by Lisa Jackson
Hayes stretched his neck and rotated his shoulders in an attempt to dispel some of the tension mounting in his upper back. Between his caseload and his ex-wife’s most recent custody demands, he needed a break. He used to have time to run or play pickup ball, but lately he’d been too busy to squeeze in a workout.
He reviewed the information he knew about the McIntyre murder. The department had gotten the call around eight in the morning, when the maid had found a very dead Shana McIntyre face up in the pool. The maid had dialed 9-1-1; a uniformed cop had responded, then called in RHD.
Hayes and Bledsoe had caught the case and arrived about the same time as SID, the Scientific Investigation Division, rolled up. Of course a T.V. camera crew showed up shortly thereafter.
Shana McIntyre hadn’t just hit her head on the side of the pool, though there was blood on the tile near the stairs. The bruising at her throat and other evidence suggested that she’d been attacked.
Later, while searching the place, they’d found his-and-hers laptop computers in the den. The pink Mac had been logged onto Shana’s calendar, where Bentz’s name had appeared in capital letters.
“Interesting,” Bledsoe had remarked. “The guy’s in town less than a week and three people are dead. Two vics of the Twenty-one and now this woman has him on her calendar. Bentz is batting a thousand.”
Hayes hadn’t been so quick to judge. “You don’t think he had anything to do with the Springer twins’ murders.”
Bledsoe had glowered at Shana McIntyre’s monitor. “Didn’t think so. But this one…” He’d scratched at his chin and looked up over the rims of his reading glasses. “I don’t know. Look, I’ve never pegged Bentz as a killer. But something’s off, Hayes. You and I both know it, and somehow it’s connected to the fact that good ol’ Ricky Boy is back in L.A.”
On that point, Hayes didn’t disagree.
The husband, Leland McIntyre, who drove back from Palm Springs, had seemed genuinely upset. He had an alibi, but then murder-for-hire wasn’t an impossibility. An insurance broker, Leland McIntyre had taken out a whopper of a policy on his wife, over two million dollars. Then there was the list of her ex-husbands and the previous Mrs. McIntyre, Isabella, who, if you could believe the neighbors, had held a grudge against Shana for stealing her husband. It was hard to tell. There were so many ex-wives and husbands in the mix, it nearly took a flowchart to keep them all straight.
And all the suspects from dysfunctional relationships didn’t change the fact that Rick Bentz had visited Shana only days before her death. He’s in town less than a week, and she ends up dead.
The last person to see Shana alive was the gardener, earlier in the afternoon. The final call on her cell phone had been to her husband in Palm Springs. The phone records for her cell, the husband’s cell, and the home phone were already being checked.
No signs of forced entry at the house, but the killer had probably climbed the gate and walked around the house. Of course there were four security cameras in and around the house, but they had been inoperable for years.
No break there.
The McIntyre homicide was a tough one, Hayes thought, even if you pulled Bentz from the pool of suspects.
Damned Bentz. He was proving to be a real pain in the ass. Still, Hayes would give Bentz the benefit of the doubt and track down some of the information Bentz wanted. There was a chance it might even help with the case.
Just as soon as he fought his way through the statements and evidence of this latest crime.
He glanced at the clock again and figured it would be a long one. If he was lucky, he’d be home at midnight. Great. He glanced down and a note on his calendar caught his eye: Recital. Oh, hell, Maren was singing tonight at some church near Griffith Park in Hollywood. Hayes had promised his daughter he would attend and he couldn’t stand facing her disappointment or Delilah’s scowl of disgust. He had to show up. Somehow he’d take off an hour for the kid.
It was, as Delilah was always delighted to remind him, his responsibility.
Montoya was sweating, his muscles aching from running on the indoor track for half an hour, then working out on the weight machines-a new exercise regimen his wife had initiated by giving him a membership to a gym for his birthday. Yeah, it was a great stress reliever, and yeah, he was more toned, but this new “healthy” lifestyle was about to kill him. After all, what was wrong with a smoke and a beer?
