“Thanks,” Samantha Wheeler said from the other end of the telephone connection.

“I listened to your show last night.”

“Then you know that he didn’t call in. Maybe he’s not interested in me any longer.”

I wouldn’t bet on it. The killer had blamed Dr. Sam and her advice for causing the death of someone dear to him years before. He had targeted Dr. Sam, plotting out his revenge step by step, taunting the radio psychologist, teasing her and ultimately nearly killing her. The fact that he’d been thwarted should have only intensified his rage.

Unless he’d fixated on someone else.

“Don’t worry, Detective,” Samantha said. “I’m pretty sure I would recognize his voice. It made an impression.”

She seemed certain, but it had been years since Father John had called into her talk show and stalked her as steadily as a hunter searching out prey. Now, as Bentz ended the call, reminding her to be careful, he couldn’t shake the bad feeling. Still holding his cell phone, he stared at the screen of his computer where the frozen image of Father John leered up at him.

“I thought that bastard was gator bait,” Montoya said, eyeing the monitor as he cruised into Bentz’s office.

“So did I.”

“Maybe he tasted so bad the gator spat him out.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Bentz said sarcastically, then reached for his shoulder harness and sidearm. “I thought I’d run out to his place on the bayou. See if there’s any indication that he’s moved back in.”

“You think there’s a chance?”

“Probably not. But, you know. No stone unturned.” He slid the harness into place. “You comin’?”

“Why not? I’m in.”

No surprise there. Montoya was always “in.” Though he’d mellowed a bit over the years, settled down, married, even had a kid, Reuben Montoya would always be the same cocky kid Bentz had been partnered with for years. Montoya still sported a goatee, diamond stud earring, and black leather jacket despite the thick New Orleans heat. No strands of gray had yet dared invade his black hair, and his body was fit and toned due to regular gym workouts and a regimen of running the city streets late at night. But maybe, just maybe with the reintroduction of one of the worst criminals in New Orleans history, even Montoya might start to age.

Together they walked down the stairs and out of the building where the Louisiana heat hit them full force. As it was late June, the temperature was hovering near ninety. Only the barest of breezes rustled through the leaves of the live oaks planted near the parking lot.

“I’ll drive,” Montoya said, as if he’d ever missed a chance to sit behind the wheel, foot to the floor, fishtailing around corners.