Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 239

Hayes hadn't been so quick to judge. "You don't think he had anything to do with the Springer twins' murders."

Bledsoe had glowered at Shana McIntyre's monitor. "Didn't think so. But this one..." He'd scratched at his chin and looked up over the rims of his reading gla.s.ses. "I don't know. Look, I've never pegged Bentz as a killer. But something's off, Hayes. You and I both know it, and somehow it's connected to the fact that good ol' Ricky Boy is back in L.A."

On that point, Hayes didn't disagree.

The husband, Leland McIntyre, who drove back from Palm Springs, had seemed genuinely upset. He had an alibi, but then murder-for-hire wasn't an impossibility. An insurance broker, Leland McIntyre had taken out a whopper of a policy on his wife, over two million dollars. Then there was the list of her ex-husbands and the previous Mrs. McIntyre, Isabella, who, if you could believe the neighbors, had held a grudge against Shana for stealing her husband. It was hard to tell. There were so many ex-wives and husbands in the mix, it nearly took a flowchart to keep them all straight.

And all the suspects from dysfunctional relationships didn't change the fact that Rick Bentz had visited Shana only days before her death. He's in town less than a week, and she ends up dead. He's in town less than a week, and she ends up dead.

The last person to see Shana alive was the gardener, earlier in the afternoon. The final call on her cell phone had been to her husband in Palm Springs. The phone records for her cell, the husband's cell, and the home phone were already being checked.

No signs of forced entry at the house, but the killer had probably climbed the gate and walked around the house. Of course there were four security cameras in and around the house, but they had been inoperable for years.

No break there.

The McIntyre homicide was a tough one, Hayes thought, even if you pulled Bentz from the pool of suspects.

d.a.m.ned Bentz. He was proving to be a real pain in the a.s.s. Still, Hayes would give Bentz the benefit of the doubt and track down some of the information Bentz wanted. There was a chance it might even help with the case.

Just as soon as he fought his way through the statements and evidence of this latest crime.

He glanced at the clock again and figured it would be a long one. If he was lucky, he'd be home at midnight. Great. He glanced down and a note on his calendar caught his eye: Recital. Oh, h.e.l.l, Maren was singing tonight at some church near Griffith Park in Hollywood. Hayes had promised his daughter he would attend and he couldn't stand facing her disappointment or Delilah's scowl of disgust. He had to show up. Somehow he'd take off an hour for the kid.

It was, as Delilah was always delighted to remind him, his responsibility.

Montoya was sweating, his muscles aching from running on the indoor track for half an hour, then working out on the weight machines-a new exercise regimen his wife had initiated by giving him a membership to a gym for his birthday. Yeah, it was a great stress reliever, and yeah, he was more toned, but this new "healthy" lifestyle was about to kill him. After all, what was wrong with a smoke and a beer?

On the way to the locker room he waved to a couple of guys he knew, then showered, letting the hot water run over his body before he toweled off. He dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, then slipped his arms through his leather jacket and headed out.

Into the warm Louisiana rain.

Fat drops pounded the parking lot as he dashed to his Mustang, unlocking it with his keyless remote on the fly. Nearly soaked again, he considered driving straight home, where Abby was waiting, but decided to detour to the office to check on the information he'd requested for Bentz. Having seen the press release about the latest L.A. murder, he didn't want to delay.

"d.a.m.n," he said, flipping on his wipers. Bentz was in trouble. Montoya could feel it. People were dying. People somehow connected to his partner.

Streetlights glowed, casting shimmering blue pools of illumination on the pavement as he nosed his car into the street and pushed the speed limit, running amber lights, thinking about Bentz in California.

The guy was stirring up trouble.

But then, that wasn't exactly a news flash.

Though Montoya had thought Bentz was out of his mind, the events of the last few days had proved him wrong. Bentz might be stirring the pot, but something was hiding just beneath the surface, something murky and decidedly evil. It was all Montoya could do not to buy an airline ticket and fly out. He had some vacation time he could use. Abby would understand. She always did. But he hadn't been invited. This mess in California was Bentz's private deal. He was figuring out his own past, exorcising his own d.a.m.ned demons. If he wanted his partner's help, Bentz wouldn't be shy about asking.

And yet, what if Bentz needed help and didn't realize it? What if he were getting in over his head. Jesus, the man was an idiot where women were concerned.

Taking a corner fast enough to make his tires squeal, Montoya slowed a bit to call Abby.

"How's my favorite detective?" she asked.

"Fine as ever," he lied.

"Still have a tiny ego, I see."

"It just needs a little stroking."

"Your ego? That's what you're talking about?"

"Naughty woman."

"And you love it."

She was right. They both knew it. "Look, I'm gonna be running a little late," he said as he drove past the Superdome and had to stop for a red light. People with umbrellas dashed across the crosswalk and splashed through puddles.

"Let me guess, Hotshot. You're officially off the clock, so now you're going to work for nothing for Bentz."

"Something like that."

"Should I wait up?" she'd said with a trace of sarcasm.

"Might be a good idea."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh, yeah." The light turned green. He hung up chuckling. She was the first woman who'd been able to give as well as she got, and he loved that about her. As the police band crackled and the wipers slapped the rain from the windshield, he drove through the city to the station. Easing into an available parking slot, he cut the engine. Turning his collar against the downpour, he raced into the building and up the stairs.

