Malice (36 page)

Bledsoe wasn’t finished. “I talked to everyone who knew the Springer twins, retraced their steps. We had officers questioning all the neighbors, friends, relatives. We tried to establish some kind of connection between them and the Caldwell twins, but came up with nada.” He rubbed his face with one hand. “Which brings me back to our ‘friend.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “And I use the term loosely when I call him a detective. This can’t be random.”

“Even if it’s not random, it doesn’t mean he’s the perp,” Martinez said. “If you want to pin it on him, you’ve got to come up with some proof, Bledsoe. Do your job.”

Just then Hayes spotted Rick Bentz, who strode into the squad room and made a beeline for his desk. “Looks like you’ll get a chance to ask him about it yourself.” Hayes smiled for the first time that day. “Knock yourself out.”

“I will.” Bledsoe stepped away from Hayes’s desk, making way for the detective from New Orleans. “Bentz,” he said by way of greeting.

Bentz was having none of it. He sent Bledsoe a scathing glance as he brandished a large manila envelope. “I received this at the motel this morning,” he said and dumped the contents of the envelope onto Hayes’s blotter. A photograph of a terrified woman staring through bars settled near his calendar.

Every muscle in Hayes’s body constricted.

Bentz looked over his shoulder to Bledsoe and said, “My wife.”

Martinez didn’t say a word, just stared at the frightened, captive woman.

“And this is a tape from the So-Cal Inn, where the package was left. The security camera caught a runner who dropped the envelope at the door and took off. I’m hoping you can check the local traffic cameras, find out if they photographed her image anywhere. Maybe caught her getting into a car.”

“Her?” Bledsoe said, his eyebrows becoming one line.

“I think so. The tape is inconclusive, but I thought you might be able to enhance it, get a close-up of the face, though it’s mainly turned away from the camera.”

“Another jogger,” Hayes said.

“That’s right. You can compare the image to the photo taken by the webcam at Santa Monica.” He shook his head. “As for the runner I saw on the street at Lorraine Newell’s house the night she was killed, I don’t know. It was too dark. But I’m willing to bet my badge that she’s involved.”

“Is this the woman who you drove up above Devil’s Caldron?”

“No.” Bentz appeared sure of that fact. “But, trust me, they know each other.”

“Holy shit,” Bledsoe said.

“Come on, Jonas.” Bentz stared straight at Hayes. “Let’s nail this jogger. Let’s go find my wife.”

Hayes’s phone rang. He held a finger up to indicate for Bentz to wait a second, then answered. “Detective Hayes.”

“Hey, yeah, this is Dr. O’Leary,” the forensic dentist on the other end of the connection said. “I’ve got your results, detective. No big surprise here. We’ve got a match. The woman you exhumed this morning is definitely Jennifer Bentz.”

B
entz was stunned. And yet it was what he’d expected. Of course the body in the grave was Jennifer. So everything he’d believed for twelve years had been the truth. Jennifer was dead and the imposter had only been a part of a wide scheme to get him to return to Los Angeles.

Why?

To torment him?

To kidnap and torture Olivia? To start a killing spree?

“So this whole thing has been a wild goose chase?” Bledsoe shook his head.

“A smoke screen,” Bentz corrected.

“And you dragged your wife into it? For the love of Christ, it’s dangerous being married to you, Bentz. Not only for your spouse but for the people who knew her.”

If Bledsoe wanted to twist the knife, he was doing a damned good job, Bentz thought. The glint in Bledsoe’s eyes told Bentz the L.A. detective was enjoying his discomfiture. “So let’s go after the person who’s been staging this debacle,” Bentz said.

“Meaning of course that you’re not a suspect.” Bledsoe took a swallow of his coffee to hide his smile.

“I didn’t kidnap my own wife.” Bentz warned himself to play it cool; Bledsoe was just looking for a reason to make him the scapegoat. Again.

To make matters worse, he saw Dawn Rankin walking through the squad room. She caught his gaze and her lips tightened a bit before she forced a smile and approached. “Back again?” she asked. “You just can’t seem to stay away, can you?”

“It’s business,” Hayes cut in, saving him. Dawn, as always, ran hot and cold. One minute Bentz thought she was long over him, had buried the hatchet; the next she was hissing with a forked tongue. He felt lucky that their relationship had been short.

“Let me know if I can help,” Dawn said with just a touch of sarcasm before she left.

“Piece of work,” Bledsoe said. “Maybe you were lucky to have hooked up with Jennifer Nichols after all.”

Bentz didn’t buy the other detective’s stab at camaraderie. Bledsoe, he knew, would just as soon kick him to the curb as help him. Fortunately Bledsoe’s cell phone rang and he drifted off, cradling a cup of coffee.

“So this is what we know,” Hayes said once he, Martinez, and Bentz had a little privacy. “The body in the grave was Jennifer’s. The prints on the Chevy are many and varied, but other than yours, Bentz, they don’t match anyone in the system. We’re still trying. There was no other evidence in the car and our search-and-rescue team did not recover the body of the fake Jennifer in the Pacific Ocean.”

