by Lisa Jackson
Realizing that he might appear to be assaulting her, Bentz released her arm but stood his ground. “You’re not going anywhere.” He pushed her keys into his pants pocket.
“Do I have to call the police?” she said, and the man in the distance slowed down to watch.
“Great idea.” He pulled out his badge, flipped it open. “I am the police.”
That seemed to satisfy the man, who slung his jacket under one arm and kept walking. “But then you know that, don’t you?” Bentz pressed her.
Her glossy lips turned into a pouty frown.
“Hey, if this badge isn’t good enough, then we’ll talk to someone from L.A. Fine with me. We’ve all been looking for you.”
“Then you already know who I am?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting over the frames of her sunglasses.
“I know that you’re trying to play some sick mind game with me.”
“Is that so?”
“You’ve been taunting me, trying to make me think you’re my dead ex-wife.”
“You sound like a lunatic. Give me back my keys.”
“Not on your life.”
He flipped up her sunglasses and found himself staring into eyes as green and vibrant as Jennifer’s. And yet something was off, something not quite right.
His heart was pounding in his eardrums, a million questions sizzling through his mind. Who was she? Why was she doing this? Where had she come from? “Two women are dead because of you.”
Something flickered in her eyes and she pulled back slightly. “What? Dead? No.”
“Shana McIntyre, killed in her pool. You heard about it, right?”
She seemed genuinely shocked. “You think that I…? Oh, God, no. I had nothing to do with that.”
“And Lorraine Newell. You remember her?”
The look she gave him was blank, as if she’d never heard of the woman.
“She’s dead, too. Took a bullet to the head last night. Just after she called me about you. She spotted you last night, right before you killed her.”
She seemed slightly unnerved. “I don’t know anything about that.”
The faint trembling of her lower lip was convincing. But then he’d had a taste of her acting ability. “You and I, we need to go downtown.”
“What?”
“There are some people you need to talk to. Detectives who have some questions for you.”
She closed her eyes a second. “Listen RJ, I—”
“Why do you call me that?”
Her smile faded, and for a second she became Jennifer again. “Because it’s what I always called you. Don’t you remember?”
He almost bought her act. Almost. But he couldn’t believe her gall. “Are you really still trying to make me think you’re her?” he asked, dumbfounded that she would try to keep up the ruse. “Why the hell are you doing this? Why are you haunting me? What do you want? Why did you show up at my house?” Although Bentz was usually taciturn, preferring to let a suspect ramble on and on while he sat quietly, he couldn’t keep the questions that had been plaguing him from tumbling out of his mouth.
“At your house?”
“You remember—the cottage outside New Orleans?”
“What?”
“And the hospital…You were there, too. In the doorway. When I was waking up from the coma. And then again on the pier in Santa Monica. Oh, and yeah, at the old inn in San Juan Capistrano.”
She remained silent as a flock of pigeons scuttled to a landing on the pavement beyond her car. In his peripheral vision Bentz noticed them pecking at the street, then scattering as a car cruised by.
When she didn’t respond, he felt his fists clench in frustration. “You’ve been calling me, harassing my wife, and you’re a person of interest in two murder investigations. So that’s it. We’re taking a ride down to police headquarters.” He reached into his pocket for the Impala’s keys. “Get in. I’ll drive.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Not comfortable with that, Jennifer?”
“I, uh—” She looked away, across the tops of the vehicles, their windshields reflecting the bright glare as travelers scuttled in and out of the terminal.
Could he trust her? No way! But there were so many questions…
“All right. We do need to talk.”
“No shit.” He held the keys fast in his hand. His heart pounded like a drum and his thoughts spun in wild circles, nerve synapses jangling. Jesus, she looked like Jennifer. So much. She smelled like her and walked like her and teased like her. “So talk.”
A jet thundered overhead, its roar receding as it cut upward through the blue sky.
“Not here.”
“Here’s fine. Or, better yet, at the station.”
