by Lisa Jackson
“Got an answer for me already?”
“Up yours, Bentz. It’s not like I don’t have a job to do here.”
“Just see what you can do.”
“Great. Anything else?” he mocked.
“Not yet.” No reason to tell him about last night’s leap into Santa Monica Bay. Yet.
“Well, just let me know because it’s my mission in life to be your bitch.”
“Fulfilling, isn’t it?”
“You owe me, man.”
“Always have, Montoya.” He hung up just before taking his exit off the freeway, then wound his way around the surface streets to the site of the old hospital.
It wasn’t a large piece of property. The crumbling stucco building that had once housed St. Augustine’s Hospital was now surrounded by mesh fencing and warning signs that trespassers would be prosecuted “to the full extent of the law.”
Fine.
Ignoring the warnings, Bentz climbed over a gate and jumped onto the packed dirt inside the enclosure. Pain jolted his hip as he landed, reminding him that he still wasn’t a hundred percent. But he kept on, making his way toward the abandoned hospital.
The stucco exterior was just a shell. Limping a bit, he walked around the rubble and ducked into a gaping doorway. Inside, the building was skeletal, torn down to the studs. Tired floorboards creaked beneath his sneakers, and he saw evidence of bats in the rafters. Some of the old plumbing was intact, rusted pipes running up and down between aging two-by-fours and beams. Whoever had started this renovation had stopped suddenly. Because of the failure of the economy?
Outside again, he paused by a huge sign that faced the road and advertised a strip mall that was to be built. But the intended date for opening had already passed and it was obvious whoever was backing the project had pulled out. So here sat the remnants of St. Augustine’s Hospital, a sad ruin of a building.
Using his cell phone, he took a few photos of the sign, of the crumbling building and the surrounding area. He saved them, then text-messaged them to Montoya.
He wished he could bring Hayes in on this. It would make a lot more sense to work with the cops in California rather than depend upon Montoya in New Orleans. But he just couldn’t count on the LAPD.
Yet.
Slipping his phone into his pocket, he returned to his car, his leg aching as he slid inside and pulled away from the desolate construction site.
CHAPTER 19
Olivia didn’t feel pregnant. Her body hadn’t changed at all, at least on the outside. She wasn’t suffering nausea, wasn’t tired, and wouldn’t have had a clue that she was carrying a baby other than the pregnancy test. Or tests. She’d taken the same test three different times, each kit made by a different manufacturer. Every one of them had confirmed that yes, she was pregnant. Which she’d already known after the first strip had turned a brilliant hue. But, she figured, better safe than sorry. Or in her case, better sure rather than uncertain.
The only difference Olivia felt was the weight of her secret. Not telling Bentz was killing her. She didn’t like secrets or, for that matter, surprises, so as she drove to the Third Eye she made a definitive decision. Today she would make arrangements to take a week or two off and fly to California.
Though Rick had only been gone a few days, Olivia knew he wouldn’t be back for a while. It was as if he were running away. From her. From their life.
Oh, yeah, he had an explanation. He had this sudden obsession with his first wife and he was out chasing ghosts in California. On top of that, a gruesome double murder had taken place in L.A., a killing that was nearly identical to the Caldwell twins’ double homicide. He’d never felt right about leaving Southern California with that case still wide open, and he’d taken a lot of heat about it. She knew her husband well enough to realize that he saw the possibility of solving this new crime as a chance to redeem himself, an opportunity to catch the killer and put him behind bars once and for all. Not that the LAPD would appreciate his efforts.
But he was still running away and it was time to find out why. He’d been acting weird ever since he’d come out of the coma, and unfortunately she was never able to call him on it. At first, she’d been relieved he was alive. While he was recovering she’d forced herself to remain patient, understanding that he was not only suffering pain but also dealing with loss of purpose. She had been encouraging, tolerant, supportive.
But she was sick of it.
It was time he bucked up.
