Pictures of Luke.
It was too bad that he’d been killed, but the truth of the matter was that he’d been a louse of a husband. She wasn’t buying into the Luke Gierman local town hero.
But then, she knew better.
“L
isten to this,” Lynn Zaroster said. She was sitting at her desk in a wide room filled with cubicles where other detectives and uniformed officers were walking, talking, reviewing files, or clicking away at computer keyboards. Lynn, all of twenty-five with an athletic body, mop of short black curls, and enough idealism to right the world on its axis, hit the play button on the tape recorder that was sitting square in the middle of her desk.
Gierman’s voice boomed through the recorder. “…my ex claims she gave everything she was keeping for me away, including a family heirloom, which just happens to be a handgun.”
Montoya’s gut tightened. He rested a hip on the edge of Lynn’s desk and listened.
“She says she donated it all, lock, stock, and barrel, so to speak, to a charity.”
“A charity?” Another male voice, registering disbelief.
“That’s the sidekick, sometimes billed as the cohost of the show,” Zaroster clarified. “Maury Taylor.”
Gierman was raging. “Like I’m supposed to believe that any charitable organization would take a gun. Of course it was a lie. But how safe does that make me feel? Knowing that my psychotic ex-wife is literally gunning for me with my father’s sidearm, the weapon he was issued from the police department.”
Psychotic. Interesting term.
Maury Taylor suggested slyly, “You’d better change your address.”
“Or start packin’ my own heat,” Luke confided to all of New Orleans and the surrounding area as the other man in the booth with him laughed.
The program continued in the same vein until Lynn could stand it no longer. She hit the stop button and looked up at Montoya. “What a jackass,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “I’m telling you, if I was his ex-wife, I think I would have killed him and done it on the air.” She made a gun out of her right hand, extending her index finger and cocking her thumb as if it were the hammer. “Ka-pow,” she said, the “gun” kicking back as she pretended to shoot the recorder. “Just blow him the hell away.” She lifted her finger to her lips, blew across it, then faked holstering the “gun.” Frowning sourly, she added, “Good riddance.” She glanced up at Montoya. “And one more lying, cheating son of a bitch of an ex-husband would disappear. How would you like all your dirty laundry aired in public?”
“Maybe that’s why she’s moving.”
“The ex-wife?”
“Uh-huh.”
He heard steps behind him. “Great timing,” Brinkman said. “I just went through Gierman’s papers. Found his will and insurance policies. Guess who’s listed as the only beneficiary?”
The muscles in the back of Montoya’s neck tightened. Just the way Brinkman posed the question boded bad news.
“The ex-wife,” Zaroster said again, her blue eyes narrowing.
“Bingo. Give the little lady a cupie doll!” Brinkman’s smile was wide. “You saw the preliminary forensic reports, right?” he said to Montoya. “Looks like there definitely was a third person in the room with Gierman and LaBelle. And the blood spatter and GRS suggests that someone had his or her hand over the girl’s when the trigger was pulled. There were traces of adhesive from some kind of tape around her mouth, wrists, and legs. Bruising, too, suggests that she had been bound at one point. Someone set the whole thing up.”
“Why would Abby Chastain go to the trouble of killing the second victim? Why not just off her ex?” Montoya posed.
“To throw us off.” Brinkman looked at him as if he were thick as cement. “I’m not sayin’ she did such a good job of it, but she’s an amateur, probably doesn’t know about forensics.”
“Everyone who has a television knows about forensics,” Montoya pointed out. He climbed to his feet, so that he was eye-to-eye with Brinkman.
“I’m not talking that CSI junk that’s on TV. I’m talkin’ the real thing,” Brinkman said.
“She doesn’t wear a size twelve men’s shoe.”
“So she had help.”
“Can it, Brinkman, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Motive or not, she didn’t do it.”
“How do you know?” Brinkman asked irritably, and Lynn Zaroster lifted an eyebrow, waiting for the explanation, too. “Let’s just say, she knows her ex was up at All Saints, and finds out who was in the class. Or maybe she thinks he was doin’ this girl.”
“The Virgin Mary?” Montoya said. “The autopsy report came back that her hymen was still intact.” Montoya was still thinking about that one. Courtney LaBelle. Ultrareligious. Went by her middle name.
“Well, the ex-wife, she doesn’t know that, does she?”
