by Lisa Jackson
“Ugh.” She eyed her figure again and told herself to buck up. She was told over and over how beautiful she was, how great she looked, and so far no one had dared tacked on the “for your age” line that diminished the compliment.
She threw a cover-up over her body, though there was no reason. The maid had left long ago, the gardener wasn’t scheduled for a few more days, Leland was out of town again wooing some big client in Palm Springs.
Hurrying down the marble stairs, she cut through the sunroom and out to the yard, where Dirk was barking loudly at the neighbor’s Chihuahuas, who were yipping from the other side of the hedge and fence. “Enough,” Shana said and dragged Dirk into the house. She stuffed him into the laundry room and closed the door.
She just needed some time alone, without the aggravation of Leland’s dog giving her a headache. These days she spent more time with the damned animal than she did her husband.
She eyed the refrigerator and thought of the chocolate mousse pie within. It was a ritual she allowed herself. Each week she bought a different decadent dessert and left it calling to her on the third shelf of the refrigerator. She allowed herself one bite of pure heaven, then left the rest to slowly dehydrate and turn dark. Lemon meringue or key lime pie, coconut or Boston cream or fudge cake or eclairs. They all rented space on the glass shelf at eye level, then were evicted on the next Saturday night.
Her ritual of self-deprivation and control.
Today she wouldn’t even bother opening the door but hurried back outside and crossed the patio to the pool. It was twilight, the pool light glowing at the far end, the aquamarine water smooth and welcoming.
She dropped her cover-up and kicked off her flip-flops near the edge of the pool. Descending the mosaic tiled steps, she slid into the warm water and relaxed as it surrounded her calves, then her hips, and finally embraced her waist.
Vaguely aware that those nasty little Chihuahuas had quit their incessant yapping, she began her nightly ritual, her second workout today, with even strokes. Freestyle to the far end, breaststroke back, sidestroke for two laps. That was one set. She’d do five sets and then, only then, would she allow herself a drink. For next to the white box containing the chocolate mousse was a pitcher of martinis, already made and chilling.
It was another test of her willpower, waiting until after her exercise regimen before allowing herself a tall drink with exactly three olives. She’d suck the pimento out of each. God, Jennifer had loved martinis.
Stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, breathe, turn.
She headed back, changing her rhythm as her body movements altered for the breaststroke. Night was closing in, the moon high. The subdued outdoor lighting cast small pools of light near the walkways. Brighter beams washed up the trunks of the palms, and the huge arched windows of the house were illuminated from within.
It was a gorgeous place to live.
Even if her life had become lonely.
Stroke, stroke, stroke.
She lost herself in her routine, silently counting off the turns, knowing instinctively from the way her muscles strained when she was coming to the end of her self-imposed exercise regimen.
She could almost taste the martinis as she completed the final lap. Letting water drip from her body, she started up the steps. She was reaching for her cover-up when she heard something.
A footstep?
A chorus of barking arose from the other side of the fence as the Chihuahuas started up again. Inside the house, Dirk responded with a low, warning growl.
“Great,” Shana said, intent on marching into the house and giving the dog a piece of her mind. What the hell was wrong with him? He never engaged the yappy rat-dogs from inside the house. It would serve the neighbors right if Dirk ever got loose and attacked those ankle biters. God, she hated them.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement.
What?
Something dark.
A shadow in the side yard.
Or was it?
Her skin crawled as fear slithered through her.
She peered, staring at the side of the house, telling herself that nothing was out of the ordinary, there was nothing to be concerned about. And yet…
Just beyond a circle of decorative light, she caught a glimpse of movement again, something slinking near the undergrowth.
Heart hammering, she peered through the darkness, told herself she was being a ninny, one of those frightened little women she detested and then she saw it again. Something or someone creeping closer.
Something was definitely wrong.
“What the hell—?”
In a flash, a dark figure lunged, running, footsteps slapping across the cement.
Shana started to scream, as the sprinter rushed forward, eyes dark and glittering.