On the way to the locker room he waved to a couple of guys he knew, then showered, letting the hot water run over his body before he toweled off. He dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, then slipped his arms through his leather jacket and headed out.
Into the warm Louisiana rain.
Fat drops pounded the parking lot as he dashed to his Mustang, unlocking it with his keyless remote on the fly. Nearly soaked again, he considered driving straight home, where Abby was waiting, but decided to detour to the office to check on the information he’d requested for Bentz. Having seen the press release about the latest L.A. murder, he didn’t want to delay.
“Damn,” he said, flipping on his wipers. Bentz was in trouble. Montoya could feel it. People were dying. People somehow connected to his partner.
Streetlights glowed, casting shimmering blue pools of illumination on the pavement as he nosed his car into the street and pushed the speed limit, running amber lights, thinking about Bentz in California.
The guy was stirring up trouble.
But then, that wasn’t exactly a news flash.
Though Montoya had thought Bentz was out of his mind, the events of the last few days had proved him wrong. Bentz might be stirring the pot, but something was hiding just beneath the surface, something murky and decidedly evil. It was all Montoya could do not to buy an airline ticket and fly out. He had some vacation time he could use. Abby would understand. She always did. But he hadn’t been invited. This mess in California was Bentz’s private deal. He was figuring out his own past, exorcising his own damned demons. If he wanted his partner’s help, Bentz wouldn’t be shy about asking.
And yet, what if Bentz needed help and didn’t realize it? What if he were getting in over his head. Jesus, the man was an idiot where women were concerned.
Taking a corner fast enough to make his tires squeal, Montoya slowed a bit to call Abby.
“How’s my favorite detective?” she asked.
“Fine as ever,” he lied.
“Still have a tiny ego, I see.”
“It just needs a little stroking.”
“Your ego? That’s what you’re talking about?”
“Naughty woman.”
“And you love it.”
She was right. They both knew it. “Look, I’m gonna be running a little late,” he said as he drove past the Superdome and had to stop for a red light. People with umbrellas dashed across the crosswalk and splashed through puddles.
“Let me guess, Hotshot. You’re officially off the clock, so now you’re going to work for nothing for Bentz.”
“Something like that.”
“Should I wait up?” she’d said with a trace of sarcasm.
“Might be a good idea.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.” The light turned green. He hung up chuckling. She was the first woman who’d been able to give as well as she got, and he loved that about her. As the police band crackled and the wipers slapped the rain from the windshield, he drove through the city to the station. Easing into an available parking slot, he cut the engine. Turning his collar against the downpour, he raced into the building and up the stairs.
The squad room was quiet, only a few detectives were still working, most having already called it a day. Montoya sat at his desk, fired up his computer, and searched his e-mail for the documents he’d requested.
Sure enough, a few answers had come in, answers he hoped would help Bentz. He checked the wall clock: 8:47, not even 7 P.M. on the West Coast. He dialed quickly and Bentz picked up on the third ring.
“Bentz.”
“Not good. Shana McIntyre was murdered.”
“I heard.”
“Yeah, well, the LAPD isn’t happy.” Bentz’s voice was tense.
“No one is. Look, I might have some information for you. I’ll send it via e-mail, but thought you might want to hear it directly.”
“Shoot.”
“The long and the short of it is that Elliot, our resident computer whiz, went to town with the information you gave me on the parking pass, partial license plate numbers, and car description.”
“Did he get any hits?”
“Bingo. The god of all things technical just sent me the information. Says he sifted through federal, state, and private records to find it.”
“Lay it on me.”
Montoya scanned the monitor. “So the silver Chevy that’s been dogging you could be a vehicle once owned by an employee of Saint Augustine’s Hospital. Her name was Ramona Salazar.”
“Was?”
“Yeah, that’s the kicker. She died about a year ago.”