Beneath his distracted, distant exterior was the man she had fallen in love with, and she was determined to find him again.
What he needed, she decided, was what her grandmother referred to as “the two-by-four by the back door. Sometimes ya need it to get their attention.” To Olivia’s knowledge, Grannie Gin had never kept a piece of lumber propped on the sun porch. It was just her way of saying “a kick in the pants” or a large dose of reality.
And that was just what Olivia planned to hit Rick with. The truth.
She parked her beat-up truck in a lot, then walked toward the Third Eye. On her way down the street she passed a baby boutique and paused to look at the window display. There was a quaint assortment of layette sets, cute little one-piece sleepers, and bibs deco rated with all kinds of animals. One bib, decorated à la New Orleans, was embroidered with a grinning baby alligator with a bow around its neck. It was surprisingly adorable.
Her own reflection, a watery image, superimposed itself upon the window. She was going to be a mother! Her husband needed to know.
What the hell was she waiting for?
Why in the world was she scared?
She put her hand over her flat stomach, walked into the shop, and, on a ridiculous whim, bought the alligator bib.
It was the first thing she’d bought for the new little Bentz-well, unless she counted the multiple pregnancy tests. Her appointment with her doctor wasn’t for another couple of weeks. That didn’t matter. She was going to quit being a wimp and tell Bentz that he was going to be a father again.
And he’d damned well better like it.
Unlike its Italian namesake, the city of Venice, California, still had just a few of its original canals. Most of the waterways built back in 1905 had since been paved over when the city of Los Angeles decided it needed more real streets for cars. However, the remaining canals and stretch of sandy beach were enough to lend character to the seaside community, which was packed on this sunny, warm day. Mild weather had brought out the bicyclers and skaters, along with an array of street performers who reminded Bentz of the musicians who peddled their talents in the squares of New Orleans. Like his home, this town boasted a carnival atmosphere, a sense of “anything goes.”
The art gallery where Fortuna Esperanzo worked was only a few blocks from the beach, tucked between a tourist shop that sold everything from T-shirts to cameras and an “authentic” Mexican restaurant with a sprinkling of outside tables. The panorama was much the same as it had been a dozen years earlier.
Bentz parked the rental, eyed his cane, left it on the floor of the backseat, and jaywalked across the wide street. The salty scent of the ocean wafted to him, reminding him of his dunk in Santa Monica Bay the previous night. When he’d lost Jennifer. Again.
He stepped under an awning and through the open door of a gallery filled with abstract and modern sculpture and seemed empty. Bentz hitched his way up a wide wooden staircase which led to an open second-floor loft. It was filled with paintings, mosaic work, and tapestries by local artists.
In one corner Fortuna Esperanzo stood on a ladder, replacing the bulb of a light that was trained on a huge, unframed canvas. Wild black strokes slashed across a field of orange and red. The painting was called simply Rage.
“Nice,” Bentz remarked sarcastically.
Startled, Fortuna dropped the lightbulb and it shattered. “Oh shit!” She glared down, eyeing him over the top of the ladder with small, dark eyes framed by perfectly plucked, pencil-thin eyebrows.
Her pi
nk glazed lips pursing into a tight knot of dislike. “I figured you would take the hint when I didn’t call you back, Bentz.” Slowly she descended the rungs to stand on the floor, carefully avoiding the shards of thin glass. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” She skewered him with a stare of disbelief. She was thin to the point of being bony, her taupe size-practically-nothing skirt and sweater hanging off her thin frame. “You really expect me to believe that after twelve or so years you’re just dropping by for a chat? Give me a flippin’ break. Where the hell is my broom?” She walked to an alcove and retrieved a push broom and dustpan. “You want to talk?” she muttered as she began cleaning up the mess. “About what?”
“Jennifer.”
“Oh, God, why?” She stood suddenly and stared at Bentz as if he’d just flown in from Jupiter. “What good will it do now? That poor woman.”
