Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 227

No one.

Dead or alive.

His leg on fire, he hitched his way to the nearest exit and found himself in what had been the lobby of the old inn, the main entrance to the small mission.

The air was stale and unused.

Except for the slight scent of Jennifer's perfume.

For the love of G.o.d, what was this?

He knew before he tried the front doors that they would be locked. He also knew that he could wander around this old structure, search the chapel and wine cellars, the individual rooms and reception hall and he wouldn't find her.

She was gone.

And he knew nothing more than he had when he'd left L.A. earlier today.

Perfect! I think with a smile. I peer through binoculars from a hiding spot in the upper story of an abandoned warehouse that reeks of must and oil. But the smells don't bother me. Not today. I focus on Bentz, who is still limping his way around the inn checking doors and flashing his light into the dark corners. I think with a smile. I peer through binoculars from a hiding spot in the upper story of an abandoned warehouse that reeks of must and oil. But the smells don't bother me. Not today. I focus on Bentz, who is still limping his way around the inn checking doors and flashing his light into the dark corners.

Go ahead, Bentz.

You'll find nothing.

It's getting darker, the shadows lengthening, but I can still see him studying the crumbling exterior of the mission. From here I'm safe to imagine him puzzling out the mystery of his first wife.

Good!

"Keep looking," I say in the barest of whispers, adrenaline pumping through my body. "But, uh-oh, be careful...who knows what you'll find."

I can feel my lips twist in satisfaction because I read him so perfectly. I know now that I can manipulate him however I want. And it feels good.

About time!

"Good boy, RJ," I coo softly, as if to a collie who's mastered a difficult trick. "Good, good boy."

G.o.d, how I love to see him squirm!

He's already walking away from the inn, so I step away from the window just in case an ancient, watery streetlight might reflect in my field gla.s.ses.

I can't afford to be careless.

Rick Bentz might be a lot of things, but a fool he is not.

I know that.

He's just a dogged, single-minded b.a.s.t.a.r.d of the lowest order. He deserves this and I can't wait to see him twist in the wind. Oh, yeah. How perfect will it be for him to know the sheer terror, the mind-numbing fear that overcomes you when you're haunted? He will get to experience the confusion and horror of thinking he's losing his sanity.

And there are ways to ratchet up his torment. Oh, yes.

It's time to add a little pressure on the home front.

Olivia...she is the key, I think, the coup de grace. There is no better way to get to Bentz than through his d.a.m.ned wife.

I see him slip through the opening in the fence and head down the street to the parking lot. His shoulders are still broad, but his once purposeful gait is now uneven.

A coldness settles in my heart.

Do you feel me, you sick son of a b.i.t.c.h?

Do you have any idea what you did to me, the pain you put me through?

No?

Well, you will, Bentz, you d.a.m.ned well will.

In fact, and I promise you this, the pain and suffering and guilt will be so intense, so excruciating that you'll wish to heaven and h.e.l.l that you were dead.

CHAPTER 14.

Bentz found his car and made note of a few changes in the parking lot. One of the twin pickups had left and there was now an old Datsun with expired plates idling in front of the bookstore. A teenage girl was behind the wheel, gabbing on her cell phone. WASH ME WASH ME was still in prime position in front of the tavern, but the silver Chevy with the stickers was no longer parked near the dirty van. was still in prime position in front of the tavern, but the silver Chevy with the stickers was no longer parked near the dirty van.

He wondered if one of the cars could belong to "Jennifer" or whoever she was. If so, she certainly was no ghost. As far as he knew the State of California only issued licenses to living people and, if folklore were to be believed, ghosts really didn't need wheels.

On a whim, he walked into the tavern, glanced at the waitstaff and few patrons huddled over a long bar or staring at a big screen in the corner. Satisfied that whoever he'd been chasing hadn't taken refuge in the establishment, Bentz ordered a zero-alcohol, made small talk with the waitress, and asked if she knew who owned the Chevy. She gave him a blank stare that was almost identical to the expression of the bartender when Bentz posed the same question to him. If they knew anything, they weren't going to give it up, but his gut told him they didn't have any idea of the answer and didn't really care.

Ignoring the beer and leaving some bills on his table, he left the tavern and headed to the bookstore, where a shopkeeper nearing eighty was waiting to close. Now the girl who had been in the Datsun had moved inside and was still talking on her cell as she cruised the aisles, concentrating on a wall of books in an area labeled "Vampires and Ghosts." Without a break in her conversation, she picked up various books, thumbed through them, then replaced them on the shelf.

The bookstore was nearly empty, one balding guy near thirty poring over computer texts and a woman with a little girl in pigtails perusing the children's books section.

No one here could have played the part of Jennifer.

The grocery, too, was devoid of customers. Bentz bought a sixteen-ounce Pepsi and checked the aisles. Two teenaged boys in long hair and baggy shorts were checking out the candy section while stealing peeks and whispering about the "hot" girl at the till. A harried young mother, toddler on one hip, eyebrows knit in concern, was shopping for disposable diapers and scowling at the price.

They were the only patrons.

No Jennifer.

Of course.

Outside, behind the strip mall, two men in their early twenties stood smoking near a Dumpster.

Nothing surprising there. Bentz drank his soda and wondered why the h.e.l.l he'd come down here. What, if anything, had he learned?

Just that you're a gullible a.s.s, willing to chase shadows.

He climbed into his rental and kicked himself for not having the presence of mind to take pictures of the woman he'd been chasing; even a dark image on his cell phone would have helped.