“That’s because she’s alive. I saw her again.”

“What?”

“This morning,” Bentz said. “At the cemetery.”

“And you didn’t think it was important enough to tell anyone?” Martinez said.

“I wasn’t sure, okay?”

Hayes waved the dissension away. “So now we’ve got this photo and the envelope it came in. Since our perp has been careful so far, I’d be willing to wager these materials will be clean, but we’ll check for prints or DNA. And then there’s this.” He held up the security tape. “Let’s have a look, compare it to the pictures we got from the webcam at the Santa Monica Pier. And you,” he said to Bentz, “file a report with Missing Persons. Make it official. I’m sure the FBI is going to want to talk to you, too.”

Hayes as ever was dotting all his Is and crossing his Ts. Running the case by the book. All of which wasted time. As he had from the beginning of this madness, Bentz felt the grains of sand running in a river through the hourglass. The more time that went by, the more likely he would never find Olivia and that thought brought him to his knees. “What about Yolanda Salazar and her brother?”

“Still trying to locate him. He didn’t show up for work today, skipped his early class.”

“On the run.”

“Looks like.”

Damn!
He’d thought Fernando was the key. The kid was the one person who would know the identity of the Jennifer imposter. He was probably working with her, an accomplice. They had to flush him out.

“He has to surface some time,” Bentz said. “Let’s go.”

Martinez hopped off the desk.

Hayes rolled his chair back and said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Martinez was already walking down the hallway, but she paused to throw a glance over her shoulder at Hayes. “Oh sure. And maybe my boyfriend, Armando, will get down on one knee with a three-carat diamond ring and propose tonight.” She snorted a laugh. “Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.”

The boat had never been set on fire. Not before or after her captor’s visit.

Olivia did not know why she had been spared a fiery death, but now that the day had worn on and she was still alive she felt calmer. Slightly. She knew the maniac who had duped and abducted her would eventually kill her, but not before she got what she wanted.

Which was…what?

Olivia had no idea, but she would be damned if she’d give the woman the satisfaction of killing her.

Reluctantly, Olivia had eaten the sandwich, which she’d half expected to be tainted. But no, she’d survived. And she’d drunk the can of soda as well as used the bucket to relieve herself. It was gross, but worked.

And all the while, she considered her fate.

One way or another, she had to escape. She couldn’t hope for Bentz or the police or someone else to come and rescue her. Nope, she thought, staring at the oar on the wall; she had to do it herself.

She looked around the hold, searching for anything that could help set her free, but there was nothing. Her eyes were drawn back to the oar. If she could somehow get hold of the long-handled blade, she could smack her jailer and knock her down and grab her damned keys. If the woman ever got close enough.

Oh, Olivia would like nothing better than to turn the tables on the bitch and lock her inside this stinky cage, then walk around with a damned stun gun and a gas can.

Again she studied the oar. Wooden, with narrow red, white, and blue bands painted near the blade, it looked heavy enough to knock a five-foot-six woman to kingdom come. And that was exactly what Olivia planned.

If she could just figure a way to reach it.

She felt the rock of the boat on its moorings and knew they were in some marina. She’d been told no one could hear her if she made a ruckus, but that was a lie. She heard seagulls crying and people shouting, engines catching and rumbling, but all the sounds were muted and it was probably because she was alone, aware of every little scrape of a rodent’s claws, or anticipating the sound of footsteps on the ladder.

She had cried out earlier, after the psychopath woman had left and she was certain she was going to be burned to death. She had removed her shoes and banged on the bars of her prison, creating a dull clang. But no one had heard her. No one had boarded the boat, the
Merry-Anne
if the faded name scrawled on the life jackets could be believed.

Now, her throat raw from screaming, she sat in a corner of the cell, watching the sunlight fade and the hold become dark again. It was unnerving. Creepy. And she refused to let her imagination run away with her.

Instead, she tried to figure a way out of her dire situation. There had to be a logical solution to the problem of how to save herself as well as her unborn child.

As a psychologist, she had studied the human mind. She had learned various therapeutic approaches for people who were losing a grip on reality. That was what she needed: a plan.

Right. She would have laughed aloud if she had the energy. Psychologists did not treat unwilling patients; at least, not with any degree of success.

She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest. How do you deal rationally with someone who has lost touch with reality? Someone lacking in sound moral judgment? Someone inherently evil?

“God help me,” she whispered as night fell and, once again, she was alone in the thick, stygian darkness.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” Corrine O’Donnell said as she finished with the Missing Persons report. Bentz had already spent several hours with the FBI and had ended up here, in Missing Persons. The paperwork was necessary, but he was crawling out of his skin, watching the minutes tick by.

“Yeah.” “Sorry” didn’t begin to describe the fear that slithered through him, the cold, stark terror of knowing that Olivia was in the hands of a madwoman.

“Try not to worry. We’ll find her.” She offered a smile and he remembered fleetingly that he’d cared for her, more as a friend than a lover, but they’d shared a lot in their on-again, off-again affair.

“You happy with Hayes?” he asked.

