by Lisa Jackson
The crowd had changed, or at least aged, just like the old plank floors.
A long bar, complete with brass foot rail, swept along one side of the establishment. Tables and booths took care of the rest.
He found a booth, settled in, and ordered a nonalcoholic beer from a waitress who was splitting the seams of her cowgirl costume.
Before she could return, Bentz spied Jonas Hayes pushing through the front doors. Hayes, too, had aged. African American and six-four, he was still imposing, if slightly thicker around the middle than he had been when he was a rookie cop or a running back for UNLV. His close-cropped black hair showed a few bits of silver, and when he took his shades off, crow’s feet were visible at the corners of his eyes.
But he still dressed as if he were a model. Expensive suit, polished shoes, silk tie knotted to perfection.
Bentz waved him over and stood, stretching out his hand. “Helluva long time.”
Hayes nodded and clasped Bentz’s fingers in a strong, sure grip. “What’s it been? Eleven? Twelve years?”
“’Bout that.”
They sat down on opposite sides of the booth. “And then you show up outta the blue. Lookin’ for a favor.”
“You got it.”
Waitress Pseudo-cowgirl returned, her mood not appearing to have improved as she took Hayes’s order for a scotch on the rocks.
“Friendly,” Hayes observed once she’d huffed away.
“Don’t think she likes the getup she has to wear.”
“Can’t blame her. You still on the wagon?” Hayes nodded toward Bentz’s bottle.
“Yep. Gave it up after Jennifer died.”
“Probably a good thing.”
Bentz raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Well, most of the time. Trinidad still with the department?”
“A lifer and then some.” Hayes was nodding as the waitress, forcing a false smile, returned with Hayes’s drink and plastic-encased menus. She rattled off a couple of specials and was about to turn away when Bentz asked, “You still have the T-Bone and steak fries?”
Without an ounce of enthusiasm, she said, “It’s, like, been on the menu forever.”
“Thought so. I’ll take it. Medium rare. Blue cheese dressing on the salad.”
She didn’t bother writing it down, just looked at Hayes, who scanned the menu and folded it closed, ordering the barbecued pork chop special.
Once she’d disappeared again, he turned dark eyes on Bentz. “Okay, so what gives? What’s this ‘favor’ you want from me?”
“I want you to look at Jennifer’s death again.”
“Jennifer? As in your wife?”
“Ex-wife, but yeah.” Bentz settled back against the cushions and took a swallow from his bottle.
“That was twelve years ago, man. She died in a single-car accident. Probable suicide.” Again Hayes searched Bentz’s face with those black eyes. Cop’s eyes.
“That’s what we all thought at the time, but it’s a helluva way to kill yourself. Messy. Sometimes doesn’t get the job done right and you end up a vegetable, or taking someone else out with you, or spending the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Not a usual form of suicide. Why not just run the car in the garage or take pills? Slit your wrists in the tub? Hang yourself in the closet?”
“She was your wife. You tell me.”
Bentz was shaking his head. “Besides, she wouldn’t have wanted to mess herself up that way. Too vain.”
“She was killing herself, man. On pills and booze. Not thinkin’ right. She didn’t give a good goddamn about how she looked and she might have taken the car out cuz she didn’t want you or your kid to come home to it, y’know? Not a good thing for her daughter to find her dead.”
“She didn’t have to do it at home. There are other places. Motels.” He thought about the shabby condition of the So-Cal Inn, a perfect place for a suicide. Cheap. Private. Poolside view if you wanted it.
Hayes rotated his drink between his palms. “Okay, let’s cut the crap here. What’s going on?”
Bentz took another swallow of his beer, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a copy of the marred death certificate. Quickly he explained that it had been sent to the station, mailed from Culver City.
“So what?” Hayes said. “Someone messin’ with ya.”
Bentz nodded. “But it’s more than that.” He placed the photographs of Jennifer on the table. “I think someone is gaslighting me.”
