Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  “Your rules.”

  “Shit, man, I’m glad to have you ride along, but it’s my jurisdiction. My case. You’re right. My rules.” He stared long and hard at Bentz. “Now, are you going to ride with me or not?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Bentz said sarcastically.

  He tried like hell to stay calm, not go to the worst case scenario, but he was worried as he climbed into the backseat of the 4Runner, with Hayes driving and Martinez riding shotgun.

  He checked again: No phone call. No text. Nothing. He tried to make sense of the events of the afternoon and failed. “Any prints or evidence found in the silver Chevy?” he asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Martinez admitted.

  How the hell had Fortuna Esperanzo ended up in the Pacific Ocean, so close to Devil’s Caldron? In his mind’s eye he witnessed Jennifer jump. And then again. And again. Leaping from the railing, soaring into the air, vanishing from view. How was that possible?

  He tried to imagine scenarios that might solve that mystery, if only to distract himself from the one question that thrummed through his body with every beat of his heart.

  Where the hell was Olivia?

  Exhausted, Olivia could barely move.

  And she was scared to death as she lay in a dark, smelly enclosure, a cage deep inside a boat of some kind.

  This madwoman Petrocelli, or whatever her name was, intended to kill her. Because she was married to Rick. That’s why the other women were dead; because they’d known her husband.

  No. That wasn’t quite right. All of the dead women had known Jennifer, a woman Olivia had never met.

  And they were killed. Murdered. Just like you will be if you don’t find a way out of this.

  Her limbs were useless, her head spinning. Though she was awake, her eyes wide open, her body still wouldn’t do what she wanted. It was as if her brain were completely disengaged from her muscles, her nerve synapses misfiring.

  Oh, God, how had she been so stupid to have trusted the woman? Why hadn’t she checked her ID more carefully? Surely her captor, this lunatic, wasn’t a real police officer with LAPD.

  How do you know that? Cops can go crazy, and Petrocelli might just be the psycho.

  It didn’t matter. Whoever her abductor was, she was deadly.

  Earlier, as she’d been yanked from the car and slipped into the sleeping bag, Olivia had gotten a glimpse of a dark street and looming buildings in an area that smelled of the sea. She had heard her attacker grunting and puffing with exertion as she had lifted Olivia into what seemed to be a cart of some kind. A cart with at least one creaky wheel.

  Olivia had tried to yell, to scream, to flail her arms and legs, hoping to either hit her assailant or to attract the attention of anyone who passed by.

  But her brain hadn’t been able to force her body to move, hadn’t been able to issue any commands her muscles would obey. The stun gun’s jolt had knocked her senseless, rendered her useless. She’d thought of the baby inside her…Oh, dear God, had it survived the surge of voltage that had rendered her helpless? I’m sorry, she thought, Oh, I’m so, so sorry.

  The cart bumped and jangled, her attacker breathing hard as she was rolled over a rough surface. Listening, she heard a jet rumble overhead and then the blast of a foghorn from a boat.

  Trying to think, working to pull together her shattered thoughts, Olivia attempted to figure out her surroundings, but it was so dark, so claustrophobic, so damned hot in the sleeping bag, she was having trouble breathing.

  Think, Olivia. Don’t give up. You’ve been in tight spots before and when the shock to your system wears off, you can use your hands; at least they’re cuffed in front of you. Don’t give up. Don’t let fear paralyze you. Think of the baby, of Rick. You can’t stop fighting.

  Pull it together. There has to be a way!

  The surface under the wheels changed, and the cart rolled more smoothly. Then she was hauled upward and, still in the sleeping bag, dropped to a hard surface before being dragged downstairs. It took all her willpower to curl slightly, protecting her abdomen with her flimsy arms. Protecting her baby…

  “You could stand to lose a few pounds, you know,” her captor muttered.

  At the bottom of the steps, Olivia was dragged for a short distance, then released onto the floor. Through the thick fibers of the sleeping bag she smelled something acrid and foul…urine?

  “Welcome home,” the woman taunted with a smug tone in her voice. She was breathing hard from the exertion.

