by Lisa Jackson
“It’s not just the photos, Lorraine. I think I’ve seen her.”
“Oh, Jesus.” She pressed a slender hand to her forehead. “This is really getting nuts. So, what? You want to know if I’ve come into contact with her? Maybe gone out for a drink? Had her over for dinner?”
He didn’t say anything; he often found it was best to let people rant and rave. He frequently learned more from silence than from a series of direct questions. “Well, you’ve really lost it this time. This is just plain nuts.” She paced over to the plate-glass window that dominated the living room. Outside, a hummingbird was flitting along the deep purple blooms of a climbing vine that wound its way to the eaves.
“You know, Rick,” she said. “You’ve lost it. Really. If Jennifer were really alive, I would know it. She would have contacted me. Where has she been hiding all these years? And if she wasn’t the woman in the car, who was? Why did you identify the wrong woman? Don’t tell me you were drunk.”
“Of course not! I thought…I still think she was behind the wheel.”
“But now you’re not sure? Because of photos of a woman who looks like her? Because you think you saw her?”
Bentz ignored the question. “What do you remember about the last time you saw her?”
“Oh, God, do you really want to go into all that?” she asked, retracting into her hard shell.
“Sure, Lorraine. Why mince words?”
Her lips pulled into a knot of dislike and her nostrils flared. “Okay, she did call me a few days before the accident. She was obviously troubled, maybe drunk, I don’t know. But not right. When I asked her what was wrong, she blamed you. Said you didn’t believe that she loved you, and it was eating away at her. I knew about the infidelity, of course, but for some reason she had it bad for you. Well…you, and the priest. Your half brother, was it?”
Bentz’s guts twisted, but he kept his expression bland. “Anything else?”
“Nothing that involves you. Sometime I think back and wish she’d stayed with Gray. If she would have stuck it out with Alan Gray, she’d still be alive today. Alive and rich. Instead…” She shrugged. “I told her she was making a mistake when she broke it off with Alan, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Getting to his feet, he tried not to wince, didn’t want to let on to Lorraine that he felt any pain whatsoever.
As she walked him to the door, she said, “You know, even if Jennifer is alive, why the hell are you doing this? Give it up, already. Let sleeping dogs, or dead ex-wives, lie. If you’re really bothered, you should leave it to the professionals. Tell the police what you know. Let them handle it. You’re married again. Go home. Pay attention to your new wife.” Lorraine opened the door and waited for him to walk onto the cracked cement porch. Spying a dying petunia blossom, she deadheaded the shriveling pink bloom and added, “Don’t make the same mistake twice. If you give your new wife some attention, maybe she won’t stray the way Jennifer did.”
Bentz ignored that last bit of advice. “If you think of anything else or hear from her—”
“For the love of God, Bentz, she’s dead. D-E-A-D. And I haven’t heard of anyone coming back since J.C. did it oh, what was it? A few thousand years ago!” She closed the door but before it latched tossed out, “Say hi to Crystal for me.”
He didn’t bother correcting her. Kristi had only vague memories of her mother’s stepsister. Not once since Jennifer’s death had Lorraine called or sent a card or tried to contact Kristi in any way. Bentz saw no reason to change that now.
He drove away from Torrance without much new information. Lorraine had been insufferable in the past and she hadn’t mellowed much with age, but the key question was, had she been honest with him?
He wasn’t sure. She, like Shana, had wanted to get her licks in and she had. But she certainly hadn’t seen Jennifer. He kept his eyes on the road as he headed north toward Culver City. Traffic on the freeway was moving at a good clip despite the yellow haze that had settled over the area. In the west, the orb of the sun glowed in the dingy smog. He cracked the window and fiddled with the air, still thinking about what Lorraine had told him, which was essentially, “Take your ball and go home.” But then, they’d never gotten along. And what were all the references to Alan Gray? He was someone Bentz hadn’t thought of for decades. But Lorraine hadn’t forgotten.
