by Lisa Jackson
Olivia had already left for the day.
Because she still has a life.
He curled a fist, angry at the world, then slowly straightened his fingers.
Oh hell, Bentz, get over your sorry self. This poor-pitiful-me act is wearing thin.
He gave himself a swift mental kick, used the john, then hobbled downstairs where coffee was still warming in a glass pot. She hadn’t left a note, but he knew she was meeting with a friend, a woman who worked with her in the shop. She and Manda had a standing date for café au lait, beignets, and gossip at the Café Du Monde on Decatur. They read the paper and people-watched as they sipped their steaming brews from outdoor tables.
Bentz poured himself a cup of coffee, let the dog outside and, while Hairy S sniffed around the edges of the veranda, he stared into the woods where only a few days earlier he’d been certain he’d seen Jennifer.
Or someone who looked so much like her it stole the breath from his lungs.
Of course she hadn’t been out there; he’d checked the spot where she’d stood between the two bleached cypress trees. There had been no footprints on the ground, no bit of trace evidence left to indicate anyone had recently been in the spot where he would’ve sworn on his daughter’s life he’d seen his first damned wife. Ex-wife. They hadn’t been married at the time of her death.
If she’d really been killed in that freak accident.
Bentz had always thought the “accident” had been Jennifer’s way of escape. A suicide, though it was a damned messy way to take care of things.
He figured she’d felt so guilty not so much about cheating on him-more than once-but because she’d been caught in bed with another man. Bentz’s own half brother. Even now, years later, he still felt the rage that had ripped through him as much from the sting of her infidelity as the fact that he’d been stupid enough to trust her again.
So she’d taken herself out, left him to raise their daughter alone. She’d even written a suicide note, explaining her actions, her guilt.
At the time Bentz had been certain that the woman behind the wheel of the battered van had been Jennifer, and he’d buried her as such. There had been no DNA tests, no blood taken. Just his word that his wife was the driver.
Now, as he stared at that area at the edge of the swampland where he’d witnessed his latest “Jennifer sighting,” he felt a little tickle upon the back of his neck, as if someone were silently observing him. He turned quickly, teetering slightly, his eyes trained on the windows of his home.
Nothing.
No one was watching him from inside the house.
Or standing behind a magnolia tree outside peering at him.
He let out his breath slowly.
Ignored the sense of panic that gripped him.
For the love of God, Bentz, pull yourself together!
Was he going completely around the bend?
He knew he’d seen Jennifer, not just a few weeks earlier in this very spot and at the hospital, but other times as well. Once when he was sitting in the front seat of Olivia’s truck, waiting while she was taking in the dry cleaning, he’d been certain he had caught a glimpse of her. There was Jennifer, handbag clutched to her chest, hair scraped back in a ponytail, hurriedly crossing the street and disappearing into an alley. He’d gotten out of the truck, hobbled to the entrance of the alley, but had only spied a white cat slinking through a rotted fence while trash cans stood overflowing behind an old garage.
Another time he’d been sure he’d seen her strolling through a park, walking slowly around a fountain as sunlight caught in her hair, firing up the dark strands to a rich auburn. She had turned and looked over her shoulder and a slow, steady smile had stretched across her lips.
Her eyes had twinkled with a catch-me-if-you-can dare. He’d stopped his Jeep, double-parked and, using his cane, followed after her past the fountain only to find that she’d once again vanished.
Then there had been the incident in the woods near his house.
She’d seemed so real.
He was cracking up. That was it. Or hallucinating from the drugs he’d been prescribed. Trouble was, he’d kicked those damned painkillers a month ago.
Long before he’d seen Jennifer standing just off the edge of his veranda.
Or her ghost.
No way.
He didn’t believe in ghosts or anything the least bit supernatural or paranormal. He’d even had trouble swallowing his wife’s visions at the time a serial killer known as The Chosen One had terrorized New Orleans.
Yet he was certain that he’d seen her.
Really? Then she hadn’t aged much in the last twelve years, right? What’s up with that? Come on, Bentz, face it, you’re losing it.
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered under his breath, then took a long swallow before tossing the dregs of his cup into a flowerbed filled with flowers in shades of periwinkle and deep purple.
He was tired of thinking about Jennifer, sick of wondering why his subconscious was so determined to dredge her up again. He’d tried to ignore her. Told himself that he must’ve just caught glimpses of a woman who resembled her, that because he’d thought he’d seen her during the day, his dreams at night had been haunted by her.
But that didn’t explain catching sight of her in the woods the other day. Nor running into an alley or strolling through a park, but here, alone with him in his own backyard. The times he’d caught glimpses of her in public places might have been brushes with someone who looked similar, but the two times he’d seen her alone at the hospital and in the yard had been different-not a play of sunlight and shadow, not easily dismissed.
Was the woman who had been standing in his backyard a figment of his imagination? A product of wishful thinking? Misfiring synapses from an injured brain?
Who knew?
“Get over it.”
Whistling to the dog, he walked inside, showered, shaved, and, spying the exercise equipment in the den, promised himself he’d work out in the afternoon. Today he intended to drive into the city, to plead his case with Jaskiel again, get out of the ever-shrinking rooms of this cozy little cottage.