  Olivia heard metal jangling. Keys? She strained to listen, all the while flailing wildly as she worked her way to the top of the sleeping bag. Her wrists were still bound, her mouth taped. Frantically, breathing with difficulty, she was able to reach upward in the bag, her fingers slowly and unwillingly tracing the trail of closed zipper teeth to the top, where she found the inside tab and started tugging downward. Time and time again her fingers slipped, her body still not responding to her brain’s commands, her nerves jangled and jumpy, closing in on a full blown panic.

  Don’t stop. Work at it. The taser won’t last much longer.

  Finally, she pulled hard, lowering her body, dragging the tab, forcing the clenched teeth of the zipper to part.

  The woman laughed as she observed Olivia’s pathetic attempts at escape.

  Tough!

  Olivia wasn’t giving up without a fight.

  She kept tugging, pulling on the tab until a rush of urine-tinged air stung her nostrils. The bag opened to reveal the hold of a boat. One lamp gave the room a weird yellow aura, showing Olivia that she was trapped inside a cage with steel bars from ceiling to floor. A cage for animals, judging from the smell and bits of straw wedged into the floorboards. An empty bucket was pushed into one corner near a jug of water. Obviously for her, she thought, her insides turning to ice.

  A barred gate was the only access into the cage. As Olivia watched in dull horror the woman who had abducted her inserted a key and locked her inside.

  Click!

  To Olivia, it sounded like the very knell of death.

  “Fool,” the woman said and pulled off a blond wig.

  “Make yourself comfortable. You’re going to be here for a while.”

  Good. Olivia would rather be alone to plot her escape.

  As if reading her thoughts, her captor said, “Oh, and you can work like the devil to take off your gag so you can scream at the top of your lungs, but it doesn’t matter. No one will ever hear you down here.”

  She smiled almost beatifically, and fear clamored in Olivia’s chest.

  How long did the madwoman plan to keep her here? A day? Two? A week? Forever?

  And what then? Surely this wasn’t an elaborate kidnapping. No. Olivia knew the harsh truth; her abductor planned to kill her. And her baby. Oh, dear Lord. It was only a matter of time.

  “I wonder what your husband is doing, Olivia? If he’s figured out that you’re missing.” The woman seemed to extract a deep-rooted satisfaction from that thought.

  Olivia wanted to rip her to shreds. Now, she forced herself to deal with the maniac.

  “Oh, I see.” the nut case was saying, “You think he’s a hero. Made a name for himself in New Orleans as some kind of ace detective, didn’t he? Fooled everyone. Every-damned-one.” She was getting agitated now, her eyes glittering with hatred. “I don’t want to burst your bubble about that fantasy of living happily ever after with your hero. But the truth of the matter is that Rick Bentz is a prick. A has-been cop and not even a good one at that. He killed a kid, did he tell you that?” Her eyebrows lifted as she practically oozed satisfaction over the chance to rant about Bentz to a rapt, captive audience.

  “Your husband is a loser, Olivia. And you? It’s just your dumb luck that you married him. Wanna know why? Because your husband is such a major fuck-up, you get to pay the price. You and the others.”

  Then, glancing at her watch, she swore and seemed to panic. She searched the hull for a second, lifted a gas c
an from the rubble, and smiled. “A little no-no I had hidden.”

  Olivia’s fear turned to sheer terror.

  This maniac was going to set fire to the boat!

  While she was trapped inside.

  “No,” Olivia sputtered behind the tape. “No!” Angrily, she pulled her hands to her face, scratched at the duct tape until she’d lifted a corner. Then, willing her fingers to work, she yanked the tape off her mouth, peeling skin from her cheeks and lips. “No!” she cried again, but her captor ignored her pleas and hurried up the stairs, her footsteps ringing on the metal rungs.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh God!

  “Don’t do this!” she cried.

  At the top of the stairs, the woman hesitated for a second. Had she heard Olivia’s pleas? Was she considering giving in to them?

  “Please!” Olivia screamed, desperate.

  Then she heard the madwoman say, “Screw it!”

