Bentz woke up with a bitter taste in his mouth and a strong resolve to get home in his gut. What the hell was he doing in Los Angeles when Olivia was being threatened in New Orleans?
He’d only gotten a few hours’ sleep, but in the light of day the cheap motel room looked more alien and inhospitable than ever. Why was he still here, chasing some impersonator when his wife needed him back home, was possibly in jeopardy?
Still in bed, Bentz reached for his cell phone on the nightstand and called Jonas Hayes. The call switched to voice mail, and he left a message that he was out of here, headed home. Easing out of bed, Bentz knew it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do.
He dragged himself into the shower and stood in the hot stream of water, ignoring the razor. Then, feeling almost alive, he wrapped a towel around his waist and started slamming clothes into his bag. He knew leaving L.A. wasn’t a great idea. It would look suspicious if, after all his protests about being innocent, he took a jet out of California the day after Lorraine’s body had been discovered.
Too bad.
He’d spent most of the night and the early morning hours laying out his notes at Hayes’s office in the Center. So now LAPD was officially in charge of the investigation of Jennifer’s death. Jonas had made a copy of everything, including his photographs, his list of Jennifer’s acquaintances, plate numbers, addresses, and phone contacts. Bentz had given them a blow-by-blow of the events that had happened since he’d landed in Los Angeles less than a week earlier.
“You sure cut a big swath,” Bledsoe had observed, his smile twisted when he’d arrived for the morning shift. “Anyone who talks to you ends up dead.”
“Up yours, Bledsoe,” Bentz had said, his hackles up. “Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to kill Lorraine, then call the police?”
“I just think you bring a string of bad luck, that’s all.” Bledsoe had backed down a bit.
Dawn Rankin had showed up at the station just as Bentz had been leaving. She’d managed a cool smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. But that was expected. She and Bentz had been lovers and their breakup years before hadn’t gone well.
At all.
Their affair had been hot, stormy, and cut short because of Jennifer. Dawn had never forgiven him and made no bones about it. That she had smiled at all was something.
While at the station he’d also passed on the name of Jennifer’s dentist, in case Hayes could manage to get the body exhumed. Finally, some progress. Now, rubbing a towel over his wet hair, Bentz wondered if Jennifer’s X-rays would match the teeth of the remains buried in that coffin. One way or the other at least one question would finally be resolved…
Before crashing this morning Bentz had called Montoya and left a message asking his partner to check on Olivia until he returned. Then Bentz had put in a call to Melinda Jaskiel, his superior, asking for home surveillance. Though he and Olivia lived outside the city of New Orleans’ limits, he had enough friends in the department that someone would check on her.
Olivia would be mad, of course. She thought she could handle herself, but things were getting dangerous and he didn’t like the thought of her being alone, even if she was nearly two thousand miles away from the recent killings. Before falling asleep early this morning Bentz had thought that would cover things, take care of Olivia.
But no, after a few hours he realized he needed to get home, needed to make sure Olivia was safe. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t return to California, but for now he needed to physically reassure himself of her safety. Who knew what this psycho had in mind? The psycho who’d reached out to Olivia over the phone…
He wasn’t going to take any chances.
He would fly home and see his wife in the flesh. Make love to her. Reaffirm his life with her. He even thought fleetingly of her need to have a child and did the mental calculations all over again. Hell, he’d be over sixty when the kid graduated from college.
So what? You can retire in ten or fifteen years and enjoy watching the kid grow up. Would that be so bad?
No. But the truth was he couldn’t imagine retiring any more than he could wrap his mind around starting all over again with a baby.
He finished packing up his gear, placed his shoulder holster and pistol inside the bag with his clothes, then unhooked his computer and slid it into its case. The last thing, of course, was the damned cane. He wanted to throw it into the trash, but instead hauled it with him. With one last cursory glance around the shabby room, he closed the door.
After checking out of the motel, he drove to LAX through traffic that slowed and stalled while the Pacific sun battled through the smog to beat through the windshield. Time seemed to stand still and he was crawling out of his skin.
