by Lisa Jackson
The food was substantial and filling, if not gourmet.
Once he’d forked up the last bit of potatoes, he flipped the newspaper closed and caught a glimpse of an ad that stopped him short. It was for a thrift shop, a Catholic thrift shop, and the symbol in the corner of the page, a cross with the letter A attached, was sickeningly familiar.
It was the same symbol from the sticker on the Impala he’d seen at San Juan Capistrano. A symbol for St. Augustine’s.
He stared at the information for a second, then asked the waitress if they offered wi-fi service here. She looked at him as if he were nuts, so he paid quickly, then drove to a nearby coffee shop where he knew there was free Internet access.
After ordering another cup of coffee he really didn’t need, he sat in a worn couch and fired up his laptop.
Over the sounds of soft jazz, grinding coffee, and the hiss of the steamer, he connected to the Internet where he searched for any mention of St. Augustine’s hospital or clinic in the L.A. area. For the first time since coming to L.A., he felt a ray of hope that he might have a way to discover who was tormenting him.
He found a parish in West L.A. on Figueroa Street, a school in Culver City, and several other institutions, but no hospital or clinic.
The fact that one of the schools was on Figueroa and the other in Culver City bothered him. Jennifer had lived with him in Culver City and supposedly, according to her friend Shana McIntyre, had met with James in a little motel somewhere near the USC campus on Figueroa St. It was the same major street where he’d thought he’d seen her at the bus stop.
Possible? Had he seen her? He clicked his pen, wondering.
There were too many connections. Too many coincidences. Too many possibilities.
Doggedly he kept at it, searching the Internet until he came to the mention of St. Augustine’s Hospital, which had closed five years earlier. Bingo! He stared at the information for a second, then jotted down the address, and was out the door.
He had several stops on his agenda. First, he planned to drive to the old hospital, just to get a closer look. Then he would try to catch Fortuna Esperanzo at work in the gallery in Venice. Afterward he planned on heading to Hoover Middle School, where Tally White was a teacher. He remembered Tally had befriended Jennifer when her daughter Melody had been in the same first-grade class as Kristi.
He punched in the address, headed for the freeway, and barely moved. The 10 was jammed in the middle of the day, but he kept at it, inching past an accident, then picking up speed.
As he headed east he checked his mirrors, on the lookout for a tail, watching to see if he was being followed, particularly by a silver Chevy.
Using his cell, cognizant that he might get pulled over as he wasn’t using a hands-free device, he left a message with Montoya, asking him to look up more on St. Augustine’s Hospital and see if there was some way he could get personnel records from the archdiocese or whatever institution or attorneys or board oversaw the hiring or firing of the staff. There had to be records somewhere. True, there would be a lot of staff to sift through, but only for a couple of years. He explained that the Impala was seven or eight years old and the hospital was closed five years earlier, so even if the car was bought new, the window of time when the sticker could have been issued was relatively short.
A plus.
He also left the license plate numbers and hoped that somehow there would be a match. If Montoya used the police department’s computers, databases, and DMV records, they might be able to find some shred of evidence to help him sort out the mystery.
Bentz knew he didn’t have a lot to go on, but he figured it was a start. Tedious work, but a slight inroad. His cell rang. Bentz saw it was Montoya and grinned.
“Got an answer for me already?”
“Up yours, Bentz. It’s not like I don’t have a job to do here.”
“Just see what you can do.”
“Great. Anything else?” he mocked.
“Not yet.” No reason to tell him about last night’s leap into Santa Monica Bay. Yet.
“Well, just let me know because it’s my mission in life to be your bitch.”
“Fulfilling, isn’t it?”
“You owe me, man.”
“Always have, Montoya.” He hung up just before taking his exit off the freeway, then wound his way around the surface streets to the site of the old hospital.
It wasn’t a large piece of property. The crumbling stucco building that had once housed St. Augustine’s Hospital was now surrounded by mesh fencing and warning signs that trespassers would be prosecuted “to the full extent of the law.”
