Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 216

"And I thought you were a straight shooter," she said aloud to her own watery image. "Aren't you the one who never backs down? What the h.e.l.l happened to you?"

She let her hands fall to her flat belly.

A baby...a life that right now was growing inside her.

And her husband didn't even know she was pregnant. Didn't want to know.

"Jerk," she muttered under her breath. "Good riddance." She pulled a comb through her hair, wrapped a towel around her body, then opened the door and nearly tripped over the dog. Hairy S had camped out in the hall in front of the bathroom. "Not smart," she said to the dog and petted his furry head. "But don't worry about it; there's a lot of stupidity going around in this house these days. A lot. You're not the Lone Ranger."

Hairy thumped his tail against the floor, then followed her to the bedroom, where she dressed and tried not to think about the fact that her husband was nearly a continent away, chasing demons who had haunted him for twelve long years.

The flight was uneventful.

Once, after dozing, Bentz thought he smelled gardenias. He took a long look around the cabin of the 727, eyeing all the pa.s.sengers, half expecting Jennifer to be calmly seated near the window, reading a book. She would, of course, upon feeling his gaze upon her, look up and smile with that s.e.xy little grin that had always gotten to him. Without saying a word she would tell him that she knew he'd follow her.

It didn't happen.

No one on the plane remotely resembled his first wife...ex-wife he reminded himself. Ex. Ex. They had been divorced, though living together, at the time of her death. But those arrangements had been about to end. Because she hadn't been able to give up her lover. They had been divorced, though living together, at the time of her death. But those arrangements had been about to end. Because she hadn't been able to give up her lover.

The plane touched down at LAX with a soft b.u.mp as the back wheels. .h.i.t the tarmac, then even less of a jar as the wheel under the nose of the plane found the pavement. As the 727 taxied to the gate, most of the pa.s.sengers were already turning on cell phones, unbuckling their seat belts, and shifting the luggage at their feet. After spending the entire trip with her nose in a book, the woman in the seat next to Bentz swung a purse the size of Guatemala onto her lap and scrounged for her cell frantically. Touchdown propelled her into frenzied mode and she hastily dug through her huge purse. Bentz barely avoided being knocked over by the bag as he pulled his computer from beneath the seat in front of him and she located her phone and clicked it on, immediately making a call.

He couldn't help but overhear her conversation, a one-sided affair in which she was trashing her ex's latest girlfriend.

Fortunately, the plane emptied fairly quickly.

On the way to baggage claim Bentz called Olivia and left a message that he'd landed safely. He found his one bag, then rented a small SUV with a G.P.S. already installed. He'd done it all without using his cane and, though his hip ached, he ignored the pain and threw the d.a.m.ned walking stick that he'd brought along into the backseat.

As he exited the rental lot in the Ford Escape, he slipped a pair of sungla.s.ses onto the bridge of his nose. The scenery was familiar, the tightness in his chest new. Years ago he'd left L.A. with a bad taste in his mouth; now all those old feelings came back at him in a rush. Guilt over Jennifer's suicide, remorse over the death of a twelve-year-old kid with a toy pistol, gnawing frustration that he would have been able to solve the Caldwell twins' double homicide if he'd been at the top of his game, and the fog of too many numbing shots of whiskey.

He'd been a mess. Jack Daniel's had become his best friend and that friendship had damaged every other relationship. It had also compromised his job performance and his ability to see clearly.

Though officially he'd quit the LAPD, the pressure to resign had been palpable, the tension in the department thicker than the smog that blanketed the city. Even his remaining friends, the few coworkers who "had his back," had been relieved to see him leave. His departure had been better for all concerned. Especially him.

Except that he'd left some unfinished business behind.

It had been years since he'd been in Southern California, and though the area had changed, the royal palm trees and s.p.a.ce-age arches of the Encounters restaurant at LAX were reminders of a time he'd tried hard to forget.

As he maneuvered onto the freeway he couldn't see the surrounding hills through the layer of smog that hovered over the area. He fiddled with the air conditioning to combat the rising temperature as buildings rose ghostlike through the shimmering heat waves. By instinct he headed toward his old neighborhood, which wasn't too far from Culver City.

The area had changed a little. The shrubs and trees were larger, the neighborhood as a whole seeming to have gone a little downhill, evidenced by the cracked sidewalks and wrought-iron bars on some windows.

His old house looked pretty much the same. Sometime in the past twelve years, it had been painted a dove gray, but now was in dire need of another coat. The garage door was blistered and didn't quite close, the yard overgrown and dry. Weeds turned brown in the sun-bleached bark chips near the tired front porch. A FOR RENT FOR RENT sign was wedged into the gra.s.s, but it too was fading beneath the intense California sun. sign was wedged into the gra.s.s, but it too was fading beneath the intense California sun.

Leaving his cane in the rental, Bentz walked around the house and peered through the dirty windows to spy dusty floors and dingy walls, some the same color they had been a dozen years earlier. Stepping backward and shading his eyes, he gazed up to the window and was bombarded by memories of images within his former bedroom, the scene he'd walked into more than a decade ago. Twisted sheets of the unmade bed and slivers of broken gla.s.s spattered beneath the gaping hole where a mirror once hung. In his mind he retraced the path to the spare bedroom on the second floor, the guest room Jennifer had used as her office. He remembered that it had taken a while to find the note that she'd left, not in an obvious location on a table or a counter, but tucked away in her desk drawer, written to Kristi and signed in Jennifer's flowing hand.

He'd always wondered about that.

The suicide note to their daughter that had been tucked away in the pages of the latest self-help book Jennifer had been reading. The Power of Me, The Power of Me, or something just as self-centered. or something just as self-centered.

