Shiver by Lisa Jackson Page B

irritation in the narrowing of his eyes. He didn’t think Abby had out-and-out lied. She seemed too smart for that. But she’d known more than she was saying. Even if he gave her a break for the shock of learning that her ex-husband was dead, she still hadn’t come clean. He could feel it.
    And it bugged the hell out of him.
    He slowed for a stoplight on St. Charles Avenue. Drumming the tips of his fingers on the steering wheel, he saw the raindrops reflect red from the signal, the only illumination in this gray, soggy afternoon. As he waited for the light to change, he watched as pedestrians with umbrellas and hats climbed off the street car and made a mad dash across the street to the cobblestoned, tree-lined sidewalks.
    Students on their way to classes at Tulane and Loyola, two old universities resting side by side facing St. Charles Avenue, crossed in groups. Laughing, talking, carrying paper coffee cups and wearing backpacks, they hurried onto the paths and broad lawns of the universities that were within minutes of Courtney LaBelle’s home. If she’d decided to attend classes at Loyola, the red brick Catholic college with its turrets and crenels that resembled a medieval castle, would she be alive today? Set here in the Garden District, Loyola was within walking distance of her family. Of safety.
    Seeing other young students blissfully unaware of what had happened to Courtney LaBelle, he ground his back teeth. Man, this case was a pisser.
    What he needed was a smoke. Just to take the edge off his nerves. He considered stopping at the next convenience store for a pack of Marlboros. Shit, he’d love to draw in a lungful of nicotine about now. Quitting the habit was harder than he’d imagined and he remembered giving Bentz a hard time about giving up smoking a few years back. He’d accused him of being a wuss for leaning on gum or the patch or anything Montoya had considered a crutch.
    Now, he understood.
    Hell.
    It was times like this, when he really wanted to think, to mull over his recent conversation with a witness, that he felt the urge to light up.
    The traffic light turned green. The crosswalk was clear. He trod on the gas, water spraying from the Crown Vic’s tires as he hit puddles from the recent shower. His mind wandered to Abby Chastain again.
    Seeing her had hit him hard.
    Where it counted.
    If she hadn’t been out-and-out lying, then she’d been holding something back. There was a mystery in her gold eyes, some kind of secret. She hadn’t been coy, seemed straightforward, but something was off. Or maybe he’d been distracted, surprised at how she’d affected him. He’d expected to walk up to her house, give her the bad news, watch her reaction, and find someone to stay with her, to help her get over the shock.
    But that’s not what had happened.
    The woman had gotten to him.
    And he, blind-sided, had let her.
    Petite, packed tight, curves in all the right places.
    He flipped on the radio and told himself he had to stop thinking about Abby Chastain’s body. Jesus, hadn’t he learned anything in the last five years? His jaw tightened as he slowed for a corner. He’d always been accused of being a player and it was true enough that he enjoyed women, a variety of women. The one time he’d thought of settling down, the situation had gone from bad to worse.
    His guts twisted as he thought of Marta again…God, she’d been beautiful, with a sharp tongue and flashing dark eyes that had held him captive.
    He’d thought she was the one, if there was such a thing. He hadn’t believed it before and he didn’t believe it now, but for that one short period of his life, he’d been certain that he’d wanted Marta Vasquez for his bride.
    “Son of a bitch!” he growled as a guy in a red Mazda RX7 cut in front of him. Montoya slammed on the brakes. As the driver glanced in his mirror and obviously realized he’d nearly collided with a cop car, he shifted down, slowing to the speed limit, and