He brought his cane.
Melinda Jaskiel had asked for six more weeks and half that time had slowly passed. He didn’t think he could wait any longer. He was on his way to try to convince his boss that he was ready to work, at least part-time, but just as he was climbing into his Jeep, ignoring the pain in his leg, his cell phone beeped.
Caller ID said it was Montoya’s personal cell.
“Hey,” he said into the phone.
“Back atcha. You got a minute?”
Bentz waited a beat. No doubt his once-upon-a-time partner was being a wiseass. “Just one,” he said dryly.
“Can you meet me in…say…an hour?” No joking now. Montoya was dead serious.
“At the station.”
“No. How about the Cat’s Meow?”
“I can be there in half an hour.”
“Good.” Montoya clicked off and Bentz was left with a gnawing in his gut. Something was up. Was there a rumor circulating that Bentz was going to be forced into retirement? “Shit,” he said and switched on the ignition.
The thought of turning in his badge soured his stomach. He wasn’t ready for retirement, damn it, and he didn’t see himself as a P.I. He threw his SUV into reverse, did a quick turn, and drove down the lane to the county road, where he stepped on it and headed to New Orleans and whatever bad news Montoya had to offer.
The Cat’s Meow was a bar off Bourbon Street that, after the hurricane, had been restored to its original lack of splendor. The brick walls, even newly scrubbed, looked as if they might crumble. Wood floors, though refinished, had the patina that comes with overuse and age. Surrealistic pictures of jazz singers hanging over the bar had been retouched to appear as if they’d collected decades’ worth of smoke. The end one, of Ella Fitzgerald, was still hung crookedly, as if the owner of the bar prided himself in all things in the world being impe
rfect.
The air conditioner wheezed loudly, ceiling fans slowly rotated, and smoke drifted upward from tables where groups of patrons huddled over their drinks.
Montoya was waiting for him in a booth with a cup of coffee sitting neglected in front of him. He gave Bentz the once-over as he tried not to wince while sliding in opposite the younger cop.
“What’s up?” Bentz asked without preamble, then ordered a sweet tea.
“Got some mail for you.”
“You did?” Bentz asked.
“Well, the department did.”
Montoya waited for the server to deposit Bentz’s drink before reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a manila envelope: Eight-by-ten with Bentz’s name written on it in block letters, the address listed as the Homicide Department of the New Orleans Police Department. Across each side was a stamp that pronounced the contents: PERSONAL.
The packet hadn’t been opened.
“This came today?”
“Mmm.” Montoya took a sip of his coffee.
“Scanned?” Meaning for explosives or foreign substances such as anthrax.
“Yeah.”
Bentz’s eyes narrowed. “By you?”
“That’s right. I spotted it in the mailroom, figured it was no one’s business but yours, so…” He raised a shoulder.
“You lifted it.”
Montoya wiggled a hand beside his head. Maybe yes. Maybe no. “It’s postmarked to you. Thought it would be best if you got it before Brinkman or some other jerk-off caught a glimpse.” He slid a glance at the envelope. “Probably nothin’.”
“If you thought that, you wouldn’t have bothered.”
Again a shrug of one leather-clad shoulder. “You gonna open it?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.” Another swallow of coffee.
“So that’s it, you’re curious.”
“Hey, I’m just covering your back.”
“Fine.” Bentz studied the postmark. It was smudged and the lighting in the bar was too dark to see much. But he had a penlight on his key chain, and as he shined its small beam over the postmark his gut tightened.
The name of the town was unreadable, but he recognized the zip code as the one in which he and Jennifer had lived before her death.
Using a house key, he slit the envelope open and gently tugged the contents within. A single piece of paper and three photographs.
He sucked in his breath.
His heart stilled.
The pictures, complete with dates, were of his first wife, Jennifer.
Dear God, what was this?
He heard his pulse pounding in his brain. First the “sightings” and now this?
“Is that-?”
“Yeah.” The photographs were clear and crisp. In color. Jennifer walking across a busy street. Jennifer sliding into a light-colored car, make and model undetermined. Jennifer sitting at a tall café table in a coffee shop. The last picture was taken from the street, her image captured through the window of the shop. In front of the window was a sidewalk with pedestrians passing by and portions of two newspaper boxes in the foreground. He recognized one as USA Today, and the other the L.A. Times.
Narrowing his eyes, Bentz looked for a reflection of the photographer in the large window, but saw none.
This was nuts.
“Old pictures?” Montoya asked.
“Not if the dates from the camera are right.”
“Those can be changed.”
“I know.”
“And with Photoshopping and image altering and airbrushing, pictures can be made to look like anything someone wants them to. Other people’s heads on someone else’s body.”
Bentz looked up from the disturbing photos. “But why?”
“Someone just fuckin’ with ya.”
“Maybe.” He turned his attention to the document and his jaw grew hard as granite. The single page was a copy of Jennifer’s death certificate. Scrawled across the neatly typed document was a bright red question mark.
“What the hell is this?” Montoya asked.
Bentz stared at the mutilated certificate. “A sick way of telling me that my first wife might not be dead.”
