by Lisa Jackson
Suddenly Princess Kitty hissed.
What? Fortuna pulled herself from the thick veil of sleep.
A growl and another hiss.
“Shh,” Fortuna said, forcing one eye open just as the cat jumped off the bed. What the hell was the matter with Princess? “I’m not letting you out.”
She caught a whiff of something sweet and cloying, and her skin goose-pimpled.
“Kitty?” she said, her voice trembling, fear clutching her heart.
That awful smell! What was it? Gas? Oh, Lord, was there a gas leak in the house?
Was there someone in the room with her? Oh, God no! She strained to see, but she wasn’t wearing her contacts and the room was nearly stygian, pitch black. She couldn’t make out anything but darkness, black on inky black.
Did something move by the closet?
The hairs on the back of her arms lifted. She reached for her cell phone, which sat charging on the night table.
At that second, she felt rather than saw movement. Whatever was there leapt across the short span of tiled floor to the bed.
Fortuna started to scream. To move.
But she was pinned face up on her bed, a body in black holding her down, a cloth that reeked of that horrid smell forced over her nose and eyes. She gasped, dragging more of the foul stuff in.
Ether!
Panicked, she flailed her arms and legs, trying to rid herself of the weight straddling her. Her heart was racing, beating a thousand times a minute as terror gripped her entire body. She had to fight this! But the hand over her face wouldn’t budge and Fortuna was out of breath, the insidious gas flowing into her lungs with every gasp. Scared out of her mind, she dragged in a long breath of the sickly sweet fumes and, oh…It made her mind swim, made her limbs feel so heavy.
She couldn’t black out now. Wouldn’t!
Frantic, she kept fighting, trying to roll away from her assailant’s viselike grip. To no avail. The person, strong and lean, didn’t budge, just kept applying pressure.
The fumes were horrible, burning down her windpipe and into her lungs, searing her throat.
Why? Fortuna wanted to scream. Why are you doing this to me? But she knew deep down this attack had to do with Rick Bentz’s visit and all his questions about Jennifer. Nothing good ever came from that woman, even though she was long dead.
Supposed to be dead.
Fortuna had known she shouldn’t confide in Bentz. Some secrets are better left unspoken. Fool! Fortuna’s arms moved more sluggishly. Her legs felt like lead, and blackness pulled at the corners of her subconscious.
Move! Fight! Don’t give in! her brain screamed at her, but her muscles refused to listen, her arms barely twitched. It was all she could do to keep her damned eyes open despite the terror that invaded her body and soul.
“Nighty-night, bitch,” her attacker whispered.
Fortuna felt the sting of a needle pierce her bare arm. Oh, God, please…no…
But it was too late.
Fortuna sensed her body sink into the mattress as her attacker sighed. A sigh of contentment. Fortuna imagined her assailant was smiling, though she couldn’t see anything, her eyelids were so heavy, so damned heavy.
Her languid mind swirled slowly with bits of thoughts, fragments of fear as she stared up in the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of this person pinning her to the mattress.
But it was too dark. Too hard to stay awake. She needed to sleep. Fortuna gave in to the overwhelming desire and let her eyelids ease shut as her assailant slid off the bed.
Fortuna tried to move.
Couldn’t.
Not even when she felt her skimpy nightgown being slid over her head. Oh God, I’m going to be raped, she thought, but found she really didn’t care. Her pulse was slowing…the drug oozing through her blood. The prayers of her youth came to her, prayers she hadn’t uttered in twenty years…
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed—
And then she felt herself being dressed. As if God had already responded.
From the red pain in her eyelids she knew there was light in the room now as the intruder slid a garment over her head, pulled her arms through sleeve holes.
Why?
This is crazy.
Or maybe she was hallucinating, feeling the effects of the drugs flowing through her bloodstream.
She felt a slim ray of hope pierce her heart. Perhaps there was a chance she wouldn’t die after all, she thought, fighting to stay awake. Her attacker might not want to do her ill. Surely this person who was lifting her off the bed and carrying her through the house was an angel of mercy.
Yes, that had to be it.
Surely she wasn’t going to be trussed like this if the intent was to kill her. If death were the objective, certainly she’d already be dead.
There are worse fates than a quick death, her mind warned, but the thought was fleeting.
In a heartbeat she slid completely under the welcoming blanket of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 26
Bentz woke up with a bitter taste in his mouth and a strong resolve to get home in his gut. What the hell was he doing in Los Angeles when Olivia was being threatened in New Orleans?
He’d only gotten a few hours’ sleep, but in the light of day the cheap motel room looked more alien and inhospitable than ever. Why was he still here, chasing some impersonator when his wife needed him back home, was possibly in jeopardy?
Still in bed, Bentz reached for his cell phone on the nightstand and called Jonas Hayes. The call switched to voice mail, and he left a message that he was out of here, headed home. Easing out of bed, Bentz knew it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do.
He dragged himself into the shower and stood in the hot stream of water, ignoring the razor. Then, feeling almost alive, he wrapped a towel around his waist and started slamming clothes into his bag. He knew leaving L.A. wasn’t a great idea. It would look suspicious if, after all his protests about being innocent, he took a jet out of California the day after Lorraine’s body had been discovered.
