Malice (7 page)

“That’s a bargain?”

“In Hollywood? Yeah. But tonight won’t work. I’m already booked. Is the offer still good tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’ll meet you there…say, around seven?”

“That’ll work. Tomorrow at seven. See ya there.”

Hayes hung up, opened the console between the two front seats of his old 4Runner and found a bottle of Rolaids he kept in the glove box. His heartburn was acting up and the call from Bentz didn’t help. Hayes poured out a few and popped them into his mouth, downing them with the remainder of this morning’s coffee, the dregs of which had settled into the bottom of his travel cup. The taste was bitter, but tolerable. He slid his shades onto his nose, glanced in his rearview, checking traffic, then eased onto the street.

If Rick Bentz was in L.A., something was coming down.

Something that wasn’t good.

I really have to congratulate myself.

Job well done!

Rick Hot-Fucking-Shot Bentz is back in L.A.!

No big surprise there.

Like a hungry lion leaping onto a weak gazelle, Rick Bentz took the bait. Just in time.

I check the calendar and nod to myself. Feel a little thrill race down my spine. It didn’t take long and he’s still recuperating, not quite agile or fleet-footed, still using a cane, which is just damned perfect. I can’t help but experience a wave of pride. In myself. Not just for this, his return, but for my patience. I had to wait until the timing was right, but now I think I can pour myself a drink, a strong one.

Let’s see…how about a martini? That would be fitting. I walk to the bar and find the vodka and curse myself for being out of olives. Oh, damn…well, who cares? I find the vermouth and pour just a whisper, then shake the concoction with ice and pour…mmm. Since there are no olives I settle for a twist of lemon…perfect.

I walk to the full-length mirror, where I see myself and lift my glass toward the woman in the glass. She’s beautiful. Tall. Willowy. The ravages of age not yet apparent. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders in easy waves. Her smile is infectious, her eyes those of a woman who knows what she wants and always gets it.

“To new beginnings,” I say touching the rim of my glass to the mirror and hearing the soft little click of glass on glass. “You and I, we’ve waited a long time for this.”

“That we have. But no longer,” she replies, arched eyebrows lifting conspiratorially.

I tingle inside knowing that everything we—I—have worked for is about to come to fruition.

The window is open and I feel evening settling in the rising moon, a ghostly crescent glowing in the twilight sky.

“Cheers,” my reflection says back to me, her eyes twinkling in naughty anticipation as she holds her glass aloft. “May we be successful.”

“Oh, we will,” I assure her, smiling as she grins back at me. “We will.” Then we drink as one, feeling the cool cocktail slide so easily down our throats. Together we think of Rick Bentz.

Handsome in a rugged way. Athletic and muscular rather than thin. With a square jaw and eyes that could cut through any kind of lie, he’s smart and pensive, his emotions usually under tight rein.

And yet he has an Achilles heel.

One that will bring him down.

“Bravo,” I say to the mirror. Because I know that soon, that sick son of a bitch will get his.

B
entz had a lot of ground to cover and he didn’t want to waste time.

First things first: He had to find a place to stay. He decided to stick close to where he’d lived with Jennifer and in the area of the zip code on the envelope that had been sent to him.

Though hotel prices in Southern California were through the roof, he found a motel in the older part of Culver City that advertised, “inexpensive, clean rooms.” The So-Cal Inn was a long, low-lying stucco building that, he guessed, was built in the decade after World War II, and offered, along with weekly rates, a swimming pool, air-conditioned rooms, cable TV, and wi-fi. The place also claimed to be “pet and kid friendly.”

Everything he needed and more.

Bentz parked in front and walked into the small reception area, where a glass pot of coffee sat congealing on a hot plate. A kid who looked no more than fourteen was working, fiddling with the remote to a television mounted on the wall over a display of brochures for activities in the area. “Mom,” the teen yelled toward a half-open door behind the long desk, then pointed the remote at the television and pressed down over and over again, in rapid-fire succession, with the agility of the generation that grew up with text messaging and video games. However, the TV channel or volume didn’t change and the boy’s frustration was evidenced in his red cheeks and set jaw.

As Bentz reached the counter a woman slipped through the open door. Her red hair was piled high on her head, her mascara so thick her eyelids appeared weighted down. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. Perfumed by cigarette smoke, she was trim and lithe in shorts and a print top that wrapped around her chest to tie under one arm. Pinned over one of her breasts was a nametag that read:
REBECCA ALLISON—MANAGER
. “Can I help you?” she asked, her shiny lips curving into a friendly smile.

“Lookin’ for a room. For one. Nothing fancy.”

“We have a few that have wonderful views of the pool,” she said, quickly flipping into salesperson mode. “They’ve each got a sliding door to a private sitting area that opens up to the pool.”

“Are they the cheapest?”

Her smile didn’t falter. “Well, no. If you’d like something less expensive, I’ve got several that overlook the parking lot,” and she quoted him the daily and weekly rates.

“One of those will do fine,” he said. “For the week.”