The squad room was quiet, only a few detectives were still working, most having already called it a day. Montoya sat at his desk, fired up his computer, and searched his e-mail for the doc.u.ments he'd requested.

Sure enough, a few answers had come in, answers he hoped would help Bentz. He checked the wall clock: 8:47, not even 7 P.M P.M. on the West Coast. He dialed quickly and Bentz picked up on the third ring.

"Bentz."

"Yeah, I know." They both had caller ID. "How's it going?"

"Not good. Shana McIntyre was murdered."

"I heard."

"Yeah, well, the LAPD isn't happy." Bentz's voice was tense.

"No one is. Look, I might have some information for you. I'll send it via e-mail, but thought you might want to hear it directly."

"Shoot."

"The long and the short of it is that Elliot, our resident computer whiz, went to town with the information you gave me on the parking pa.s.s, partial license plate numbers, and car description."

"Did he get any hits?"

"Bingo. The G.o.d of all things technical just sent me the information. Says he sifted through federal, state, and private records to find it."

"Lay it on me."

Montoya scanned the monitor. "So the silver Chevy that's been d.o.g.g.i.ng you could be a vehicle once owned by an employee of Saint Augustine's Hospital. Her name was Ramona Salazar."

"Was?"

"Yeah, that's the kicker. She died about a year ago."

A beat. Then Bentz asked, "What happened to the car?"

"Still registered to her."

"Got an address?"

"Yeah, but it's the old one where she lived when she was still alive. The car could have been sold, but whoever bought it never bothered registering it."

"I wonder why."

"Me too. Someone might be using her ID, or some family member could be driving the vehicle even though it's still in her name."

"I'll find out."

"Good. And I've got some info on a few astrologers named Phyllis, nothing concrete. There's a Phyllis Mandabi who reads tarot cards in Long Beach," Montoya said, checking his notes. "And there was an astrologer who practiced in Hollywood about fifteen years ago-Phyllis Terrapin. She left there for Tucson, got married, and doesn't have her shingle, if that's what you want to call it, out any longer."

"Got it."

"And you shouldn't have any problem finding Alan Gray. He's still a big shot in the Los Angeles area. Got a new firm though, named ACG Investments. He's the CEO."

"Thanks." Bentz said. "I already tracked him to ACG, but haven't figured out what he's into."

"I'll see what I can find out."

"Great. You did good."

"I know," Montoya said, and with a few clicks of his mouse, forwarded all of the information to Bentz's personal e-mail address. He was about to hang up, but said, "Hey, Bentz?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch your a.s.s."

CHAPTER 23.

She's dead!

As I shake a fresh pitcher of martinis, I give myself a pat on the back for how neatly the killing went off. Without a G.o.dd.a.m.ned hitch. Despite those miserable yapping little dogs.

That b.i.t.c.h Shana never knew what hit her.

Her reaction, a look of surprise melding into a mask of sheer horror, was priceless. Our eyes met for a heartbeat, then I sent her reeling and fumbling and splashing into the water.

Perfect!

I hum to myself as I add a little vermouth, very dry, just a whiff, then pour myself a drink.

Bentz is sweating now, I know. He's wondering about the trap he's fallen into, searching for a way out. What a joke. His little stunt at the pier followed up by Shana's unexpected, and oh, so unfortunate, death.

"Boo-hoo," I whisper aloud.

Smiling to myself, I dig in the refrigerator, find a jar of olives, and drop two into my gla.s.s. Drab green, stuffed with pimento, they dance in the clear liquid and slide to the side. Like little eyeb.a.l.l.s staring at me.

"Proud of me?" I ask the drink, then take a sip. "Ummm. De-lish!"

I pluck one olive from the gla.s.s and suck the pimento from it, savoring the taste and smell of gin as I walk into the living room and drop into my favorite chair.

I taped the news coverage of Shana McIntyre's death and I play it over and over, listening to that imbecilic reporter, Joanna Quince from KMOL, trying to stutter her way through the story.

"Idiot," I say to the TV, dangling the other olive over my mouth as Joanna tries to p.r.o.nounce McIntyre. "It's Mac-En-Tire," I say, irritated. I've watched it three times before, waiting for the on-camera flub and it grates on my nerves. "Shana would be soooo upset if she heard you s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up," I say to Joanna, and that's the truth. Shana was so proud of stealing Leland away from his first wife. It seemed that getting him down the aisle was payback for the same thing happening to her.

"What goes around, comes around," I say, then click off the moronic reporter and think about the next one who will have to suffer a similar fate to Shana's.

It should happen soon, I think, to make my point.

Yes, sooner better than later.

So that everyone understands that the latest spate of killings are not coincidence, that they are directly tied to Rick Bentz.

I already know who will be the next traitor to be sacrificed, and this one will be child's play. It could happen as quickly as tonight.

That's an appealing thought, and it could work. After all, I've planned it for so long. Another long sip of the cool martini. But I'll just have one. For now. Later, I can have another for my next celebration.

I'm tingling inside, antic.i.p.ation sliding through my body. How long I've waited, but oh, it was worth it. That old quote about revenge being best served up cold was right on the money.

So, so true.

I finish my drink, savoring the last drop. Bottoms up! Lowering the gla.s.s, I get to work. I'll need to make a phone call before I leave and then...oh, yeah, and then...

The fun is just beginning.