Downstairs another patron wandered into the gallery. Bentz saw her through the open railing. A silver-haired woman with red reading glasses perched on the end of her tiny nose, she wore a perpetual scowl along with white capri pants and a sleeveless top, She wandered through the displays only to stop and contemplate a glass mosaic cat that might have been the ugliest piece of so-called art Bentz had ever seen.
Jesus, was she serious? A piece of crap with a price tag that probably exceeded what Bentz made in a week?
Fortuna leaned over the railing and called cheerfully, “Hello, Mrs. Fielding! I’ll be right down.” She left her broom and dustpan propped against the ladder and glanced at Bentz. “You know, I really don’t have anything to tell you.”
“I’ll wait.”
Rolling her eyes as if to say “whatever” she headed down the stairs at a quick clip. Once on the main floor, she began showing the dour Mrs. Fielding pieces of colored glass that resembled African beasts. Ugly lions and gazelles and elephants. At least, that was his interpretation. Who knew what the artist really had in mind?
Bentz took it upon himself to clean up the mess, hauled the broom and dustpan back to the little closet, and even found another lightbulb. He’d just screwed it in so that it showcased the black and red mess of a painting when Fortuna walked up the stairs.
“Oh, don’t think you’re getting on my good side just because you played janitor,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
“I could have done it myself.” She spied a piece of glass he’d missed and picked it up before folding her arms over her chest. “Just what the hell is it you want to know?”
“Jennifer’s state of mind before she died.”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t know.”
“You were one of her closest friends.”
“What does it matter now?”
“Someone’s been calling me, saying she’s Jennifer.”
“Oh, so what? Someone’s just having a little fun at your expense.”
He hauled out the copies of the photographs and Fortuna eyed them. “These were sent to me.”
“And? The woman looks like Jennifer, yeah. So what? Oh, God, you don’t think? I mean you wouldn’t believe? Oh, no, I mean, that’s rich.” She laughed, though there was no mirth in her tone. “You actually think Jennifer might still be alive.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then who the hell is in her grave?” She shook her head. “This is too much. Someone’s really screwing with your mind. And you know who would have loved this? Jennifer. You’re finally getting yours.”
More than you know, he thought, but didn’t say it. “I just thought you might remember something she did or said that was out of character for her in the week or so before she died.”
“Nothing that I can think of.” Fortuna sighed. Ran red-tipped fingers through her thick hair. “She did everything she normally did, well, I think. You know, the regular stuff. A haircut, I think. I was there the same day and she had gone shopping and visited her astrologer.”
He felt the muscles between his shoulders tighten. “Astrologer?”
“Oh, yeah, you remember…Phyllis Something-Or-Other.” She was staring at him. “You didn’t know?”
“That my ex-wife went to a psychic? No.”
“I said astrologer. There’s a fine line.”
He knew all about it. Olivia’s grandmother had read tarot cards during her lifetime. “Okay, Phyllis the astrologer. Who checks star signs. Moons rising and retrograde and all that stuff.”
“I think it’s a little more involved than that, but personally I never got into it too much.”
“Just Jennifer?”
“Yeah, near as I can tell she went alone, but at least once a month, sometimes twice.”
“For how long?”
“Years. Since college I think.” Fortuna nodded as she tried to remember. “Yeah, I recall her saying something to that effect.”
Bentz was thunderstruck. In all the years he’d known his first wife, all the secrets they’d shared, never had she said a word about consulting an astrologer. Not that it was a big deal, but he wondered what other secrets Jennifer had held so tight. “What did she learn from Dr. Phyllis?”
“Oh, God…I can’t remember,” she said, then snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait! I do remember Jennifer mentioning that Phyllis told her she’d only have one child and…” Her voice trailed off.
“What?”
“Well, I don’t know if the astrologer had anything to do with it, but for some reason Jennifer always thought that she’d die young.”
“What?” His heart stilled. Jennifer had never mentioned any such fear to him.
