Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 107

You're getting paranoid!

But someone had set him up for Royal Kajak's murder. Someone who knew his movements. His reactions. Someone with a hard-on to see him sent away for good.

Who? he wondered for the millionth time over the past three months. Who had set him up? Was Eve involved? And who the h.e.l.l had she slept with besides him on the day Roy died? His jaw slid to the side, and he squinted against the glare of oncoming headlights.

He would be a fool to think whoever had framed him before would stop now, or that the police would quit thinking he was involved in Roy's death. No, he had to be careful.

So think, Cole, think!

First things first: he had to ditch the cell phone. With that in mind, he stopped the Jeep, placed the phone under its tire then ran over it, hoping to destroy the GPS chip if it had one.

Secondly, he had to hide the money again. Over time he planned to deposit it to his account in small amounts, as if he were being paid for odd jobs. But for now the Jeep was an unsafe bet, as was his new home.

But he knew another place.... It would just take some time, once he was back in New Orleans.

For now, he'd take care of this Renner business.

He didn't like the feel of it and would take some precautions, but he wanted-needed-to know what was going on. Why had Renner called him?

Don't step into a trap.

Cole wheeled the Jeep into a one-eighty and headed for the old farmhouse where he'd first met Eve. His jaw clenched, and he felt that same old rush in his bloodstream as whenever he conjured up her image.

The first day they met, she'd had the nerve to question his ability. She stared at him through intelligent eyes half a beat longer than necessary then opened that s.e.xy mouth of hers and started putting him to the test, asking questions, studying him suspiciously, silently suggesting that she didn't think he was up to the job.

"You're really the best money can buy?" Her freckle-dusted nose had wrinkled, and Cole had found her amusing and irritating at the same time.

"I can hold my own."

"Against what?" She'd swatted at a fly that buzzed too close to her loose red-blond curls. Thrusting out her chin, she'd tilted her head and waited, as if she enjoyed putting him in the hot seat.

"I think you mean 'against whom,'" Cole had countered.

"I just want to know that you're up for the job." He had noticed a hint of fear in her eyes, and he realized that beneath her brash exterior was a daughter frightened her father could be sent to jail.

Cole had understood. In his estimation, Terrence Renner was a little off, a doctor with an incredible G.o.d complex.

In retrospect, it had been Eve, more than Renner, the psychiatrist, who had persuaded Cole to take the case. Not because she'd asked him to. No. Just the opposite. Because she'd doubted him, eyed his battered jeans and faded T-s.h.i.+rt and made a judgment call: he wasn't good enough.

And he'd been determined to prove to her that he was everything her father had claimed, the "best money could buy."

What a joke.

The whole situation had spiraled out of control, and look where he was now.

Now, as Cole headed to that same farmhouse where he'd been so h.e.l.l-bent to prove himself, he found it almost laughable how things had gotten twisted around. Now he was the suspicious one. For instance, why had Eve shown up at Renner's that particular day? Coincidence? Or part of something much bigger than Cole suspected? His jaw slid to the side. And what about Renner's patient, Tracy Aliota? Had Renner been as innocent as he'd proclaimed? Or had he had a tiny bit of hesitation about releasing her? Had he suspected that she might try to injure herself again? It wasn't Renner's fault that the girl committed suicide, but had he borne some some responsibility for what had happened? responsibility for what had happened?

Ethics, he reminded himself. He was thinking about ethics, not legalities. Cole had proven that he reminded himself. He was thinking about ethics, not legalities. Cole had proven that legally legally Renner had fulfilled his obligation to his patient, but ethically...that was another question. Renner had fulfilled his obligation to his patient, but ethically...that was another question.

In any event, Renner had been vindicated in the trial, found "not guilty." It had left the prosecuting attorney p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l and Cole Dennis a hero in Eve Renner's eyes. Which had been just what he'd wanted. He'd been so attracted to her, so focused on her, that he'd ignored the warning bells clanging loudly in his mind. He'd all too eagerly broken his own hard-and-fast rule of avoiding any personal contact with a client or any member of a client's family. He had flatly ignored the fact that blending the boundaries between business and pleasure always ended up clouding his clear, razor-sharp viewpoint.

And so it had been.

For over two years.

Now, as he saw the flas.h.i.+ng red light in the middle of the small town near Renner's house, he eased on the brakes, and his Jeep rolled to a stop. His was the only vehicle at the junction. The reflection from the stoplight pulsed red against the pavement as he turned, driving down the lonesome street.

The empty town was lifeless, stark, only a few parked cars on the streets where neon lights sizzled and burned in the one tavern and every other shop had been locked for hours. A skinny stray dog wandered across the street a hundred yards in front of him, then, head down, disappeared down a narrow alley. A bad feeling crawled through him. It almost felt as if this part of the world were on a distant planet.

Shaking off the eerie sensation, Cole turned down the main street and headed out of town, past the shop fronts with their security lights, then through a residential area of single-story homes built in the forties and fifties, mostly dark, only a few lamps glowing behind drawn shades.

On the outskirts of town, he stepped on the throttle, pus.h.i.+ng the speed limit, suddenly feeling an urgency to talk to Renner. He told himself that it had nothing to do with Eve, this visit to her father. He'd deal with the old man first then decide what to do about the woman who had turned his world inside out, sworn to have loved him only to end up cheating on him and accusing him of murder.

Rage fired through his guts, and he forced his mind away from Eve: beautiful, lying, two-timing, s.e.xy-as-h.e.l.l Eve. He couldn't think of her now.