“This isn’t a woman’s crime,” Zaroster insisted. “All this staging. Nuh-uh.” She leaned back in her chair. “You know, my uncle teaches up at All Saints. Religion classes. He might have known the victim or some of her friends.”
“We were already up there,” Brinkman pointed out. “She didn’t have many friends. Just a roommate straight out of a coven.”
Zaroster looked quizzically at Montoya.
“She’s a Goth,” Montoya explained.
“Jesus, Brinkman. Have you been to the Quarter lately? Goth is like, I don’t know, real, real tame there.” She laughed. “Maybe I should ask my uncle if he knows of anyone involved in a local coven.”
“Check on vampires, too. This chick, she carries around her own blood on a necklace.”
Again the raised eyebrow. “Beyond Goth,” Zaroster said.
“Over the top,” Montoya admitted, then added, “Yeah, check with your uncle.” The more information, the better.
In the meantime he had his own relative to contact. He’d put a call into his Aunt Maria. So far he hadn’t heard back. But they weren’t exactly high-tech out at the nunnery. One phone, no cells, one computer, he thought. A visit might be easier. His aunt definitely believed in the human touch over technological communication.
Brinkman snorted and ran a hand through what little hair he had left. “Talkin’ to your uncle, you’ll just be spinnin’ your wheels.”
“Mine to spin,” Zaroster shot back. “As I said, this doesn’t look like a woman’s crime to me.”
“We’re not talking about a woman. We’re talking about a pissedoff ex-wife who is set to inherit a shitload of money.” His smile was oily and smug. He cocked his head toward the exit. “Let’s have a word with the new heiress.”
So this was it. The “official” interview. Abby sat stiff-backed at her dining room table with Montoya and another detective. The first time he’d stopped by, Montoya had come alone, to tell her about Luke’s death. The second time to deliver the dog. On each occasion, he’d asked a few questions, all very casually. After all, she’d been in shock.
But now he was back and this time she sensed the gloves were off.
Brinkman, the balding guy with him, didn’t even try to be friendly. His eyes were suspicious, his manner polite but cold, his expression hinting that he knew more about her than she knew herself.
All of which bugged the hell out of her.
He stood by the French doors and stared outside while Montoya sat across from her at the dining table. Separating them was a colorful centerpiece of small pumpkins, gourds, leaves, and candles. It seemed ridiculously festive and out of place, especially with a pocket recorder balanced on the edge of the table, Montoya taking notes, and the generally grim and sober tone of the conversation.
Almost accusatory.
Almost.
She shot a hard look at Detective Brinkman with his soft gut, balding pate, and hard-ass attitude. If Brinkman was what they meant by backup, she thought Montoya was better off flying solo.
The two cops had arrived half an hour earlier, much to Hershey’s delight and Ansel’s dismay. The Lab had barked and danced excitedly at the appearance of company while Ansel had streaked into the living room to hide beneath the couch and peer out suspiciously.
Abby had offered coffee and now three cups sat virtually untouched as the questions kept coming. They’d already gone over all the information she’d shared with Montoya on his last visit and now were venturing into new, uncharted territory.
Abby told herself this was routine, that they were talking to anyone who had known Luke and the girl who had been with him, yet she couldn’t help feeling that she was under suspicion, that the police thought she was somehow involved in the tragedy, which was ludicrous. True, she’d lost all love and most of her respect for Luke Gierman, but she wouldn’t have done anything to kill him and she hoped Montoya, at least, knew it.
She tried not to fidget, but she was on edge, slightly intimidated by the recorder and the necessity of two men to double-team her and ask questions. She’d thought they were about finished when Brinkman, rotating to face her, no doubt to judge her reaction, asked, “So, did you know that you were still listed as the beneficiary on your ex-husband’s life insurance policy?”
“What?” She was floored. “Life insurance?”
“That’s right. A half a million dollars.” He gave her a fake smile. “Quite a bit of cash.”
“There must be some mistake.”
“Nope. I found the policy in his personal papers and checked with the insurance company.”
“I can’t believe it.” Never in her wildest dreams would she have guessed she might receive another dime from Luke.
“I guess he never got around to changing it, eh?” he asked.
“I didn’t even know he had that kind of insurance,” she said honestly. “I mean, yes, when we were first married, we each took out policies, but small ones. Term insurance.”