  Oh, no! Sheer terror coursing through her veins, Olivia screamed and pulled on the gate, hoping to open it. But her hands slipped, her motor skills still affected by the shock. “No! Please.”

  With a click, the woman flipped a switch.

  The lights went out.

  Olivia’s prison and the entire hull of the boat was suddenly black as pitch.

  A door clanged shut.

  Tears rolled down her face.

  Olivia waited for the sound of liquid being splashed above, for the horrendous whoosh as a match was tossed and hungry flames ignited.

  But there was only silence.

  CHAPTER 32

  Hayes figured he was in for a long night as he drove to Encino. While Bentz and Martinez stared at the passing landscape, he called Corrine and bagged out of their late-night plans. Corrine had known he’d be working late and had suggested that he come over and crash at her place. Normally a good idea, but now that he had no idea what time he’d be done, he let her off the hook.

  “You’re working overtime again?” He heard the irritation in her voice, hoped the others in the car couldn’t hear her. “I guess I’ll take a rain check. Again.”

  Corrine wasn’t happy, but there was nothing he could do about it now, on his way to Encino with two other detectives in the car.

  He didn’t like making personal calls in front of other cops. Martinez and Bentz had tactfully looked the other way, but it was awkward. Especially since Corrine used to be hooked up with Bentz. Still, it was a choice of call while he was working the case, or not call at all.

  That’s what happens when you have no life, Hayes thought as he took the exit for Encino. “Let’s hope Yolanda and Sebastian Salazar are home,” he said. A few blocks off Ventura Boulevard, the houses were small and compact, single-story, post–World War II, with big yards where the grass was beginning to turn brown.

  The Salazars lived on a corner lot, the stucco covering their house painted a light color that resembled ash in the bluish glow from the streetlights. A large chain-link fence circled the side yard, where a sign in bold letters read: BEWARE OF DOG.

  “Great.” Martinez shrank into the front seat. “I hate dogs.”

  Hayes scowled. “How can you hate dogs?”

  “Got bitten as a kid. Had to have plastic surgery and a lot of physical therapy. Harriet, the neighbors’ dachshund. Nasty little thing.”

  “You can’t judge all dogs by Harriet.”

  “Wanna bet?” she said as Hayes cut the engine.

  “You know that they smell your fear, Martinez,” Bentz persisted. “As long as you’re afraid of them, you won’t be able to go near them.”

  “Fine with me,” she said. “I’m happy to keep my distance.”

  Before they opened the Toyota’s doors the dog in question began barking and snarling wildly from the other side of the fence. The furious creature was black and tan, with jaws as wide as Arkansas and teeth that flashed angrily. A Rottweiler mix from the looks of him, Hayes guessed.

  “Oh, yeah, he’s gonna be a real sweetheart, this one.” Martinez’s hand was frozen on the door handle. “Let’s just call him Fluffy.”

  In his rearview mirror, Hayes saw Bentz starting to get out of the backseat.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Hayes told him. He couldn’t have Bentz go off half-cocked. As far as Hayes was concerned Bentz was advising on the case, nothing more. Although he didn’t side with Andrew Bledsoe and Dawn Rankin, who had insinuated that Bentz was somehow involved in the murders, he couldn’t allow Bentz to investigate for the LAPD. Bentz was no longer on the payroll here, and it would seriously compromise the case. He probably shouldn’t even have brought him here, but Hayes had to give the guy some credit. So far, Bentz had been the only one to make some real headway in this case.

  Hayes barely glanced at the side yard as the dog created a ruckus loud enough to wake the dead. From the back of the house a man yelled, “Rufus! You hush!”

  Rufus ignored the command. If anything, the big dog seemed more agitated than ever, running in circles and drooling anxiously as he kept up his incessant barking. Judging by the lack of grass on Rufus’s side of the fence, this wasn’t a new routine.

  “So much for the element of surprise,” Hayes said under his breath.

  Martinez glanced at the fence. “Let’s just hope the gate holds.”

  As they reached the porch, a light over the door flipped on and the cement steps were bathed in a fake yellow glow. The door opened, leaving the grillwork of a screen door separating them from a slim woman with dark hair falling past her shoulders. She was wearing a white tank top, orange capris, and a bad-ass expression.