“Oh, hell! These are Jennifer, right? And recent, I assume?”
“That’s what whoever sent them to me wants me to think.”
Hayes looked at him. “Dead ringer?”
“Perfect.”
“But…dead ringer from twelve years ago? No extra pounds, no more wrinkles.”
“You got it.”
“Son of a bitch.” Hayes stared at the pictures, then gave the death certificate a longer look, his eyes narrowing. At least he was listening now.
“Someone’s pretending to be Jennifer.”
“But why?” Hayes asked.
“Don’t know, but she’s not in this alone. Someone’s taking pictures.”
“So now it’s a conspiracy? To make you nuts.”
Bentz nodded.
“This is so far-fetched,” Hayes said, though his eyes strayed to the photographs again. “Man, oh, man. You and JFK? Okay, I’ll bite. Start from the beginning.”
Bentz filled him in. From waking up in the hospital, to see and smell and feel Jennifer in the room, to the sighting in his backyard. He left out the woman at the bus stop, worried that it was too vague, that she could have been anyone.
As he was wrapping it up, Hayes said, “And you think this person has been in New Orleans and L.A. She somehow knew the moment you would wake up from your coma…and then she hurried back to L.A. for a photo shoot around town?”
“No. If the dates on the photos are legit, she was back and forth between L.A. and New Orleans.”
“Then there should be plane tickets.”
“I’ve got someone looking into it; so far nothing.”
“Could’ve used an alias.”
“Jennifer Bentz is the alias,” he said, trying to convince himself. “I’ve got to find out who she really is and what she wants.”
“And you need my help.” Hayes was wary.
“Yeah.”
“How?”
Bentz brought up the call from the pay phone. “So what I’d like to see is photos from traffic cameras in the area, or security tapes from local businesses, or better yet, satellite images of the street.”
“You don’t want much, do you? As far as I can see, no crime has been committed.”
“Unless the woman in Jennifer’s grave isn’t her.”
“That’s a big leap.”
Bentz couldn’t argue the point, though he tried. The waitress returned and slid large platters onto the table. She warned them that the plates were “really hot,” asked them about refills and if they needed anything else.
“I’m good,” Bentz said and Hayes nodded, agreeing.
“Okay, just let me know if you change your mind.” With a quick turn, she moved toward a table where four women were being seated.
Once she was out of earshot, Hayes said, “So you want me to use the resources of the department to help you find whoever’s screwing with you.”
“You could work with Montoya, in New Orleans. As I said, he’s already started.”
“Right. We’ll form a joint task force to solve…oops, there’s been no crime.” Hayes stared at his pork chop, cornbread, and applesauce. “So basically you came to California because of a postmark and some photographs.”
“Seemed like the logical place to start.”
“As I said, someone’s just fuckin’ with you.”
“No doubt. But why?”
“You tell me.”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Same old Hayes; the guy needed a firm push. “So the long and short of it is I need to know if Jenni
fer is in that casket.”
“What?” Hayes nearly dropped his fork.
“She was buried before we could do the DNA matching we do today,” Bentz said around a mouthful of steak. “All the testing was still in its infancy.”
“And you want her tested because you think what?” Jonas asked, his fork tines jabbed in Bentz’s direction. “That Jennifer might not be in there? That she might really be alive?”
“This is just a place to start.”
“Hell.”
“So you’ll get me the file on her suicide?”
“Remind me again why I would do this for you?”
“Because I saved your sorry black ass more than once in the past.” And it was true. When Hayes had been going through his divorce with his nutcase of a first wife, Alonda, Bentz had covered for him. The fact that his wife had left Hayes for another woman had really messed the guy up. Bentz figured adultery was adultery, no matter who you slept with, but Hayes, always a ladies’ man, had been devastated. He’d spent a couple of months partying until dawn, proving his manhood by picking up a lot of different women, and literally fucking up.
Fortunately he’d pulled himself together, but it had been touch and go for a while.
