“So, this won’t take long,” he said, his eyes following the carriage’s progress. He turned his gaze to her again. “Promise. One drink. Let’s just go over your theory that Donovan Caldwell was wrongly convicted and that 21 has started up again.”

She shouldn’t. She knew it was a mistake. But, in truth, a drink sounded like heaven. And she still had a fascination with Jase Bridges, stupid as that was. Besides, she could use an ally, any ally, and one in the press, especially one with ties to the police department. Deciding to hear what he had to say, she gave a quick nod. “Fine.” She remotely locked her car again and heard it chirp a response. “You’re on, Bridges. But you’re buying.”

His lips found that same irreverent smile she’d remembered from high school. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He hitched his chin to indicate the other side of the street where a pub with a wide, paned window and glowing neon lights was wedged between a retro boutique and a sandwich shop offering tarot readings along with a soup of the day. “We can talk in there.”

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13

A slice of moon was barely visible from the clouds scudding across the night sky. Inside the Mustang, Bentz stared at the stream of northbound traffic, headlights bright, while Montoya drove steadily back toward New Orleans. Bentz undid the top button of his shirt. He was sweating, the interior of the car muggy, despite the efforts of the Mustang’s air-conditioning system.

Regardless of the heat and humidity, Montoya was still wearing his leather jacket, the diamond stud winking in the half-light. Montoya was always as cool, it seemed, as the proverbial cucumber. He had, though, ditched his shades. Sometimes one had to be practical.

“So, we’re battin’ a thousand,” Montoya said sarcastically as he pressed on the accelerator to pass a white Buick LeSabre whose driver, wearing a driving cap, kept his vehicle five miles under the speed limit.

“I guess.”

The trip to Baton Rouge had proved uneventful and brought back a slew of memories, not many of them good, to a time when Bentz’s daughter Kristi had attended school at All Saints. As the sun had lowered and shadows lengthened over the campus, Bentz had walked across the quad, past the library, and in front of Wagner House with its elegant façade and dark, hidden tunnels below. A feeling of déjà vu had chilled his soul and fear had slid down his spine when he’d remembered the terror of nearly losing his daughter a few years back, here at the small school still run by the Catholic Church.