Now that he’d made the decision to return home, he found himself impatient, anxious to get there. Some of his irritability could be attributed to lack of sleep, he supposed, and the fear that two women had just died because he had come to Los Angeles. But truth to tell, his underlying sense of urgency was all about seeing that Olivia was safe.
The minutes dragged, but he finally saw the airport tower, then Encounters restaurant, the landmark for LAX. “It’s about time,” he muttered under his breath.
He turned in the rental car and hauled his things into the terminal to buy his ticket. Inside, the terminal was crawling with travelers, the lines to the counter snaking around to the door. Serves you right for not buying a ticket online, he thought.
Bentz told himself to hold on, be patient. He’d get on the next plane, though the only daily nonstop flight had already departed. He chose the airline on which he’d flown west, getting into what had seemed a short line. But, of course, there was a holdup. Slowly he inched forward behind a woman in tight jeans and a short jacket, a cell phone glued to her ear, a designer bag at her feet. Every so often she would nudge the carry-on forward with the pointed toe of a boot. The protest from inside the bag came in the form of a nasty little yip. “Just a sec,” Tight Jeans would say into the phone. Then she’d look down at the bag and coo, “It’s okay, Sherman.”
Sherman didn’t think so and yapped all the louder. Through mesh in the top of the bag, Bentz watched the dog spin crazily within his confines as Tight Jeans went back to her phone conversation. It would be just his luck if dog and owner ended up flying to New Orleans in the seat next to him. Not that it really mattered, as long as he got home.
The woman in front of him reached the ticket counter and clicked off her phone. “We’ve got a big problem,” she began, her tone already a challenge. “This ticket is all wrong. If I connect through Cincinnati, I won’t get to Savannah in time for my cousin’s rehearsal dinner. I need a direct flight.”
“I don’t think we have any directs to Savannah, but let me see what I can do,” the rep for the airline said and began typing on her keyboard.
Bentz shifted from one leg to the other and glanced down the length of the crowded terminal, past knots of people lugging backpacks, roller bags, or suitcases. A teenager toted an odd-sized guitar case while three men pulled what appeared to be golf bags. Near the doors, an attendant pushed an older man in a wheelchair past a solitary woman standing before the departure and arrival information board. Her face was tipped up as she searched the monitors. A beautiful familiar face.
Bentz froze.
She was the spitting image of Jennifer.
Don’t even think it!
But she stood there, eyeing the large screen through her sunglasses.
No way. Not now.
“No, that won’t work, either,” Tight Jeans was whining as if from a distance as Bentz squinted, trying to control his thundering pulse.
He told himself he was imagining things, conjuring up her image because he was leaving town. But as he stared the tanned woman with her coppery-brown hair pulled into a ponytail glanced toward him, the hint of a smile on her lips.
His felt as if a ghost had walked across his soul.
Then she turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction. White shorts, pink, tight, sleeveless T-shirt, shimmery flip-flops.
It could be anyone. A tourist on her way to Disneyland. Someone picking up family members. A woman waiting for a delayed flight.
Or someone pretending to be Jennifer. His long-dead ex-wife.
“Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath and broke away from the line to follow her. He couldn’t let her get away now-this imposter who’d been playing with him. Especially now that she was linked to the deaths of at least Shana McIntyre and Lorraine Newell, maybe even the Springer twins.
She looked over her shoulder again and his heart nearly stopped. If she wasn’t Jennifer, she was his ex-wife’s long-lost twin.
He dropped his cane near a trash receptacle and walked even faster, keeping up with her long strides as she disappeared amid a cluster of travelers. Faster and faster, pulling his damned roller bag with the computer case balanced atop it as she headed for an outside door. He wanted to drop his luggage, but couldn’t. His gun was tucked into his bag and he couldn’t risk leaving it.
She slipped through a group of Asian tourists moving down another terminal.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he whispered, keeping her in his sights. Adrenaline surging through his blood, he wended through the throng of travelers, cutting between a handful of Goth teenagers and a matronly woman with cheetah-print bags.
What the hell was “Jennifer” doing here?
Reeling you in, you moron. It’s no coincidence that she’s here at the airport, waiting in the same terminal. She had it planned.