The attacker hit her mid-section, ramming her hard enough that she tripped, fell backward into the pool, her assailant pushing firmly.
Bam!
Shana’s head hit the side of the pool.
Pain exploded behind her eyes. She nearly passed out, but tried to hang onto consciousness. To fight.
Still the maniac was on her, in the water with her as she flailed. Gloved hands circled her throat. Held her under. She saw the features of an angry face through the curtain of water. Features twisted in hatred. Oh, God, she should recognize the monster but she couldn’t think, couldn’t draw a breath.
Dear God, help me. Someone, please help me, this psycho wants to kill me!
She struggled and tried to roll in the water, to twist so that the attacker was under the surface. Shana was strong, a swimmer, but she was already tired and she couldn’t battle the fierce determination of this would-be killer.
No! Sweet Jesus, no!!!
She was already coughing. Trying to keep her wits. Find a way to survive.
But she was losing ground. Sputtering. Her strength drained even as she tried to pry the steely hands from her throat, hoping to land a blow with her feet. Kick him, Shana, kick! Or bite. Do something, anything!
But the water was heavy.
Her assailant was agile, even in the water.
Her lungs and nose were burning. Her throat on fire. She was trying to cough again, but couldn’t expel the air trapped inside. Her throat was raw, her lungs screaming.
Oh, God, oh, God…no, no, no!
Everything was going black, swirling above her, the stars and moon circling her head as a jet cut across the inky sky. I’m going to die, she thought with sudden understanding and surrender. Her arms moved more slowly, her legs stopped kicking.
She was floating on her back, staring upward as the blackness consumed her and she finally caught a glimpse of the person who had fought so hard to kill her.
Why? she wondered. Why me?
Far in the distance she heard someone yell. “Rico!” her neighbor screamed at the dogs. “Daisy! Little Bit! You all hush!”
But the Chihuahuas were rabid and kept up their high-pitched barking and wails as the night closed in on Shana. She struggled for a breath, then finally blackness took away her pain.
CHAPTER 22
The day was warm. Despite the breeze blowing off the Pacific. Bentz was back in Santa Monica, walking on the pier, slowing at the very spot where he knew he’d seen “Jennifer” jump into the bay. Here, he felt a chill and as he looked downward into the water, imagined he saw her ghostly image in the inky depths, her skin pale and blue, veins visible, her red dress diaphanous and floating around her like a scarlet shroud.
He blinked. Of course she wasn’t there, the water once again a clear aquamarine shimmering as it caught the sunlight.
His cell phone rang.
According to caller ID, it was Jonas Hayes’s private cell.
“Bentz,” he said, still scanning the sea and feeling the pain in his leg. Worse since his midnight swim. Age was creeping up on him, though he was loath to admit it, except to Olivia who thought he was still young enough to father another kid. If she could see him now,
limping along the boardwalk, conjuring up wraiths in the water…
“We need to talk.” Hayes’s voice was tight, all-business. He obviously hadn’t warmed up since their last conversation.
“When?” Bentz squinted as he looked downward to the shadowy area under the pier where a fisherman was casting out a line and where, if he figured right, Jennifer would have landed when she plunged into the water and disappeared. As far as he knew, the Coast Guard had not recovered the body of a woman in a red dress, so he had to assume the woman impersonating his ex-wife was still very much alive. Ready to haunt him again.
Just as she’d disturbed his dreams.
After doing some work on the Internet, searching for information regarding Alan Gray, he had called Olivia, then watched some mindless television. He’d dozed off with the television on, falling into a restless sleep full of disjointed images of his ex-wife…Jennifer reaching for him from the water in a sopping wet red dress. Jennifer at the wheel of a silver car with smudged plates.
Wanting some closure, some hint of how a woman could leap from such a high vantage point and completely disappear, he had returned to Santa Monica today in search of answers. Today the sky was clear, the sun so bright he was wearing shades against the glare. A soft breeze ruffled the huge fronds of the palm trees near the beach. He checked his watch—his new watch, as his old one had given up the ghost after his swim. “What time do you want to meet?”
