Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  At least he had a name to start with, a lead, if a very shaky one. He had spent the afternoon staked out in his motel room between the television and his laptop, taking notes as information about Shana McIntyre was released. Old footage of her wealthy husband had flashed across the screen, and Bentz had taken note, knowing that the husband was always at the top of a suspect list.

  But real detective work entailed more than watching news reports on KMOL or Googling Leland McIntyre, and frustration was beginning to burn in his gut. He hated having his hands tied like this. When Montoya had called, he’d been relieved to have another venue to investigate.

  Ramona Salazar.

  It was already twilight, the sun setting in the west, the noise of the San Diego Freeway resounding off the hills as he reached the parking lot of the So-Cal. Closer he heard the sound of water splashing. He guessed more than a couple kids were in the interior pool judging from the cacophony of the whoops, hollers, and laughter reaching him.

  Vaguely he registered that the car belonging to the old man who owned Spike was missing. He hitched his way along the porch, unlocked the door to his room, and walked inside. It was just as uninviting as ever.

  “Home,” he said sarcastically as he placed his cane near the door and dropped his food onto the desk. According to Montoya, Ramona Salazar had died about a year earlier. Bentz powered up his laptop and opened up some kind of wrap sandwich he’d picked up just before Montoya called. The “Californian,” as it was so imaginatively named—a green tortilla slathered in some kind of lemon/Dijon sauce and filled with free-range smoked turkey, whatever the hell that really meant, a slice of pepper-jack cheese, avocados, tomatoes, and sprouts. It was all pretty damned bland, but he barely noticed as he clicked onto his e-mail and found the information Montoya had forwarded.

  Sure enough, Romana Salazar was connected to the car, at least he’d hoped this was the right woman and the right car. Otherwise he was back to square one.

  He didn’t have a printer, but figured he might be able to use the “business office,” which was really just a small PC for guests shoved to the side of the registration desk in the So-Cal office. Rebecca would be on duty, and she’d told him he could use the ancient desktop and printer any time. As long as she was around and her son Tony wasn’t online playing computer games behind his mother’s back.

  First up, he thought, connecting with a search engine and typing in Ramona Salazar’s name, he’d collect any and all information he could find on the woman, including her obituary.

  If he was barking up the wrong tree, so be it.

  At least he finally had a scent to follow.

  Maren sang like the proverbial lark, her mezzo voice rising to the rafters of the little church in Hollywood. Hayes focused on his daughter’s shiny face in the rows of Miss Bette’s students as they sang as an ensemble for several songs, harmonizing on an old spiritual, then rocking out with songs from the eighties and nineties. Hayes recognized a few Michael Jackson numbers and a couple by Elton John.

  After the group sang and harmonized, each of the students individually sang solos on the small, old-fashioned stage that looked like it had come right off the set of Little House on the Prairie.

  Hayes had slipped into the little church in Hollywood late, caught a disapproving glare from Delilah, then turned his cell phone to “silent.” From that moment on, he’d listened raptly while his daughter, at least in his opinion, outshined everyone.

  The singers were all were coached by the same statuesque African-American woman who accompanied each either at the piano or on an acoustic guitar. Hayes suffered through the individual performances. All of the kids could carry a tune alright, but none of them could hope to make it past the first round of an American Idol competition no matter what their proud, smiling, nearly smug parents who filled the pews thought. Well, except Maren, of course. She was the star. Hayes figured he was as bad as the other proud mamas and papas, except, his daughter really was talented.

  Three boys and four girls each were spotlighted before Maren took on a Toni Braxton song. Hayes watched her, his little girl, only twelve years old, belting out a number like a pro. She’d barely developed, still wore braces, but she was as beautiful as her mother and a helluva lot more talented.

  Maren moved to the music, her mocha-colored skin shimmering under the lights. Her straightened hair streamed down her back, and her dark brown eyes seemed impossibly large and expressive in her sweet face. She was tall and thin, like both her parents, her newfound curves in proportion, her dimples “cute” rather than sexy. At least he hoped so.