“Okay,” Hayes said reluctantly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And I might need a little help with the exhumation order.”
“Exhumation? Lord, this just keeps getting better and better,” Hayes complained, but he didn’t offer further argument as he finished his drink, ordered another, then cut into what had to be a cold piece of pork.
Snap!
Lucy Springer turned, eyeing the edge of the park as she hurried along the sidewalk to her apartment. She saw nothing alarming in the shadows, just an old man walking his dog about a block down the street. The dog, a skinny greyhound, it seemed, was relieving itself on a tree. But the night was thick and dark, the hint of fog rolling in, making everything in the bluish glow of streetlamps appear out of focus and ghostly.
Goose bumps pimpled her scalp. Her pulse elevated.
The street was just too…quiet.
“Jeez.” Inwardly she told herself she was being a big wuss, or pussy as her boyfriend Kurt would say. She needed to get over her case of nerves. Cell phone in hand, she paused at the corner, waiting for the light to change.
With the press of a button, she located her sister’s cell phone number and started texting.
Snap!
Her head whipped up and she looked over her shoulder. What was that sound? Not someone stepping on a twig. More like a sharp, hard click. Something she should recognize.
But she saw no one. Just the old man and dog ambling off in the opposite direction.
There wasn’t much traffic so she stepped into the street against the light and kept texting Laney.
Where R U?
Almost 21.
Legal.
Meet at Silvio’s! 11 p.m. Drinks on me @ midnight.
Party on!
It was strange that Laney wasn’t texting or calling back. They’d been planning this celebration forever! Well, make that twenty-one years. Finally she and her twin were going to be adults! So why the hell was her sister avoiding her?
It was odd.
Not like Laney.
Lucy unlocked the gate to her building and walked through as her phone chirped. She glanced down to check it, vaguely aware of the gate clanging shut behind her.
A text from Laney!
Finally.
It was a picture-text and she clicked it open to see a fuzzy shot of her sister. Laney’s eyes were wide and round with fear and some kind of red gag was pulled tight over her mouth. She looked scared to death!
What?
“Oh, God,” Lucy whispered, her heart pounding crazily, horror creeping up her spine.
What was this?
And then she got it.
This sick picture was Laney’s idea of a joke. “Bitch,” Lucy muttered under her breath. Though she had to hand it to her younger twin; the look on Laney’s face was one of pure terror. Well, of course. Wasn’t Laney going to USC and majoring in theater? Didn’t she have an acting scholarship, for God’s sake? Hadn’t she done a few acting jobs in commercials? Laney knew how to convey emotions perfectly and she had friends in the school who were experts in makeup and film.
Still, it scared the crap out of Lucy. “Not very funny,” Lucy said aloud and then stiffened as she heard the tiniest of noises…Breathing?
No way. The gate had latched behind her…right?
She reached her door and as she mounted the steps, began texting like crazy.
U really had me going for a sec.
C U later!
She reached in her purse for her keys and saw the neighbor’s cat perched on the rail of Chuck’s small porch. It stared at Lucy, its round eyes reflecting the porch light. “Hey, kitty.”
The silver tabby froze for a second, then dropped to the concrete and started to slink under the bottom rail. But it paused at the edge of the shadowy bushes, turned its sleek head toward Lucy and let out a long, low growl.
Crazy cat! “Hey, Platinum, it’s me, Lucy.”
Arching her back, Platinum hissed, showing needle-sharp teeth and round, wild eyes before scurrying madly under the fence.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Platinum, what’s wrong with you?” Lucy asked before she smelled it, a whiff of something foreign in the air. Cigarette smoke? Or…
Snap!
This time the noise was so close to her ear that she actually jumped.
She nearly screamed
From the corner of her eye, she saw something move in the dark ness. A figure, shadowy and shimmering, leapt at her.
What!!!
In its big hands was a thin leather strap.
Oh, God, no!
