eBook
Related collections and offers
Overview
A woman's burned and brutalized corpse is found in a seedy New Orleans apartment. Her killer is certain there were no witnesses, unaware that his every move was seen by a beautiful stranger—through nightmarish visions that came to her in bed in a bayou cottage on the outskirts of town.
Weeks later, another terrifying vision shatters Olivia Bechet's sleep. Convinced a serial killer is stalking the city, she turns to the authorities. But jaded detective Rick Bentz doesn't believe her—even when a second body turns up, slain in exactly the same bizarre, ritualistic manner Olivia described.
As New Orleans panics in the grip of a merciless killer, Olivia is frustrated by Bentz's skepticism. And yet she is also captivated by her attraction to him. But then her dreams are invaded by a murder that has yet to be committed. This time, Olivia recognizes the victim—and the murderer. And both are closer than she ever imagined.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781420138498 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Kensington |
| Publication date: | 12/30/2014 |
| Series: | Rick Bentz/Reuben Montoya Series , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 480 |
| Sales rank: | 20,830 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Cold Blooded
By Lisa Jackson
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
Copyright © 2002 Susan Lisa JacksonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3849-8
CHAPTER 1
"You need a woman," Reuben Montoya observed as he pulled the police cruiser into the lot of Bentz's apartment.
"Good. Maybe I could borrow one of yours." Bentz reached for the handle of the door. What he didn't need was any advice from a young cop with more balls than brains as evidenced by the earring winking in Montoya's ear and the neatly trimmed goatee covering his chin. The younger detective was smart as hell, but still a little wet behind the ears. And he didn't know when to keep his nose in his own business.
"Hey, I'm a one-woman man these days," Montoya insisted and Bentz snorted.
"Right."
"I mean it." Montoya slammed the cruiser's gearshift lever into park, then reached into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
"If you say so."
"I could set you up." Montoya was a young cop, not quite thirty, with smooth bronze skin, a killer smile, and enough ambition to propel him out of his poor Hispanic roots and through college on an athletic scholarship. Not only had he kicked the living hell out of a soccer ball, but he'd made the dean's list every semester and then, upon graduation, with his future as bright as the damned sun, he decided to become a cop.
Go figure.
Montoya shook out a filter tip, lit up, and blew a cloud of smoke. "I know this nice older lady, a friend of my mother's—"
"Can it." Bentz shot him a look meant to shut him up. "Forget it. I'm okay."
Montoya didn't back off. "You're definitely not okay. You live alone, never go out, and work your tail off for a department that doesn't appreciate you. That's your life."
"I'll bring it up when I'm up for my next raise," he said and climbed out of the passenger seat. It was a cool night; the wind rolling off the river had a winter edge to it.
"All I'm sayin' is that you need a life, man. Your kid's gone off to school and you should have some fun."
"I have plenty."
"My ass."
"'Night, Montoya." He slammed the door of the Crown Vic shut, then made his way into the building. A woman. Yeah, that would solve his problems. He grabbed the evening paper and his mail on the ground level, then climbed up the stairs to his second-floor unit. What did Montoya know?
Shit. That's what the kid knew: shit.
Bentz had learned long ago that women only added to his problems; and he'd learned from the master.
Jennifer.
Beautiful.
Intelligent.
Sexy as hell.
His wife.
The one woman he'd given his heart to; the only woman he'd allowed to break it and break it she had. On more than one occasion. With the same damned man. He unlocked the door and snapped on the lights.
Hurt me once, shame on you.
Hurt me twice, shame on me.
Tossing his keys onto the desk, he shed his jacket and yanked off his tie. God, he could use a beer and a smoke. But not a woman. Trouble was, he'd sworn off all three. No messages on the answering machine. Montoya was right. His social life was nil. He worked out by pounding the hell out of a boxing bag that hung in the second bedroom, didn't even belong to a bowling league or golf club. He'd given up sailing and hunting years ago, along with high-stakes poker and Jim Beam.
Rolling up his sleeves, he walked to the refrigerator and stared at the dismal contents. Even the freezer, where he usually kept a couple of those frozen man- sized microwave meals, was empty. He grabbed a can of nonalcoholic beer and popped the top, then clicked on the TV. A sportscaster started rattling off the day's scores while highlights flashed in rapid-fire images across the screen.
He settled into his recliner and told himself that Montoya was way off base. He didn't need a social life. He had his work and he still had Kristi, even if she was off at school in Baton Rouge. He glanced at the telephone and thought about calling her, but he'd phoned last Sunday and had sensed she was irritated; hated him intruding on her newfound freedom at college, acted as if he was checking up on her.
He turned his attention back to the tube, where highlights of Monday night's Saints game was being replayed. He'd grab a sandwich at the local po'boy shop two blocks over then open up his briefcase and catch up on some paperwork. He had a couple of reports to write and he wanted to pull his notes together; then there were a few open cases that were going stale; he'd need to look them over again, see if there was anything he missed the first, second, third, and fourth times through.
He had plenty to do.
Montoya was wrong. Bentz didn't need a woman. He was pretty sure no one did.