  She sang a soulful rendition of “Unbreak My Heart” that nearly brought down the house, then finished with the upbeat Whitney Houston song “How Will I Know?”

  Hayes jumped to his feet and clapped wildly. After the bows and brief words of thanks from Miss Bette, Hayes carried some flowers he’d picked up at Safeway to the stage and handed them to his daughter. Maren’s gasp of delight and Delilah’s cool look of surprise said it all.

  “Good job, honey! You were incredible. Move over, Mariah Carey.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” one of the other mothers muttered.

  “Oh, Dad.” Maren rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop that infectious grin from stealing across her lips. “I thought you were working.”

  “I was.”

  “Mom said you wouldn’t come.”

  Hayes shot his ex a quick don’t-do-this glare. “Mom was wrong.” He hugged his daughter.

  “I just didn’t want her to be disappointed again,” Delilah said.

  Hayes wasn’t going to be pulled into it. Not here. Not now. “Well, she wasn’t. What do you say I take you out for pizza?”

  He expected Delilah to argue that it was too late, or that Maren had homework, but instead she stiffly agreed. There was no doubt that she could be a bitch sometimes, but Hayes believed her motives were all about protecting Maren. She might’ve turned into a grumbling, unhappy, never-satisfied wife, but Delilah was still a damned good mother.

  For that, he supposed, he should be thankful.

  Once they were outside, he flipped his phone on and saw that he had messages. He was about to answer them when he caught Delilah’s meaningful glare. “I just have to listen to these,” he said, walking to his car and leaning against the hood. “I’ll meet you at Dino’s.”

  “Sure,” she said tightly, obviously disbelieving as she ushered Maren to her white Lexus SUV.

  The calls were from Riva Martinez. Donovan Caldwell had been phoning the station demanding information on the Springer twins’ homicides, insisting that he should be privy to everything the LAPD had on file as they’d “royally screwed” the case of his sisters’ murders twelve years earlier.

  Hayes called her back on the way to Dino’s. “I think you should refer Mr. Caldwell to the Public Information Officer,” he suggested.

  “Already did, and he told me to go scratch,” Martinez informed him. “He’s figured out that Bentz is in town again. Caught some write-up online about Bentz’s stunt on the Santa Monica Pier. Anyway, this Caldwell guy is out for blood. He wants to talk to Bentz, to Bledsoe, to Trinidad, or anyone associated with his sisters’ case. If you ask me, he’s a damned psycho.”

  “He lost his whole family over the bungled case.”

  “Hell, Hayes, listen to you. We didn’t bungle it; we just haven’t solved it. Yet.”

  She had a point. Hayes checked his watch. “I’ll talk to him. I just can’t do it right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can handle him, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I do. Thanks.” Hayes hung up and tried to push all the thorny pressures of the job aside. He had more pressing matters to worry about. Pepperoni or sausage pizza…and how to step carefully through the verbal minefield of the next hour or two with Delilah.

  Bentz hit a dead end.

  Ramona Salazar, whoever she was, meant nothing to him, and he couldn’t find any association between Sala
zar and Jennifer. He stretched out on the ugly bed, pointed the remote at the TV, and watched an all-news channel. Again they replayed footage from Shana’s house: the ambulance parked inside the gated driveway, the swimming pool from an aerial shot, the McIntyres in happier times. Bentz sank into the mattress with a pang of guilt. If he hadn’t come to L.A. would she still be alive? Or was this a random act of violence?

  He didn’t believe that for a second.

  He called his daughter, left a message, and Kristi phoned back within five minutes.

  “Hey, Dad, what’s up?” she asked.

  Bentz couldn’t help but smile as he conjured up her face, as beautiful as her mother’s. Rolling off the bed, he walked to the window. “Just hanging out.” He peered through the blinds to the parking lot where darkness had settled in, the big neon sign for the So-Cal Inn glowing brightly over the asphalt.

