful ones.

  “Could I talk with you?” she asked, seeming to overcome her reticence a bit. “I mean, when you’ve got a minute.”

  “How about now?” He wanted to think that it was his sense of purpose, his calling, his pact with God and Church that made him accept her offer, though at the back of his mind he knew there was another reason, not quite as honorable, at play. “I’m not in that much of a hurry.” He touched her lightly on the arm and pointed her in the direction of the courtyard. “We can talk now if you’ll put up with me playing handyman. There’s a clog in one of the downspouts in the cloister and the regular guy is laid up with the flu. Just give me a minute.”

  Olivia decided to trust him even though she felt a little nervous. Hadn’t she just witnessed a physically fit priest killing that poor woman?

  You can’t distrust every athletic-looking minister you run into. What would be the chances that this priest was the ogre of your vision?

  Besides, she just wanted to talk to someone about her gift and the burden that came with it. She had no intention of telling the priest about the murders or that she’d seen another man of the cloth killing an innocent woman, but she wanted to touch the Church in some way, to speak to a man of God, to make a connection.

  Father James guided her past the last row of pews and through a door to the cloister, where the covered porch surrounded a square of marble and a center fountain and marble sculpture of the Virgin and baby Jesus. Cold wind swept across the open area and dark clouds hovered above the city.

  “This’ll just take a minute,” he said as he unlocked a door and retrieved a broom, pair of gloves, bucket, and ladder from the closet. As she watched, holding her hair from her eyes, he positioned the ladder near a corner of the roof where a downspout spilled into a gutter. Donning the gloves, he climbed onto the ladder and pulled soggy leaves and debris from the gutter. “Messy business,” he said, and shoved the handle of the broom into the downspout. “But then God’s work is never done.” He looked down at her and smiled. It was a great smile. White teeth against late-afternoon beard-shadow in a square jaw that could have been taken from the Marlboro man. The guy was way too handsome to be a priest.

  She had a twinge of déjà vu, as if she’d met him somewhere before. A silly idea. This guy, she would have remembered.

  He finished with the gutter and she tried not to notice how the fabric of his jeans tightened over his butt as he climbed down and folded the ladder. What was wrong with her? Her libido, so long dormant, was suddenly all too alive. For all the wrong men.

  “If you’re too cold, we can go inside, but I like it here. Outside, but sheltered. Something closer to God about it.” He snapped the ladder closed and placed it, bucket, and gloves into the closet.

  “If the priest business ever slows down, you can always get a job as a maintenance guy,” she observed as he locked the door.

  He laughed and rammed a stiff set of fingers through his near-black hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Not exactly a higher calling. So, tell me what’s on your mind?”

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “Try me.” Again the smile. “I’ve heard it all.”

  “Okay,” she said as they walked the perimeter of the courtyard, under the overhang. The smell of the Mississippi wafted over the two-hundred-year-old walls of the church. “My name is Olivia,” she said. “Benchet. I moved here a few months ago to be with my grandmother before she died. I inherited her house and something else. It’s a gift, they say, kind of like ESP.”

  “Kind of?”

  “I see things, Father. Sometimes ugly things.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets and wondered how much she should confide. Dry leaves danced across the stone floor of the cloister. “Sometimes things that make me doubt my faith.” She slanted him a glance, but he was looking straight ahead, his brows knit, his nose a little red from the cold.

  “We all have doubts now and again,” he said. “Even priests.”

  “Do priests sin?” she asked.

  “What do you think?” he asked and his lips tightened a
fraction. “Unfortunately we are human.”

  She wondered. The man she saw in her visions wasn’t human at all. He was hideous. A beast. The embodiment of evil. All dressed up in fine vestments. The clouds opened up and poured rain from the sky and the thick drops tumbled down the sloping roof to gurgle in the eaves.

  “So you believe that I have this ‘sight'?”

  “God works in mysterious ways.”

  “Come on, that’s not an answer.”

  “No, I guess it’s not. Kind of an overused cliché.” He stopped at the door to the chapel. “How about this? I think there are gifts God bestows upon all of us. Some we can see, or touch, or prove, if you will. Others are intangible, but gifts nonetheless. We’re lucky if we recognize what we’ve got.”

  “What if I consider my particular gift a curse?”

  “Then you should try to look at it another way. Turn it around. God wants us to use whatever gifts he bestows upon us to benefit mankind and to glorify Him. I bet if you look hard enough you can find something positive in your sight.”

  “That’ll be tough.”

  “I’m sure you can do it,” he said with an encouraging smile that touched his eyes.

  If you only knew. She was tempted to confide in him, to tell him what she’d seen, but thought better of it. “I’ll give it a shot,” she promised, wondering if she was lying to a man of God. “So, are you and Father O’Hara the only priests here, at Saint Luke’s?”

  “For the moment. Sometimes we have visiting priests who conduct the service. And for the record, it’s Monsignor O’Hara. Sometimes he’s a little fussy about that.”

  “Oh. I’ll try to remember. So do you know other priests in New Orleans, the ones who work in different parishes?”

  “Of course.” He smiled as if amused. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” she said, and that really wasn’t a lie. As much as she wanted to trust this man of God, she knew that if she confided the horrid truth to him, she was bound to alienate him. Right now, she just needed a friend in the Church. Someone she could talk to. “Thanks for your time.” She offered her hand.