Never Die Alone

Worse yet, she suspected he was hunting again, his killing ground having expanded from Southern California, heading east, if her theory was correct. And then there was the fact that Rick Bentz was now a working detective in New Orleans, where Zoe and Chloe had gone missing.

Her stomach twisted and her fingers tightened over the wheel as she fought her fears.

Where the hell were Zoe and Chloe?

CHAPTER 8

“I don’t have any comment,” Bentz said. He finished the last swallow of cold coffee and glanced at the clock mounted on the wall of his office: 4:57. Time to be thinking about heading home, and here he was cornered by Jase Bridges, a reporter pounding the crime beat for a local paper.

Bridges was all over the Father John case.

“You know the identity of the killer,” Bridges pointed out. Seated in a chair at Bentz’s desk, the reporter stared at Bentz as if watching for weakness, looking for a crack in Bentz’s responses.

Bentz nodded. “It’s just a matter of finding him. That’s all I have. Hopefully that will change soon. The public information officer will release a statement with any new developments.” He held the younger man’s gaze. They both knew the current PIO was stepping down. Jase Bridges was one of the few candidates for the job.

The reporter hesitated, then appeared to realize that he wasn’t going to get anything more from Bentz. “Good. Keep me posted.” Bridges placed a business card on Bentz’s desk, nodded, then ducked out the door.

Bentz swept the card into the trash. He knew Bridges by reputation—a wild, tough-ass kid who had somehow turned himself around and landed the crime beat for the Observer, a local paper still hanging on despite the downturn in the print newspaper industry.

Bentz had never had much use for the press. Sure, fine, the public needed to be informed or when the department needed the public’s awareness and assistance. But as for the reporters who made something out of nothing, creating a story when there was none, Bentz wasn’t interested. Was Jase Bridges one of those, so hungry for drama that he blended truth and fiction, or a real hard-nosed, truth-seeking reporter?

The jury was still out.

And the thought that Bridges might end up working for the department didn’t sit well with Bentz. His i

“I’m looking for Detective Rick Bentz.” A woman’s voice out in the hall caught Bentz’s attention.

“Just a minute. Do you have an appointment?” demanded the higher-pitched voice of Nellie Vaccarro, a recent hire in the department. “Hey! Wait! What do you think you’re doing?” Petite and bristly, Nellie was the secretary and receptionist for the department, and she took her duty of guarding the gates to the i

“In?” the other woman guessed, footsteps now rapidly approaching.

Bentz rolled his chair away from the desk and stood just as a thirtyish brunette stepped into his office.

“You’re Bentz,” she guessed without any preamble. “Right?” She wore faded jeans and a gray T-shirt, the strap of an oversized bag slung over one shoulder. The woman was slim, around five eight or nine, and serious as hell. No humor sparked in her eyes, no smile tugged the corners of her mouth.

“That’s right.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Nellie, barely visible in the doorway behind the newcomer, lifted her hands, then dropped them in frustration before wedging her body past the visitor. “I’m sorry, Detective,” she said, glossy lips pursed into a frown. In a short dress, heels, her straight, blond hair framing her heart-shaped face, Nellie always appeared ready for a surprise photo shoot. “I tried to stop her, but—”

“You checked my bag and practically frisked me,” the woman cut in, sending Nellie a withering glare. “I just need to talk to Detective Bentz.”

Spine stiffening, Nellie wasn’t about to be dismissed. “But—”

“It’s fine, Nellie,” Bentz said, raising a hand. “I’ve got this.”

She hesitated.

“Really,” Bentz nodded.

Her suspicious gaze skated from Bentz to the intruder, then back. Obviously unhappy, she said, “If you say so, Detective.” Not pleased in the least, she let out her breath and walked away, high heels clicking curtly down the hallway.

“I think you ticked her off,” Bentz said.

“Probably.” The woman stared at him. Her hair was piled loosely on her head, and if she was wearing makeup, it was invisible. “But I need to talk to you.”

“Okay. What about, Ms.—?”

“I’m Bria

He turned her name over in his mind. It rang distant bells.

“Two girls are missing,” she said, her face etched in worry. “Zoe and Chloe De

“Twins?” He felt his stomach tighten. “Just turning twenty-one?” Memories of other cases came to mind, double homicide cases of twin sisters who had been ritualistically murdered the moment each became a legal adult.

“Yeah.” She didn’t mince words, but met his gaze and he felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his gut. Not that there was any co

The third photo showed the two young women dressed in short dresses and tall high heels. It was a glamour shot, their streaked hair pulled away from their identical faces to fall in loose curls down their backs as they hugged each other.

“Where’d you get these?” he asked, pointing at the images.

“Internet. The photo of the girls together is the last picture they posted, taken last evening. From the daylight in the shot, I’m guessing it was probably taken around eight last night, an hour before all communication was lost. And from the landmarks, it looks like they were on Bourbon Street, near Toulouse.”

He agreed. “I guess I don’t understand why you wanted to talk to me.”

“Because I’m . . . I’m afraid this isn’t just a matter of girls going missing,” she admitted and again her gaze held his. “I think it’s probably worse.”

“You think they met with foul play? Were abducted?”

The fear in her eyes said it all and that knot in his stomach twisted painfully.

“You worked on a couple of cases years ago, where twins were abducted and killed on their twenty-first birthdays.”

Bingo. No reason to beat around the bush.

“You think the 21 Killer is behind this?”

“God, I hope not,” she said fervently. She bit her lip before adding, “But, yeah. I think so.”

“He’s in prison.”

“Donovan Caldwell isn’t the 21 Killer,” she said, shaking her head. “The LAPD sent the wrong man to prison.”

“Really?” Bentz squinted at her and told himself not to leap to conclusions. “Why don’t you slow down and start over?” he suggested.

After a moment’s hesitation, she dropped into one of the side chairs and launched into a tale that only caused the knot in his gut to twist. As if she’d been practicing her spiel, she delivered an explanation of Caldwell’s i