“Now would be good,” Hayes said. “Actually, give me thirty or forty minutes. Can you meet me somewhere near the Center? I’m at the office.”
“Sure.” Bentz understood that “the Center” meant Parker Center, LAPD’s headquarters building that housed the Robbery-Homicide Division. What he didn’t get was Hayes’s turnaround. The last he’d heard Hayes would have liked nothing better than to shove him onto the next eastbound 737 headed for New Orleans. Then again, from the professional, nearly distant tone of Hayes’s voice, Bentz was guessing this wasn’t just a friendly lunch date. Hayes wasn’t calling to patch up their relationship.
“How about Thai Blossom on Broadway? It’s not far. Good food. Reasonable.”
“I’ll find it. What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when you get there.” Hayes hung up and Bentz was left with a bad feeling.
It wasn’t like Hayes to be cryptic or curt. Something was definitely going on. And definitely not something good. Bentz turned and, using his cane, headed to his car. He was still suffering from his late-night swan dive and swim. His leg was definitely acting up, and he’d already downed double the dosage of ibuprofen this morning, washing the pills down with a large cup of coffee.
Of course, all this walking and trudging through sand hadn’t helped. But he had wanted to explore the underbelly of the pier by daylight, hoping to find an escape method the woman might have used. A ladder, a rope, a catwalk. Unfortunately, when he’d hitched along the beach, he’d looked up and seen only the guts of the massive dock, pillars covered with creosote and tar. No means of escape.
By light of day Santa Monica Bay was a different animal. The other night the whole area around the pier had been eerie with the lights of the amusement park muted and fuzzy in the fog, but bright enough to reflect in the black waters. This morning the pier wore an entirely different face. Yes, there was a carnival atmosphere, but it seemed far less sinister. The amusement park bustled with noise and the shouts of delighted riders. There were lots of people walking, riding bikes, jogging, or window-shopping on and around the beach. Men fished off the pier, people strolled on the beach, kids played in the sand. Nothing menacing or dark.
Almost as if he’d dreamed the horrid situation. He’d checked with the webcam people twice, and there was some hitch in locating the film. “Just give me another day,” the technician had told him. Bentz wasn’t sure if the holdup was about authorization or technical issues, but he was skeptical that he’d ever get access to the webcam records.
He looked out to sea one last time.
How does a woman plunge into the water and disappear?
Maybe Hayes would help answer that question.
“Yeah, right,” he muttered, climbing into the warm interior of his rental car. After a quick U-turn, he stepped on it and was lucky enough to stay ahead of a few yellow lights. Traffic, for once, was light and he didn’t spot a tail or catch one glimpse of Jennifer.
As he drove he toyed with the notion that Hayes might want to talk to him about the old Caldwell case, to pick his brain to see if there was something the files didn’t hold. Maybe Hayes was hoping Bentz had a forgotten piece of information that might be the key to unmasking the Twenty-one killer and solving the new case with the Springer twins as the vics.
He thought of the grief-stricken parents, the hell they must be going through. A few times in his life he’d almost lost his daughter and the horror of it was branded in his memory, even though she’d pulled through. And now Olivia wanted another child. Of course she did. He didn’t blame her; she was younger than he and had never been a parent.
Maybe…
If he survived whatever was going down here on the coast.
He ended up at the restaurant five minutes before they were supposed to meet, but Hayes was already inside, waiting at a booth with vinyl seats, a plastic-topped table. Fake bamboo screens separated tables. The restaurant smelled of jasmine, tea, ginger, and curry and from the kitchen came the sound of rattling pans and voices speaking in some Asian tongue.
Hayes looked up from his small, steaming cup of tea. He didn’t bother smiling, just nodded as Bentz slid onto the bench across from him and slid his cane beneath his feet. They were nearly the only people in the restaurant, which had just opened for the day.
Hayes eyed the cane. “You feelin’ okay?”