Too bad.
He’d spent most of the night and the early morning hours laying out his notes at Hayes’s office in the Center. So now LAPD was officially in charge of the investigation of Jennifer’s death. Jonas had made a copy of everything, including his photographs, his list of Jennifer’s acquaintances, plate numbers, addresses, and phone contacts. Bentz had given them a blow-by-blow of the events that had happened since he’d landed in Los Angeles less than a week earlier.
“You sure cut a big swath,” Bledsoe had observed, his smile twisted when he’d arrived for the morning shift. “Anyone who talks to you ends up dead.”
“Up yours, Bledsoe,” Bentz had said, his hackles up. “Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to kill Lorraine, then call the police?”
“I just think you bring a string of bad luck, that’s all.” Bledsoe had backed down a bit.
Dawn Rankin had showed up at the station just as Bentz had been leaving. She’d managed a cool smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. But that was expected. She and Bentz had been lovers and their breakup years before hadn’t gone well.
At all.
Their affair had been hot, stormy, and cut short because of Jennifer. Dawn had never forgiven him and made no bones about it. That she had smiled at all was something.
While at the station he’d also passed on the name of Jennifer’s dentist, in case Hayes could manage to get the body exhumed. Finally, some progress. Now, rubbing a towel over his wet hair, Bentz wondered if Jennifer’s X-rays would match the teeth of the remains buried in that coffin. One way or the other at least one question would finally be resolved…
Before crashing this morning Bentz had called Montoya and left a message asking his partner to check on Olivia until he returned. Then Bentz had put in a call to Melinda Jaskiel, his superior, asking for home surveillance. Though he and Olivia lived outside the city of New Orleans’ limits, he had enough friends in the department that so
meone would check on her.
Olivia would be mad, of course. She thought she could handle herself, but things were getting dangerous and he didn’t like the thought of her being alone, even if she was nearly two thousand miles away from the recent killings. Before falling asleep early this morning Bentz had thought that would cover things, take care of Olivia.
But no, after a few hours he realized he needed to get home, needed to make sure Olivia was safe. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t return to California, but for now he needed to physically reassure himself of her safety. Who knew what this psycho had in mind? The psycho who’d reached out to Olivia over the phone…
He wasn’t going to take any chances.
He would fly home and see his wife in the flesh. Make love to her. Reaffirm his life with her. He even thought fleetingly of her need to have a child and did the mental calculations all over again. Hell, he’d be over sixty when the kid graduated from college.
So what? You can retire in ten or fifteen years and enjoy watching the kid grow up. Would that be so bad?
No. But the truth was he couldn’t imagine retiring any more than he could wrap his mind around starting all over again with a baby.
He finished packing up his gear, placed his shoulder holster and pistol inside the bag with his clothes, then unhooked his computer and slid it into its case. The last thing, of course, was the damned cane. He wanted to throw it into the trash, but instead hauled it with him. With one last cursory glance around the shabby room, he closed the door.
After checking out of the motel, he drove to LAX through traffic that slowed and stalled while the Pacific sun battled through the smog to beat through the windshield. Time seemed to stand still and he was crawling out of his skin.
Now that he’d made the decision to return home, he found himself impatient, anxious to get there. Some of his irritability could be attributed to lack of sleep, he supposed, and the fear that two women had just died because he had come to Los Angeles. But truth to tell, his underlying sense of urgency was all about seeing that Olivia was safe.
The minutes dragged, but he finally saw the airport tower, then Encounters restaurant, the landmark for LAX. “It’s about time,” he muttered under his breath.
He turned in the rental car and hauled his things into the terminal to buy his ticket. Inside, the terminal was crawling with travelers, the lines to the counter snaking around to the door. Serves you right for not buying a ticket online, he thought.
Bentz told himself to hold on, be patient. He’d get on the next plane, though the only daily nonstop flight had already departed. He chose the airline on which he’d flown west, getting into what had seemed a short line. But, of course, there was a holdup. Slowly he inched forward behind a woman in tight jeans and a short jacket, a cell phone glued to her ear, a designer bag at her feet. Every so often she would nudge the carry-on forward with the pointed toe of a boot. The protest from inside the bag came in the form of a nasty little yip. “Just a sec,” Tight Jeans would say into the phone. Then she’d look down at the bag and coo, “It’s okay, Sherman.”
Sherman didn’t think so and yapped all the louder. Through mesh in the top of the bag, Bentz watched the dog spin crazily within his confines as Tight Jeans went back to her phone conversation. It would be just his luck if dog and owner ended up flying to New Orleans in the seat next to him. Not that it really mattered, as long as he got home.
The woman in front of him reached the ticket counter and clicked off her phone. “We’ve got a big problem,” she began, her tone already a challenge. “This ticket is all wrong. If I connect through Cincinnati, I won’t get to Savannah in time for my cousin’s rehearsal dinner. I need a direct flight.”
“I don’t think we have any directs to Savannah, but let me see what I can do,” the rep for the airline said and began typing on her keyboard.