As he spied signs for his exit Bentz realized he was making great time. Just a few more miles. The phone rang as he was moving onto the ramp. Catching site of Montoya’s cell number, he answered. “Bentz.”
Montoya gave him a quick rundown of everything he knew, which wasn’t a lot. Except for the silver Chevy. An Impala, in fact. Just like the car that had caught his attention in the parking lot in San Juan Capistrano. He explained as much to Montoya. “So what I’m looking for is a six-or seven-year-old car, California plates, with an expired parking pass to a hospital.”
“You didn’t happen to get which hospital?”
“No. But there was a symbol on it…” What the hell was that image? He couldn’t remember. Just flat out couldn’t remember.
“I saw on the news that there’s another double homicide. Twins,” Montoya said. “Same doer?”
“Looks like.” Bentz’s hand clenched hard over the wheel, so tightly his knuckles blanched as a black BMW crawled up his ass. Montoya knew the story behind the Caldwell twins’ murders twelve years earlier. Bentz had confided in him long ago.
“Copycat?”
“Not buying it.” Bentz switched lanes to the exit ramp, sliding in behind an old pickup filled with gardening tools. He let the bastard in the black BMW fly by. The car had to be pushing ninety.
Another car was in its wake. Keeping up.
A streak of silver.
Bentz saw the taillights and recognized an older model Chevy Impala. A dark-haired woman was behind the wheel…a sticker on the windshield.
Holy crap!
Jennifer!
He dropped the phone. “Son of a bitch.” Signaling as a red Volkswagen beetle’s blinker started, indicating the driver wanted to edge toward the exit ramp, Bentz gunned his engine. With inches to spare, he swerved out of the lane marked exit only and accelerated.
“Come on, come on,” he urged his rental. The silver car, a quarter of a mile ahead, was darting between lanes.
Could it be?
No way.
Jaw set, he drove as fast as he dared, cutting through cars and trucks and vans, keeping the silver car in his sights. As if the driver knew she was being followed, she began even more evasive moves, slipping between cars, passing on the left or right. She didn’t seem to care, just as long as she was putting distance and vehicles between her car and his.
But Bentz bore down on her, gaining ground.
Suddenly, she cut to the right, skidding and nearly missing the Sunset Boulevard exit. Brake lights flashed. Horns blasted.
The Impala disappeared down the ramp. Jaw set, Bentz tried to follow, cutting over to the right, but a minivan blocked his way. A woman wearing a cell phone headset, oblivious to everything around her, drove her minivan right on the bumper of a lumbering flatbed that was taking the off-ramp. There was no time to speed around both vehicles, so Bentz was stuck.
He slammed a fist into the steering wheel.
God, what he wouldn’t do for lights and a siren right now!
To make the exit, he was forced to slow down and drop behind the minivan. Once off the freeway, he had to stop for a red light that the Chevy slipped through on amber and red. While Bentz gripped his steering wheel in frustration, Minivan Mom sat gabbing into the mouthpiece of her phone.
Bentz looked down the road and saw the Impala speed under an other yellow light. He’d never catch her.
So close, but so far away…
California plates…He squinted. The last two numbers looked like 66, but he couldn’t make out the rest.
By the time the light changed and Bentz was able to pass the boxy minivan, the silver car was gone, out of
sight.
Adrenaline racing, nerves stretched to the breaking point, Bentz prowled the area. As he waited at a red light, his cell phone rang.
“What the hell happened to you?” Montoya demanded and Bentz explained.
“You think you saw the same woman on the freeway? Come on. What’re the chances of that?”
“She knew I was at Lorraine Newell’s.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. She probably followed me. Second guessed what I would do.”
“L.A.’s a big city. Lots of dark-haired women. It wasn’t Jennifer or the woman who looks like her.”
“I’m telling you—”
“What? You’re telling me what? That in a city of millions of people you just ran across the one you were looking for on the freeway? You’re talking needle in a haystack.”
“It was the same car, damn it. And a dark-haired woman driving, but no, I didn’t see her face. I did catch a glimpse of that parking pass. It had a cross on it, like the hospital was affiliated with some Christian church.”