All the advice in the world hadn't helped his screwed-up ex-wife.

But she hadn't left the note out in the open.

As if she'd had second thoughts.

Or was waiting. Hadn't yet made a final decision.

At the time he'd discovered the note he'd pushed aside the nagging questions and had rationalized that in her pursuit of death, as in so many facets of her life, Jennifer had done a lousy job. But now he had renewed doubts. What if Jennifer's death hadn't been suicide? What if she hadn't been driving the car? What if the woman he'd identified as his wife and buried six feet under had been someone else?

Just who was decomposing in that grave?

His gut twisted at the thought and he didn't let his mind wander too far down that dark, rocky path.

He returned to the Escape and drove nearly five miles to a cemetery, the spot where he'd thought Jennifer had been laid to rest. Parking in the shade of a live oak tree, he fished out his wallet and found a battered card for Detective Jonas Hayes of the LAPD. He'd carried the d.a.m.ned card around for twelve years and remembered the day Hayes had pressed the card into his palm. "Hey, if you ever need anything," he'd said after the burial as clouds had rolled in and rain had started to fall. So long ago...and now Bentz wondered if Jennifer were truly entombed in the casket lying under the granite headstone.

He walked through the drying gra.s.s and found the plot, read the simple inscription, and felt a strange pang in his heart. Had he made a mistake? Did the corpse beneath his feet belong to someone else? He glared down at the gra.s.s, as if he could see through the sod and six feet of dry earth to the casket where a woman's body had been decomposing for twelve long years.

A whisper of a breeze slid across the back of his neck and the scent of gardenias was suddenly heavy in the air. Did he hear someone whisper his name? He turned, expecting to see Jennifer beckoning with that come-hither naughty smile that had been her trademark. But she wasn't leaning against one of the taller headstones, her auburn hair shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. Nor was she standing anywhere within the wrought-iron fencing surrounding the silent graveyard.

He was alone at his ex-wife's final resting place. The cemetery was empty, not a soul besides himself visible. Some of the plots displayed fresh flowers. A few had been adorned with plastic bouquets and others were festooned with tiny American flags that had faded in the harsh sunlight. However, no other person, nor ghost for that matter, stood inside the ominous black wrought-iron fence.

Of course not.

She's dead, Bentz. Dead. You know it. You identified her body with your own eyes, for Christ's sake! And you don't believe in ghosts. Try remembering that one, will ya?

He lingered a few more minutes, trying to piece together what was happening to him. He didn't think he was cracking up, and he knew he didn't believe in ghosts. Dead women did not just reappear.

So why come here, to the cemetery?

Without an answer he returned to the car, which was now sweltering from the sun. Leaving the driver's door open, he sat behind the wheel and turned on the engine to get the A/C pumping. As the car cooled, he eyed Hayes's business card. On one side was the official information for Detective Jonas Hayes of the LAPD; on the other was a phone number scratched hurriedly a long time ago.

Bentz punched the private number into his cell and was rewarded with a message from a lifeless voice that told him it was no longer in service. "Great." Bentz flipped the card over and tried again, this time phoning the police department directly and asking for Detective Jonas Hayes.

Without too much fuss he was put through to Hayes's voice mail. He left a message saying he was in town and wanted to meet. Afterward he called and left another message for Olivia. As he hung up he had the uncanny feeling that he was being watched, that hidden eyes were observing his every move. He scanned the cemetery as he drove off, checked his mirrors and saw no one tailing him, no one tracking his movements.

"You're an idiot," he told himself, then went in search of a cheap, clean motel.

Jonas Hayes swore under his breath. He was tired. Dead tired. He'd spent too many hours the previous day trying to hammer out details for the custody of Maren, his daughter, then hadn't slept a wink before pulling a full shift. And now he had Rick Bentz calling him.

"h.e.l.l," he muttered. There were a lot of reasons he didn't want to return the call. He waited until his shift was over and he was in his car miles away from the department before he dialed the cell number Bentz had left.

On the third ring, Bentz answered. "Rick Bentz."

"The death-defying Rick Bentz, who lives through a lightning strike?" he joked, though truth to tell there wasn't anything remotely humorous about Bentz calling.

"Not exactly accurate, but close enough. Bad news travels fast."

"Gossip has no bounds. These days with the Internet, cell phones with cameras, traffic lights with cameras, security cameras everywhere, you have no privacy. You can't take a leak in New Orleans without someone putting it up on YouTube for all of us out here to view."

"Is that right?" Bentz said. "Then how the h.e.l.l don't we get the suspects on film?"

"We do. A lot of times. At least the stupid ones. That is, when we get lucky."

"So you got dinner plans? I'm in town and I'll buy."

Hayes saw it coming. Big as life. And he didn't like it one bit. "Sounds like you need a favor."

"Maybe."

"No maybes about it. That's why you rose from the dead, Bentz. Admit it."

"We'll talk about rising from the dead over steaks. How about Roy's if it's still around?"

Roy's had once been a hip, happening place, an homage to the days of the great westerns. "It's around and seedier than ever. But the food's still good and happy hour drinks are five bucks."

"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-f.u.c.king-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 d.a.m.ned 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, d.a.m.n...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 gla.s.s toward the woman in the gla.s.s. 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 gla.s.s to the mirror and hearing the soft little click of gla.s.s on gla.s.s. "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 antic.i.p.ation as she holds her gla.s.s aloft. "May we be successful."

"Oh, we will," I a.s.sure her, smiling as she grins back at me. "We will." Then we drink as one, feeling the cool c.o.c.ktail 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 b.i.t.c.h will get his.

CHAPTER 6.

Bentz 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 gla.s.s 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s was a nametag that read: REBECCA ALLISON-MANAGER 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."