Never Die Alone

She was about to argue, but he said, “I know. I get it. You’re tired. Been through an emotional wringer with your friend, whom, I assume, is close to you.”

“Pretty close.” The carriage rolled by, the clop of steel hooves ringing as the dappled horse plodded past.

“So, this won’t take long,” he said, his eyes following the carriage’s progress. He turned his gaze to her again. “Promise. One drink. Let’s just go over your theory that Donovan Caldwell was wrongly convicted and that 21 has started up again.”

She shouldn’t. She knew it was a mistake. But, in truth, a drink sounded like heaven. And she still had a fascination with Jase Bridges, stupid as that was. Besides, she could use an ally, any ally, and one in the press, especially one with ties to the police department. Deciding to hear what he had to say, she gave a quick nod. “Fine.” She remotely locked her car again and heard it chirp a response. “You’re on, Bridges. But you’re buying.”

His lips found that same irreverent smile she’d remembered from high school. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He hitched his chin to indicate the other side of the street where a pub with a wide, paned window and glowing neon lights was wedged between a retro boutique and a sandwich shop offering tarot readings along with a soup of the day. “We can talk in there.”

CHAPTER 13

A slice of moon was barely visible from the clouds scudding across the night sky. Inside the Mustang, Bentz stared at the stream of northbound traffic, headlights bright, while Montoya drove steadily back toward New Orleans. Bentz undid the top button of his shirt. He was sweating, the interior of the car muggy, despite the efforts of the Mustang’s air-conditioning system.

Regardless of the heat and humidity, Montoya was still wearing his leather jacket, the diamond stud winking in the half-light. Montoya was always as cool, it seemed, as the proverbial cucumber. He had, though, ditched his shades. Sometimes one had to be practical.

“So, we’re battin’ a thousand,” Montoya said sarcastically as he pressed on the accelerator to pass a white Buick LeSabre whose driver, wearing a driving cap, kept his vehicle five miles under the speed limit.

“I guess.”

The trip to Baton Rouge had proved uneventful and brought back a slew of memories, not many of them good, to a time when Bentz’s daughter Kristi had attended school at All Saints. As the sun had lowered and shadows lengthened over the campus, Bentz had walked across the quad, past the library, and in front of Wagner House with its elegant façade and dark, hidden tu

At the time Kristi had left for college, Bentz had thought All Saints would be a haven for her. With its fine academic reputation, purported easy access to one-on-ones with teachers, and a small student body, the school had seemed perfect. The campus itself was bucolic in appearance. Red brick buildings, stately trees, lush grass and winding paths seemed serene, and in the brochures that Bentz had poured over, he’d seen pictures of students and teachers in state-of-the-art classrooms, kids in lounges with guitars or in the library studying or in the quad gathered on blankets. Some of the photos had shown off the stately and dominant cathedral, the center of the complex, or a chemistry lab with a serious student studying the contents of a test tube. Later he’d found out that the studious serenity had been a façade for a growing evil that had pulsed beneath the academic surface. But none of that had surfaced until after Kristi had enrolled.

His jaw tightened at the memory, and he absently rubbed his hip, where he still bore a scar from the horrifying experience. While desperately trying to save his daughter from a killer terrorizing the college, he’d almost lost his own life. The pain lingering in his leg reminded him how much he despised All Saints. It hadn’t helped that today the dean of students had been less than cooperative. Not that Father Crispin wasn’t concerned; he just appeared to be more interested in protocol and the reputation of the campus than in finding the De

Then again, hadn’t Bentz believed the same of Bria

Drumming his fingers on the passenger door, he replayed the scene with the missing persons officer at the Baton Rouge Police Department. Bentz had certainly held more sway there than he had with Father Crispin, but really, things hadn’t been all that much better. The officer had pointed out that so far no known crime had been committed, which, of course, Bentz already knew. But the officer had insisted the wheels were in motion. Baton Rouge detectives had gained access to the dorm where the girls lived and, it seemed, from the state of things, had intended to return. No cell phones were found, nor iPads or other electronic tablets. No purses or keys.

Still, he was bothered. Big-time.

“You think it’s 21?” Montoya eased up on the speed a bit.

“Hope not.”

“You and me both. What’re the chances that 21 would show up around the same time Father John reappears?”

“Coincidence.”

Montoya sent him a look. “Thought you were the dude who didn’t believe in coincidences.”

“Yeah, I know. This time . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck and thought about a beer, then quickly shut his mind to the idea. Booze and he had separated years ago, and except for an occasional slippage, he kept it that way. Last night had been a mistake; one he wasn’t going to make again. At least not today. He cracked his window, let the warm summer air rush into the Mustang’s interior.

Truth to tell, Bentz was worried. At least about the De

“Hey,” he said, putting his cell on speaker so that Montoya could hear. “How are ya?”

“Okay,” Hayes said, “I got your message about the woman who thinks Caldwell isn’t 21. She was in LA and I did talk to her on the phone, but never met with her. I figure she’s another nut, a relative no less, who thinks justice wasn’t served. But the killings stopped.”

“I know, but we got a new situation,” Bentz said as Montoya closed in on a pair of red taillights. “A couple of college girls. Twins who disappeared.”

His ex-partner waited.

“On the night before they were about to turn twenty-one. Last night, as a matter of fact.”

“Where?”

“New Orleans.”

“What? New Orleans?” Jonas said, and Bentz pictured him, a tall black man with serious eyes and perpetual lines of worry etching his forehead. “You think this is 21? Nah, that’s impossible. Donovan Caldwell’s still locked up, and 21 stayed in LA.”

“Still claiming to be i

Hayes gave a frustrated growl. “Okay. So why don’t you tell me what you’ve got and . . . hell, I’ll pull the case file and see if there’s anything that we missed.”

“Send it to me. You’ve got my e-mail,” Bentz suggested as the lights of New Orleans appeared on the horizon. And then he brought Hayes up to speed.

The interior of the pub was ten degrees cooler than it had been on the street. The walls were exposed brick, with a glossy wood bar that looked as if it was over a hundred years old. It stretched in front of a mirror that rose to high ceilings, where paddle fans churned lazily. Most of the stools at the bar were occupied. While conversation buzzed over the clink of glasses, two bartenders were busily mixing drinks in front of a display of bottles backlit by hidden lights.