She tried to yell for help, knew she should run, but it was too late. He grabbed her arm, yanked her hard against him. “Oooph,” she gasped, forcing a weak scream from her airless lungs just as the strip of leather slithered around her neck and grew taut.
What was this?
Pain sliced through her.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. Couldn’t cough. Oh, dear God, the pain!
She clawed at the noose, trying to get her fingers under the smooth leather. The deadly strap didn’t budge.
She felt her attacker breathing fast and hard, getting off on her pain, yanking the leather hard.
Who? Who would want to kill me?
Why?
Her lungs burned and strained for oxygen. She kicked wildly, crazily, hoping her heel would connect with her attacker’s shin or anything nearby. She gasped hoarsely, trying to drag in any whisper of air.
Help me! Please, someone, help me!
Tearing at the damned ligature, she scratched her throat. A finger-nail ripped. Blood welled. Her head was in a vise. And her lungs, oh, God, her lungs…her lungs were about to burst! With a cruel jerk her assailant pulled tighter and the leather bit into the soft flesh beneath her chin.
Her eyes bulged.
Raw, searing pain ricocheted through her body.
She was going to die! Right here at her own front door!
She kicked frantically, hoping to hit her assailant or the door, to make some noise! Wake the neighbors! Anything she could!
Her thoughts swirled, rapid images of her parents back home, un aware that they would never see her again, and her Nana in Santa Barbara, and then there was Kurt, her sometime boyfriend…
Her eyes rolled back in her head, her lungs screamed silently as the will to fight back drained from her body. Her arms were heavy, her legs leaden, her entire being centered on the overwhelming need for air. It was over. She couldn’t fight, couldn’t remain conscious.
Her hands fell to her sides and she was vaguely aware that whoever was holding her was letting her fall onto the concrete stoop.
As the merciful blackness rolled over her, Lucy’s last thought was of Laney…dear sweet, trusting, stupid La
ney.
CHAPTER 11
“Bentz is back in town?” Russ Trinidad frowned into his drink, swirling the scotch and studying it as if it held the keys to the universe.
Hayes had asked Trinidad to meet him after work for a drink, which was unusual in and of itself. So Trinidad’s normally suspicious nature was on high alert. “What the hell is he doing back here?”
“It’s about his ex-wife.”
“Jennifer?” Trinidad snorted as water ran through bamboo stalks in a small waterfall near the entrance and soft Japanese music played in the background. “Piece of work, that one. Though I never really knew her.”
“Consider yourself lucky,” Hayes said.
At six feet, Trinidad was shorter than Hayes, but kept up a military physique. In Trinidad’s world black was beautiful and bald was sexy as any head of messy hair. They were seated in a corner booth in a bar in Little Tokyo, not too far from Parker Center, the building housing the Robbery-Homicide Division of the LAPD, yet far enough away not to be a cop hangout. Trinidad was into his second glass of scotch while Hayes worked his way through his first sake.
Hayes had decided to confide in Trinidad, Bentz’s ex-partner, because the near-retiring detective was one of Bentz’s few allies in the department. However at this point Bentz had been gone so long, even Trinidad was iffy.
“Okay, I’ll bite.” Trinidad took a sip from his drink, saw a fleck of something foreign floating in the scotch, and flicked it out with a practiced finger. He drank again, didn’t bother complaining to the waitress. “Fill me in on our old friend Bentz.”
Hayes did.
Told him about meeting with the former LAPD detective the night before, about the photos Bentz had received showing his dead wife out and about in L.A.
“So he thinks his ex-wife might still be alive?” Trinidad said, frowning and finishing his drink. “He IDed her.”
“Yeah, but she was real busted up.”
“You’re buying into it?” Trinidad’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like bullshit to me.”
“I’m not buying into anything, but I checked. The only person to request a death certificate on her was Bentz himself. No one else bothered.” Unsettled, Hayes twisted his cup in his palms. “I mean it’s possible he’s gone off his nut. The guy nearly died in a freak accident. In a coma for a while.”