Olivia didn't like the lawyer. Never had. Never would. She couldn't imagine how her grandmother could have trusted anyone so obviously crooked. Ramsey John Dodd, who liked to be called RJ, was as oily as Grannie Gin's fried chicken and twice as plump. "... so the estate's all wrapped up, the taxes and fees paid, all the heirs having gotten their disbursements. If you want to sell the house, now's the time." From the other side of his oversized desk in this hole-in-the- wall he called an office, Ramsey John tented his pudgy hands together and patted his fingertips. Behind him, trapped between the blinds and the only window in the airless office, a fly that should have died days ago buzzed in frustration, banging against the glass.
"I'm still not sure about moving."
"Well, when and if you decide, I could put you in touch with a good real estate man."
I'll just bet you could.
"Wally's a real go-getter."
"I'll let you know," she said, standing abruptly to end the conversation and help disguise the fact that she was lying through her teeth. She wouldn't give any associate of RJ Dodd the time of day much less any business.
He shrugged the shoulders of his too-tight suit as if it were no matter, but Olivia sensed his disappointment. No doubt he would have gotten a kickback for any referral that panned out.
"Thanks for all your help."
"My pleasure."
She shook his sweaty palm and dropped it.
Her grandmother could usually smell a con man six miles away. How in the world had she ended up with this snake? Because his services come cheap, was the obvious answer. Aside from that, RJ was a nephew of one of Grannie's friends.
"Just one thing that troubles me," RJ said as he forced himself from his squeaky chair.
"What's that?"
"How come you ended up with the house and contents, and your mama, she only got the insurance money?"
"You're the lawyer. You tell me."
"Virginia would never say."
Olivia offered him a weak smile. He was fishing and she didn't understand why. "I guess Grannie just liked me better."
His fleshy jaw tightened. "That could be, I suppose. I didn't know her very well, just enough to figure out that she was an odd woman, you know. Some people around these parts claim she was a voodoo priestess. That she read fortunes in tarot cards and tea leaves and the like, you know. ESP."
"Well, you can't always believe what you hear, can you?" she said, trying to change the subject. It touched a little too close to home.
"They say you inherited it."
"Is that what you want to know, Mr. Dodd? If I'm psychic?"
"It's RJ," he reminded her, grinning and showing off the hint of a gold molar. "No reason to get your back up. I was just makin' conversation."
"Why don't you ask my mother about all this?"
"Bernadette claims she didn't inherit the gift if that's what you want to call it, but that you did."
"Oh, I see ... it skips a generation. Of course." Olivia smiled at him as if to say only an idiot would believe such prattle. There was no reason to confirm or deny the rumors. She knew only too well how true they were. It just wasn't any of Ramsey Dodd's business. She hoped it would never be.
"Listen," he suggested, stepping more agilely around the desk than a man his size should have been capable of. "A word of advice. Free." He seemed to drop his usual pomposity. "I know your grannie thought a lot of you. I also know that she was ... an unusual woman, that because of her visions, she was considered odd. Some people trusted her with their lives. My aunt was one of 'em. But others, they thought she was into the dark arts or crazy or both. It didn't make her life any easier, so if I was you, I'd keep my mouth closed about any of that vision shit."
"I'll remember that."
"Do that... It would have behooved your grandmother."
"Is there anything else?" she asked.
"Nope. That's it. You take care."
"I will. Thanks again for all your help." She stuffed the manila folder he'd given her into her backpack.
"It's been a pleasure workin' with you. Now, if you change your mind about sellin' the place, just give me a jingle and I'll have Wally call ya ..."
She didn't wait for him to escort her to the door, but showed herself out through the paneled reception area where a single secretary was poised at a desk situated on a shabby carpet that stretched between three offices, two of which looked vacant as the name plates upon the doors had been unscrewed, leaving telltale holes in the thin veneer. Grannie sure could pick 'em.
Outside, she crossed a parking lot where the potholes had been patched and climbed into her truck. So RJ knew about her trips to the police department. Great. It was probably all over town, would probably get back to her boss at the Third Eye and even to the University, where she was taking graduate classes.
Wonderful. She rammed the old Ford Ranger into gear and roared out of the lot. She didn't want to think about the visions she'd had, the glimmers of evil that she sometimes felt rather than saw. Disjointed, kaleidoscopic shards of horrid events that cut through her brain, made her skin rise in goose bumps, and troubled her so much that she'd actually visited the local police.
Where she was considered a nutcase and had been practically laughed out of the building.
Heat climbed her neck at the thought. She flipped on the radio and took a comer a little too fast. The Ranger's tires screeched in protest.
Sometimes being Virginia Dubois's granddaughter was more pain than it was worth.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," the naked woman whispered, unable to speak loudly, unable to scream because of the tight collar at her neck. On her knees, chained to the pedestal sink, she obviously didn't begin to recognize the magnitude of her sins or the reason that she was being punished, that he was actually saving her.