Fine.
Ignoring the warnings, Bentz climbed over a gate and jumped onto the packed dirt inside the enclosure. Pain jolted his hip as he landed, reminding him that he still wasn’t a hundred percent. But he kept on, making his way toward the abandoned hospital.
The stucco exterior was just a shell. Limping a bit, he walked around the rubble and ducked into a gaping doorway. Inside, the building was skeletal, torn down to the studs. Tired floorboards creaked beneath his sneakers, and he saw evidence of bats in the rafters. Some of the old plumbing was intact, rusted pipes running up and down between aging two-by-fours and beams. Whoever had started this renovation had stopped suddenly. Because of the failure of the economy?
Outside again, he paused by a huge sign that faced the road and advertised a strip mall that was to be built. But the intended date for opening had already passed and it was obvious whoever was backing the project had pulled out. So here sat the remnants of St. Augustine’s Hospital, a sad ruin of a building.
Using his cell phone, he took a few photos of the sign, of the crumbling building and the surrounding area. He saved them, then text-messaged them to Montoya.
He wished he could bring Hayes in on this. It would make a lot more sense to work with the cops in California rather than depend upon Montoya in New Orleans. But he just couldn’t count on the LAPD.
Yet.
Slipping his phone into his pocket, he returned to his car, his leg aching as he slid inside and pulled away from the desolate construction site.
CHAPTER 19
Olivia didn’t feel pregnant. Her body hadn’t changed at all, at least on the outside. She wasn’t suffering nausea, wasn’t tired, and wouldn’t have had a clue that she was carrying a baby other than the pregnancy test. Or tests. She’d taken the same test three different times, each kit made by a different manufacturer. Every one of them had confirmed that yes, she was pregnant. Which she’d already known after the first strip had turned a brilliant hue. But, she figured, better safe than sorry. Or in her case, better sure rather than uncertain.
The only difference Olivia felt was the weight of her secret. Not telling Bentz was killing her. She didn’t like secrets or, for that matter, surprises, so as she drove to the Third Eye she made a definitive decision. Today she would make arrangements to take a week or two off and fly to California.
Though Rick had only been gone a few days, Olivia knew he wouldn’t be back for a while. It was as if he were running away. From her. From their life.
Oh, yeah, he had an explanation. He had this sudden obsession with his first wife and he was out chasing ghosts in California. On top of that, a gruesome double murder had taken place in L.A., a killing that was nearly identical to the Caldwell twins’ double homicide. He’d never felt right about leaving Southern California with that case still wide open, and he’d taken a lot of heat about it. She knew her husband well enough to realize that he saw the possibility of solving this new crime as a chance to redeem himself, an opportunity to catch the killer and put him behind bars once and for all. Not that the LAPD would appreciate his efforts.
But he was still running away and it was time to find out why. He’d been acting weird ever since he’d come out of the coma, and unfortunately she was never able to call him on it. At first, she’d been relieved he was alive. While he was recovering she’d forced herself to remain patien
t, understanding that he was not only suffering pain but also dealing with loss of purpose. She had been encouraging, tolerant, supportive.
But she was sick of it.
It was time he bucked up.
Beneath his distracted, distant exterior was the man she had fallen in love with, and she was determined to find him again.
What he needed, she decided, was what her grandmother referred to as “the two-by-four by the back door. Sometimes ya need it to get their attention.” To Olivia’s knowledge, Grannie Gin had never kept a piece of lumber propped on the sun porch. It was just her way of saying “a kick in the pants” or a large dose of reality.
And that was just what Olivia planned to hit Rick with. The truth.
She parked her beat-up truck in a lot, then walked toward the Third Eye. On her way down the street she passed a baby boutique and paused to look at the window display. There was a quaint assortment of layette sets, cute little one-piece sleepers, and bibs deco rated with all kinds of animals. One bib, decorated à la New Orleans, was embroidered with a grinning baby alligator with a bow around its neck. It was surprisingly adorable.