“Is he still your beneficiary?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I let the policy lapse and changed my will immediately.” All she owned would go to her father, and in the event he predeceased her, then Zoey would get whatever assets she’d amassed. Abby had made certain that Luke would never get anything. She had assumed he would do the same. Now, hearing this from the detective, she felt as if she might have maligned him.
“As I said, a lot of money.” Brinkman rubbed the back of his neck as if deep in thought. “Half a mil. How about that? And then there’s his checking account, a few stocks in his retirement account, no house, you already got that, but all his assets add up to just over six hundred grand.”
“That can’t be right,” she said, looking over at Montoya. He hadn’t said a word since the announcement but was leaning forward, his forearms resting on the tabletop. “Luke has family. His parents and brothers.”
“I double-checked with the lawyer.” Brinkman lifted a shoulder.
“Unless your ex found himself a new attorney and drew up a new will that no one knows about, the one he signed five years ago is still in effect. Which means you’re a rich woman.” He cocked his head to one side. “But you didn’t know about the will, is that what you’re saying?”
“I assumed he changed his, and he never told me about any life insurance policy, I swear.” Abby didn’t know what else to say, so she just stared at the two detectives, who seemed hell-bent to connect her to Luke’s murder.
“Looks like you just won the lottery.”
“It doesn’t feel that way, okay?”
“If you say so.”
“Look, I don’t like all your insinuations.” She turned her attention to Montoya, who, for this last round, had been mostly silent. “Do you have any other questions?” she asked, and tried to hang on to her cool. Brinkman was just trying to rattle her and she knew it.
“No, that’s about it,” Montoya said.
“Good. Because I was beginning to think I might need a lawyer.”
“Why would you think that?” Brinkman asked, his smile meant to be disarming. She didn’t trust it for a minute.
She asked Montoya, “Is there anything else?”
“Just that we found a connection between Luke and Courtney LaBelle. He was the guest speaker at one of her classes at All Saints College.”
“So he knew her?”
“We don’t know that they even met. Just that they happened to be in the same place at the same time.”
“Which would be one helluva coincidence.”
“If you believe in ’em,” Brinkman said. “Me, personally? I don’t.”
Abby felt that same old gut tightening she always did when it came to her ex-husband and younger women. “But they didn’t hook up?”
“That’s the weird thing. No indication that they even talked to each other.”
“Hard to think it was a coincidence,” Brinkman said. “But you”—he gestured in Abby’s direction—“you never met her before.”
“That’s right,” she said evenly. Getting to her feet, she glared at both men. “You seem to think that I had something to do with my ex-husband’s murder. The plain damn truth is that I didn’t and I have no idea who did. I’ve never met Courtney LaBelle, had never even heard of her. I don’t know how, or if, she knew my ex-husband. I made it a point to stay out of his business and asked that he do the same for me.”
Brinkman said, “Except you called the station the day of the program where he went off on ex-spouses.”
“No…oh, yes, I did call, but I didn’t say a word. Just hung up. I realized Luke was baiting me. He was really, really ticked, Detective. He’d called asking for his things and I had to tell him that I’d given them away, that I’d gotten tired of hanging on to them. After repeated attempts to get him to come and take them, I gave them all away. He was furious. The next day I heard him crucify me on the airwaves, and I did call in, but I didn’t speak to him or anyone else. Didn’t want to say anything I would regret in the long run.”
She was livid now, her cheeks burning, her old rage boiling to the surface. “What the fight with Luke on the phone and the subsequent radio show did was convince me that I needed to get the hell out of Dodge, or in this case, New Orleans. To put as much distance between my ex and myself.”
“Seems like death might do that,” Brinkman observed.
“Are you kidding? The man’s looked upon as a saint now! I’m getting phone calls from reporters day and night. People who want to talk to me to get to know and I quote ‘the real Luke Gierman.’ It’s a joke. All Luke ever wanted was to get his fifteen seconds of fame and maybe stretch them out to a full half an hour. Being killed got him what he couldn’t get while he was alive. Unfortunately, some people still think I’m the link to him.”
Brinkman snorted out a laugh. “Like Priscilla Presley is to Elvis.”
“It’s not quite the same,” she said through her teeth, trying to tamp back her temper. She knew Brinkman was goading her on purpose, hoping for a reaction, but she couldn’t help herself. “I just want to move on. To start over.”