Bentz shifted from one leg to the other and glanced down the length of the crowded terminal, past knots of people lugging backpacks, roller bags, or suitcases. A teenager toted an odd-sized guitar case while three men pulled what appeared to be golf bags. Near the doors, an attendant pushed an older man in a wheelchair past a solitary woman standing before the departure and arrival information board. Her face was tipped up as she searched the monitors. A beautiful familiar face.
Bentz froze.
She was the spitting image of Jennifer.
Don’t even think it!
But she stood there, eyeing the large screen through her sunglasses.
No way. Not now.
“No, that won’t work, either,” Tight Jeans was whining as if from a distance as Bentz squinted, trying to control his thundering pulse.
He told himself he was imagining things, conjuring up her image because he was leaving town. But as he stared the tanned woman with her coppery-brown hair pulled into a ponytail glanced toward him, the hint of a smile on her lips.
His felt as if a ghost had walked across his soul.
Then she turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction. White shorts, pink, tight, sleeveless T-shirt, shimmery flip-flops.
It could be anyone. A tourist on her way to Disneyland. Someone picking up family members. A woman waiting for a delayed flight.
Or someone pretending to be Jennifer. His long-dead ex-wife.
“Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath and broke away from the line to follow her. He couldn’t let her get away now—this imposter who’d been playing with him. Especially now that she was linked to the deaths of at least Shana McIntyre and Lorraine Newell, maybe even the Springer twins.
She looked over her shoulder again and his heart nearly stopped. If she wasn’t Jennifer, she was his ex-wife’s long-lost twin.
He dropped his cane near a trash receptacle and walked even faster, keeping up with her long strides as she disappeared amid a cluster of travelers. Faster and faster, pulling his damned roller bag with the computer case balanced atop it as she headed for an outside door. He wanted to drop his luggage, but couldn’t. His gun was tucked into his bag and he couldn’t risk leaving it.
She slipped through a group of Asian tourists moving down another terminal.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he whispered, keeping her in his sights. Adrenaline surging through his blood, he wended through the throng of travelers, cutting between a handful of Goth teenagers and a matronly woman with cheetah-print bags.
What the hell was “Jennifer” doing here?
Reeling you in, you moron. It’s no coincidence that she’s here at the airport, waiting in the same terminal. She had it planned.
But how had she known he’d come? What was this ridiculous cat-and-mouse game? The bait. The tease. Never letting him get too close, always lingering just out of his reach.
Murder, Bentz. She’s up to her beautiful eyeballs in murder.
She made it to the exterior doors, but Bentz was gaining on her, breathing hard. He was nearly jogging now, his heart pumping, his eyes trained on her. Without a word he swept past an airport police officer. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. He couldn’t risk being hauled in and questioned all the while knowing “Jennifer” was slipping away.
Nu-uh.
This time he was going to catch up with her.
Come hell or high water.
His damned leg was beginning to throb, but he gritted his teeth. As soon as the door closed behind her, he stepped through and dragged his luggage over the rough cement of the passenger pickup area.
Where the hell did she go? He stared past the smokers, the weary travelers sitting on benches, the people talking on cell phones and waiting for their rides. Airport security attendants waved cars on, trying to keep the traffic moving.
Then he spotted her, crossing to the short-term parking lot. She moved out of the shade and into the bright sunlight. Bentz hurried after her, nearly tripping as his bag caught on the edge of the curb.
“Hey!” he shouted. But she strode on, cutting through the parked cars baking in the sun, not
once looking over her shoulder. “Hey! Jennifer!”
She sped up, digging inside her purse. A moment later keys flashed in her hand.
Bentz scanned the parking lot ahead and spotted the car—the silver Chevy Impala with a faded parking permit.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, he sprinted now, his luggage jerking along beside him. “Stop!”
Frantically, she was unlocking the door.
Dropping his luggage beside the Impala’s bumper, Bentz lunged and stripped the keys from her hand. “Not a chance.” Breathing hard, he stared at her through sweat beading between his brows.
Who was this woman, this younger version of his ex-wife? Flesh and blood; no unearthly wraith.
She tried to get by him, but he blocked her exit by filling the space between her car and the minivan parked next to it. “Who the hell are you?” The smell of her perfume, gardenias, permeated the air and messed with his mind, but he refused to be seduced by the past. He was putting an end to this game, here and now.
She turned her beautiful face toward him and his insides turned to jelly. She looked so much like his ex-wife, she could have been Jennifer’s identical twin. Except that she was too young.
“I need my keys back,” she said firmly, without fear.
“Not yet, lady.” He grabbed her arm and held on tight, wanting to shake the truth from her.
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
“You are.”
“Me?” Her eyes narrowed in a scowl as she deliberately pulled her arm from his grasp.
For a millisecond he wondered if he’d made a mistake, if she really had no idea that she resembled Jennifer so closely. Except that she was in the same damned car he’d spotted in San Juan Capistrano and on the freeway. This woman had been dogging him.
“Give me back my keys,” she demanded as a man walking toward his car, jacket tossed over one shoulder, eyed them suspiciously.