Her own reflection, a watery image, superimposed itself upon the window. She was going to be a mother! Her husband needed to know.
What the hell was she waiting for?
Why in the world was she scared?
She put her hand over her flat stomach, walked into the shop, and, on a ridiculous whim, bought the alligator bib.
It was the first thing she’d bought for the new little Bentz—well, unless she counted the multiple pregnancy tests. Her appointment with her doctor wasn’t for another couple of weeks. That didn’t matter. She was going to quit being a wimp and tell Bentz that he was going to be a father again.
And he’d damned well better like it.
Unlike its Italian namesake, the city of Venice, California, still had just a few of its original canals. Most of the waterways built back in 1905 had since been paved over when the city of Los Angeles decided it needed more real streets for cars. However, the remaining canals and stretch of sandy beach were enough to lend character to the seaside community, which was packed on this sunny, warm day. Mild weather had brought out the bicyclers and skaters, along with an array of street performers who reminded Bentz of the musicians who peddled their talents in the squares of New Orleans. Like his home, this town boasted a carnival atmosphere, a sense of “anything goes.”
The art gallery where Fortuna Esperanzo worked was only a few blocks from the beach, tucked between a tourist shop that sold everything from T-shirts to cameras and an “authentic” Mexican restaurant with a sprinkling of outside tables. The panorama was much the same as it had been a dozen years earlier.
Bentz parked the rental, eyed his cane, left it on the floor of the backseat, and jaywalked across the wide street. The salty scent of the ocean wafted to him, reminding him of his dunk in Santa Monica Bay the previous night. When he’d lost Jennifer. Again.
He stepped under an awning and through the open door of a gallery filled with abstract and modern sculpture and seemed empty. Bentz hitched his way up a wide wooden staircase which led to an open second-floor loft. It was filled with paintings, mosaic work, and tapestries by local artists.
In one corner Fortuna Esperanzo stood on a ladder, replacing the bulb of a light that was trained on a huge, unframed canvas. Wild black strokes slashed across a field of orange and red. The painting was called simply Rage.
“Nice,” Bentz remarked sarcastically.
Startled, Fortuna dropped the lightbulb and it shattered. “Oh shit!” She glared down, eyeing him over the top of the ladder with small, dark eyes framed by perfectly plucked, pencil-thin eyebrows.
Her pink glazed lips pursing into a tight knot of dislike. “I figured you would take the hint when I didn’t call you back, Bentz.” Slowly she descended the rungs to stand on the floor, carefully avoiding the shards of thin glass. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” She skewered him with a stare of disbelief. She was thin to the point of being bony, her taupe size-practically-nothing skirt and sweater hanging off her thin frame. “You really expect me to believe that after twelve or so years you’re just dropping by for a chat? Give me a flippin’ break. Where the hell is my broom?” She walked to an alcove and retrieved a push broom and dustpan. “You want to talk?” she muttered as she began cleaning up the mess. “About what?”
“Jennifer.”
“Oh, God, why?” She stood suddenly and stared at Bentz as if he’d just flown in from Jupiter. “What good will it do now? That poor woman.”
Downstairs another patron wandered into the gallery. Bentz saw her through the open railing. A silver-haired woman with red reading glasses perched on the end of her tiny nose, she wore a perpetual scowl along with white capri pants and a sleeveless top, She wandered through the displays only to stop and contemplate a glass mosaic cat that might have been the ugliest piece of so-called art Bentz had ever seen.
Jesus, was she serious? A piece of crap with a price tag that probably exceeded what Bentz made in a week?
Fortuna leaned over the railing and called cheerfully, “Hello, Mrs. Fielding! I’ll be right down.” She left her broom and dustpan propped against the ladder and glanced at Bentz. “You know, I really don’t have anything to tell you.”