Montoya waited a beat, watching the expression on his partner’s face. “You’re kidding. Right?”
“Does this look like a joke to you?” Bentz asked, pointing at the death certificate and scattered pictures.”
“You think this is Jennifer? Nah!” Then eyeing his ex-partner, “You’re messing with me, right?”
Bentz filled Montoya in. Until this point only his kid, who had been in his hospital room at the time he’d awoken from his coma, had any idea that Bentz had seen his first wife. Kristi had dismissed his vision of Jennifer as the result of his coma and too much medication. After that first sighting, he’d kept his mouth shut and his daughter, caught up in preparing for her wedding, hadn’t brought up the subject again.
“Wait a second,” Montoya said when Bentz paused to take a drink. “You’re saying you believe she might actually be alive?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Otherwise you’re chasing a ghost.”
Bentz scowled. Felt the heat of Montoya’s stare. “I’m not chasing a ghost.”
“Then?”
“And I’m not going out of my mind.”
“Which leaves…what? You believe that someone’s dressing up to look like your ex and then gaslighting you? Is that what you’re thinking, that you’re caught up in some kind of weird scenario straight out of a Hitchcock movie?”
“As I said, I don’t know what to believe.”
“You tell this to Olivia?”
“No.” He looked away. “Not yet.”
“Afraid she might have you committed?” One of Montoya’s dark eyebrows raised as he finished his coffee.
“Nah, just that she wouldn’t understand.”
“Hell, I don’t understand.”
“Exactly.”
Pushing his empty cup aside and resting his elbow on the table, Montoya asked, “So what do you want me to do?”
“Keep it quiet. For now. But I might need some favors.”
“Such as?”
“A few things. Since I’m on leave, I can’t get information as easily as before. I might need you to do some digging.”
“In finding this woman?”
“Maybe,” Bentz said. “For starters, I’ll need someone to have this letter fingerprinted and checked for DNA-lift the stamp and the envelope flap. Can you get me a copy of everything?”
“Sure.” Montoya looked at the document.
“And have the lab check, see if the photographs have been altered. They should be able to tell, right?”
“Probably.” He eyed the pictures. “At least I’ll give the lab guys a run at it. There’s one tech-Ralph Lee-specializes in all kinds of photography.”
“Good. After I take copies, have him look at the originals. Blow them up, sharpen the focus if possible, find details that might help me pinpoint the locations and time they were taken. See if there are street names, license plate numbers, clocks on the buildings, or the position of the sun, anything that confirms the time and date of the original pictures.”
Montoya frowned. “What’re you gonna do with the copies?”
“Not sure. I’m still working on it.”
Bentz returned the eight-by-tens and the death certificate to the manila envelope. He wasn’t even certain himself what he needed, not yet, but he was sick of jumping at shadows, of feeling that his brain was fraying, bit by bit. He just couldn’t sit back and let whoever was behind this run with it. “So, for now, don’t say anything. If Jaskiel or anyone else at the department thinks I’ve been seeing things, it’ll take a whole lotta convincing for me to get back to work.”
Montoya scratched at his chin and pushed his chair back, the diamond stud in his earlobe catching the light.
Bentz saw a flicker of doubt in his partner’s dark eyes. “You don’t beli
eve me.”
“Me? A doubter? No way. Not my style.” He offered a quick, hard-edged Montoya grin. “But as you said earlier, it’s strange. I’m like you. I don’t know what to believe.”
CHAPTER 4
The postmark from Southern California really bothered Bentz. Burned in his brain as he drove away from Bourbon Street. He’d found a Quickie Print and taken several copies of the photographs and death certificate, even using the enhance and enlarge options to get more definition. Then he’d handed the originals to Montoya.
He was convinced that someone from his past, or Jennifer’s past, was tracking him down. But who? Why? And why screw with his mind?
He slowed for a red light, brooding as the Jeep idled. Overhead, dark clouds scudded slowly across the sky and the smell of the Mississippi River reached his nostrils through the open window.
He remembered Jennifer’s image as she’d stood in the woods skirting his backyard. So close to his house-Olivia’s home. And now the photographs. He glanced to the passenger seat. The picture of Jennifer crossing the street met his eye. Either the woman in the photo was his ex-wife or a dead ringer.
Ghosts don’t show in photographs.
Crazy manifestations aren’t real images and therefore cannot be caught on film.
So she was real?
His gut tightened.
So who had been in the backyard of his home, the house that Olivia had brought into the marriage? All in all, this latest encounter was too close for comfort. Too close to Olivia.
He didn’t like the thought of his wife being dragged into this, whatever the hell it was. She lived here, too, and just the inkling of her safety being the least bit compromised didn’t set well. Olivia had always felt safe at this house. Though Hairy S was useless as a guard dog, they did have a security system Bentz had insisted she install years ago. They rarely used it, but that would have to change.
The light turned green and he waited for an elderly woman on a scooter who was still in the crosswalk. Once she’d eased out of the way, he took the corner fast, then stood on the brakes. A jaywalking teenage boy in a baggy T-shirt and shorts loped across the pavement while plugged into his iPod. The kid never noticed that Bentz had nearly mowed him over.