Bentz lifted a shoulder and kept his face impassive as the waitress, a petite Asian woman with a friendly smile and long black hair wound onto her head, brought another cup of tea and two plastic menus. Hayes ordered without looking at what was offered. Sensing the other man’s intensity, Bentz said, “I’ll have the same.”
As soon as the waitress left, Bentz eyed a somber-faced Hayes. His gut clenched. “Something happened.”
“Where were you last night?”
“What?”
Hayes didn’t respond. Just waited. Dark eyes assessing, lines showing near the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. His big hands rotated the tiny porcelain cup around and around, steam rising in fragrant swirls.
“I was here in L.A. Culver City, to be exact. At the motel.” What the hell was going on here?
“Anyone able to confirm that?”
“What?” Bentz asked, not liking where this conversation was leading. He waited as a busboy delivered soy sauce to their table, then said, “I don’t know, but I got in around…seven maybe, or eight? I didn’t check with the desk.” He stopped short and eyed the man he’d counted on as a friend. “What the hell happened, Hayes?”
“You know Shana McIntyre, right?”
“Jennifer’s friend. Yeah. You know I do.”
“You visited her?”
“A few days ago. What? She complain that I was harassing her?”
Hayes shook his head. “It’s more serious than that, Bentz. Shana McIntyre was killed last night.”
Bentz was stunned. He tried to soak it all in as the waitress returned with steaming platters of spicy vegetables, meat, and rice. She placed them on the table, then smiled expectantly. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked as if from a distance.
Shana was dead? But he’d just seen her…
“We’re fine,” Hayes said.
Bentz sat back, having lost his appetite. A feeling of doom settled like lead in his gut. He couldn’t believe it. As the waitress disappeared, clicking off on high heels to another booth, Bentz pushed his platter aside and lowered his voice. “Wait a second.” He was still trying to wrap his mind around what Hayes was saying. “Killed?”
“Murdered.” Dark ey
es drilled into him. Silent questions—accusations—in their dark depths.
Jennifer. This has to do with Jennifer. The dark idea snaked through his brain as he understood the unspoken accusations in Hayes’s eyes. What?
“Holy Christ. You think I did it?” he asked, shocked all over again. “No.” Bentz shook his head, feeling for the first time in his life like a damned suspect. “Wait a second.”
“Look,” Hayes said seriously. “This is a courtesy, okay? One cop to another. Your name was found on her computer. She keeps a calendar there.”
“I told you I saw her.”
“And you never went back?”
“No.” Bentz’s gut wrenched. This was madness. He couldn’t believe for a second that anyone who knew him, who had worked with him, for God’s sake, would think him capable of killing someone.
What about Mario Valdez? You killed him, didn’t you? An accident, yes, but the kid died. At your hand. You are capable, Bentz. Everyone here in L.A. knows it.
“Tell me what you discussed with her.”
“Jennifer, of course.” He told himself not to be paranoid. Hayes wasn’t trying to nail him. He was just doing his job. The hostess was leading two men in business suits to a booth nearby. Bentz watched them pass before settling his gaze on Hayes again.
A dark eyebrow raised. “That’s all?”
“Yeah.” Bentz recounted their discussion, explaining about the conversation from the time he was met at the door by Shana and her mammoth dog to his departure. He even recounted that shortly thereafter he’d spied “Jennifer” at the bus stop on Figueroa.
Hayes’s face didn’t change expression. “Did Shana buy it that your ex-wife might be alive?”
“Nah. She thought Jennifer was dead, though she always had her doubts that she committed suicide.”
“She thinks Jennifer was killed?” Hayes’s underlying message was clear: She was killed and you were involved.
“I get where you’re going with this, but I wouldn’t be here, looking for the truth, if I had any connection to Jennifer’s death. And I have no motive to kill Shana McIntyre.”
Hayes was unmoved. “You have to admit, these are strange coincidences. The Twenty-one killer strikes again, and now Shana McIntyre is dead…all within a week of your return to L.A. Any detective worth his salt would be making some connections.”
