Never Die Alone

“Come in,” Bentz said to Bridges, then pocketed his phone. When Nellie Vaccarro appeared in the doorway, her pink lips compressed, he waved her away. “It’s okay,” he told her.

“It is definitely not ‘okay.’ I take my job very seriously, Detective Bentz,” she reminded him almost primly. She had a lot to learn about how this place ran. One bustling little receptionist wasn’t going to change things.

“I know, Nellie. I appreciate it, but Jase here, he’s okay. Might even end up being hired by the department. So, trust me, this time, it’s all right.” In truth he wasn’t overjoyed at seeing the reporter, but there was no reason to make a stink. After he’d given Bridges and the reporter from WKAM the brush-off at the crime scene, Bentz had determined that he could use a friend in the press. Bridges, being considered for the public information officer position, was as good a choice as anyone.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

With a final don’t-get-used-to-messing-with-me look at Bridges, Nellie walked quickly down the hallway.

For his part, the reporter didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by her discomfiture and got right down to business. “I need some answers, Bentz.”

“About the homicide off of Chartres?”

“That, too,” Bridges said, “but the reason I’m here now is that I’m working with Bria

Bentz nodded. Not surprised. “You want to know about the 21 Killer,” he surmised. “I’ve talked to Ms. Hayward, heard her theories.”

“And I found out that Donovan Caldwell died early this morning or late last night. I figure you, as an investigating officer of the original case, might know a little more than most.”

Bentz didn’t respond.

“Tell me about Donovan Caldwell. What happened?” Bridges prodded. “How did he die while incarcerated? An accident? Natural causes? Come on, he was a young man. There’s talk of suicide.”

“Twitter at its best,” Bentz muttered.

“It’s happened before.”

“Look, the investigation is ongoing. I was just talking to Detective Hayes from the LAPD. He was my partner for the years I was on the force. He tells me nothing is certain yet. There will be an autopsy. Lab tests. You know how those things go. The final report could take weeks.”

“Won’t they rush the autopsy?”

Bentz shrugged. “It’s not really an emergency. And they’ll be extremely thorough. Caldwell was convicted of heinous acts, didn’t have a lot of fans in prison. The Department of Corrections will want to make sure everything was on the up-and-up.”

“You’ve heard Bria

Bentz wanted to stick to the company line, that, of course, the LAPD had gotten their man, but in light of recent findings, he wasn’t a hundred percent certain. Before he could come up with a suitable answer, he heard a ruckus out in the hallway.

Once again, Nellie’s sharp voice could be heard over the usual hubbub of cell phones, voices, printers, and the air-conditioning fans.

“I’m sorry, but Detective Bentz is with someone right now.”

“Tough! I have to talk to him. Now.” The woman’s voice sounded close to hysteria. Lately, it seemed, it was the story of his life.

“If you can wait—”

“No way! This is a damned emergency. My name’s Zoe De

“De

“She’s my daughter,” another voice said as a shriek loud enough to wake the dead in the neighboring parishes ricocheted through the station.

Bentz grabbed his sidearm and ran out the door to the hallway, where a terrified Zoe De

“It’s him!” she cried. Frantic, she scrambled backward, trying to get away from Bridges. “He’s the psycho who grabbed me! Him! For the love of God, somebody get him!”

CHAPTER 30

“For the love of God!” Zoe screamed at the sight of the freak. “He’s the one! He’s the perv who’s got Chloe!” What the hell was he doing here? At the police station? All cleaned up and . . . “For the love of God! Arrest him,” she said, panic flooding through her. This was wrong. So very wrong.

“Miss—?” The cop who followed him into the hallway looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Are you all right?”

“Do I look all right? Did you hear me?” she said, her voice rising, anger and rage beating through her.

“Miss—?” The damned cop again.

“Where the hell is my sister?” She glared at the cleaned-up version of the psycho. “What did you do with her?” She started to launch herself at the man, attack him, and force him to tell the truth, but Rand, the farmer, stopped her short, restraining her with a big hand suddenly clamped over her shoulder.

“Slow down,” the farmer said into her ear. “Something’s not right here.”

“You’re damned right about that!”

The object of her wrath held up both hands, palms out, fingers splayed, his face earnest. “Not me.”

“Yes! You!” Somehow this creep was trying to trick her, trick the cops with his clean, respectable façade, but she wouldn’t be fooled, not after days of being held captive. “Where’s Chloe, damn it! Where the hell is she?” Zoe was nearly hyperventilating, her mind spi

The cop who was looking at her said, “You’re identifying this man as your abductor?”

“Yes!” Zoe nearly screamed. What was wrong with them? Why was he standing here all i

Little nuances—differences—jumped out at her. Her stomach dropped. “Do you . . .” No, she wouldn’t talk to the guy. To the cop, she asked, “Does he have a tattoo? On his arm? There should be a tat!”

To her amazement, the guy nodded and pushed his sleeve up past the bend of one elbow where the inky image of a rattlesnake was coiled around his biceps. “Only one I’ve got.”

“No, no.” She was shaking her head, disbelieving, trying to wrap her near-crazed mind around what she was seeing. “That’s not right!” she whispered, attempting to get a grip on herself “Not a snake . . . this is all wrong.” Remembering the mountain and a bloody heart on her captor’s arm, she felt sick inside. She was wrong. This wasn’t the creep. The man standing before her had a straighter nose and, of course, that tiny scar, faint but discernable, from years past. She was sure the freak didn’t have one there. Finally, her heartbeat slowing, the truth that had been dawning taking hold, she admitted, “The tattoo was way different, like that of a mountain and a bloody heart, some weird crap like that.” Oh, God, she wanted this man to be her would-be killer, to see him in custody, in handcuffs and shackles, behind bars or worse. She tried to think straight, to push past her pain and exhaustion, her hunger and dehydration, but she couldn’t and felt her knees start to give.