A beat. Then Bentz asked, “What happened to the car?”
“Still registered to her.”
“Got an address?”
“Yeah, but it’s the old one where she lived when she was still alive. The car could have been sold, but whoever bought it never bothered registering it.”
“I wonder why.”
“Me too. Someone might be using her ID, or some family member could be driving the vehicle even though it’s still in her name.”
“I’ll find out.”
“Good. And I’ve got some info on a few astrologers named Phyllis, nothing concrete. There’s a Phyllis Mandabi who reads tarot cards in Long Beach,” Montoya said, checking his notes. “And there was an astrologer who practiced in Hollywood about fifteen years ago-Phyllis Terrapin. She left there for Tucson, got married, and doesn’t have her shingle, if that’s what you want to call it, out any longer.”
“Got it.”
“And you shouldn’t have any problem finding Alan Gray. He’s still a big shot in the Los Angeles area. Got a new firm though, named ACG Investments. He’s the CEO.”
“Thanks.” Bentz said. “I already tracked him to ACG, but haven’t figured out what he’s into.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Great. You did good.”
“I know,” Montoya said, and with a few clicks of his mouse, forwarded all of the information to Bentz’s personal e-mail address. He was about to hang up, but said, “Hey, Bentz?”
“Yeah?”
“Watch your ass.”
CHAPTER 23
She’s dead!
As I shake a fresh pitcher of martinis, I give myself a pat on the back for how neatly the killing went off. Without a goddamned hitch. Despite those miserable yapping little dogs.
That bitch Shana never knew what hit her.
Her reaction, a look of surprise melding into a mask of sheer horror, was priceless. Our eyes met for a heartbeat, then I sent her reeling and fumbling and splashing into the water.
Perfect!
I hum to myself as I add a little vermouth, very dry, just a whiff, then pour myself a drink.
Bentz is sweating now, I know. He’s wondering about the trap he’s fallen into, searching for a way out. What a joke. His little stunt at the pier followed up by Shana’s unexpected, and oh, so unfortunate, death.
“Boo-hoo,” I whisper aloud.
Smiling to myself, I dig in the refrigerator, find a jar of olives, and drop two into my glass. Drab green, stuffed with pimento, they dance in the clear liquid and slide to the side. Like little eyeballs staring at me.
“Proud of me?” I ask the drink, then take a sip. “Ummm. De-lish!”
I pluck one olive from the glass and suck the pimento from it, savoring the taste and smell of gin as I walk into the living room and drop into my favorite chair.
I taped the news coverage of Shana McIntyre’s death and I play it over and over, listening to that imbecilic reporter, Joanna Quince from KMOL, trying to stutter her way through the story.
“Idiot,” I say to the TV, dangling the other olive over my mouth as Joanna tries to pronounce McIntyre. “It’s Mac-En-Tire,” I say, irritated. I’ve watched it three times before, waiting for the on-camera flub and it grates on my nerves. “Shana would be soooo upset if she heard you screwing up,” I say to Joanna, and that’s the truth. Shana was so proud of stealing Leland away from his first wife. It seemed that getting him down the aisle was payback for the same thing happening to her.
“What goes around, comes around,” I say, then click off the moronic reporter and think about the next one who will have to suffer a similar fate to Shana’s.
It should happen soon, I think, to make my point.
Yes, sooner better than later.
So that everyone understands that the latest spate of killings are not coincidence, that they are directly tied to Rick Bentz.
I already know who will be the next traitor to be sacrificed, and this one will be child’s play. It could happen as quickly as tonight.
That’s an appealing thought, and it could work. After all, I’ve planned it for so long. Another long sip of the cool martini. But I’ll just have one. For now. Later, I can have another for my next celebration.
I’m tingling inside, anticipation sliding through my body. How long I’ve waited, but oh, it was worth it. That old quote about revenge being best served up cold was right on the money.
So, so true.