“I’ll wait.”
Rolling her eyes as if to say “whatever” she headed down the stairs at a quick clip. Once on the main floor, she began showing the dour Mrs. Fielding pieces of colored glass that resembled African beasts. Ugly lions and gazelles and elephants. At least, that was his interpretation. Who knew what the artist really had in mind?
Bentz took it upon himself to clean up the mess, hauled the broom and dustpan back to the little closet, and even found another lightbulb. He’d just screwed it in so that it showcased the black and red mess of a painting when Fortuna walked up the stairs.
“Oh, don’t think you’re getting on my good side just because you played janitor,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
“I could have done it myself.” She spied a piece of glass he’d missed and picked it up before folding her arms over her chest. “Just what the hell is it you want to know?”
“Jennifer’s state of mind before she died.”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t know.”
“You were one of her closest friends.”
“What does it matter now?”
“Someone’s been calling me, saying she’s Jennifer.”
“Oh, so what? Someone’s just having a little fun at your expense.”
He hauled out the copies of the photographs and Fortuna eyed them. “These were sent to me.”
“And? The woman looks like Jennifer, yeah. So what? Oh, God, you don’t think? I mean you wouldn’t believe? Oh, no, I mean, that’s rich.” She laughed, though there was no mirth in her tone. “You actually think Jennifer might still be alive.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then who the hell is in her grave?” She shook her head. “This is too much. Someone’s really screwing with your mind. And you know who would have loved this? Jennifer. You’re finally getting yours.”
More than you know, he thought, but didn’t say it. “I just thought you might remember something she did or said that was out of character for her in the week or so before she died.”
“Nothing that I can think of.” Fortuna sighed. Ran red-tipped fingers through her thick hair. “She did everything she normally did, well, I think. You know, the regular stuff. A haircut, I think. I was there the same day and she had gone shopping and visited her astrologer.”
He felt the muscles between his shoulders tighten. “Astrologer?”
“Oh, yeah, you remember…Phyllis Something-Or-Other.” She was staring at him. “You didn’t know?”
“That my ex-wife went to a psychic? No.”
“I sai
d astrologer. There’s a fine line.”
He knew all about it. Olivia’s grandmother had read tarot cards during her lifetime. “Okay, Phyllis the astrologer. Who checks star signs. Moons rising and retrograde and all that stuff.”
“I think it’s a little more involved than that, but personally I never got into it too much.”
“Just Jennifer?”
“Yeah, near as I can tell she went alone, but at least once a month, sometimes twice.”
“For how long?”
“Years. Since college I think.” Fortuna nodded as she tried to remember. “Yeah, I recall her saying something to that effect.”
Bentz was thunderstruck. In all the years he’d known his first wife, all the secrets they’d shared, never had she said a word about consulting an astrologer. Not that it was a big deal, but he wondered what other secrets Jennifer had held so tight. “What did she learn from Dr. Phyllis?”
“Oh, God…I can’t remember,” she said, then snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait! I do remember Jennifer mentioning that Phyllis told her she’d only have one child and…” Her voice trailed off.
“What?”
“Well, I don’t know if the astrologer had anything to do with it, but for some reason Jennifer always thought that she’d die young.”
“What?” His heart stilled. Jennifer had never mentioned any such fear to him.
“She’d make throwaway comments. Like, ‘I know I’ll never see Kristi graduate.’ Or ‘I know I’ll never go to Europe, there’s not enough time.’ And one time…Jeez, it gives me chills just to remember it, she told me, ‘You know, I’m glad I’m never going to grow old.’” Fortuna’s voice dropped and she looked away from Bentz. “God, I hadn’t thought about that in a long, long time.” She cleared her throat. “I really can’t tell you anything else.” She headed down the stairs just as two men who looked to be in their thirties entered the gallery below.
A genial smile pasted onto her face, Fortuna went into salesperson mode. The finest Hollywood actress had nothing on her.