He twisted his key in the ignition, then looked at the empty spot in the lot where the silver Chevy had been parked. There was something about that car that had seemed out of place. His cop instincts were in overdrive, which happened whenever he experienced an anomaly-something that didn't seem to fit.

He tried to recall anything about the vehicle. It was an Impala, he thought, maybe a 2000. He tried to visualize the numbers on the license plate, but only remembered that it had current tags issued in California. There was something unique about the plates...two or three sixes in the number. He wasn't certain. But there was some kind of expired parking pa.s.s on the front windshield, a hospital permit of some kind, though part of the information had faded to the point that it hadn't been easily visible, and he'd been in a hurry. Yet he sensed there was something about the pa.s.s that was a little out of the ordinary...what the h.e.l.l was it?

He tried to envision the d.a.m.ned thing. Failed and gave up. Whatever had caught his attention was now gone. It would come to him. Probably in the middle of the night.

Again, he should have taken pictures. With that thought he cut the engine and got out of his Ford to snap photos with his cell phone. He took shots of the license plates and makes and models of the cars parked but also in the lot and on the street leading to the old inn. All told there were only eight, and one of them was on blocks, the plates long expired. A no-counter.

Then there was that old parking pa.s.s thing.

Bentz decided to check out any hospitals in the area. There was a good chance that whoever owned the Chevy had some kind of hospital or medical facility connection. Unless the sticker belonged to a previous owner.

He was driving back through the quaint town when his cell phone rang and he picked up, barely registering that the screen read UNKNOWN CALLER UNKNOWN CALLER. "Bentz."

"Hi, Rick," a woman said, her voice vaguely familiar and frosty as h.e.l.l. "This is Lorraine. You called."

Lorraine Newell. Jennifer's stepsister.

"That's right. I'm in L.A. and wondered if we could get together."

"I can't imagine why."

"I have some questions about Jennifer's death."

"Oh, for the love of G.o.d. You have a h.e.l.luva lot of nerve." She let out a long-suffering sigh. "I knew calling you back was a big mistake. What do you want?"

"I'll tell you when we meet."

"Come on, you're not going to try and be coy now, are you? It's so not you. Let's not mince words. I've always thought you were a straight shooter. A miserable son of a b.i.t.c.h, but a straight shooter."

"Can we meet tomorrow?"

"I'm busy most of the day. Work and appointments."

"Tomorrow night, then."

She hesitated. "Why do I know I'm going to regret this?" She paused as if second-guessing herself, then said, "Okay. Fine! Can you be at my place around...four-thirty? I've got a dinner meeting, but I suppose I can give you a few minutes. For Jennifer."

Big of you.

"I live in Torrance now."

"I've got the address," he admitted.

"Of course you do." There was a bitter sneer in her voice.

"See you then," he said, but she'd already hung up.

As he merged onto a highway, he let his mind sort through new information. He didn't have much to go on. A Chevy Impala with some kind of parking permit, a vehicle that might or might not be a part of this Jennifer fraud. A few other vehicles as well.

And then there was Shana. She was the only one in L.A. who knew about Saint Miguel. Either that or she fed him that information to direct him there, so that "Jennifer" could show up. What part was Shana really playing?

True, he still didn't have a lot to go on, but it was a little more than he'd had two hours earlier. Nothing might come of it, but then again, it was a start.

"You're telling me this new double is like the Caldwell twins all over again?" Corrine asked as Hayes hung his jacket on a hook near the door of her apartment. With two small bedrooms and a killer view of the mountains, the unit was compact but breathtaking, clean and neat. Just like its owner.

"Identical. Down to the way the clothes were folded, the ribbons in their hair, the d.a.m.ned way their bodies were positioned." He was tired and hungry and grouchy.

She shook her head. "You know the names?" she asked and her eyes had turned dark.

"Yeah, he left their ID. Elaine and Lucille Springer."

"d.a.m.n!" She let out a breath. "I remember seeing the missing persons' reports, from Glendale."

"Yep."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h." Shoving her hair from her eyes, she glared out the window. "Both dead. Like before."

"Just like."

"You tell the next of kin?"

"Yeah. I talked to the parents," he said, remembering their denial, their worst fears confirmed, then the horror and grief. "Nice people. He's some kind of insurance salesman. She's a teacher."

Corrine nodded slightly, her jaw tight, her eyes shadowed as if she felt the pain of these people she'd never met. "I remember," she said softly.

"They came to the morgue, made the IDs, and you could see it killed them." He shook his head, wiped a hand over his face. "Killed them." He recalled the Springers: the father, Greg, dressed in khakis and an Izod golf shirt, his face pale beneath a tan. His wife, Cathy, the mother of the twins, had walked in quietly, like a zombie, face masked with an expression of denial. Oh, G.o.d, it had been bad.

Hayes slumped into the recliner positioned in front of the television. It sat near the high counter and stools that separated the compact kitchen from the living area. Corrine came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders.

"It's never easy," she said.

"Both kids. Gone." One minute they'd been parents, happy and secure in life, the next they were totally bereft. Hayes had tried and failed to erase the vision of Cathy Springer's face, the denial in her blue eyes giving way to horror, her knees buckling as she collapsed into her husband's shaking arms.

"Nooooo!" Cathy had wailed over and over again, her grief-stricken cries echoing down the long corridor. Her fists had curled, pounded frantically against her husband's chest as he'd tried to calm her.

And the father. Greg's demeanor had been riddled with defeat and pain, his gaze accusing as he'd stared at the detective. Hayes had known what he was thinking. Why my girls? Why mine? Why not yours? Or anyone else's? Why my sweet innocent babies? Why my girls? Why mine? Why not yours? Or anyone else's? Why my sweet innocent babies?