But how had she known he’d come? What was this ridiculous cat-and-mouse game? The bait. The tease. Never letting him get too close, always lingering just out of his reach.
Murder, Bentz. She’s up to her beautiful eyeballs in murder.
She made it to the exterior doors, but Bentz was gaining on her, breathing hard. He was nearly jogging now, his heart pumping, his eyes trained on her. Without a word he swept past an airport police officer. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. He couldn’t risk being hauled in and questioned all the while knowing “Jennifer” was slipping away.
Nu-uh.
This time he was going to catch up with her.
Come hell or high water.
His damned leg was beginning to throb, but he gritted his teeth. As soon as the door closed behind her, he stepped through and dragged his luggage over the rough cement of the passenger pickup area.
Where the hell did she go? He stared past the smokers, the weary travelers sitting on benches, the people talking on cell phones and waiting for their rides. Airport security attendants waved cars on, trying to keep the traffic moving.
Then he spotted her, crossing to the short-term parking lot. She moved out of the shade and into the bright sunlight. Bentz hurried after her, nearly tripping as his bag caught on the edge of the curb.
“Hey!” he shouted. But she strode on, cutting through the parked cars baking in the sun, not once looking over her shoulder. “Hey! Jennifer!”
She sped up, digging inside her purse. A moment later keys flashed in her hand.
Bentz scanned the parking lot ahead and spotted the car-the silver Chevy Impala with a faded parking permit.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, he sprinted now, his luggage jerking along beside him. “Stop!”
Frantically, she was unlocking the door.
Dropping his luggage beside the Impala’s bumper, Bentz lunged and stripped the keys from her hand. “Not a chance.” Breathing hard, he stared at her through sweat beading between his brows.
Who was this woman, this younger version of his ex-wife? Flesh and blood; no unearthly wraith.
She tried to get by him, but he blocked her exit by filling the space between her car and the minivan parked next to it. “Who the hell are you?” The smell of her perfume, gardenias, permeated the air and messed with his mind, but he refused to be seduced by the past. He was putting an end to this game, here and now.
She turned her beautiful face toward him and his insides turned to jelly. She looked so much like his ex-wife, she could have been Jennifer’s identical twin. Except that she was too young.
“I need my keys back,” she said firmly, without fear.
“Not yet, lady.” He grabbed her arm and held on tight, wanting to shake the truth from her.
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
“You are.”
“Me?” Her eyes narrowed in a scowl as she deliberately pulled her arm from his grasp.
For a millisecond he wondered if he’d made a mistake, if she really had no idea that she resembled Jennifer so closely. Except that she was in the same damned car he’d spotted in San Juan Capistrano and on the freeway. This woman had been dogging him.
“Give me back my keys,” she demanded as a man walking toward his car, jacket tossed over one shoulder, eyed them suspiciously.
Realizing that he might appear to be assaulting her, Bentz released her arm but stood his ground. “You’re not going anywhere.” He pushed her keys into his pants pocket.
“Do I have to call the police?” she said, and the man in the distance slowed down to watch.
“Great idea.” He pulled out his badge, flipped it open. “I am the police.”
That seemed to satisfy the man, who slung his jacket under one arm and kept walking. “But then you know that, don’t you?” Bentz pressed her.
Her glossy lips turned into a pouty frown.
“Hey, if this badge isn’t good enough, then we’ll talk to someone from L.A. Fine with me. We’ve all been looking for you.”
“Then you already know who I am?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting over the frames of her sunglasses.
“I know that you’re trying to play some sick mind game with me.”
“Is that so?”
“You’ve been taunting me, trying to make me think you’re my dead ex-wife.”
“You sound like a lunatic. Give me back my keys.”
“Not on your life.”
He flipped up her sunglasses and found himself staring into eyes as green and vibrant as Jennifer’s. And yet something was off, something not quite right.
His heart was pounding in his eardrums, a million questions sizzling through his mind. Who was she? Why was she doing this? Where had she come from? “Two women are dead because of you.”