“She’d make throwaway comments. Like, ‘I know I’ll never see Kristi graduate.’ Or ‘I know I’ll never go to Europe, there’s not enough time.’ And one time…Jeez, it gives me chills just to remember it, she told me, ‘You know, I’m glad I’m never going to grow old.’” Fortuna’s voice dropped and she looked away from Bentz. “God, I hadn’t thought about that in a long, long time.” She cleared her throat. “I really can’t tell you anything else.” She headed down the stairs just as two men who looked to be in their thirties entered the gallery below.
A genial smile pasted onto her face, Fortuna went into salesperson mode. The finest Hollywood actress had nothing on her.
Resigned that Fortuna had revealed everything she could remember, Bentz followed her down the stairs and left a business card with his cell number at the register, then walked out of the gallery.
Outside, the sun was intense. Pedestrians strolled along the sidewalk, peering into shop windows. Next door, a few patrons of the restaurant sat at the outdoor tables where umbrellas shaded drinks and platters of spicy Mexican food. Two laughing kids on roller skates nearly knocked over a slim woman walking a kinky-haired dog that probably outweighed her. They whisked by without a second thought even though the dog took off after them.
Bentz lunged forward to help, but the slight woman caught herself and managed to pull her frantic dog back into the “heel” position.
Life went on.
Except for Jennifer.
Something was definitely off there.
Rick clicked on the remote lock for his car as he crossed the street. He was bothered by what he’d learned, about things he hadn’t known, things important to Jennifer. Her friends all seemed to know her much better than he had, even, perhaps, better than she’d known herself.
Did it matter?
So what if Jennifer had kept her visits to the astrologer to herself? Big deal.
Nothing he found out about her surprised him any more, but he couldn’t help but wonder as he slid into the hot interior of the Ford what other secrets he would uncover. Lost in thought, last night’s nightmare still chaffing at his subconscious, he nosed the Focus out of the parking space, then made a quick U-turn. He realized she probably kept a lot of her life tucked away, hidden from his scrutiny. Just because she’d told him the truth about Kristi’s paternity, didn’t mean she’d
been honest about other facets of her life. The damning truth of the matter was that he hadn’t really known his first wife at all.
CHAPTER 20
“No way he’s going to have his wife’s body exhumed.” Bledsoe barked out a laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Bentz has really lost it.”
“He could petition as a family member,” Jonas Hayes said while pouring himself another cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchen area of the squad room. Why he was defending a man who had yanked him all the way down to Santa Monica at night to work things out with their PD, Hayes didn’t understand. He must really hate himself.
“Ex-family member,” Bledsoe reminded him, rankling Hayes even further.
Hayes had always thought Bentz got a raw deal way back when, blamed for not solving the Caldwell case and shooting a kid while protecting his partner. Yeah, the guy got jammed up with the department. But those mistakes didn’t add up to making him the scapegoat for everything bad that had happened in homicide twelve years earlier.
Hayes stared down into his inky coffee. “If he finds out it’s not his ex-wife in that grave-”
“It’s her, for chrissakes! He fuckin’ identified her. Why the hell are you playing fuckin’ devil’s advocate?” From his chair at a table with the L.A. Times spread across it, Bledsoe pointed at the carafe in Hayes’s hands. “Any more in that?”
“Empty.”
“Shit.”
“You could make some more,” Martinez suggested as she walked into the kitchen and rinsed out her cup.
“Yeah, right.” Bledsoe snorted at the idea.
“Have you ever made the coffee?” she demanded.
“Yeah, I think so…back in ninety-seven,” Bledsoe said with a snicker.
Paula Sweet, a detective who sometimes worked with the K-9 Division, swept into the lunchroom. “I remember that.” In her mid-thirties, Sweet had been divorced twice, seemed content to be on her own, and was known to take in stray dogs and cats. She glanced at Martinez. “Believe me, you don’t want Bledsoe anywhere near the coffeepot.”
