by Lisa Jackson
Carlos balked. “I don’t think I should be talking to you.”
“Does your cousin’s boy have a problem with the police?”
“No. They are good people. Leave them alone. The deal was legal. I will see that the car is registered.” He hung up before Montoya could get any more information from him.
Still, it was a start. Montoya tried to call Bentz with the information, but once again he couldn’t reach his partner. Montoya left a short message on Bentz’s voice mail and said he’d keep digging. He felt the same adrenaline rush that surged through his blood any time he made progress on a particularly vexing case. Damn if he wasn’t getting closer.
For his next trick, he was going to locate Yolanda Salazar.
Could she be the woman who was haunting Bentz by pretending to be his ex-wife?
If so, the jig was just about up.
Make the call, Bentz told himself as he studied the woman who resembled his ex-wife. He should have dialed the police ten minutes ago when he first spotted her. Let them lock her up and end the ruse now.
But he didn’t want to let her out of her sight until he had what he’d come for…
Answers.
Answers she promised to give him, if he would just indulge her in a short ride.
“If you want the truth, I’ll tell you on the way to Point Fermin,” she said, folding her arms. “After that, after you and I talk alone, then I’ll go with you to the police station. But if you call the police now, I’ll lawyer up and you’ll never know the truth.”
He didn’t like it, didn’t trust her. “I don’t think so.” He pulled his cell from his pocket. “I’m calling the cops now. I’ve got a friend in Homicide who wants to talk to you.”
“He can talk all he wants, but I won’t tell him anything. Stop the call now, RJ, or else you’ll never know.” Her lips twisted in that Jennifer way as she pointed at his cell phone. “You’ll never know the truth. And it will eat you alive.”
God, she knew how to play him.
But then she always had.
Reluctantly, he agreed. After all, he had the gun. She couldn’t get away. However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t anxious, that he didn’t hear the nagging voice in his head scolding him for being a fool.
“I’ll drive,” he said, unlocking her car. “You can ride shotgun.” He retrieved his gun and shoulder holster from his bag, strapped it on, then tossed his luggage into the back. As he slid into the driver’s seat of her car, he tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong. This was not the way a suspect was transported, but then, here in L.A., he was not a cop working a case. Just a man playing out some surreal nightmare.
She gazed at his weapon and pursed her full lips. “Nice.” Her voice dripped sarcasm, but she didn’t seem particularly rattled. In fact, he thought as he drove toward the airport exit, she sat beside him with the assurance of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
And that made all the more wary. Was she was leading him into some kind of trap?
He had to stay on alert. Ready.
But it was weird as hell. Her profile was so like Jennifer’s—straight nose, deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and sharp chin. She was the right size, too, but she looked as if she was closer to thirty-five than forty-five, and he would have bet that it wasn’t due to any kind of plastic surgery.
For the thousandth time he wondered if this whole scenario had been planned, an intricately molded ruse to get him into the car and to Point Fermin. Either way, he wasn’t scared. Intrigued, yes. Concerned, definitely. But not in fear for his life, which might have been just plain stupid.
He knew the route from memory, from the many times he and Jennifer had ventured this way. He didn’t bother with the freeway, instead driving south on the surface streets to the Palos Verdes peninsula that rose high over the sea.
Beside him, she rolled down her window and released her ponytail, letting the wind rush through her hair. “Remember the lighthouse?” she asked, casting him a knowing look.
His throat turned to sand as he recalled the way Jennifer had stripped off her blouse near the white Victorian house with its distinctive cupola and red roof. It had been twilight in winter, the park nearly empty. She’d laughed at his reaction, then had turned and run barefoot through the trees of the grassy park. By the time he had caught up with her, he had been breathless with exertion and anticipation. There in the shade of a spreading tree they had made love just after the sun had set over the Pacific.
“Yeah, I thought you would,” she said with a naughty grin.
How did she know these things? he wondered as he guided the Chevy up the steep road that wound over the cliffs overlooking the ocean. To the west was the vast Pacific. To the east, huge houses with sparkling stucco facades and swimming pools crowded the hillside.
She kept the window down, letting the soft breeze over the Pacific Ocean seep into the warm car, the wind tangling her auburn tresses.
The ocean was a valley of blue stretching forever west. Sunlight sparkled on the surface, waves rolling and crashing to the shore far below. A few vessels were visible on the horizon.
Bentz told himself to snap out of it; he refused to be a part of her twisted fantasy. He was here to get answers.
“So really, who are you?” he asked, his elbow pressing against his ribs, subconsciously checking the weight of the weapon stowed there.
Over the rush of wind she flashed him a smug look.
“You’re not Jennifer.”
One of her dark eyebrows lifted, silently disagreeing. “Is that what you think?”
“She’s dead. About to be exhumed.”
She shrugged. “Then you’ll know,” she said in that breathy voice that could well be his ex-wife’s.
Know what? That you’re a fraud? He wanted to snap at her, but the salt from the ocean spray and the scent of her perfume gave him pause, brought back vivid memories of a time he’d tried so hard to forget.