“Great.” She ran his credit card while the kid muttered something under his breath about friggin’ cheap-ass remotes, and the deal was sealed.

Rebecca sent the boy a sharp look, then turned back to Bentz. “Here’s a map of the area. We serve a continental breakfast here from six until ten in the morning, and coffee’s available all day.”

He resisted another glance at the sludge pot.

“If you need anything, just call the main desk.”

“This damned thing—” the kid said.

“Tony!” Rebecca said sharply. “Enough.”

The boy went immediately into pout mode, turning his back on his mother and shaking the remote as if he could somehow make the bad connections spark.

Bentz walked out and squinted into the white haze. For the next week, at least, he was a resident of Southern California.

Hayes strode across the lush lawn in front of his ex-wife’s apartment as the sun settled over the hills to the west. He clicked the remote lock for his SUV and nearly ran into a woman walking two beagles who tugged their leashes taut. “Hey, watch it,” she said, sending him a withering glare. He barely noticed as he yanked open the driver’s door.

The interior of his car was blistering, the steering wheel almost too hot to touch. But the temperature inside his 4Runner was nothing compared to the heat churning in his gut. Jesus, he was mad. Who the hell did Delilah think she was, pulling out of the marriage because she couldn’t hack being married to a cop any longer? She’d known he was a career man with the LAPD when she’d married him twelve years ago.

But then she’d been pregnant.

And they’d both wanted the kid.

That part, he thought, considering his daughter, they’d gotten right. The rest had been up and down, a roller-coaster ride exacerbated by his career and Delilah’s mood swings.

So now they were divorced. Shit. Making him a two-time loser. He’d already been married once before to Alonda, his college sweet heart. That had ended when he’d found her in bed with her best friend and she’d admitted to him that she was gay. Had been all along. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him, but…

Great.

He’d stormed out and filed papers the next day. At least there were no kids from that first doomed union.

Two years later he’d met Delilah and fallen head over heels. But he’d been careful. He hadn’t wanted to make the same mistake twice. He hazarded another glance at the apartment building, a four-story pink-tinged stucco building with arched windows and tile roof, a nod to old California. She was on the top floor, two bedrooms and a thousand square feet of vaulted ceilings and new carpeting. There, she asserted, she could “start over” and “find what she really wanted in life,” whatever the hell that meant.

With a flick of the ignition his Toyota fired up. He pulled out of his parking spot, a rare commodity here in Santa Monica, twenty-six blocks from the beach. High rent, in Hayes’s estimation, but Delilah had money. She owned half of a modeling school, where runway moms sent their daughters to learn the tricks of the trade. Delilah, once a print-ad model herself and a natural salesperson, had helped make the school a raging success.

What did she need with a workaholic cop for a husband? Their divorce, had been finalized six months earlier. Now if they could just straighten out the custody schedule.

To be truthful, Jonas had already started dating. This time he’d taken up with Corrine O’Donnell, a fellow cop, a woman who understood the rigors and demands of the job. She’d been a detective, but since her injury she’d been assigned to a desk job in missing persons. She claimed she didn’t mind. He wondered.

He slid his SUV into traffic, attempted to rein in his fury over Delilah’s latest custody demand, and angled the 4Runner toward the Santa Monica Freeway. He wanted to do a little more checking on Bentz before he met with him tomorrow.

Rick Bentz hadn’t just shown up out of the blue.

The few quick calls Hayes had made earlier had confirmed what Hayes suspected: Bentz was on leave from the New Orleans Police Department and there was talk that he wouldn’t be returning. He’d been injured, spent a couple of weeks in a coma and a few months in physical therapy. If he ever got back to work, he’d probably be stuck behind a desk and the Rick Bentz Hayes had known, back in the day, would have shriveled up and died if he hadn’t been in the field.

Hayes surmised that hadn’t changed.

But he’d do some checking. The way he remembered it Bentz had fallen apart after his ex-wife’s death and the shooting of the Valdez kid. Bentz had been cleared of any charges; the boy had been taking aim at Bentz’s partner, Russ Trinidad, but the weapon had turned out to be a very authentic-appearing toy. Though exonerated of any crime, guilt had eaten away at the detective and it looked as if his ex-wife’s suicide had pushed him over the edge. He’d lost interest in anything except his kid and had left the department with a couple of black eyes—the Valdez kid’s death and a double-murder investigation that had gone too cold too fast.

Bentz had given up his badge in L.A., and though no one could really pin the blame for either event on him, people took their shots. Even some of those closest to him had thought he’d lost his edge when he’d taken his ex-wife back. After the fact, people had blamed the Valdez kid’s death on Bentz’s lack of good judgment, his lack of focus, but, bottom line, it was just a tragedy.

Hayes didn’t know what to think as he cut toward the Ten. He saw his entrance and passed an old Volkswagen bus belching blue smoke before gunning it onto the freeway.

His cell phone rang and he snagged it. “Hayes.”

“Hey, how’d it go?” Corrine asked. She was one of the few people who knew he was still hammering out a change in the custody arrangements.