“If you say so.”
“The license plate ended in 66, but I didn’t catch any of the other letters or numbers.”
“You’re sure that wasn’t 666?”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“That’s the problem, Bentz. This whole thing is some lame-ass joke this woman is pulling on you. When are you going to wise up and get back here? Look, I got work to do here. Real work. Call me when you come to your senses.” Montoya hung up, leaving Bentz to cruise the side streets for nearly an hour.
He checked parking lots and streets and traffic, searching out the silver Chevy. There were lots of silver or gray cars, all catching light in the sunny, hazy day, but none of them were the Impala.
Giving up, he stayed off the freeway to wend his way back to Culver City through Westwood and Beverly Hills. He was nearly back at the inn when his phone rang again. This time no caller was listed.
“Bentz,” he said.
“Catch me if you can, RJ,” a breathy female voice whispered.
His heart leapt to his throat. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“Oh, I think you know.” She laughed, a deep, naughty chuckle that caused his blood to run cold. “You just have trouble believing what is right in front of your face. I’m back RJ, and the good news is that you still want me.”
I glance in the rearview mirror, catching my own smile. “Good job,” I tell myself. Rick Bentz is running around in circles, chasing down all of his ex-wife’s old acquaintances, digging up the past. Which is just damned perfect.
It’s a good feeling, knowing I finally got to him. “You bastard,” I say, thinking of his chiseled face. “You deserve it.” Still driving, I kick off my high heels and drive barefoot, my toes curling over the accelerator. I sensed his frustration through the wireless connection and it was a rush. Following him at a distance, watching him tear after a ghost.
I’m still on an adrenaline high, one I plan to keep going.
Approaching the freeway overpass I toss the phone into the passenger seat and roll down my window. Yes, it’s a little smoggy, but it’s L.A. Of course there’s haze. It doesn’t stop the wind from rushing through my hair as I wind my way toward the ramp.
The prepaid cell phone is perfect.
No way to trace a call.
Poor Bentz. He won’t be able to find me; not until I want him to.
He fell right into the trap that I laid for him. Maybe he’s losing his edge.
Good.
He never knew that I watched him; followed him. I knew exactly when he was visiting Shana McIntyre and, today, that bitch Lorraine Newell. Jesus, she’s a miserable human being.
And as for Bentz?
Dear God, the man is predictable.
Always has been. These people never change.
I punch the throttle, then check my speed and ease up a bit. This wouldn’t be a good time for a ticket.
But my heart pounds wildly.
It’s time to ramp things up a bit.
I warm inside at the thought. My reflection winks at me. “Smart girl,” I say into the wind as I consider my next move.
Bentz will never know what hit him.
CHAPTER 17
Hayes slapped the files shut and leaned back in his desk chair. It squeaked in protest, adding to the cacophony of sounds—computer keys clicking, phones ringing, conversations buzzing. And beneath it all was the ever-present rumble of the ancient air conditioning system.
Someone laughed as a printer clicked out pages a few desks over. Trinidad was taking a statement from a long-legged black woman, most likely a witness in one of the open cases. They had more than their share of homicides to solve, but the buzz in the department was about the Springer twins’ murders. This was a crime that had captured the attention of the media as well as the horrified public. Reporters had been calling, keeping the Public Information Officer as busy as the detectives solving the case.
And time was sliding by without any serious leads.
Hayes picked up the remainder of his iced tea, a drink that had been ignored, the ice melting since lunch. He took a long swallow and felt the paper cup getting weak.
He’d spent the day rereading the cold case file on the Caldwell twins’ homicides, trying to find some bit of evidence that had been overlooked twelve years earlier.
He’d come up dry.
After Bentz had bailed, Trinidad had been assigned another partner, a female detective named Bonita Unsel, who had since left the department. She and Trinidad, with Bledsoe’s help, had handled the case by the book, but the Twenty-one killer had literally gotten away with murder. Twice.