Something flickered in her eyes and she pulled back slightly. “What? Dead? No.”
“Shana McIntyre, killed in her pool. You heard about it, right?”
She seemed genuinely shocked. “You think that I…? Oh, God, no. I had nothing to do with that.”
“And Lorraine Newell. You remember her?”
The look she gave him was blank, as if she’d never heard of the woman.
“She’s dead, too. Took a bullet to the head last night. Just after she called me about you. She spotted you last night, right before you killed her.”
She seemed slightly unnerved. “I don’t know anything about that.”
The faint trembling of her lower lip was convincing. But then he’d had a taste of her acting ability. “You and I, we need to go downtown.”
“What?”
“There are some people you need to talk to. Detectives who have some questions for you.”
She closed her eyes a second. “Listen RJ, I-”
“Why do you call me that?”
Her smile faded, and for a second she became Jennifer again. “Because it’s what I always called you. Don’t you remember?”
He almost bought her act. Almost. But he couldn’t believe her gall. “Are you really still trying to make me think you’re her?” he asked, dumbfounded that she would try to keep up the ruse. “Why the hell are you doing this? Why are you haunting me? What do you want? Why did you show up at my house?” Although Bentz was usually taciturn, preferring to let a suspect ramble on and on while he sat quietly, he couldn’t keep the questions that had been plaguing him from tumbling out of his mouth.
“At your house?”
“You remember-the cottage outside New Orleans?”
“What?”
“And the hospital…You were there, too. In the doorway. When I was waking up from the coma. And then again on the pier in Santa Monica. Oh, and yeah, at the old inn in San Juan Capistrano.”
She remained silent as a flock of pigeons scuttled to a landing on the pavement beyond her car. In his peripheral vision Bentz noticed them pecking at the street, then scattering as a car cruised by.
When she didn’t respond, he felt his fists clench in frustration. “You’ve been calling me, harassing my wife, and you’re a person of interest in two murder investigations. So that’s it. We’re taking a ride down to police headquarters.” He reached into his pocket for the Impala’s keys. “Get in. I’ll drive.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Not comfortable with that, Jennifer?”
“I, uh-” She looked away, across the tops of the vehicles, their windshields reflecting the bright glare as travelers scuttled in and out of the terminal.
Could he trust her? No way! But there were so many questions…
“All right. We do need to talk.”
“No shit.” He held the keys fast in his hand. His heart pounded like a drum and his thoughts spun in wild circles, nerve synapses jangling. Jesus, she looked like Jennifer. So much. She smelled like her and walked like her and teased like her. “So talk.”
A jet thundered overhead, its roar receding as it cut upward through the blue sky.
“Not here.”
“Here’s fine. Or, better yet, at the station.”
“I was thinking somewhere a little more…private.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“How about Point Fermin?” she asked, and one corner of her mouth lifted in a way that cut straight to his heart.
As it always had.
“Why there?” he asked, but he knew the answer. He and Jennifer used to take road trips past the old lighthouse. There’d been so many lazy afternoons strolling the acres of shaded lawns, finding secluded spots beyond the colorful gardens.
“Because, RJ, it’s special for us, isn’t it?” she said, her grin widening. “You must remember all the times we drove there, working our way down the coast. The picnics. The sunshine. The lovemaking.”
It was true…but how did she know? How could she recount the most intimate details of his life?
He squeezed her car keys so hard, the jagged metal edges cut into his palm. Now that he’d met this woman Bentz had more questions than answers.
But that was going to change. Starting now.
“So Bentz is gettin’ out of Dodge,” Bledsoe said, catching up with Hayes in the stairwell of the stationhouse. “I don’t like it.”
“You didn’t like it when he was in town, either. Face it, Bledsoe, nothing makes you happy.”
“The guy’s a prick and I wish he’d never shown up. But that was before he was connected to all these homicides. Now, I think he should stick around.” They reached the ground level of the station house and Hayes pushed open the door, the warmth of the afternoon a change from the air-conditioned interior of Parker Center. Outside, Bledsoe adjusted the waistband of his pants, hiking them up. Then he shook out a cigarette and offered the pack to Hayes, who declined.