“I was thinking somewhere a little more…private.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“How about Point Fermin?” she asked, and one corner of her mouth lifted in a way that cut straight to his heart.
As it always had.
“Why there?” he asked, but he knew the answer. He and Jennifer used to take road trips past the old lighthouse. There’d been so many lazy afternoons strolling the acres of shaded lawns, finding secluded spots beyond the colorful gardens.
“Because, RJ, it’s special for us, isn’t it?” she said, her grin widening. “You must remember all the times we drove there, working our way down the coast. The picnics. The sunshine. The lovemaking.”
It was true…but how did she know? How could she recount the most intimate details of his life?
He squeezed her car keys so hard, the jagged metal edges cut into his palm. Now that he’d met this woman Bentz had more questions than answers.
But that was going to change. Starting now.
“So Bentz is gettin’ out of Dodge,” Bledsoe said, catching up with Hayes in the stairwell of the stationhouse. “I don’t like it.”
“You didn’t like it when he was in town, either. Face it, Bledsoe, nothing makes you happy.”
“The guy’s a prick and I wish he’d never shown up. But that was before he was connected to all these homicides. Now, I think he should stick around.” They reached the ground level of the station house and Hayes pushed open the door, the warmth of the afternoon a change from the air-conditioned interior of Parker Center. Outside, Bledsoe adjusted the waistband of his pants, hiking them up. Then he shook out a cigarette and offered the pack to Hayes, who declined.
“I quit, remember? When I married Delilah.”
“She’s history, isn’t she? Corrine won’t mind.”
He let that pass. For some reason Bledsoe seemed jealous of his relationship with Corrine. Why, Hayes couldn’t fathom, but Bledsoe’s enigmatic motives were usually best left unexplored.
Bledsoe lit up as they walked to the parking lot. “I just don’t get Bentz. He flies in here all whacked out about seeing ghosts, hangs out and stirs up trouble, and people start dying. Then, after he’s found at a murder scene, he decides to take off. Make sense to you?” he asked, drawing hard on his cigarette. “Or is it just a tad suspicious?”
“It’s not like he’s skipping the country.”
“Nah. Just L.A. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I can’t.” Hayes called over to Bledsoe, who had reached his convertible. Older BMW. The top was down, black leather interior baking in the sun. “You go over any of his notes?” Hayes asked.
“Yeah,” Bledsoe said grudgingly. “Saw what he got out of McIntyre and Newell. Looks like they didn’t think much of him, either. Our boy Bentz isn’t winning many popularity contests, but then he does seem to have more than one screw loose, if you know what I mean.”
“Anything else?”
“Just the same info he gave us before. The photographs, doctored death certificate, notes about a silver Chevy with an old parking tag for St. Augustine’s, and questions about Ramona Salazar, another dead woman.” He took another drag and let out a stream of smoke. “A whole lotta nothing, if you ask me. Unfor
tunately there wasn’t anything linking his being in town to the Springer twins’ homicides. At least nothing I’ve found so far.” Bledsoe crushed out the rest of his Marlboro on the pavement, then found a pair of sunglasses in his jacket pocket. He slid them onto his nose. “What I want to know is, if Bentz isn’t our killer, then who the hell is? This chick running around the city, chasing after him?”
“Could be.”
“The one helpful thing Bentz supplied was the plates and reg on the mystery woman’s car. Silver Impala registered to Ramona Salazar.”
“I’d like to find that car,” Hayes said.
“I’d like to find the driver,” Bledsoe amended. “Since the owner’s dead. See how Bentz’s mystery woman shakes out. Bentz said Lorraine Newell called him last night, claiming she spotted the Jennifer imposter. We’re checking the phone records now, but he’s too smart to lie about that. So, how did the murderer anticipate that?”
“Maybe the killer was there. Maybe it was a ploy to set up Bentz.”
“Have Newell call him, then off her?”