“So talk,” he said, trying to focus on his purpose. “Who killed Shana McIntyre and Lorraine Newell?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure.”
“Really,” she insisted.
“You’re saying their deaths are unrelated to your…reappearance?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, then, what do you know?”
“That this is getting more complicated than I thought. More dangerous.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
He watched as she swallowed hard, her fingers curling tight over the seat belt. She was finally nervous. Good. Bentz kept his hands steady on the wheel, determined to pin her down.
“How did you know Ramona Salazar?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The last registered owner of this car. How do you know her? How did you get this damned vehicle?”
“It was a gift.”
“From whom?”
“A friend.”
He snapped out of the fantasy. “Don’t do this, okay? No more games. I only agreed to come here with you if you’d talk to me, tell me what was going on, and now you’re talking in circles and riddles. Oh, hell, forget it.” He dug out his cell phone and speed-dialed Hayes.
“No, don’t!” she cried.
“Too late.”
Her lips twisted and she shook her head. “Who are you calling?”
“Who do you think?”
“The police.”
“Bingo!”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, right.” He put the phone to his ear and waited.
Hayes answered on the third ring. “Hayes.”
“It’s Bentz. I’ve got our girl.”
“What?” Hayes asked. “Who?”
“Jennifer. She and I are heading down the coast. To Point Fermin.”
“Why the hell are you going there?”
“Just meet us there.”
“Wait a second, what is this? What the hell’s going on?”
&n
bsp; But Bentz clicked off and smiled coldly at the woman. “Better get your story straight, Jennifer. You’ve got a helluva lot of explaining to do.”
CHAPTER 28
“Hold on!” Hayes said, pressing on the earbud of his cell phone. He’d been on his way to interview Tally White when he’d caught the call. “Meet you at Point Fermin? You mean on the peninsula?” But Bentz had already hung up. Hayes tried to call him back, but the son of a bitch wouldn’t answer.
“Jerk!” Sometimes he wondered why he still had Bentz’s back. Bledsoe was right; the guy was a loose cannon.
Hayes made a quick U-turn and received a horn blast from a woman in a gold Mercedes, followed by a quick middle finger from a kid in baseball cap driving a lowrider pickup.
He threaded through traffic on his way to the 110 and San Pedro near Point Fermin, far to the south of the city.
What was Bentz up to, calling in with such disjointed information? Bentz thought he was with Jennifer? That was just plain nuts.
Which would be proved in just a few hours when her remains were exhumed.
But maybe Bentz hadn’t been able to say what he’d really meant, Hayes thought, running an amber light as he maneuvered his Toyota toward the freeway entrance. He called for backup, though he wasn’t sure it was necessary.
“Martinez,” she answered.
“Hey. I might need assistance. Not sure yet.” He filled her in and his partner let out a low whistle.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m starting to think that Bledsoe’s right. Bentz has gone loco.”
“I was just thinking the same thing. Just be ready for another wild goose chase.”
“Just the kind of thing I love.”
Olivia took her seat on the jet, tucked between a bulky man who spilled over into her space and a mother with a squirmy toddler on her lap. The little girl, a dark-haired cutie with big eyes and pigtails, stared at Olivia intently as the mother dug into the diaper bag tucked under the seat in front of them. The guy near the window gazed out the glass while baggage thumped and bumped as it was being loaded beneath them.
Olivia tried calling Bentz one last time, left a message that she was on her way to Los Angeles, and turned off her phone. No use worrying. So he wasn’t answering? So what? Nothing new there.
She’d left a message with the motel and with Jonas Hayes, the detective who was Bentz’s friend in LAPD. She’d even put in a call to Montoya to tell him what her plans were, just in case Bentz talked to him before Olivia landed on the West Coast. A few minutes later, the plane was pushed back from the terminal. The little girl beside her started to cry, and the big guy by the window held tight to his iPod so he could plug in the second it was allowed.
Olivia leaned back and closed her eyes, felt the little girl brush up against her. She smiled at the thought that in less than two years, she would be in the same position as the somewhat harried mom, searching for pacifiers and diapers, trying to keep the attention of an active pre-toddler.
A little girl?
A boy?
It didn’t matter.
In a few hours she’d see Bentz again and give him the news.
Smiling, she found she couldn’t wait.
Yes, he might be taken aback, even shocked, but he’d get over it. In the end he would love the idea. And yes, when she saw him he’d fill her in and bring her up to date on what had happened to his ex-wife. Olivia might feel a ridiculous pang of jealousy that he’d spent nearly a week of his life reliving his past with a woman he’d once loved passionately, but she would get over it.
At least they would finally be together again.
And then they waited.
While the big guy next to her sweated and the little girl fussed, the captain announced that there would be a delay. A mechanical difficulty needed to be addressed. Twenty minutes, or maybe a half an hour.
Olivia found her book and opened it. She was anxious, ready to get this trip behind her. Now that she’d decided to fly to Los Angeles to see her husband, she found waiting excruciating.
It’s no big deal, she told herself. Not like an omen or anything. Relax. A few minutes won’t make any difference. You’ll be with Bentz soon.
And for that she could suffer the noise and discomfort of a few hours on a plane.
