Malice (27 page)

“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.

T
hrough the window, Olivia noticed a patrol car rolling slowly along the country road that ran past her home.

Out here. In the middle of no-damned-where. The road was quite a distance from the house, barely visible through the trees, yet she recognized that the cruiser belonged to the City of New Orleans.

Great.
So Bentz was running a security patrol clear out here. While he was looking for his damned ex-wife in California.

After she’d told him she’d be fine. She grabbed the phone and placed a call, but, as expected, he didn’t pick up.
Typical
. Whenever he was on a case, he was hard to reach. That part she understood. His whole fascination with the ghostly Jennifer was the thing that bugged her.

Yet he’d obviously called in a few favors to have the police drive by the house. He was just such a control freak when it came to security. No doubt because of his line of work. He’d seen the worst of human nature and cruelty time and time again. Not to mention the times that danger had hit close to home, when she and Kristi each had been victims of madmen.

She sighed, releasing some of her indignation.

Maybe the security detail wasn’t such a bad idea.

After all, she
had
received some harassing calls.

She poured herself a cup of tea, walked into the den, and logged on to the computer. She’d already scouted out the best deals on flights to the West Coast and had found one that would be perfect. It left this afternoon, putting her in L.A. around 7
P.M
. Just in time to take Bentz to dinner and give him the news that he was going to be a daddy again.

She clicked on the Web site and found the reservation that she’d placed on hold. With another click of the mouse, she purchased the ticket. One more click and the e-ticket was printed and in her hand. She had about four hours to pack and get herself to the airport, and then she was off to Los Angeles.

She’d already asked Tawilda, who knew where the spare key was hidden, to stay at the house for a couple of days and look after Hairy and Chia. The only loose end was letting her husband know she was coming, and that was proving difficult. She’d tried to reach Bentz this morning and had come up dry. He hadn’t answered his cell phone and when she’d called the motel, she’d been a little alarmed when the clerk told her that he’d checked out.

Why?

Was he switching to another motel?

Was he coming home?

Or flying off somewhere else?

She didn’t want to travel all the way to L.A. only to find out he’d flown to Seattle, or Boston, or Timbuktu. The fact that he’d checked out of his motel bothered her.

She tried him again and the call switched immediately to voice mail.

It was time they had a heart-to-heart. Before he got into too much trouble.

“Oh, Rick,” she sighed, carrying her cooling tea onto the veranda. The dog was on her heels, the smell of the bayou thick in the mist rising between the cottonwoods and cypress. A mockingbird was trilling softly, a heavy breeze fluttering the leaves and teasing at her hair.

She loved it here and, damn it, so did her husband.

So it was time he quit chasing after ghosts and come home where he belonged.

Before some other innocent woman was killed.

Montoya couldn’t believe his eyes. He stared at the computer screen on his desk and whispered, “Gotcha.”

“Got who?” Brinkman asked on his way to the kitchen with his empty coffee mug. He paused at Montoya’s desk, his interest piqued.

“Nothing.” Montoya wasn’t going to confide in the one detective he despised—Brinkman, with his thick glasses and a horseshoe of dark hair around his freckled pate. The guy did his job, but he was a pain in the butt know-it-all. One of those guys who had all the answers. Montoya couldn’t stand him. “It’s personal.”

“Yeah, right. Probably has to do with Bentz getting himself into trouble in L.A.” Brinkman’s eyebrows arched above the rims of his glasses. “Oh, you didn’t think I knew about it? It’s all over the department.” He snorted in his irritatingly supercilious way, then took the hint and strolled toward the kitchen. No doubt to bug the living shit out of the next person he ran into.

Montoya watched him leave, then cooled off slightly as he looked back at his monitor. There it was, the answer to the puzzle, or at least the start of the answer. Hopefully this was the tiny thread that, if tugged gently, would cause the whole carefully knotted mystery to unravel.

After days of fruitless research, following up on the information Bentz had gathered and looking for a lead, he had caught a break. Court records indicated that Ramona Salazar’s next of kin was her brother Carlos.

