Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) by Lisa Jackson Page B
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Ads: Link
little paperwork for you to fill out.” Her chilly demeanor thawed slightly as she found some forms. “But we’ve already started checking with the necessary agencies. And we put out BOLOs on both girls.” Her dark eyes had given Brianna the impression that Officer Brown had seen it all and, right now, she was simply going through the motions.
Selma, though, seemed heartened. Maybe it felt good to know that the alerts were out, even if no one seemed to be taking them seriously. Selma filled out the forms, providing as much information as she could. By the time they returned to the car, the older woman was beat. She slid into the Honda’s warm interior and closed her eyes. “I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years, and yet I’m so keyed up and worried . . . oh hell.” She checked her phone for what had to be the hundredth time as Brianna started the engine. “We may as well go home.” There was sadness in the deep lines on her face as she cleared her throat and stared out the window. “Thanks for all you’ve done.”
Nothing. I’ve done nothing but drive you here and help you file an official Missing Persons Report. It’s not enough.
Brianna eased her little car into traffic that was heavier now. She’d started out the morning trying to convince Selma the girls would return, but as the day had worn on with no news from the twins, Brianna had begun to believe the horrifying possibility. Her hope was waning, her anger at the people who had put the wrong man behind bars increasing. She knew Donovan Caldwell was imprisoned falsely, and that meant the real killer, the maniac who targeted twins, was still at large.
Worse yet, she suspected he was hunting again, his killing ground having expanded from Southern California, heading east, if her theory was correct. And then there was the fact that Rick Bentz was now a working detective in New Orleans, where Zoe and Chloe had gone missing.
Her stomach twisted and her fingers tightened over the wheel as she fought her fears.
Where the hell were Zoe and Chloe?
C HAPTER 8
“I don’t have any comment,” Bentz said. He finished the last swallow of cold coffee and glanced at the clock mounted on the wall of his office: 4:57. Time to be thinking about heading home, and here he was cornered by Jase Bridges, a reporter pounding the crime beat for a local paper.
Bridges was all over the Father John case.
“You know the identity of the killer,” Bridges pointed out. Seated in a chair at Bentz’s desk, the reporter stared at Bentz as if watching for weakness, looking for a crack in Bentz’s responses.
Bentz nodded. “It’s just a matter of finding him. That’s all I have. Hopefully that will change soon. The public information officer will release a statement with any new developments.” He held the younger man’s gaze. They both knew the current PIO was stepping down. Jase Bridges was one of the few candidates for the job.
The reporter hesitated, then appeared to realize that he wasn’t going to get anything more from Bentz. “Good. Keep me posted.” Bridges placed a business card on Bentz’s desk, nodded, then ducked out the door.
Bentz swept the card into the trash. He knew Bridges by reputation—a wild, tough-ass kid who had somehow turned himself around and landed the crime beat for the Observer, a local paper still hanging on despite the downturn in the print newspaper industry.
Bentz had never had much use for the press. Sure, fine, the public needed to be informed or when the department needed the public’s awareness and assistance. But as for the reporters who made something out of nothing, creating a story when there was none, Bentz wasn’t interested. Was Jase Bridges one of those, so hungry for drama that he blended truth and fiction, or a real hard-nosed, truth-seeking reporter?
The jury was still out.
And the thought that Bridges might end up working for the department didn’t sit well with Bentz. His innate distrust of reporters
Selma, though, seemed heartened. Maybe it felt good to know that the alerts were out, even if no one seemed to be taking them seriously. Selma filled out the forms, providing as much information as she could. By the time they returned to the car, the older woman was beat. She slid into the Honda’s warm interior and closed her eyes. “I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years, and yet I’m so keyed up and worried . . . oh hell.” She checked her phone for what had to be the hundredth time as Brianna started the engine. “We may as well go home.” There was sadness in the deep lines on her face as she cleared her throat and stared out the window. “Thanks for all you’ve done.”
Nothing. I’ve done nothing but drive you here and help you file an official Missing Persons Report. It’s not enough.
Brianna eased her little car into traffic that was heavier now. She’d started out the morning trying to convince Selma the girls would return, but as the day had worn on with no news from the twins, Brianna had begun to believe the horrifying possibility. Her hope was waning, her anger at the people who had put the wrong man behind bars increasing. She knew Donovan Caldwell was imprisoned falsely, and that meant the real killer, the maniac who targeted twins, was still at large.
Worse yet, she suspected he was hunting again, his killing ground having expanded from Southern California, heading east, if her theory was correct. And then there was the fact that Rick Bentz was now a working detective in New Orleans, where Zoe and Chloe had gone missing.
Her stomach twisted and her fingers tightened over the wheel as she fought her fears.
Where the hell were Zoe and Chloe?
C HAPTER 8
“I don’t have any comment,” Bentz said. He finished the last swallow of cold coffee and glanced at the clock mounted on the wall of his office: 4:57. Time to be thinking about heading home, and here he was cornered by Jase Bridges, a reporter pounding the crime beat for a local paper.
Bridges was all over the Father John case.
“You know the identity of the killer,” Bridges pointed out. Seated in a chair at Bentz’s desk, the reporter stared at Bentz as if watching for weakness, looking for a crack in Bentz’s responses.
Bentz nodded. “It’s just a matter of finding him. That’s all I have. Hopefully that will change soon. The public information officer will release a statement with any new developments.” He held the younger man’s gaze. They both knew the current PIO was stepping down. Jase Bridges was one of the few candidates for the job.
The reporter hesitated, then appeared to realize that he wasn’t going to get anything more from Bentz. “Good. Keep me posted.” Bridges placed a business card on Bentz’s desk, nodded, then ducked out the door.
Bentz swept the card into the trash. He knew Bridges by reputation—a wild, tough-ass kid who had somehow turned himself around and landed the crime beat for the Observer, a local paper still hanging on despite the downturn in the print newspaper industry.
Bentz had never had much use for the press. Sure, fine, the public needed to be informed or when the department needed the public’s awareness and assistance. But as for the reporters who made something out of nothing, creating a story when there was none, Bentz wasn’t interested. Was Jase Bridges one of those, so hungry for drama that he blended truth and fiction, or a real hard-nosed, truth-seeking reporter?
The jury was still out.
And the thought that Bridges might end up working for the department didn’t sit well with Bentz. His innate distrust of reporters
Similar Books
