Never Die Alone

His phone rang. When he saw the caller was his older daughter, he felt warmth invade his chest. He always had a minute or two to talk to her. “What’s up?” he asked, and glanced at the picture on his desk. With bright green eyes, auburn hair, and a sizzling smile, Kristi reminded him far too much of his first wife, Je

“Hey! Look, I just got off the phone with Olivia, and she tried to convince me to talk to you about retiring.”

“The female forces unite.”

“Not exactly,” she said, and he was certain he heard traffic noise in the background.

“Are you driving?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got an earbud, Dad. Hands free. So I’m safe, but don’t duck the question. Are you really quitting? Seriously?”

If nothing else, his eldest had always been forthright.

“Livvie and I, we’re discussing it. You know that.”

“Well, for the record, I think it would be a mistake. Make that an epic mistake. And the fact that she called me tells me you’re not all that keen on the idea.”

Not a surprise that Olivia and Kristi were at odds. Kristi hadn’t exactly been overjoyed at the thought of a stepmother waltzing into her life a few years back. But the two had been through some rough times together, and more recently they’d bonded a bit. Now that Kristi was grown, married, and had a career as a true crime writer, things between the two women seemed copacetic.

Then again . . .

“I’ve got to retire someday,” he said. “We had this discussion.”

“But you didn’t get it.”

“So, okay, kid, I’ll bite. Why an ‘epic mistake’?”

“Oh, Dad, get real! Like you would be happy changing diapers all day or arranging playdates for Gi

“You already said—”

“Come on, you and I both know that you’d wither up and die if you weren’t hunting down the bad guys. It’s what you do.”

“I might take up golf.”

“Yeah, right. And I might be the first woman president.”

“That would be a great idea. Olivia’s pegged Gi

“Very fu

“I think she was serious.”

“Well, so am I,” she said, then, “Crap! Watch where you’re going, dude! Oh, sorry, some ass just cut me off. Really? On Burgundy in the Quarter? Who does that?”

“Du

“Jerk!” she yelled, then took a deep breath. “How do these guys get driver’s licenses?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have one.”

She let it go. “Anyway, I gotta be straight with you, Dad. You’d wither away if you weren’t on the job and, wait, don’t give me any stupid excuse like you could be a PI or something. Is that what you want? Stakeouts to see if spouses are cheating on each other? Or if the president of the soccer league is ru

He smiled. She had a point.

“Don’t fall for it, Dad. You and I, we both know that your job is dangerous, but it feeds your need for excitement. You’re an adrenaline junkie, and you get a rush out of nailing the bad guys and getting them off the streets. Well, maybe Olivia knows it, too, but she’s fighting it. Because she loves you and she wants you to—Oh, crap, there’s a cop!”

“What?”

“Gotta hang up.”

Then she was gone, the co

He dropped his phone onto his desk and told himself not to dwell on the decision to leave the department. Not today. He had work to do. He took a swallow of coffee, found it cold, and walked to the kitchen, where a fresh pot was brewing. Several cops were hanging out, reading the paper, eating a hasty breakfast, or lingering over a cup of Joe before heading out.

Turning his head to stretch the tight muscles in his neck, he poured a fresh cup and headed to his office again. He’d just settled in when he heard footsteps approach.

In black jacket and jeans, Montoya filled the doorway. “I’ve got bad news and . . . worse news.” His eyes were guarded by his signature shades, but the set of his jaw and the grim line of his mouth indicated he was perturbed.

“What?” Bentz rolled his chair back.

“The bad news is that there was an apparent homicide last night, maybe early this morning. Working girl, lives off of Chartres, not quite in the Quarter. Mike O’Keefe took the call.” O’Keefe was a street cop who’d been with the department for years.

The hairs on the nape of Bentz’s neck lifted in warning. He knew where this was going.

Montoya added, “Her body was found by the super, who was sweeping up around the outside of the building when he noticed her door was open. Just a crack, but still. According to him, she never left it ajar, always locked up tight. So he peeked inside, saw her lying there, called 9-1-1. The super says he went inside, but he could tell she was dead. Didn’t even try to revive her.”

Bentz’s gut clenched. “Anything else?” he asked, though he could guess what was coming.

“Yeah, the guy who caught the call did a quick sweep of the apartment. The victim was half-dressed, displayed, weird ligature wounds around her neck, and a hundred-dollar bill left at the scene.”

Bentz’s stomach dropped. “Let me guess: Franklin’s eyes on the C-note were blacked out.”

“Bingo.” One of Montoya’s eyebrows appeared over top of his shades. “Father John.” With an affected Louisiana drawl, he added, “He ain’t finished.”

“I was afraid of that. Let’s roll.” Bentz pushed his chair back and reached for his jacket and shoulder holster. “Wait a second,” he said, standing. “There was something else? The worse news?”

Montoya nodded. “Or maybe the not-as-bad news, as we might have caught a break. A security camera at a parking lot near Bourbon Street, where the De

“One woman?” Bentz strapped on his holster and sidearm.

“Yeah, don’t know if it’s one of the De

“How’d you find out about it?”

“After we interviewed the bartender, he told everyone who worked there about it, and the boss decided to review all their security tapes. I’m already checking with other businesses nearby. Maybe they’ve got something.”

“Let’s hope.” He shrugged into his jacket, though he’d probably peel it off again before midday. They headed downstairs to the parking lot. All the while Bentz felt that little buzz that always accompanied a significant break in a case, a little jolt of adrenaline that came with knowing they were on the track of something. So far he wasn’t sure what.

“Let’s check out the apartment off Chartres,” he said. “Then I need to stop by and talk to Selma De

“If we’re lucky.” Montoya was already stepping through the doors to the street, where hazy sunlight filtered through a canopy of branches and reflected off the concrete. As he reached into the pocket of his jeans, he said, “I’ll drive.”

As if there was any question.

CHAPTER 23

“Rise and shine!” Jase set a cup of coffee on the table near the end of the couch where his father rested, faceup, mouth open, beard shadow more pronounced than it had been less than five hours earlier. Jase had already checked the news feed and had a major lead that he couldn’t ignore, a possible homicide. “Come on, Ed, you know the old saying, the one you always repeated? ‘If you’re going to soar with the eagles, you have to rise with the sparrows.’”