“I quit, remember? When I married Delilah.”
“She’s history, isn’t she? Corrine won’t mind.”
He let that pass. For some reason Bledsoe seemed jealous of his relationship with Corrine. Why, Hayes couldn’t fathom, but Bledsoe’s enigmatic motives were usually best left unexplored.
Bledsoe lit up as they walked to the parking lot. “I just don’t get Bentz. He flies in here all whacked out about seeing ghosts, hangs out and stirs up trouble, and people start dying. Then, after he’s found at a murder scene, he decides to take off. Make sense to you?” he asked, drawing hard on his cigarette. “Or is it just a tad suspicious?”
“It’s not like he’s skipping the country.”
“Nah. Just L.A. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I can’t.” Hayes called over to Bledsoe, who had reached his convertible. Older BMW. The top was down, black leather interior baking in the sun. “You go over any of his notes?” Hayes asked.
“Yeah,” Bledsoe said grudgingly. “Saw what he got out of McIntyre and Newell. Looks like they didn’t think much of him, either. Our boy Bentz isn’t winning many popularity contests, but then he does seem to have more than one screw loose, if you know what I mean.”
“Anything else?”
“Just the same info he gave us before. The photographs, doctored death certificate, notes about a silver Chevy with an old parking tag for St. Augustine’s, and questions about Ramona Salazar, another dead woman.” He took another drag and let out a stream of smoke. “A whole lotta nothing, if you ask me. Unfortunately there wasn’t anything linking his being in town to the Springer twins’ homicides. At least nothing I’ve found so far.” Bledsoe crushed out the rest of his Marlboro on the pavement, then found a pair of sunglasses in his jacket pocket. He slid them onto his nose. “What I want to know is, if Bentz isn’t our killer, then who the hell is? This chick running around the city, chasing after him?”
“Could be.”
“The one helpful thing Bentz supplied was the plates and reg on the mystery woman’s car. Silver Impala registered to Ramona Salazar.”
“I’d like to find that car,” Hayes said.
“I’d like to find the driver,” Bledsoe amended. “Since the owner’s dead. See how Bentz’s mystery woman shakes out. Bentz said Lorraine Newell called him last night, claiming she spotted the Jennifer imposter. We’re checking the phone records now, but he’s too smart to lie about that. So, how did the murderer anticipate that?”
“Maybe the killer was there. Maybe it was a ploy to set up Bentz.”
“Have Newell call him, then off her?”
“He claims someone’s playing head games with him.”
“Head games my ass. They’re fuckin’ with him big-time.”
Hayes couldn’t agree more. He loosened his tie and squinted at the passing traffic. “You know we’re having him followed.”
“A lotta good that’ll do. So he goes to the damned airport. Turns in his car.” Bledsoe shook his head. “Talk about a waste of department funds. Better call our guys back.” Bledsoe opened the door to his car and slid inside. “You know, Hayes, this is all off. Nothin’ seems to fit. I talked to Alan Gray, another name on Bentz’s list. He’s in Vegas this week, had a hard time even remembering Jennifer Nichols Bentz.” He glanced up Hayes. “But then, a guy like that, with all his money, probably has more women than he knows what to do with.”
“Maybe.”
“Can’t expect him to remember them all.”
“Sure you can.”
Bledsoe fired up the BMW’s engine. “I should be so lucky.”
“Sometimes more women means more trouble.”
But Bledsoe didn’t hear his words of wisdom. He was already backing up to head out of the parking lot.
Hayes unlocked his 4Runner remotely, then climbed inside. He folded the sun visor and tossed it into the back, started the engine and adjusted the temperature as he drove out of the lot. He’d already phoned Fortuna Esperanzo, gotten no answer, and left a message, then contacted Tally White. He had set up a meeting with her later this afternoon.
Afterward, if things went well, he would be back in Culver City at the cemetery.
All the paperwork had been filed, the red tape cut. Jennifer Bentz’s former dentist was sending her records over. It looked like Bentz was finally going to get his wish of having his ex-wife’s body exhumed.
God only knew what they’d find.