“He claims someone’s playing head games with him.”
“Head games my ass. They’re fuckin’ with him big-time.”
Hayes couldn’t agree more. He loosened his tie and squinted at the passing traffic. “You know we’re having him followed.”
“A lotta good that’ll do. So he goes to the damned airport. Turns in his car.” Bledsoe shook his head. “Talk about a waste of department funds. Better call our guys back.” Bledsoe opened the door to his car and slid inside. “You know, Hayes, this is all off. Nothin’ seems to fit. I talked to Alan Gray, another name on Bentz’s list. He’s in Vegas this week, had a hard time even remembering Jennifer Nichols Bentz.” He glanced up Hayes. “But then, a guy like that, with all his money, probably has more women than he knows what to do with.”
“Maybe.”
“Can’t expect him to remember them all.”
“Sure you can.”
Bledsoe fired up the BMW’s engine. “I should be so lucky.”
“Sometimes more women means more trouble.”
But Bledsoe didn’t hear his words of wisdom. He was already backing up to head out of the parking lot.
Hayes unlocked his 4Runner remotely, then climbed inside. He folded the sun visor and tossed it into the back, started the engine and adjusted the temperature as he drove out of the lot. He’d already phoned Fortuna Esperanzo, gotten no answer, and left a message, then contacted Tally White. He had set up a meeting with her later this afternoon.
Afterward, if things went well, he would be back in Culver City at the cemetery.
All the paperwork had been filed, the red tape cut. Jennifer Bentz’s former dentist was sending her records over. It looked like Bentz was finally going to get his wish of having his ex-wife’s body exhumed.
God only knew what they’d find.
CHAPTER 27
Through the window, Olivia noticed a patrol car rolling slowly along the country road that ran past her home.
Out here. In the middle of no-damned-where. The road was quite a distance from the house, barely visible through the trees, yet she recognized that the cruiser belonged to the City of New Orleans.
Great. So Bentz was running a security patrol clear out here. While he was looking for his damned ex-wife in California.
After she’d told him she’d be fine. She grabbed the phone and placed a call, but, as expected, he didn’t pick up. Typical. Whenever he was on a case, he was hard to reach. That part she understood. His whole fascination with the ghostly Jennifer was the thing that bugged her.
Yet he’d obviously called in a few favors to have the police drive by the house. He was just such a control freak when it came to security. No doubt because of his line of work. He’d seen the worst of human nature and cruelty time and time again. Not to mention the times that danger had hit close to home, when she and Kristi each had been victims of madmen.
She sighed, releasing some of her indignation.
Maybe the security detail wasn’t such a bad idea.
After all, she had received some harassing calls.
She poured herself a cup of tea, walked into the den, and logged on to the computer. She’d already scouted out the best deals on flights to the West Coast and had found one that would be perfect. It left this afternoon, putting her in L.A. around 7 P.M. Just in time to take Bentz to dinner and give him the news that he was going to be a daddy again.
She clicked on the Web site and found the reservation that she’d placed on hold. With another click of the mouse, she purchased the ticket. One more click and the e-ticket was printed and in her hand. She had about four hours to pack and get herself to the airport, and then she was off to Los Angeles.
She’d already asked Tawilda, who knew where the spare key was hidden, to stay at the house for a couple of days and look after Hairy and Chia. The only loose end was letting her husband know she was coming, and that was proving difficult. She’d tried to reach Bentz this morning and had come up dry. He hadn’t answered his cell phone and when she’d called the motel, she’d been a little alarmed when the clerk told her that he’d checked out.
Why?
Was he switching to another motel?
Was he coming home?
Or flying off somewhere else?
She didn’t want to travel all the way to L.A. only to find out he’d flown to Seattle, or Boston, or Timbuktu. The fact that he’d checked out of his motel bothered her.
She tried him again and the call switched immediately to voice mail.
It was time they had a heart-to-heart. Before he got into too much trouble.