“It went,” he said and smiled a bit. Corrine, another cop who knew the ropes, had become his rock.

“You okay?”

Never, when dealing with Delilah.
He hated to think it, but his shrink seemed to think he was still hung up on her. “I will be.”

“So, you’re coming over later? I’ve got
First Blood
on DVD. Thought it might help get out some of your aggressions.”

He actually laughed. “I’ll bring the raw meat.”

“I think you need to come up with something…uh, what’s the quote…about what Rambo ate?”

“I think it’s something that would make a billy goat puke.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” She chuckled. “We can barbecue whatever it is…roadkill maybe.”

“I’ll work on it.” He felt a little better as he glanced at the dash board clock. “Look, I have a couple of things I’ve gotta do. I’ll be there in little over an hour.”

“Why do I have the feeling that this is because Rick Bentz is in town?”

He probably shouldn’t have told her that Bentz had called, especially because she and Bentz had “a history.” But the truth would have gotten out sooner or later, and Bentz had dated several women in the department before he met and married Jennifer. Hayes decided it was best if Corrine heard it from him first. If he’d learned anything from his two failed marriages, he now knew it was better to stick to the truth. It was also a whole lot better to be the bearer of bad news than let the woman in his life be blindsided from some other source.

“You figured out the Bentz connection,” he teased. “Proof that you’re a crack detective.”

“Yeah, right. Missing Persons wouldn’t be the same without me.” She played along. “Don’t think that kind of sweet talk will make up for the fact that you’ll be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’ll fire up the DVD player. At least I can count on Rambo showing up.”

“Ouch! I’ll be there. Soon.”

“Just as long as you know I’m not the kind of woman who sits around and waits forever.”

“What’s wrong with ya?” he joked and she chuckled.

“Jerk!”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

“And that’s the problem. I’ll see you soon.”

He hung up feeling better. Corrine O’Donnell wasn’t the love of his life and he doubted that she ever would be. Besides, he’d sworn off marriage for good. Twice was enough and being a bachelor wasn’t all that bad. She seemed to feel the same; at least for the time being she wasn’t making noises about moving in together or getting married. But then, she, too, had taken her turn in the divorce department.

Jockeying through traffic, Hayes turned his thoughts to Bentz again and decided the guy deserved some kind of break. Hayes would meet with him and see what Bentz wanted. Even if he already knew he wasn’t going to like it.

To say Bentz’s new accommodations were less than five-star would be a vast understatement. Room 16, overlooking the sun-cracked asphalt with its faded parking stripes, would be hard pressed to earn two stars, but Bentz didn’t care. The two double beds had matching, if washed-out, paisley spreads and faux oak headboards screwed into the wall. There was a sad desk and bureau from which a TV straight out of the eighties eyeballed him. The attached bath was tiny, with barely enough room for him to turn around. The towels were thin, but it all looked clean enough. Probably not up to Olivia’s standards, but good enough for Bentz.

He was unzipping his bag when the phone rang and the number of Olivia’s cell flashed on the display.

“Hey,” he answered. “I was beginning to get worried.”

“Were you?” She sounded lighthearted, and for that he was relieved. In the past few days she’d tried to be supportive, even joke with him. Most of her attempts had fallen flat and he knew she was concerned, even troubled, about the trip. Twice he’d offered to cancel and both times she had insisted he follow through. “You just do what you have to do, and when it’s over come back home, okay?” Olivia was not the kind of woman who would sit around and wait for a man. This time, though, she was attempting to do just that, though it went against all her natural instincts. He appreciated her sacrifice and had promised her he’d wrap things up and return as soon as he could.

“You’d better be working ’round the clock,” she said sternly.

“I’ve only been here a few hours.”

“And it’s seemed like an eternity,” she whispered. For a moment he almost bought into her act, but she blew it by chuckling. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help that.”

He swallowed a smile. At least she was joking, kidding around with him. “Okay, fair enough. You got me.”

“So what do you know?”

“Nothing yet.” They talked a few minutes and she told him she’d had dinner with Lydia Kane, a friend she’d met while in grad school. He gave her the name and number of his motel and promised to call her the next day.

“Be careful,” she said. “To be honest, I don’t know what to wish for. That you find Jennifer is dead and that someone is just playing a sick game with you…or that she’s really alive.”

“Either way will be messy.”

“I know. I mean it, Rick. Don’t take too many chances. We need you.”

“We?”

She hesitated just a second. “Yeah, all of us. Kristi and me, well, and Hairy S and Chia, too.”

“I’ll be home soon,” he promised, but they both knew he was just placating her. He had no idea when he’d return to New Orleans.

“Just let me know how many wild geese you catch.”

“Funny girl.”

“Sometimes,” she said.

“Most of the time. I’ll call you.”

He hung up and considered taking the next plane east. Why not? She was right. He was still chasing a ghost and he was either being set up or losing his mind.

He bet on the first.

And knew he was going to ride it out.

He had to.