Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 221

But she didn't see either of her roommates flopped on the secondhand couch Kim had found. And they weren't nuking popcorn or boiling ramen in the kitchen.

Odd.

Hadn't she heard one of her roommates return?

Dabbing at the sweat on her face, she strode over to check Kim's room. Empty.

Snap!

A strange sound. Muted.

Had her iPod skipped?

She backed out of Kim's room, pulled the door shut behind her, and headed back to the living area. On her way to the stereo she noticed a hint of cigarette smoke in the air. No big deal. They all had taken up cigs.

Snap!

Behind her?

In the hallway?

Fear sprayed through her blood.

"Kim?" she said starting to turn.

In a split second she saw that the door she'd just shut, the one to Kim's room was open and someone was looming in the darkened hallway. Someone who hadn't been there an instant before.

"Hey! Who the h.e.l.l are-" The words died in her throat when she noticed the belt in his hands. "Oh, Jesus!"

She screamed, but her attacker was on her in an instant. He slipped the thin belt over her head and looped it around her neck in a snap, cutting off her air, stifling her cry.

Oh, G.o.d! This jerkwad was going to hurt her! Rape her! Kill her! Fear curdled her insides. This jerkwad was going to hurt her! Rape her! Kill her! Fear curdled her insides.

She kicked, landed one blow with her heel and her a.s.sailant let out a hiss of pain.

Good!

She tried again but was jerked roughly to one side, her airway cut off, the pain in her lungs hot and tight.

This can't be happening, she thought wildly. She was coughing and gasping, digging at the strap, struggling and flailing, throwing her weight around. Anything to loosen the ever-tightening collar! she thought wildly. She was coughing and gasping, digging at the strap, struggling and flailing, throwing her weight around. Anything to loosen the ever-tightening collar!

No! No! No!

Kicking crazily, trying to land another blow on his shin, she slipped. He used the chance to wrench her up by the belt, holding her in the air. Dangling like a doll.

Hit the creep. Get the belt off your neck! Save yourself! Though her lungs were on fire, she flung her fist backward, trying to hit the monster in the nose or eyes or anything! The fingers of her other hand were scratching at the strap on her throat. Though her lungs were on fire, she flung her fist backward, trying to hit the monster in the nose or eyes or anything! The fingers of her other hand were scratching at the strap on her throat.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

Help me. Please, someone, any anyone help me!

She wasn't a wimp, but her strength was fading, the pain excruciating.

Pa.s.sing out would be better.

No!

Don't give up!

Fight!

Oh, G.o.d, the pain...I can't breathe! Help! Please help me!

She gave up hitting and used both hands to try and free herself from the constricting strap.

Her fingers clawed at her neck.

Dug deep.

But it was too late.

Her lungs were bursting.

Pain screaming through her body.

Her heart thudding.

Blackness converging over her.

In that horrid instant, Laney knew. She knew she would never see her twenty-first birthday.

CHAPTER 10.

Hayes had been right.

Roy's had definitely gone downhill, Bentz thought, driving past the restaurant.

Still a little shaken from his recent "Jennifer sighting," he found a ridiculously small parking spot a couple of blocks from the restaurant. He wedged the Ford Escape into it and fed the meter. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he managed to avoid a couple of speeding skateboarders who whipped by, the wheels of their boards grinding against the concrete as he hitched his way to the front doors.

Named for its original owner and not Roy Rogers as many people thought, the place still had a western facade complete with Dutch doors that looked as if they belonged on a barn. There had once been a plastic rearing horse mounted over the front awning, until some smart-a.s.s had climbed up on the roof in the middle of the night and painted the white stallion's private parts fire-engine red.

That had been the end of the white stud.

Now the awning displayed a sign that simply said: Roy's.

Good enough, Bentz figured as he pushed open the doors and stepped back in time.

Inside, the dark restaurant seemed dingy. Twelve years ago all the cowboy memorabilia gathered from the sets of old westerns and television shows had been retro-cool. Now the worn saddles, fence posts, cowboy hats, and chaps that adorned the place looked dusty and worn.

The crowd had changed, or at least aged, just like the old plank floors.

A long bar, complete with bra.s.s foot rail, swept along one side of the establishment. Tables and booths took care of the rest.

