Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) by Lisa Jackson

long buried that he’d tried like hell to forget.
    He heard the porch boards creak as his brother came out to join him.
    “In a way, Lena’s right, you know,” Prescott said, following Jase’s gaze down toward the river. “There are just too many damned ghosts here, y’know?”
    Jase did know. Though he’d never admit it to anyone.
     
     
    “I’ll beef up the patrols on your street,” Bentz said as he cradled his cell phone to his ear and rolled his chair closer to the desk. Immune to the noise of the other detectives and staff, he focused on the voice on the phone and the image of the killer on his computer screen. Obsessed with the footage, he watched the video of Father John for at least the twentieth time, but this morning, instead of beer, he was downing his third cup of coffee and hoping the caffeine would stave off the headache that throbbed near his temples.
    All the while, the station had come to life around him. Phones jangled, voices buzzed, and footsteps shuffled amid the rows of desks. Somewhere a printer chugged out pages over the constant rumble of the air-conditioning unit forcing cool air through the vents. Still, the rooms were warm. Barely ten in the morning and already the heat of the day was permeating the windows and walls of the old building.
    “Thanks,” Samantha Wheeler said from the other end of the telephone connection.
    “I listened to your show last night.”
    “Then you know that he didn’t call in. Maybe he’s not interested in me any longer.”
    I wouldn’t bet on it. The killer had blamed Dr. Sam and her advice for causing the death of someone dear to him years before. He had targeted Dr. Sam, plotting out his revenge step by step, taunting the radio psychologist, teasing her and ultimately nearly killing her. The fact that he’d been thwarted should have only intensified his rage.
    Unless he’d fixated on someone else.
    “Don’t worry, Detective,” Samantha said. “I’m pretty sure I would recognize his voice. It made an impression.”
    She seemed certain, but it had been years since Father John had called into her talk show and stalked her as steadily as a hunter searching out prey. Now, as Bentz ended the call, reminding her to be careful, he couldn’t shake the bad feeling. Still holding his cell phone, he stared at the screen of his computer where the frozen image of Father John leered up at him.
    “I thought that bastard was gator bait,” Montoya said, eyeing the monitor as he cruised into Bentz’s office.
    “So did I.”
    “Maybe he tasted so bad the gator spat him out.”
    “Yeah, that’s it,” Bentz said sarcastically, then reached for his shoulder harness and sidearm. “I thought I’d run out to his place on the bayou. See if there’s any indication that he’s moved back in.”
    “You think there’s a chance?”
    “Probably not. But, you know. No stone unturned.” He slid the harness into place. “You comin’?”
    “Why not? I’m in.”
    No surprise there. Montoya was always “in.” Though he’d mellowed a bit over the years, settled down, married, even had a kid, Reuben Montoya would always be the same cocky kid Bentz had been partnered with for years. Montoya still sported a goatee, diamond stud earring, and black leather jacket despite the thick New Orleans heat. No strands of gray had yet dared invade his black hair, and his body was fit and toned due to regular gym workouts and a regimen of running the city streets late at night. But maybe, just maybe with the reintroduction of one of the worst criminals in New Orleans history, even Montoya might start to age.
    Together they walked down the stairs and out of the building where the Louisiana heat hit them full force. As it was late June, the temperature was hovering near ninety. Only the barest of breezes rustled through the leaves of the live oaks planted near the parking lot.
    “I’ll drive,” Montoya said, as if he’d ever missed a chance to sit behind the wheel, foot to the