Read Online Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious by Lisa Jackson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: Romance
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willing a light to blink again. But the phone lines didn’t illuminate. In fact the room seemed strangely dark and when she looked through the glass to the studio where she worked, she saw her own thin reflection as well as the translucent images of Tiny and Melanie in the clear glass—ghosts inhabiting the empty building.
“It was him, wasn’t it?” Melanie whispered. “Oh, yeah.” Sam nodded.
“You’d better call someone.” Tiny rubbed the stubble on his chin and bit his lip as he stared at the blank console.
“The police?” she asked.
“No! I mean, not yet.” Tiny shook his head and thought so hard he squinted. “I mean, maybe you should call Eleanor or Mr. Hannah.”
“I don’t think I’ll wake George up,” Sam said, thinking of the owner of the station. George Hannah didn’t like any ripples in the water. He wouldn’t appreciate a call in the middle of the night. “I think he cherishes his beauty sleep.”
“Well, someone should know.”
“Someone does,” she said, thinking of the smooth voice without a face. He knew what she looked like. Where she lived. What she did for a living. How to contact her. And she was at a distinct disadvantage. So far she knew nothing about him. Nothing at all.
Chapter Five
“We’ve got ourselves another one.” Detective Reuben Montoya leaned a muscled shoulder against the doorjamb to Rick Bentz’s office in the weathered stone building that housed the precinct. His black hair was glossy as a raven’s wing, his goatee trimmed and neat. White teeth flashed when he spoke, and a gold earring caught the bluish glare from the flickering fluorescents overhead.
“Another one?” Bentz glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen; he’d been on duty since 7 p.m. , was about to call it a night. A fan was whirring behind him, pushing around warm air that the old air conditioner hadn’t found a way to chill.
“Dead working girl.”
The muscles in the back of Bentz’s neck tightened. “Where?”
“Around Toulouse and Decatur. Not far from Jackson Brewery.”
“Hell.” Bentz rolled back his chair.
“Her roommate came home and found her on the bed.”
“Have you called the ME?” Bentz was already reaching for his jacket.
“He’s on his way.”
“Has the scene been disturbed—the roommate, did she do anything?”
“Just scream loud enough to wake everyone in the building, but the super swears he’s closed the door and kept everyone at bay.”
Bentz frowned. “You know, this isn’t really my baby. You should call Brinkman.”
“He’s on vacation and besides he’s a dick, and that’s not meant to be a compliment.” Montoya’s dark eyes flashed. “You’ve got experience with this kind of thing.”
“That was a while back,” Bentz admitted.
“Not that long ago, and just cuz you’re not officially working homicide here, doesn’t mean jack shit, okay? Now, are you in or not?”
“Let’s roll.” Bentz was on his feet and out the door, the lethargy he’d felt seeping into his bones half an hour ago replaced by a jolt of adrenaline. Through a room filled with beat-up desks and down one flight where their boots clattered on the old metal and linoleum, they hurried into the street, where Montoya’s unmarked was parked illegally. Bentz didn’t think about the consequences. Brinkman would probably be pissed, but then he always was, and Melinda Jaskiel, in charge of the Homicide Division, had pretty much given Bentz carte blanche. Despite what happened in LA.
If she didn’t like him taking charge, she could pull him off the case and call Fred Brinkman back from Disneyland. Bentz had always believed in asking for acceptance rather than permission. More often than not it got him into trouble.
Montoya snapped on the ignition as Bentz climbed into the car. Though nearly twenty years Bentz’s junior, Montoya had earned his stripes, hurtling over barriers of racism, poverty and attitude to land, at twenty-eight, as a full detective with the
“It was him, wasn’t it?” Melanie whispered. “Oh, yeah.” Sam nodded.
“You’d better call someone.” Tiny rubbed the stubble on his chin and bit his lip as he stared at the blank console.
“The police?” she asked.
“No! I mean, not yet.” Tiny shook his head and thought so hard he squinted. “I mean, maybe you should call Eleanor or Mr. Hannah.”
“I don’t think I’ll wake George up,” Sam said, thinking of the owner of the station. George Hannah didn’t like any ripples in the water. He wouldn’t appreciate a call in the middle of the night. “I think he cherishes his beauty sleep.”
“Well, someone should know.”
“Someone does,” she said, thinking of the smooth voice without a face. He knew what she looked like. Where she lived. What she did for a living. How to contact her. And she was at a distinct disadvantage. So far she knew nothing about him. Nothing at all.
Chapter Five
“We’ve got ourselves another one.” Detective Reuben Montoya leaned a muscled shoulder against the doorjamb to Rick Bentz’s office in the weathered stone building that housed the precinct. His black hair was glossy as a raven’s wing, his goatee trimmed and neat. White teeth flashed when he spoke, and a gold earring caught the bluish glare from the flickering fluorescents overhead.
“Another one?” Bentz glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen; he’d been on duty since 7 p.m. , was about to call it a night. A fan was whirring behind him, pushing around warm air that the old air conditioner hadn’t found a way to chill.
“Dead working girl.”
The muscles in the back of Bentz’s neck tightened. “Where?”
“Around Toulouse and Decatur. Not far from Jackson Brewery.”
“Hell.” Bentz rolled back his chair.
“Her roommate came home and found her on the bed.”
“Have you called the ME?” Bentz was already reaching for his jacket.
“He’s on his way.”
“Has the scene been disturbed—the roommate, did she do anything?”
“Just scream loud enough to wake everyone in the building, but the super swears he’s closed the door and kept everyone at bay.”
Bentz frowned. “You know, this isn’t really my baby. You should call Brinkman.”
“He’s on vacation and besides he’s a dick, and that’s not meant to be a compliment.” Montoya’s dark eyes flashed. “You’ve got experience with this kind of thing.”
“That was a while back,” Bentz admitted.
“Not that long ago, and just cuz you’re not officially working homicide here, doesn’t mean jack shit, okay? Now, are you in or not?”
“Let’s roll.” Bentz was on his feet and out the door, the lethargy he’d felt seeping into his bones half an hour ago replaced by a jolt of adrenaline. Through a room filled with beat-up desks and down one flight where their boots clattered on the old metal and linoleum, they hurried into the street, where Montoya’s unmarked was parked illegally. Bentz didn’t think about the consequences. Brinkman would probably be pissed, but then he always was, and Melinda Jaskiel, in charge of the Homicide Division, had pretty much given Bentz carte blanche. Despite what happened in LA.
If she didn’t like him taking charge, she could pull him off the case and call Fred Brinkman back from Disneyland. Bentz had always believed in asking for acceptance rather than permission. More often than not it got him into trouble.
Montoya snapped on the ignition as Bentz climbed into the car. Though nearly twenty years Bentz’s junior, Montoya had earned his stripes, hurtling over barriers of racism, poverty and attitude to land, at twenty-eight, as a full detective with the
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