He pa.s.sed familiar landmarks: a narrow bridge, a stone fence, a tilted mailbox only a quarter of a mile from Renner's property. He slowed for the turnoff then cranked hard on the steering wheel, nosing the Jeep into the long, furrowed lane.

The good doctor was apparently still up, as warm light glowed from the windows on the first floor. He had mixed feelings about this place. It was the first place he'd set eyes on Eve. The start of so much that had ended so badly.

Cole parked near the garage. Then, as he had in the months before the trial, he walked up the back steps to the kitchen and rapped on the door. Crickets chirped loudly, and a moth was beating against a kitchen window. "Terrence?" he called, spying an open bottle of booze on the counter along with a tray of melted ice cubes.

No one answered.

He tried again. "h.e.l.lo? Terry? It's Cole!" He banged so hard on the back door, the gla.s.s panes rattled.

Again, nothing.

Nor did the old, half-crippled dog appear.

Cole knocked again but knew it was no use.

Well, h.e.l.l.

Had Renner taken off?

Cole walked to the garage, peered through the side door, and spied the looming dark shape of Renner's truck, a newer model Dodge, parked inside. Which didn't mean he couldn't have taken off with someone. Renner had called from his cell; Cole had recognized the number. So that meant he might not have phoned from the house.

Still...the open bottle of booze, the ice tray on the counter? Cole knew a lot of men who wouldn't have bothered capping a bottle or returning the tray to the freezer, but those men weren't the precise and a.n.a.l Dr. Terrence Renner.

Walking down the cement path again, Cole took the steps to the back porch two at a time and pounded on the door again. "Terry!" he yelled, and when that didn't work, he grabbed the d.a.m.ned door and pushed.

It opened.

Cole stood a moment in surprise. This wasn't Renner's style. He'd been about to search for the spare key he knew Renner kept hidden on the sill above the door, but it hadn't been necessary.

Another oddity.

Renner was a stickler for locking his doors, be it his house, his office, his truck, or his briefcase. Probably from all those years working with the mentally ill. Cole had seen some of Renner's patients. Some were docile, just troubled or depressed. Others were violent. Psychopaths. It was a wonder Renner had never installed an alarm system...but then, he'd had the dog. "Terry?" Cole yelled, walking into the kitchen. "Dr. Renner? Rufus?"

No startled response. No surprised bark. No clicking of dog toe-nails or pad of slippered feet coming down the hallway to investigate. "Dr. Renner!"

Why the h.e.l.l wasn't he answering? Had he been too drunk to turn off the lights, lock the door, put the booze away, or turn off the radio? Maybe he'd already gone upstairs to bed.

But Cole's gut told him otherwise.

Slowly, he turned down the hallway, his senses on alert.

Maybe Renner had fallen asleep. And the dog had been half deaf. The pop of a crackling ember drew Cole's attention to the adjoining den. He peered inside and noticed a dark stain on the floor.

A drop.

A red red drop. drop.

And then another.

And another.

"s.h.i.+t! Terrence!" Cole yelled as he burst into the den.

Every muscle in his body froze.

Renner was lying faceup on the carpet. His eyes stared at the ceiling. Blood covered his neck and face. It pooled thickly on the floor.

"No!" Cole knelt beside him, his fingers clenching the doctor's wrist to find a pulse, hoping to hear the sound of shallow breathing.

He was too late.

The blood had stopped flowing. There was no heartbeat. Not the shallowest of breaths being drawn.

Renner was dead.

Distantly Cole noticed Renner's right arm lay at an odd angle. His gaze moved upward slowly, and he saw the number scrawled onto the wall in thick red streaks:

101.

Every hair on Cole's scalp was raised. One hundred one? Like 212? The number written with Royal Kajak's blood by his own d.a.m.ned finger?

Cole's heart was a drum.

Renner was dead...dead...and yet he'd called Cole on his cell less than an hour earlier.

Jesus Christ, what the h.e.l.l was going on?

You're being set up.

Again.

Someone had waited for him. Patiently biding his time until Cole had been set free. And then, within hours of his release, he'd slaughtered Renner-and called called Cole! Cole!

What was it the guy on the phone said?

"I've got evidence."

The same chilling message Eve had received from Roy Kajak before he'd been killed.

The killer could still be in the house.

He scanned the room, checking the shadows, searching the darkened hallway where light from the den didn't spill. There was a letter opener on the desk. He grabbed it.

Get out! Get out NOW!

He listened, ears straining for any foreign sound, but all he heard was the tick of an old clock in the foyer, the notes of soft acoustic music playing from a radio on the desk, and the loud, powerful pounding of his heart cras.h.i.+ng frantically against his ribs. No running footsteps. No deep breathing. No sound of a knife being slipped from a sheath.

The house seemed still.

Empty.

Not even a whimper, whine, or bark from the dog.

What are you waiting for? Get out!

Full-blown panic ripped through him.

Someone's setting you up, Cole. This is no f.u.c.king coincidence. Some sick son of a b.i.t.c.h has it in for you.

Why?

Who?

Someone Terrence Renner had been mixed up with?

Someone who had killed killed Renner. Renner.

Cole found the telephone and dialed 911. The dispatch officer answered before the phone rang twice. "Nine-one-one. What's the nature of your-"

"There's been a murder," Cole cut in tersely. "Terrence Renner. Someone killed him. At his house..." He had to think for a second before he rattled off the street address.

"Sir? Are you all right?"

"Yes. But Renner. He's dead."