"Tell me," The Chosen One whispered. "What sins?" "For ... for ..." Her terrified eyes bulged and blinked as she tried to think, but she wasn't penitent. Just scared. Saying what she hoped would convince him to set her free. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "For all my sins," she said desperately, trying to please him, not knowing it was impossible; that her destiny was preordained.
She was quivering with fear and shivering in the cold, but that would soon change. A bit of smoke was already beginning to waft into the tiny bathroom through the vents. Flames would soon follow. There wasn't much time. "Please," she rasped. "Let me go, for the love of God!"
"What would you know about God's love?" he demanded, then, tamping down his anger, he placed a gloved hand upon her head, as if to calm her, and from somewhere outside, through the cracked window he heard a car backfire on the wintry streets. He had to finish this. Now. Before the fire attracted attention. "You're a sinner, Cecilia, and as such you will have to pay for your sins."
"You've got the wrong woman! I'm not ... her ... I'm not Cecilia. Please. Let me go. I won't say a word, I promise, no one will ever know this happened, I swear." She clutched at the hem of his alb. Desperate. And dirty. She was a whore. Like the others. He turned his attention to the radio sitting on the windowsill and swiftly turned the knob. The sound of familiar music wafted through the speakers, fading to the sound of a woman's sultry voice.
"This is Dr. Sam, with one last thought on this date when John F. Kennedy, one of our finest presidents, was killed ... Take care of yourself, New Orleans. Good night and God bless. No matter what your troubles are today, there's always tomorrow ... Sweet dreams ..."
He turned the dial, switching stations, and heard the static and chirps of announcers' voices until he found what he wanted: pipe organ music. Full. As if echoing in a cathedral.
Now it could be done.
As the whore watched, he withdrew his sword from behind the shower curtain.
"Oh, God. No!" She was frantic now, pulling at the chain as the collar tightened even further.
"It's too late." His voice was measured and calm, but inside he was shaking, trembling, not with fear but anticipation. Adrenalin, his favorite drug, sang through his veins. From the comer of his eye he noticed flames beginning to lick through the screen of the vent. The time had come.
"No, please, don't ... oh, God ..." She was clawing at her tether now, vainly trying to hide behind the pedestal as the collar tightened, her wrists and ankles bleeding and raw from her bonds. "You've got the wrong woman!"
His pulse throbbed, pounded in his brain. For a second he felt a tingle against the back of his neck, like the breath of Satan. He glanced at the mirror, searching the shimmering surface, looking beneath the reflection of his own image, his face hidden in a tight black mask, but feeling as if someone were watching through the glass. Witnessing his act.
But that was impossible.
Sweat slid into his eyes as he lifted his sword so high his arm ached. Smoke burned in his lungs. Blood lust ran through his veins as he grabbed a fistful of hair in his free hand. He stared down at her perfect neck surrounded by the choke collar. He was hard between his legs, his erection nearly painful. Oh, how he would love to thrust into her body, to taste of her before absolving her of her sins. But that was not his mission. Denying himself of such wicked pleasure was his own act of martyrdom.
"For your sins, Cecilia," he said, biting out the words as ripples of pleasure passed through him, "and in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I commit your soul to God."
CHAPTER 2"No!"
Olivia's eyes flew open.
Her own scream echoed through her small bedroom. The dog gave up a sharp "Woof!"
"Oh, God, no." Her heart was a drum, her body drenched in sweat, the vivid dream lingering as clearly as if she'd just witnessed a murder. Again. Oh, God, it was happening again.
The vision was so damned real. Her nostrils still stung from the smell of smoke, her ears rang with that eerie pipe organ music, her mouth was dry as cotton, her throat raw from her scream. A blinding headache started at the base of her skull and moved upward.
She glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen. Her hands shook as she pushed the hair from her face.
At the foot of the old bed, her grandmother's mutt lifted his head and was staring at her. Yawning, he emitted another warning bark.
"Come here, you," she said, patting the pillow as Hairy S stretched. He was all scraggly bits of fur, mottled gray and brown with splotches of white, heavy eyebrows that hinted of some schnauzer hidden back in his bloodlines. He whined, then belly-swamped up to the pillows next to her. Absently, she pulled him close, needing something to cling to. She ruffled his coarse coat and wished she could tell him it would be all right. But it wouldn't. She knew better. She buried her face in his fur and tried to calm down. Maybe it was a mistake ... maybe it was just a dream ... maybe ... no way. She knew what the images meant.
"Crap."
She scooted up to a sitting position. Calm down. But she was still shaking, the headache beginning to pound. Hairy S wriggled out of her arms.
"Damn you, Grannie Gin," she muttered as the sounds of the night floated in through the open window, the rustle of the wind moving through the trees underscored by the hum of traffic, eighteen-wheelers on the distant freeway.
Dropping her head into her hands, she massaged her temples. Why me? Why? The visions had started at a young age, before she could really remember, but they had been less defined then, and rare. In the off-and-on-again times when her mother had lived with them, the times between husbands.
Bernadette had never wanted to believe that her daughter had inherited her grandmother's psychic gift.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Cold Blooded by Lisa Jackson. Copyright © 2002 Susan Lisa Jackson. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