Carlos Salazar…now Montoya just had to find the guy. He checked Salazar’s address of record and, when that didn’t work, he started sifting through phone and address records. After five calls to people who told him he had the wrong number, he hit pay dirt.

“This is Carlos,” a man answered in a thick Spanish accent.

“Do you know a Ramona Maria Salazar?”

“Yes, I was the brother of Ramona, rest her soul,” Carlos said without a second’s hesitation. “Who wants to know?”

Montoya almost came out of his desk chair. He identified himself, then spoke in Spanish for a few seconds, assuring the man he was a police officer with the New Orleans Police Department. He told Salazar that he was working with the LAPD on a case involving a 1999 silver four-door Chevrolet Impala. That was a bit of a stretch, but the old man seemed to buy it, especially when he gave him the license number. “So, what I need to know is, did you inherit this car from your sister?”

“Sí, I did.”

“And do you have that car with you now?”

“Oh, no, I sold it to my cousin’s son, Sebastian. For his wife,” the old man said.

“Does she still have it?”

“I think so.” But he didn’t sound sure, as if he were second-guessing the strange caller, worried about giving out so much information over the phone.

“The car is still registered to your sister?”

“I…I never bothered with the paperwork. I thought Sebastian would take care of it, but he’s very busy…” Carlos’s voice faded and he sounded even more uncertain now, as if he’d realized he was making a mistake and was going to stonewall any more questions from Montoya.

“It’s okay. I’m just trying to locate the vehicle. We think it was used in a crime.”

“
Dios,
” Carlos whispered, then turned his head away from the phone and rattled something off in Spanish. It was muffled; Montoya only caught a few words that indicated he was worried. Another voice responded—a woman’s voice—but he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

After the rapid-fire conversation, Carlos returned to the phone. “I think it is still with Yolanda.”

“That’s her name? Yolanda?” Montoya quickly wrote down the information.

“Yes, yes, Sebastian’s wife.”

“Do they live near you?”

“No…they own a place in Encino. Look, if there is a problem, you need to talk to them. I have a bill of sale for the car. I have done nothing wrong.”

“No problem,” Montoya assured him. “Just give me their phone number and address.”

Carlos balked. “I don’t think I should be talking to you.”

“Does your cousin’s boy have a problem with the police?”

“No. They are good people. Leave them alone. The deal was legal. I will see that the car is registered.” He hung up before Montoya could get any more information from him.

Still, it was a start. Montoya tried to call Bentz with the information, but once again he couldn’t reach his partner. Montoya left a short message on Bentz’s voice mail and said he’d keep digging. He felt the same adrenaline rush that surged through his blood any time he made progress on a particularly vexing case. Damn if he wasn’t getting closer.

For his next trick, he was going to locate Yolanda Salazar.

Could she be the woman who was haunting Bentz by pretending to be his ex-wife?

If so, the jig was just about up.

Make the call,
Bentz told himself as he studied the woman who resembled his ex-wife. He should have dialed the police ten minutes ago when he first spotted her. Let them lock her up and end the ruse now.

But he didn’t want to let her out of her sight until he had what he’d come for…

Answers.

Answers she promised to give him, if he would just indulge her in a short ride.

“If you want the truth, I’ll tell you on the way to Point Fermin,” she said, folding her arms. “After that, after you and I talk alone, then I’ll go with you to the police station. But if you call the police now, I’ll lawyer up and you’ll never know the truth.”

He didn’t like it, didn’t trust her. “I don’t think so.” He pulled his cell from his pocket. “I’m calling the cops now. I’ve got a friend in Homicide who wants to talk to you.”

“He can talk all he wants, but I won’t tell him anything. Stop the call now, RJ, or else you’ll never know.” Her lips twisted in that Jennifer way as she pointed at his cell phone. “You’ll never know the truth. And it will eat you alive.”

God, she knew how to play him.

But then she always had.