I finish my drink, savoring the last drop. Bottoms up! Lowering the glass, I get to work. I’ll need to make a phone call before I leave and then…oh, yeah, and then…
The fun is just beginning.
Ramona Salazar.
The name rang no bells for Bentz, none whatsoever.
Using his damned cane and feeling his knee twinge, he walked the short distance from the sandwich shop to his motel in the new shoes he’d picked up at a store in Marina del Rey. Like everything else in this part of the world, the loafers were outrageously expensive. He could easily go broke trying to find out if his ex-wife was dead or alive.
At least he had a name to start with, a lead, if a very shaky one. He had spent the afternoon staked out in his motel room between the television and his laptop, taking notes as information about Shana McIntyre was released. Old footage of her wealthy husband had flashed across the screen, and Bentz had taken note, knowing that the husband was always at the top of a suspect list.
But real detective work entailed more than watching news reports on KMOL or Googling Leland McIntyre, and frustration was beginning to burn in his gut. He hated having his hands tied like this. When Montoya had called, he’d been relieved to have another venue to investigate.
Ramona Salazar.
It was already twilight, the sun setting in the west, the noise of the San Diego Freeway resounding off the hills as he reached the parking lot of the So-Cal. Closer he heard the sound of water splashing. He guessed more than a couple kids were in the interior pool judging from the cacophony of the whoops, hollers, and laughter reaching him.
Vaguely he registered that the car belonging to the old man who owned Spike was missing. He hitched his way along the porch, unlocked the door to his room, and walked inside. It was just as uninviting as ever.
“Home,” he said sarcastically as he placed his cane near the door and dropped his food onto the desk. According to Montoya, Ramona Salazar had died about a year earlier. Bentz powered up his laptop and opened up some kind of wrap sandwich he’d picked up just before Montoya called. The “Californian,” as it was so imaginatively named-a green tortilla slathered in some kind of lemon/Dijon sauce and filled with free-range smoked turkey, whatever the hell that really meant, a slice of pepper-jack cheese, avocados, tomatoes, and sprouts. It was all pretty damned bland, but he barely noticed as he clicked onto his e-mail and found the information Montoya had forwar
ded.
Sure enough, Romana Salazar was connected to the car, at least he’d hoped this was the right woman and the right car. Otherwise he was back to square one.
He didn’t have a printer, but figured he might be able to use the “business office,” which was really just a small PC for guests shoved to the side of the registration desk in the So-Cal office. Rebecca would be on duty, and she’d told him he could use the ancient desktop and printer any time. As long as she was around and her son Tony wasn’t online playing computer games behind his mother’s back.
First up, he thought, connecting with a search engine and typing in Ramona Salazar’s name, he’d collect any and all information he could find on the woman, including her obituary.
If he was barking up the wrong tree, so be it.
At least he finally had a scent to follow.
Maren sang like the proverbial lark, her mezzo voice rising to the rafters of the little church in Hollywood. Hayes focused on his daughter’s shiny face in the rows of Miss Bette’s students as they sang as an ensemble for several songs, harmonizing on an old spiritual, then rocking out with songs from the eighties and nineties. Hayes recognized a few Michael Jackson numbers and a couple by Elton John.
After the group sang and harmonized, each of the students individually sang solos on the small, old-fashioned stage that looked like it had come right off the set of Little House on the Prairie.
Hayes had slipped into the little church in Hollywood late, caught a disapproving glare from Delilah, then turned his cell phone to “silent.” From that moment on, he’d listened raptly while his daughter, at least in his opinion, outshined everyone.
The singers were all were coached by the same statuesque African-American woman who accompanied each either at the piano or on an acoustic guitar. Hayes suffered through the individual performances. All of the kids could carry a tune alright, but none of them could hope to make it past the first round of an American Idol competition no matter what their proud, smiling, nearly smug parents who filled the pews thought. Well, except Maren, of course. She was the star. Hayes figured he was as bad as the other proud mamas and papas, except, his daughter really was talented.