“Well…I’d like to say
ecstatic,
but, you know, at this age, we’re both carrying a lot of baggage, both careful because we’ve been hurt. Maybe too careful.” Then, as if she realized she’d fallen too easily into the trap of shared confidences, she said, “Just sign, here.” She pointed to a spot on the form, where Bentz scribbled his signature.

“I’ll see that this gets out there,” she said with a smile, and Bentz nodded.

“Thanks.”

“Good luck.” She was already turning away from him, ready to do her part to find his wife.

God, he hoped he didn’t have to rely on luck.

But he’d take whatever help he could get. If it was good luck. Or divine intervention. Or even a deal with the devil himself. No matter what it was, just so that Livvie could be safe.

Montoya landed at LAX, picked up his bag, and went straight to the rental-car desk. As he was taking steps to collect the Mustang, a much newer model than the one he had in New Orleans, he put in a call to Bentz. “I’m in Los Angeles,” he said when his partner answered.

“What? Here?”

“Couldn’t stand being your goddamned gopher another minute. Figured I could help out here. Be more hands-on.”

Bentz barked out a hollow laugh.

“Fill me in,” Montoya said. He listened to the latest in the chain of events that revolved around Jennifer Bentz’s ghostly appearances and Olivia’s abduction, ending with the picture Bentz had received and his fears for his wife.

“So now the FBI is on the case,” Bentz finished.

Montoya snorted through his nose, signed the required paperwork, and grabbed the Mustang’s keys. Bentz got along fine with the Feds, but Montoya would rather work without them. Yeah, the bureau had smart agents, state-of-the-art equipment, and a wide net, but still, Montoya preferred to run his own cases. His way.

“Where are you now?” he asked, heading to the lot.

“At Whitaker Junior College. Fernando Valdez didn’t show up for work or any of his day classes, but I’m hoping he appears tonight.”

“He works at the Blue Burro, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Been there?”

“Not yet. But the LAPD paid them a visit.”

“I might just check it out anyway. Then I’ll try to get a room at the dive you’ve been calling home the last week,” Montoya said. “Once you collar Fernando, call me.”

“If I find him.”

“He’s got to be somewhere. You just have to dig a little, think like the prick to find him. Be a cop, man.” He hung up and tossed his bag in the tiny space for the backseat. He had a map and a G.P.S. system that would lead him to Encino. Once in the Encino City limits, he’d check out the Mexican restaurant where Fernando worked.

Thanks to his heritage Montoya spoke Spanish as fluently as he did English. With a little luck and some patience, he might just learn something.

At Whitaker Junior College, Bentz parked near the gym, then found his way to the student union. After waiting in line behind two giggling female students, he grabbed an order of twin dogs and fries, bought a bottled Pepsi, and took a booth in the corner, behind a fake potted palm. As he ate he kept his gaze fastened on the door. Clusters of students came and went. Some looked young enough to be in high school, others much older, picking up the missed college credits of their youth or returning to college to make a stab at a new career. Goths, punks, beach babes, computer geeks—you name it—a small mixed bag of a student army attended the JC. He checked each face, but he didn’t see Fernando Valdez in the groups of students who were studying, eating, or listening to music as they filtered in and out of the student lounge.

He wasn’t surprised. Fernando was obviously trying to avoid the cops.

Though he hadn’t eaten all day, he barely tasted the wilted fries or the Polish dogs that had probably been spinning under a heat lamp for hours. His mind was elsewhere, on Olivia, hoping beyond hope that she was alive. Safe. Unbroken.

She’s tough. Remember that. She’s dealt with a homicidal maniac before.

It seemed like a waste of time to sit here on the off chance that Fernando Valdez would show up for his night class, but Bentz didn’t have many leads. Fernando was his best.

But Valdez wasn’t visiting the student union tonight.

Getting up from the table, Bentz felt a twinge in his leg. He ignored it as he tossed the remains of his dinner into a garbage can. Following the instructions posted near the waste cans, he placed his empty plastic basket in a bin marked for baskets and utensils, then carried his bottled Pepsi through the glass doors and into the coming night.

It wasn’t quite twilight, but the fog was rolling in again, settling over the walkways that bisected lush gardens and lawns.

As he thought about his wife, he kicked himself to hell and back again for being such a fool, for wearing blinders about Jennifer, for not realizing what he had in his marriage to the one woman he truly loved and trusted.

“Idiot,” he muttered as he made his way to Sydney Hall, a two-story concrete building that had all the style and grace of a county jail. Exterior stairs led to the second floor and the doors on the ground level opened outward to wide porches. In a quick check of the building, Bentz noticed that there were no interior hallways. Fernando, registered for “Writing the Play,” an English class located on the first level, would have to pass this way if he wanted to get to class.

Finishing the remains of his soda, noticing bugs already gathering near the globe lights at the doors, Bentz waited near the stairs while the students trickled into room 134. There was a chance Fernando wouldn’t show. No doubt Yolanda had warned him about Bentz. And the fact that he was MIA from his job and earlier class indicated he was wary.