Absently, his mind on the case, Hayes finished the drink as he scrolled through the crime scene photos on the computer. A box of evidence had been pulled, and as he’d combed through it he’d noted that the ribbon used in the first killings appeared identical to the ribbons that had bound and gagged the Springer twins.
The son of a bitch had kept his killing kit intact, down to the heavy red ribbon with wire running through it, the kind used to wrap fancy, expensive Christmas presents. Years ago the department had hunted down the manufacturer of the ribbon, checked with distributors and local stores, only to come up with a big goose egg.
Nor had they been able to find any fingerprints or trace evidence to link the suspects. They’d spent hours interviewing friends and acquaintances of the victims. Boyfriends, girlfriends, family members, classmates. Lots of interviews leading nowhere.
The primary suspect had been a boy named Chad Emerson who had dated both girls at one time or another, but his alibi had been solid and he’d seem genuinely devastated by the Caldwell twins’ deaths. Same with the older brother, Donovan, whom Bledsoe had been certain was involved. Nothing concrete. So he’d been envious of the attention his sisters received; jealousy itself wasn’t a crime, and it wasn’t unusual. Nonetheless Hayes intended to check out both suspects and see if they had any connection whatsoever to the Springer twins.
“Hey!”
He looked up to see Dawn Rankin, one of the other detectives in the department, walking toward his desk. She dropped a report into his in basket. “I sent this to you via e-mail, but thought you’d like a hard copy. The shooting in West Hollywood. Witness statements.”
“Not an accident?”
She shook her head. “Looks like we’ll get an indictment. Weird, huh? Best friends and one ends up killing the other over a woman.”
“Stupidity has no bounds.”
“I guess.” She flashed him a wicked little grin. “Hey, I heard that Rick Bentz is back, digging into his wife’s death.”
“Ex-wife, but yeah.”
“What’s that all about?” Dawn’s eyebrows drew together. She was a pretty woman. Petite, smart, with a smooth complexion that required little or no makeup, she forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
&nbs
p; “Not sure. Thinks he’s being gaslit, that someone’s manipulating him into thinking Jennifer is still alive.”
“He made the ID.”
“Yeah, he knows.” Hayes felt a twinge of a headache coming on. “He never struck me as the kind who would fall into this kind of trap. I mean if someone was messin’ with him, he’d blow them off.”
“Unless he wants to believe she’s still alive.” She threw up a hand. “Not that I could ever figure him out.”
Hayes remembered now: back in his younger days Bentz had hooked up with Dawn. Aside from a passing interest, she seemed long over him, though at the time of the breakup, according to rumors, it had been messy.
“Anyway, I spent the afternoon talking to people who knew the vics in the Springer case. I even tracked down the boyfriends of both the Springer girls. They both, conveniently, have alibis, but the one who dated Lucy, Kurt Jones, has a record. Nothing serious or violent, but drug charges. The word on the street is he’s a dealer.” She shook her head. “Small-time stuff. I don’t think he’s our guy.”
“Not likely to be linked to the Caldwell twins.”
“He’s old enough, just not the right kind of nut job.”
Bledsoe overheard the tail end of the conversation as he walked into the squad room. “Don’t tell me, you’re talking about my favorite ex-dick Bentz.” He pulled a face. “Wouldn’t you know he’d show up when the Twenty-one comes out of the woodwork? I’m thinking the killer came out because he knows Bentz is here, just to rub it in his face and piss him off.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s how serial killers work,” Dawn said, obviously irritated at the intrusion. Bledsoe had that way about him, an ability to aggravate without trying. “Next you’ll be saying Bentz killed the Springer girls.”
“Nah. He’s a bastard, but not a killer…but then again, there was the Valdez kid. Bentz nailed him.”
“Accident,” Dawn said. “That’s low, even for you.”
“I’m just not a big fan of coincidence,” Bledsoe said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “I’m just sayin’.” His phone rang, and he left, walking smartly away, cell jammed to his ear.
