September when some students at Tulane University had skipped out on several months' rent.
"It's always a crap shoot when you rent to college kids," Marlene confided, and added that the five boys who had rented both sides of the building had turned out to be partiers.
They'd done some damage to the house which the cleaning and security deposits hadn't covered. Now the owners, a brother and sister who lived in separate states, were thinking about selling.
Marlene had talked a little breathlessly, all the while chewing gum and gesturing wildly with her hands. "We handle everything as the owners are out of state. Wes, that's the brother, he lives in Montgomery, and Mandy--she's married I and her last name is Sieverson now--she's in Houston. They can't get along to save their souls." She popped her gum.
"Mandy, she wanted to upgrade the place--it was really two units, you know, but Wes didn't want to put a dime into it." Dark, heavily penciled eyebrows rose above the I thin red rims, as if she were about to impart the wisdom of the ages. "His mother wasn't even cold in her grave when he called up and asked about selling the place. He was pretty adamant, let me tell you, but Mandy wouldn't go along with it She's married, as I said, and she wants to keep the house for an investment--you know, fix it up. But with Wes, now that's a different story. He went ballistic when those last tenants skipped out, let me tell you. Had himself one tremendous hissy fit and wanted the boss to make up the difference." She rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue.
"Oh, yeah, like that was gonna happen."
"I'd like a list of anyone who's been interested in the house since it's been vacated as well as anyone you hired ; who did the work to repair the place."
"No problem," Marlene assured him as her fingers flew over the keyboard of her computer. "It'll be just a sec. We keep a log on each property--kinda like a diary, you know."
An ancient printer chugged out a few pages in counterpoint to her rapid gum chewing, and within minutes, the secretary, far more efficient than she'd first seemed, handed him the printout.
She answered a few more questions, but aside from being a purveyor of all kinds of gossip, when push came to shove, Marlene wasn't a helluva lot of help. Bentz made a note to check out the owners and their recent travel schedules, just to make sure they hadn't blown into town and had decided to torch the place for the insurance money.
Except that an insurance fraud didn't begin to explain why some woman had been tortured and killed in the house.
Stan Pagliano's words played over and over in his mind.
"Her hands and feet were chained ... but it's her head ... it was nearly severed." Later, Stan had asked him what kind of sick bastard would commit such a horrendous crime.
Bentz didn't know.
But there was someone who might.
Olivia Benchel The lady had called this one, right on the money.
"I'm tellin' ya, she's a nutcase pure and simple," Brink- man said when Bentz caught up with him in the hallway near one of the interrogation rooms. "I talked to her twice and each time she came in with these cockamamie, bullshit stories about murders she'd seen, visions about someone being killed. But she couldn't give me anything concrete. No body. No murder scene. No damned smokin' gun. Nothin'. If ya ask me, and
seem' as you tracked me down, then yeah, you did, she doesn't have all her wheels on the pavement ... and she might just be ridin' a unicycle."
Bentz wasn't in the mood for bad jokes. As they walked to the stairs, weaving then" way past a group of uniformed cops, he said, "I just want to see the reports. This time there was a body and a murder scene, and if not a gun, a sword, for cryin' out loud."
"I heard about that one. Over off Esplanade, right?"
"That's the one."
"Christ. And she called it?" Brinkman shook his head.
He was bald, a horseshoe of black hair surrounding a freckled bald spot, the lights over the staircase gleaming
"It's always a crap shoot when you rent to college kids," Marlene confided, and added that the five boys who had rented both sides of the building had turned out to be partiers.
They'd done some damage to the house which the cleaning and security deposits hadn't covered. Now the owners, a brother and sister who lived in separate states, were thinking about selling.
Marlene had talked a little breathlessly, all the while chewing gum and gesturing wildly with her hands. "We handle everything as the owners are out of state. Wes, that's the brother, he lives in Montgomery, and Mandy--she's married I and her last name is Sieverson now--she's in Houston. They can't get along to save their souls." She popped her gum.
"Mandy, she wanted to upgrade the place--it was really two units, you know, but Wes didn't want to put a dime into it." Dark, heavily penciled eyebrows rose above the I thin red rims, as if she were about to impart the wisdom of the ages. "His mother wasn't even cold in her grave when he called up and asked about selling the place. He was pretty adamant, let me tell you, but Mandy wouldn't go along with it She's married, as I said, and she wants to keep the house for an investment--you know, fix it up. But with Wes, now that's a different story. He went ballistic when those last tenants skipped out, let me tell you. Had himself one tremendous hissy fit and wanted the boss to make up the difference." She rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue.
"Oh, yeah, like that was gonna happen."
"I'd like a list of anyone who's been interested in the house since it's been vacated as well as anyone you hired ; who did the work to repair the place."
"No problem," Marlene assured him as her fingers flew over the keyboard of her computer. "It'll be just a sec. We keep a log on each property--kinda like a diary, you know."
An ancient printer chugged out a few pages in counterpoint to her rapid gum chewing, and within minutes, the secretary, far more efficient than she'd first seemed, handed him the printout.
She answered a few more questions, but aside from being a purveyor of all kinds of gossip, when push came to shove, Marlene wasn't a helluva lot of help. Bentz made a note to check out the owners and their recent travel schedules, just to make sure they hadn't blown into town and had decided to torch the place for the insurance money.
Except that an insurance fraud didn't begin to explain why some woman had been tortured and killed in the house.
Stan Pagliano's words played over and over in his mind.
"Her hands and feet were chained ... but it's her head ... it was nearly severed." Later, Stan had asked him what kind of sick bastard would commit such a horrendous crime.
Bentz didn't know.
But there was someone who might.
Olivia Benchel The lady had called this one, right on the money.
"I'm tellin' ya, she's a nutcase pure and simple," Brink- man said when Bentz caught up with him in the hallway near one of the interrogation rooms. "I talked to her twice and each time she came in with these cockamamie, bullshit stories about murders she'd seen, visions about someone being killed. But she couldn't give me anything concrete. No body. No murder scene. No damned smokin' gun. Nothin'. If ya ask me, and
seem' as you tracked me down, then yeah, you did, she doesn't have all her wheels on the pavement ... and she might just be ridin' a unicycle."
Bentz wasn't in the mood for bad jokes. As they walked to the stairs, weaving then" way past a group of uniformed cops, he said, "I just want to see the reports. This time there was a body and a murder scene, and if not a gun, a sword, for cryin' out loud."
"I heard about that one. Over off Esplanade, right?"
"That's the one."
"Christ. And she called it?" Brinkman shook his head.
He was bald, a horseshoe of black hair surrounding a freckled bald spot, the lights over the staircase gleaming
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