He found a booth, settled in, and ordered a nonalcoholic beer from a waitress who was splitting the seams of her cowgirl costume.

Before she could return, Bentz spied Jonas Hayes pushing through the front doors. Hayes, too, had aged. African American and six-four, he was still imposing, if slightly thicker around the middle than he had been when he was a rookie cop or a running back for UNLV. His close-cropped black hair showed a few bits of silver, and when he took his shades off, crow's feet were visible at the corners of his eyes.

But he still dressed as if he were a model. Expensive suit, polished shoes, silk tie knotted to perfection.

Bentz waved him over and stood, stretching out his hand. "h.e.l.luva long time."

Hayes nodded and clasped Bentz's fingers in a strong, sure grip. "What's it been? Eleven? Twelve years?"

"'Bout that."

They sat down on opposite sides of the booth. "And then you show up outta the blue. Lookin' for a favor."

"You got it."

Waitress Pseudo-cowgirl returned, her mood not appearing to have improved as she took Hayes's order for a scotch on the rocks.

"Friendly," Hayes observed once she'd huffed away.

"Don't think she likes the getup she has to wear."

"Can't blame her. You still on the wagon?" Hayes nodded toward Bentz's bottle.

"Yep. Gave it up after Jennifer died."

"Probably a good thing."

Bentz raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Well, most of the time. Trinidad still with the department?"

"A lifer and then some." Hayes was nodding as the waitress, forcing a false smile, returned with Hayes's drink and plastic-encased menus. She rattled off a couple of specials and was about to turn away when Bentz asked, "You still have the T-Bone and steak fries?"

Without an ounce of enthusiasm, she said, "It's, like, been on the menu forever."

"Thought so. I'll take it. Medium rare. Blue cheese dressing on the salad."

She didn't bother writing it down, just looked at Hayes, who scanned the menu and folded it closed, ordering the barbecued pork chop special.

Once she'd disappeared again, he turned dark eyes on Bentz. "Okay, so what gives? What's this 'favor' you want from me?"

"I want you to look at Jennifer's death again."

"Jennifer? As in your wife?"

"Ex-wife, but yeah." Bentz settled back against the cushions and took a swallow from his bottle.

"That was twelve years ago, man. She died in a single-car accident. Probable suicide." Again Hayes searched Bentz's face with those black eyes. Cop's eyes.

"That's what we all thought at the time, but it's a h.e.l.luva way to kill yourself. Messy. Sometimes doesn't get the job done right and you end up a vegetable, or taking someone else out with you, or spending the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Not a usual form of suicide. Why not just run the car in the garage or take pills? Slit your wrists in the tub? Hang yourself in the closet?"

"She was your wife. You tell me."

Bentz was shaking his head. "Besides, she wouldn't have wanted to mess herself up that way. Too vain."

"She was killing herself, man. On pills and booze. Not thinkin' right. She didn't give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n about how she looked and she might have taken the car out cuz she didn't want you or your kid to come home to it, y'know? Not a good thing for her daughter to find her dead."

"She didn't have to do it at home. There are other places. Motels." He thought about the shabby condition of the So-Cal Inn, a perfect place for a suicide. Cheap. Private. Poolside view if you wanted it.

Hayes rotated his drink between his palms. "Okay, let's cut the c.r.a.p here. What's going on?"

Bentz took another swallow of his beer, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a copy of the marred death certificate. Quickly he explained that it had been sent to the station, mailed from Culver City.

"So what?" Hayes said. "Someone messin' with ya."

Bentz nodded. "But it's more than that." He placed the photographs of Jennifer on the table. "I think someone is gaslighting me."

"Oh, h.e.l.l! These are Jennifer, right? And recent, I a.s.sume?"

"That's what whoever sent them to me wants me to think."

Hayes looked at him. "Dead ringer?"

"Perfect."

"But...dead ringer from twelve years ago? No extra pounds, no more wrinkles."

"You got it."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h." Hayes stared at the pictures, then gave the death certificate a longer look, his eyes narrowing. At least he was listening now.

"Someone's pretending to be Jennifer."

"But why?" Hayes asked.

"Don't know, but she's not in this alone. Someone's taking pictures."

"So now it's a conspiracy? To make you nuts."

Bentz nodded.