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 B
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: Romance
Ads: Link
NOPD. He wanted to work Homicide and sometimes did a double detail just to be involved in murder investigations.
He also drove through the dark city streets as if he were at Daytona. As the police band crackled, he managed to jam a Marlboro into the side of his mouth and light up while negotiating the sharp turns and keeping the wipers at the right tempo. The misty night clung, like a shroud, to the corners of the old buildings and mingled with the steam that escaped from the manholes in the street.
Within minutes they skidded to a stop in front of the building. Montoya flicked his cigarette onto the street, where some of the beat cops were keeping a small crowd at bay and crime-scene tape was used as a shimmering yellow-and-black barricade. A couple of news vans had pulled up, and Bentz cussed the reporters under his breath. “Jesus, if they’d just give the cops a couple of hours to do their jobs before descending like vultures, it would help.”
A microphone was pushed close to his face but before the pert Asian reporter could spout her first question, Bentz growled, “No comment,” and in tandem with Montoya took the front steps two at a time to a door tucked by the side of the deli, where a uniformed street cop let them inside.
“Third floor,” the cop muttered, and Montoya was a step ahead of him as they took the stairs to a cramped hallway that reeked of marijuana, mold and incense. People had gathered in the corridor, craning their necks, talking and smoking, all the while casting curious glances toward the door marked 3F.
Montoya flashed his badge to a cop Bentz had seen around the precinct, but then the young buck got off on showing his ID. It gave him a “rush,” the younger cop had admitted on more than one occasion. Bentz had long since given up on the authority trip. If LA had taught him anything, it was humility. There just weren’t a helluva lot of reasons to be an asshole. A cop learned more from subtlety than intimidation. Though, at Montoya’s age, Bentz, too, had thought differently.
Standing in the doorway, Bentz took one look into the tiny room and his stomach clenched. Bile rose up the back of his throat as it always did when he viewed a murder scene, but he wouldn’t admit it to a soul, and it immediately disappeared as he assumed his role as detective. He smelled stale coffee and blood, the stench of death, even in the early stages, noticeable, and heard muted conversation over a radio tuned to some soft music, an instrumental piece.
“I want to talk to the roommate,” he said to no one in particular.
“She’s in the next room—3E—pretty shook up.” The uniform, Mike O’Keefe, nodded to a door with chipped paint that was slightly ajar. Through the crack he caught a view of a pale, rail-thin woman with bags under her eyes, kinky brown hair and bad skin. Her lipstick had faded, her mascara had slid from her eyelashes to darken the natural circles under her eyes. She was smoking, swilling coffee and looked scared of her own shadow. Bentz didn’t blame her.
“Keep her there. I’ll want to talk to her.”
“You in charge?” O’Keefe asked, questions in his eyes.
“Until someone says differently.”
O’Keefe didn’t argue.
Careful to disturb nothing, Bentz walked past a small kitchen alcove where a glass pot was half-full of yesterday’s coffee and crumbs from the toaster had scattered over a counter that hadn’t seen a sponge in quite a while. The chipped sink was piled with dishes. Cobwebs hung near the ceiling light.
The living area was small, occupied almost entirely by a double bed shoved into one corner. Upon the crumpled sheets the victim lay, half-dressed in a black teddy, eyes staring glassily at the ceiling where the blades of a fan moved lazily. She was around thirty, he guessed, white, with short dark hair and little makeup. Her throat was bruised and cut with tiny nicks where blood had crusted, as if she’d been garroted by some kind of kinky noose
He also drove through the dark city streets as if he were at Daytona. As the police band crackled, he managed to jam a Marlboro into the side of his mouth and light up while negotiating the sharp turns and keeping the wipers at the right tempo. The misty night clung, like a shroud, to the corners of the old buildings and mingled with the steam that escaped from the manholes in the street.
Within minutes they skidded to a stop in front of the building. Montoya flicked his cigarette onto the street, where some of the beat cops were keeping a small crowd at bay and crime-scene tape was used as a shimmering yellow-and-black barricade. A couple of news vans had pulled up, and Bentz cussed the reporters under his breath. “Jesus, if they’d just give the cops a couple of hours to do their jobs before descending like vultures, it would help.”
A microphone was pushed close to his face but before the pert Asian reporter could spout her first question, Bentz growled, “No comment,” and in tandem with Montoya took the front steps two at a time to a door tucked by the side of the deli, where a uniformed street cop let them inside.
“Third floor,” the cop muttered, and Montoya was a step ahead of him as they took the stairs to a cramped hallway that reeked of marijuana, mold and incense. People had gathered in the corridor, craning their necks, talking and smoking, all the while casting curious glances toward the door marked 3F.
Montoya flashed his badge to a cop Bentz had seen around the precinct, but then the young buck got off on showing his ID. It gave him a “rush,” the younger cop had admitted on more than one occasion. Bentz had long since given up on the authority trip. If LA had taught him anything, it was humility. There just weren’t a helluva lot of reasons to be an asshole. A cop learned more from subtlety than intimidation. Though, at Montoya’s age, Bentz, too, had thought differently.
Standing in the doorway, Bentz took one look into the tiny room and his stomach clenched. Bile rose up the back of his throat as it always did when he viewed a murder scene, but he wouldn’t admit it to a soul, and it immediately disappeared as he assumed his role as detective. He smelled stale coffee and blood, the stench of death, even in the early stages, noticeable, and heard muted conversation over a radio tuned to some soft music, an instrumental piece.
“I want to talk to the roommate,” he said to no one in particular.
“She’s in the next room—3E—pretty shook up.” The uniform, Mike O’Keefe, nodded to a door with chipped paint that was slightly ajar. Through the crack he caught a view of a pale, rail-thin woman with bags under her eyes, kinky brown hair and bad skin. Her lipstick had faded, her mascara had slid from her eyelashes to darken the natural circles under her eyes. She was smoking, swilling coffee and looked scared of her own shadow. Bentz didn’t blame her.
“Keep her there. I’ll want to talk to her.”
“You in charge?” O’Keefe asked, questions in his eyes.
“Until someone says differently.”
O’Keefe didn’t argue.
Careful to disturb nothing, Bentz walked past a small kitchen alcove where a glass pot was half-full of yesterday’s coffee and crumbs from the toaster had scattered over a counter that hadn’t seen a sponge in quite a while. The chipped sink was piled with dishes. Cobwebs hung near the ceiling light.
The living area was small, occupied almost entirely by a double bed shoved into one corner. Upon the crumpled sheets the victim lay, half-dressed in a black teddy, eyes staring glassily at the ceiling where the blades of a fan moved lazily. She was around thirty, he guessed, white, with short dark hair and little makeup. Her throat was bruised and cut with tiny nicks where blood had crusted, as if she’d been garroted by some kind of kinky noose
Similar Books