“Oh, Rick,” she sighed, carrying her cooling tea onto the veranda. The dog was on her heels, the smell of the bayou thick in the mist rising between the cottonwoods and cypress. A mockingbird was trilling softly, a heavy breeze fluttering the leaves and teasing at her hair.
She loved it here and, damn it, so did her husband.
So it was time he quit chasing after ghosts and come home where he belonged.
Before some other innocent woman was killed.
Montoya couldn’t believe his eyes. He stared at the computer screen on his desk and whispered, “Gotcha.”
“Got who?” Brinkman asked on his way to the kitchen with his empty coffee mug. He paused at Montoya’s desk, his interest piqued.
“Nothing.” Montoya wasn’t going to confide in the one detective he despised—Brinkman, with his thick glasses and a horseshoe of dark hair around his freckled pate. The guy did his job, but he was a pain in the butt know-it-all. One of those guys who had all the answers. Montoya couldn’t stand him. “It’s personal.”
“Yeah, right. Probably has to do with Bentz getting himself into trouble in L.A.” Brinkman’s eyebrows arched above the rims of his glasses. “Oh, you didn’t think I knew about it? It’s all over the department.” He snorted in his irritatingly supercilious way, then took the hint and strolled toward the kitchen. No doubt to bug the living shit out of the next person he ran into.
Montoya watched him leave, then cooled off slightly as he looked back at his monitor. There it was, the answer to the puzzle, or at least the start of the answer. Hopefully this was the tiny thread that, if tugged gently, would cause the whole carefully knotted mystery to unravel.
After days of fruitless research, following up on the information Bentz had gathered and looking for a lead, he had caught a break. Court records indicated that Ramona Salazar’s next of kin was her brother Carlos.
Carlos Salazar…now Montoya just had to find the guy. He checked Salazar’s address of record and, when that didn’t work, he started sifting through phone and address records. After five calls to people who told him he had the wrong number, he hit pay dirt.
“This is Carlos,” a man answered in a thick Spanish accent.
“Do you know a Ramona Maria Salazar?”
“Yes, I was the brother of Ramona, rest her soul,” Carlos said without a se
cond’s hesitation. “Who wants to know?”
Montoya almost came out of his desk chair. He identified himself, then spoke in Spanish for a few seconds, assuring the man he was a police officer with the New Orleans Police Department. He told Salazar that he was working with the LAPD on a case involving a 1999 silver four-door Chevrolet Impala. That was a bit of a stretch, but the old man seemed to buy it, especially when he gave him the license number. “So, what I need to know is, did you inherit this car from your sister?”
“Sí, I did.”
“And do you have that car with you now?”
“Oh, no, I sold it to my cousin’s son, Sebastian. For his wife,” the old man said.
“Does she still have it?”
“I think so.” But he didn’t sound sure, as if he were second-guessing the strange caller, worried about giving out so much information over the phone.
“The car is still registered to your sister?”
“I…I never bothered with the paperwork. I thought Sebastian would take care of it, but he’s very busy…” Carlos’s voice faded and he sounded even more uncertain now, as if he’d realized he was making a mistake and was going to stonewall any more questions from Montoya.
“It’s okay. I’m just trying to locate the vehicle. We think it was used in a crime.”
“Dios,” Carlos whispered, then turned his head away from the phone and rattled something off in Spanish. It was muffled; Montoya only caught a few words that indicated he was worried. Another voice responded—a woman’s voice—but he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
After the rapid-fire conversation, Carlos returned to the phone. “I think it is still with Yolanda.”
“That’s her name? Yolanda?” Montoya quickly wrote down the information.
“Yes, yes, Sebastian’s wife.”
“Do they live near you?”
“No…they own a place in Encino. Look, if there is a problem, you need to talk to them. I have a bill of sale for the car. I have done nothing wrong.”
“No problem,” Montoya assured him. “Just give me their phone number and address.”