Reluctantly, he agreed. After all, he had the gun. She couldn’t get away. However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t anxious, that he didn’t hear the nagging voice in his head scolding him for being a fool.

“I’ll drive,” he said, unlocking her car. “You can ride shotgun.” He retrieved his gun and shoulder holster from his bag, strapped it on, then tossed his luggage into the back. As he slid into the driver’s seat of her car, he tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong. This was not the way a suspect was transported, but then, here in L.A., he was not a cop working a case. Just a man playing out some surreal nightmare.

She gazed at his weapon and pursed her full lips. “Nice.” Her voice dripped sarcasm, but she didn’t seem particularly rattled. In fact, he thought as he drove toward the airport exit, she sat beside him with the assurance of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

And that made all the more wary. Was she was leading him into some kind of trap?

He had to stay on alert. Ready.

But it was weird as hell. Her profile was so like Jennifer’s—straight nose, deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and sharp chin. She was the right size, too, but she looked as if she was closer to thirty-five than forty-five, and he would have bet that it wasn’t due to any kind of plastic surgery.

For the thousandth time he wondered if this whole scenario had been planned, an intricately molded ruse to get him into the car and to Point Fermin. Either way, he wasn’t scared. Intrigued, yes. Concerned, definitely. But not in fear for his life, which might have been just plain stupid.

He knew the route from memory, from the many times he and Jennifer had ventured this way. He didn’t bother with the freeway, instead driving south on the surface streets to the Palos Verdes peninsula that rose high over the sea.

Beside him, she rolled down her window and released her ponytail, letting the wind rush through her hair. “Remember the lighthouse?” she asked, casting him a knowing look.

His throat turned to sand as he recalled the way Jennifer had stripped off her blouse near the white Victorian house with its distinctive cupola and red roof. It had been twilight in winter, the park nearly empty. She’d laughed at his reaction, then had turned and run barefoot through the trees of the grassy park. By the time he had caught up with her, he had been breathless with exertion and anticipation. There in the shade of a spreading tree they had made love just after the sun had set over the Pacific.

“Yeah, I thought you would,” she said with a naughty grin.

How did she know these things? he wondered as he guided the Chevy up the steep road that wound over the cliffs overlooking the ocean. To the west was the vast Pacific. To the east, huge houses with sparkling stucco facades and swimming pools crowded the hillside.

She kept the window down, letting the soft breeze over the Pacific Ocean seep into the warm car, the wind tangling her auburn tresses.

The ocean was a valley of blue stretching forever west. Sunlight sparkled on the surface, waves rolling and crashing to the shore far below. A few vessels were visible on the horizon.

Bentz told himself to snap out of it; he refused to be a part of her twisted fantasy. He was here to get answers.

“So really, who are you?” he asked, his elbow pressing against his ribs, subconsciously checking the weight of the weapon stowed there.

Over the rush of wind she flashed him a smug look.

“You’re
not
Jennifer.”

One of her dark eyebrows lifted, silently disagreeing. “Is that what you think?”

“She’s dead. About to be exhumed.”

She shrugged. “Then you’ll know,” she said in that breathy voice that could well be his ex-wife’s.

Know what? That you’re a fraud?
He wanted to snap at her, but the salt from the ocean spray and the scent of her perfume gave him pause, brought back vivid memories of a time he’d tried so hard to forget.

“So talk,” he said, trying to focus on his purpose. “Who killed Shana McIntyre and Lorraine Newell?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure.”

“Really,” she insisted.

“You’re saying their deaths are unrelated to your…reappearance?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, then, what do you know?”

“That this is getting more complicated than I thought. More dangerous.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

He watched as she swallowed hard, her fingers curling tight over the seat belt. She was finally nervous. Good. Bentz kept his hands steady on the wheel, determined to pin her down.

“How did you know Ramona Salazar?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The last registered owner of this car. How do you know her? How did you get this damned vehicle?”

“It was a gift.”

“From whom?”