Devious - Lisa Jackson [157]
The real deal, back from the supposed goddamned dead?
Or a copycat?
Montoya felt that the murderer was just toying with them, whoever the hell he was, that the murder of the prostitute might be meant to throw them off the case.
Where the hell were the missing bridal gowns? Was it significant that two of the victims, the nuns, had been adopted out of St. Elsinore’s? Not so with Grace Blanc, the working girl.
There were too many loose ends in this case and no way to tie them up.
Tomorrow night was the auction at St. Elsinore’s.
Montoya planned to be there.
He heard a noise.
The baby?
He listened, his father radar on alert.
No. It was Cruz. Probably getting up to use the crapper. Sure enough, he heard the toilet flush, and then damned Cruz walked down the hall and out the back door.
Montoya glanced at the digital clock.
Twelve-seventeen.
What the hell?
He rolled out of bed just as he heard the sound of Cruz’s Harley roar to life, then a tire chirp.
Montoya walked to the back door and stared out to see the red taillight of Cruz’s motorcycle wink bloodred, like the eye of a dying Cyclops. “Hey!” he yelled, but it was far too late, and the sound of the motorcycle winding through its gears slowly faded.
He turned to walk into the house again and nearly ran into Abby, her hair mussed, her eyes squinting. “What’s going on?” she asked around a yawn.
“I wish I knew,” he said, and closed the door. “I wish to hell that I knew.”
She offered him a bit of a grin. “Can I buy you a drink?” she teased.
“A little late for that, but . . . ?” He arched a suggestive eyebrow.
“But?” she replied, responding in kind.
He grabbed her and hauled her off her feet. She let out a squeal of surprise. “You’re bad, Montoya!” But she was laughing.
“That I am, woman, and I intend to show you just what it means.”
“Oh, God, save me from the husband with bad come-on lines,” she said, but giggled as he kissed her more roughly than usual, growling against her neck. She laughed outright at his tough-guy tactics, and they tumbled onto the bed together while Cruz took off for who knew where.
Cruz waited under the flickering fluorescent lights of the gas station.
Lucia was late.
Or wasn’t coming at all, had just pulled his leg.
No, that thought didn’t sit well. He lit his last cigarette, crushed the pack, and told himself he’d give her five more minutes. No more.
And what then?
Just leave?
No way, tough guy. She’s in trouble. You’ll wait.
Disgusted with himself, he took a long drag and told himself no matter what, this was his last smoke. He’d quit years ago, only bought a pack a couple of days ago because of Lucia. He’d gone a little nuts seeing her again.
Stupid reason.
The gas station was open. An all-nighter. One pimply faced kid in a stocking cap and mechanic’s suit with his name, “Al,” on a patch sewn between the zipper and shoulder was manning the pumps and till. In Cruz’s estimation, Al couldn’t be more than nineteen, maybe twenty, but there he was, head bent into his cell phone, texting like mad but available if someone drove up and needed service.
He smoked in silence, feeling the thrum of the city, despite the fact that it was quiet, the middle of the night.
New Orleans was never asleep. Along with the humidity, the heavy air on his skin, and the wash of neon lights on the streets nearby, there was an underlying current of energy that throbbed just beneath the surface of the night. Invisible but palpable.
A car slowed for a red light, an old Chevy rattling and wheezing as it idled, the single guy behind the wheel eyeing the gas station for a second. But the light changed and the Nova rolled noisily away.
Cruz checked his watch and jangled the keys in the pocket of his leather jacket. Where the hell was she?
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement, a woman crossing the empty street.
If he hadn’t been looking for her, he wouldn’t have recognized Lucia. Dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a cardigan sweater, her hair braided and slung over one shoulder, a large pack strapped to her back, Lucia Costa