  Hayes recognized Yolanda Salazar from the information Montoya had sent over. Her driver’s license didn’t do her justice; she was a helluva lot prettier in person, even in her bad mood.

  “Can I help you?” she asked without a smile.

  “I’m Detective Hayes, this is my partner, Detective Martinez, with the Los Angeles Police Department.” They showed their badges. “Are you Yolanda Salazar?”

  A slight hesitation, then she nodded, barely moving her head. “Why are you here?”

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?” In that instant her anger fled, to be replaced by fear. “Fernando? Is it my brother? Oh, Dios, don’t tell me he’s hurt or in trouble.” Without thinking she made a quick sign of the cross over her chest.

  “No, nothing like that,” Hayes assured her. “We need to ask you about a car that you own, a 1999 Silver Chevrolet Impala, registered to Ramona Salazar.”

  “Hey, is something wrong?” From within the house a man appeared. He was twice her size, all muscle and brawn, his tight T-shirt stretched over the broad span of his shoulders. His denim shorts hung low, almost falling off his slim hips. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s the police,” she said, casting her husband a fearful look.

  “You’re Sebastian Salazar?” Martinez asked.

  “That’s right.” His accent was thick.

  “We’re here to ask your wife a few questions about a car that belongs to her.”

  Sebastian flinched. He turned to his wife and said something in rapid-fire Spanish that Hayes didn’t catch, but he figured Martinez might understand.

  “Can we come in?” Martinez asked.

  Husband and wife looked at each other, then Sebastian muttered something in Spanish before opening the door. “Please,” he said, white teeth flashing beneath a thick moustache. “Have a seat.” He waved them into matching chairs.

  Remaining at the door, Yolanda peered out curiously. “Is your friend coming in?”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Hayes suppressed a groan. Bentz was out of the car, standing in the pool of light at the chain-link fence, murmuring something to Rufus, who had finally stopped barking. “He’s fine out there,” Hayes said, trying to distract Yolanda Salazar. “Sorry to bother you, but if you could just—”

  “Wait a minute.” Yolanda’s eyes were cold, black pebbles as her face hardened into a
scowl. “Sebastian!” She motioned him toward the door, a stream of Spanish erupting between them. “Bastardo!” she hissed.

  Alarmed, Sebastian crossed to the door and gaped at the atrocity his wife indicated.

  Hayes ground his teeth together, knowing what this was all about. Bentz.

  Yolanda wheeled on Hayes and Martinez. “Get out of my house! You bring a baby killer into my home? The hombre who killed my brother? Shot him dead?” She pointed an accusing finger to the street. “He is the cop who shot Mario, a twelve-year-old boy! An innocent.” Her upper lip curled into a snarl of distaste. “Leave now,” she insisted. And then, to Hayes’s horror, she flew out the door.

  Pacing along the chain-link fence, Bentz was on the phone. “…I think her name was Judd. Yolanda Judd,” he said to Montoya as Yolanda herself burst out of the house. Bare feet flying, she cut across the yard and lunged toward him. “Baby killer!” she accused. “What are you doing here?”

  Hayes and Martinez were on her heels with a big guy, most likely her husband, following.

  “I’ll call you back,” he said to Montoya and hung up.

  “Can’t you leave us in peace? Isn’t it enough that you killed my baby brother and ruined my mother’s life?” she said as Bentz swung around to face her.

  She spat then, hitting him square in the face.

  Bentz’s hands clenched into fists. Crazy bitch! He could barely contain his fury.

  “Back off!” Hayes shouted. He waved Bentz toward the car, motioning for him to return to the backseat in a feeble attempt to defuse the situation. “Mrs. Salazar, we just need to ask you some questions about your car,” he insisted to Yolanda.

  “Then why is he here?” She hooked a finger at Bentz as he wiped his face.

  Certainly not to endure your abuse, Bentz wanted to say.

  “Do you know where your car is now?” Hayes stepped between Yolanda and Bentz.