  “Still in L.A., right? Working on an old case that doesn’t involve Mom. Right?” He heard the sarcasm in her voice. “You know, Dad, it’s really weird that you can’t confide in me. I don’t like it.”

  There was no way out of this. She was too smart and he didn’t like trying to deceive her. “Fine, you’re right. I’m looking into her death.” He picked up the remote and muted the sports report. The basketball players still jumped, but they did it all in silence.

  “Why?” Kristi asked. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I’m not sure your mother committed suicide. I think she might have been murdered.”

  There was a beat, a pause. Kristi, who was usually quick to rush in, even finish his sentences for him, was uncharacteristically silent. “And why do you think that?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Five minutes long or five hours long?” she asked as the television flickered noiselessly. “Come on, Dad, give.”

  “Okay, I guess you deserve to know.”

  “Duh.”

  “The truth is, I’m not even sure it’s your mom in her grave.”

  “What! Are you serious?” There was an edge of panic to her voice. “Now you’re freaking me out.”

  No surprise there. It was the reason he hadn’t wanted to confide in his daughter in the first place.

  “Holy God, not in her grave? What the hell is going on?”

  He told her. Starting with the death certificate and the photos he’d received, including the “sightings” of Jennifer or her impersonator, ending up with his jump off the pier and Shana McIntyre’s murder. “So that’s what I’m doing in Southern California.”

  “I can’t believe this,” she said, obviously upset. “I mean, Mom’s not alive. You know that, right? We went through all this. I thought you were just tripping on the meds. Come on! If she were alive, she would have contacted us, or at least me. And if you think you’re seeing her ghost…I guess I can get that,” she grudgingly admitted. “It’s not like you, but I’ve seen things I can’t explain. I still see images of people in black-and-white and then they die. That’s pretty damned eerie. And Olivia, she saw through the eyes of a killer, so…just because you saw Mom or thought you saw her, doesn’t mean she’s alive.” She took in a deep breath and he imagined her pushing the hair from her eyes. “I can’t believe this.”

  “I’m just sorting it out. Obviously someone wants me here in L.A. Whoever it is lured me in.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to unravel.”

  “Well, I don’t like it.”

  He snorted. “That makes two of us.”

  “You’re not like the Lone Ranger, are you? Tell me there are people helping you.”

  He’d never felt so alone in his life, but he wouldn’t admit that. He’d already burdened her with enough difficult information. To worry her further wasn’t necessary. “Yep. Montoya in New Orleans and I’ve still got a few friends in LAPD.” He sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring the television and the fact that he was beginning to hate this place. The four walls of the little motel room were closing in on him and he missed his daughter. Missed his wife.

  “Who? Who are your friends there?” she demanded, because she’d been old enough to remember when they’d lived in Los Angeles. She knew her father did not leave on good terms by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Jonas Hayes, to start with. You remember him?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s got my back.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you. I assume Olivia knows all this.”

  He squeezed the back of his neck. “Uh-huh.”

  “So the daughter is the last to know.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I would,” she said, steamed.

  She was really pissed off. Nothing Bentz could do about it now.

  “Is that why you called?” Kristi demanded. “Something about this case?”

  He felt the anger radiating through the connection. “I thought you might remember if your mom ever mentioned a woman by the name of Ramona Salazar?”

  “Ramona who? Salazar?” she repeated. “No. No Ramonas.”

  “What about Phyllis?”

  “Just the astrologer.”

  “You knew about her?” Bentz’s muscles stiffened.

  “Sure. I even called her once for a reading, but Mom hit the roof, thought you wouldn’t approve, so I never got the reading and Mom told me to keep it on the down low, that it was ‘just our little secret’ or some other melodramatic phrase. You know how she was.”

  Apparently not.

  “Jeez, I’d nearly forgotten all about her.”