“How’s Kristi?” asked the woman who resembled Jennifer.
Leave my daughter alone, Bentz wanted to snarl as his hands tightened on the steering wheel. The Chevy’s engine whined as the car sped up the sharp hills rimming the ocean. “I don’t think you should bring her up.”
“I miss her so—”
“Bull-fucking-shit!” he growled. His voice was low. A warning. “Don’t go there. Got it? Do not go there. As if you’re her long-lost mother.” He was beyond disgusted. “Just leave my daughter out of this, you goddamned imposter! Now, tell me why the hell you’ve been ‘haunting’ me; what’s the point? Who are you and what do you want?”
She wasn’t rattled in the least, no sweat on her forehead, no death grip on the arm rest. One side of her mouth lifted in that damnable Jennifer way and she cooed, “Oh, RJ, get over yourself.”
He was raging inside, his blood boiling. This fraud had promised him answers, and he was through waiting. “We’re done,” he said with a finality that must have finally gotten to her. “Hear me. This is over. Now.”
“Okay, okay…I get it. You want answers. Just…just pull over up here. There’s a place where you and I went down to the beach, up ahead at Devil’s Caldron. Remember.”
Jesus, God, how did she know that? He remembered the time, on their way to Point Fermin. Jennifer had teased him by touching him in the car. Hot and bothered, he’d pulled over.
Now this woman was sending him a coy look, as if she knew what he was thinking. Dear God, she was so damned much like Jennifer it chilled him to the marrow of his bones.
“There…” She pointed to the sign near the corner. Hands sweating on the wheel, heart thudding, he drove into the turnout perched high over the ocean.
Only one other car was in the lot, an empty white Datsun with a surfboard strapped to its roof. He pulled the Impala beside it, pushed the gear shift lever into park, and cut the engine.
Dust swirled over the hood of the car as, before she realized what he had planned, he reached down and scooped her bag from the floor beneath her.
“Hey!” she protested.
“Just checking your driver’s license, Jennifer.” He rifled through the purse, his hand closing over a slender wallet. Driven with urgency he flipped the wallet open, only to find it empty. No ID. Not even a credit card. “What the hell?”
She laughed. Raised a teasing eyebrow. “Come on, RJ. You of all people should know that a dead woman doesn’t carry identification.”
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, tossing the purse at her. Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward and flipped open the glove box at her knees. There had to be a registration for the car. Maybe she’d stashed her license there, too.
But the compartment was empty, skeletal metal and plastic lit by a small bulb.
“Give it up,” she advised. “You’ll never find what you’re looking for.” She laughed, deep and sexy and naughty. “You’ll never find it because you don’t want to face the truth. You don’t want to believe that I’m Jennifer.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.” He slammed the glove box closed. “And I don’t fall for cons.”
“You did twelve years ago.”
In the distance waves crashed, punctuating the sickening feeling in his gut.
“I staged my own death, RJ. I left the suicide note, the whole thing. My life was unraveling and I wanted…I needed a way out.”
Bentz couldn’t believe her. He wouldn’t believe her. “Then who was driving the car, huh?” he demanded. “Who was wearing your rings? Who am I going to find in your coffin? You mean to tell me you found another woman who looked like you, put her in your car, and made her crash?” He shook his head. “Your story is a tough s
ell.” He wasn’t buying a single word of her fairy tale.
“But I am Jennifer,” she said in that tone that sounded so like his ex-wife. “And I can prove it.”
“This is gonna be good,” Bentz said, shaking his head. “How?”
“You and I first made love on the beach in Santa Monica.”
He didn’t move as her words rolled over him.
“That’s why I jumped off there. I…I thought you’d get it. I know you probably thought it had something to do with James…but it was because of us.”
The temperature in the car seemed to heat ten degrees. No one knew about that first time, long before they were married.
“Face it, RJ,” she whispered. “I’m back.”
“What?” With a click her seat belt was unhooked and she leaned over, her lips hesitating for just a second, hovering, until she kissed him. Filled with ardor and the desire of youth, she grabbed his head and held him fast.
Images blazed inside him. Wild. Erotic. Sexy. In his mind’s eye he flashed on Jennifer’s naughty smile, her smooth, fiery skin, the curve of her neck. With the memories came the pain, reminiscences of the nasty way she cut him down, her secret, haughty way of diminishing him, the way she’d so brazenly taken lovers…
God, he’d loved her.
And he’d hated her.
But this woman wasn’t Jennifer.
With that realization his erotic fantasies turned hollow and cold.
What was he thinking? Who was this fake?
In a split second he thought of Olivia, the woman who fired his blood and interlaced his dreams. It was Olivia’s face he saw in his mind, an image of blond curls, sexy pink lips, whiskey-colored eyes that could gaze deep into his soul. A simple brush of her finger against his nape could make him hard and wanting.
Disgusted, he pushed the imposter away.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“Everything.”
She smiled then. “You are so right.”
With a click, her door popped open and she was outside in a heartbeat.
“Hell,” Bentz growled, unbuckling his seat belt. After fumbling with the handle he threw the door open and burst out of the car.