“Yeah, I know. This time . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck and thought about a beer, then quickly shut his mind to the idea. Booze and he had separated years ago, and except for an occasional slippage, he kept it that way. Last night had been a mistake; one he wasn’t going to make again. At least not today. He cracked his window, let the warm summer air rush into the Mustang’s interior.

Truth to tell, Bentz was worried. At least about the Denning twins. The others who Brianna Hayward had mentioned were indeed missing, but the fact that they weren’t twin females wasn’t consistent with 21’s MO. His phone buzzed, and he saw that the caller was Jonas Hayes.

“Hey,” he said, putting his cell on speaker so that Montoya could hear. “How are ya?”

“Okay,” Hayes said, “I got your message about the woman who thinks Caldwell isn’t 21. She was in LA and I did talk to her on the phone, but never met with her. I figure she’s another nut, a relative no less, who thinks justice wasn’t served. But the killings stopped.”

“I know, but we got a new situation,” Bentz said as Montoya closed in on a pair of red taillights. “A couple of college girls. Twins who disappeared.”

His ex-partner waited.

“On the night before they were about to turn twenty-one. Last night, as a matter of fact.”

“Where?”

“New Orleans.”

“What? New Orleans?” Jonas said, and Bentz pictured him, a tall black man with serious eyes and perpetual lines of worry etching his forehead. “You think this is 21? Nah, that’s impossible. Donovan Caldwell’s still locked up, and 21 stayed in LA.”

“Still claiming to be innocent,” Bentz pointed out. “Not to ruffle any feathers there, but this case has all the earmarks of 21.”

Hayes gave a frustrated growl. “Okay. So why don’t you tell me what you’ve got and . . . hell, I’ll pull the case file and see if there’s anything that we missed.”

“Send it to me. You’ve got my e-mail,” Bentz suggested as the lights of New Orleans appeared on the horizon. And then he brought Hayes up to speed.

The interior of the pub was ten degrees cooler than it had been on the street. The walls were exposed brick, with a glossy wood bar that looked as if it was over a hundred years old. It stretched in front of a mirror that rose to high ceilings, where paddle fans churned lazily. Most of the stools at the bar were occupied. While conversation buzzed over the clink of glasses, two bartenders were busily mixing drinks in front of a display of bottles backlit by hidden lights.