  Bentz mentally kicked himself. Of course Kristi would know things about Jennifer that he didn’t. Montoya had already mentioned a woman named Phyllis Terrapin. “So, how into this astrologer was she?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Just something Mom did. Like her hair and her nails. I only saw her a couple of times when Mom had picked me up.” Kristi laughed. “I called her ‘the Turtle’ behind her back because of her name and she kinda looked like one, short neck, big glasses. Mom didn’t think it was funny, which I thought was weird. She usually had a pretty wicked sense of humor, but not when I teased her about the whole astrology thing.”

  “Of course she didn’t,” he said. How many other secrets had mother and daughter shared, secrets he’d been totally oblivious to?

  They talked for a while longer, but Kristi had nothing more to add about Phyllis “the Turtle” or anything else he’d been investigating out here. “I’ll call you in a few days,” he promised, and they hung up. “Phyllis the Turtle,” he muttered under his breath. Probably nothing, but he’d check her out.

  He stood, stretched out his back, and noticed the remains of his Californian wrap drying out on the desk. He scooped the wilting lettuce and soggy tomatoes into the white sack, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it into the trash. Then he settled into his desk chair again, placing the laptop on his thighs and turning so that his heels were propped on the bed. This way he could catch the latest TV news and scores as he did his thousandth Internet search.

  He’d just typed in Phyllis’s name when his cell phone rang again.

  Caller ID showed that the phone was registered to L. Newell. Lorraine? Jennifer’s stepsister?

  He answered before the damned thing rang twice. “Bentz.”

  “Oh. Hi. It’s Lorraine.” She sounded tense. Breathless. What was this all about? “I…thought you should know…Oh, God…”

  “What?” he asked, his senses on alert, an eerie feeling crawling along his skin.

  “I saw her. I saw Jennifer.”

  Bentz’s feet dropped to the floor. He slid his laptop onto the desk. “What?”

  “I said I saw—”

  “I know, but where? When?” He couldn’t believe it. His heart was thudding, adrenaline spurting through his veins, his hands clutching the phone as if it were a lifeline.

  “Just a few minutes ago. Here. On my street. In Torrance,” she said, her voice quavering. She sounded sca
red as hell. “In…in a gray car.”

  Really? Bentz was already grabbing his keys and wallet with his free hand.

  “I don’t think she expected me to be looking out the window.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Wait a minute. You saw a woman who looked like Jennifer in a gray car?” Again, he glanced through the blinds to the dark parking lot illuminated by the motel sign. Something felt wrong about this.

  “Yes!”

  “How could you see her?”

  “Uh…the streetlight. The car stopped under the streetlight and she looked right at the house. Right at me.”

  “Is she there now?”

  “I don’t know. She drove past slowly, around the cul-de-sac, only three or four minutes ago. I’m frightened. She’s dead, Rick. She’s supposed to be dead.” Lorraine’s voice was hoarse with panic. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought I should call you.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. Sit tight.”

  He hung up and threw on his shoulder holster, new jacket, and shoes. His cell phone was just about out of juice, but he pocketed it along with his badge. Ignoring the ache in his leg Bentz flew out of the room and into the parking lot. Inside his car, he snapped on the ignition and drove out of the lot, squealing onto the street.

  Someone else had seen Jennifer, or the woman who looked like her. Finally.

  Once he was on the side street heading toward the 405, he phoned Jonas Hayes.

  The call went directly to voice mail and he explained what he was doing.

  Then he hit the freeway heading south, weaving through taillights to move ahead, pushing the speed limit. The night was clear and somewhere above the lights of the city the stars shone. He saw the moon and the blink of airplanes cutting across the sky, but his mind was on the phone conversation with Lorraine.

  Was it possible?

  Was “Jennifer” showing herself? Or casing Lorraine’s house?

  Or was Lorraine just freaking out?

  Imagining things?

  Like you? His mind teased while the speedometer inched past eighty.