Cold Blooded by Lisa Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

van were parked at odd angles around the perimeter of the site. Some of the neighbors were still hanging around, asking questions, or talking among themselves as a wintry sun peeked through a bank of thick gray clouds layering over the city. Bentz had talked to a couple of the officers and the ME and was still trying to piece together how in the hell Olivia Benchet had called this one.
    Right on the money.
    As if she'd been here. Bentz found a pack of gum in his pocket and removed a stick of spearmint from its wrapper.
    What the hell was with that woman? If she hadn't been here, in the room or looking through a window, how could she have known what had happene d in the house?
    Stan Pagliano walked up. His face was smudged with soot and dirt, the lines webbing across his forehead appearing deeper than usual. "Man, this was a nasty one," he was saying, "but then they all are."
    "What happened?" Bentz had heard the story from one of the cops on the scene, but wanted Stan's assessment.
    "From what I understand, a neighbor got up to go to the bathroom, looked out the window, and saw the flames. By the time he called it in, it was
    too late to save the house.
    The first truck got here within three minutes, but by then the whole
house was fully involved. We were lucky to save the surrounding
property." He motioned to the single-story homes, most of them identical
shotgun doubles with decorative supports, hip roofs, a door on each
side, and narrow windows in between. "Near as we can tell, the fire
started in a closet in the back, one that housed an old furnace ... and
for some reason the fire moved from the firebox through one of the
vents, almost as if it followed a trail of something slow burning to the
bathroom ... strange." His dark eyes met Bentz's. "But then there was
the victim--chained, for Christ's sake. Chained. What kind of sick
bastard would do something like that?" He reached beneath his sooty
yellow slicker and found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shook one out
and offered a filter tip to Bentz, but much as he craved a smoke, he
shook his head.
    "Oh, yeah, you quit, right?" Stan flicked his lighter to the end of his
Winston and inhaled deeply. "You know, Bethie always tried to get me to
quit, for years. All that shit they hear about secondhand smoke in
school, then just last summer she dropped her purse and guess what fell
out? A half-pack of Marlboro lights." He said this through a cloud of
smoke. "Go figure."
    "They start to grow up and realize that we've been lyin'
to ' half the time," Bentz said, watching as Montoya talked to several
people clustered around the street. The neighbors.
    "Ten to one the victim was young. Not much older than Beth Ann or
Kristi, unless I miss my guess," Stan said, and Olivia Benchet's words
burned through Bentz's mind: You're a father, Detective Bentz ... How
would you feel if the killer zeroed in on your daughter?
    "Hey, Stan, over here. Give a hand, would ya?" another fireman called
from the remaining truck.
    ' ' there." He took a long drag, then nodded to Bentz.
    "Talk to ya later," Stan said. "And Rick--"
    "Yeah?"
    "Nail this shit head, would ya?"
    "You got it." Bentz watched Stan jog toward the truck.
    Montoya had finished with the neighbors. Skirting the crime scene, he wended his way through the parked vehicles, then leapt over a puddle on the street. ' "s the ME have to say?" he asked.
    "He'll send us a report, but from what he observed, it looks like our wit, if that's what you want to call her, definitely knew what was going on."
    "Makes ya wonder, doesn't it?" Montoya observed.
    "I think we'd better check her out, front, back, sideways, and inside out." He stuffed his fists into the pockets of his slacks. "There's more to her story." Frowning, considering Olivia Benchet and how downright determined and innocent she appeared, he wondered what he'd dig up.
    Probably nothing he'd like. "I'll talk to her again, and you, check out her background. The