Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Bentz pulled out his badge just as Hayes and Martinez showed up and identified themselves. Satisfied, the officer said, “We don’t know. The body’s already been taken to the morgue, but I gotta tell ya, it’ll be hard to make an ID.”

  Bentz thought he might be sick. “A woman?” he asked.

  “We think so. There was ID with her, most of it consumed in the fire, but she had a badge with her. It’s pretty blackened, but I already checked the numbers. It belongs to the owner of the car, Officer Sherry Petrocelli. I’m thinking it’s her body we found in the backseat.”

  Bentz nearly sank to the ground in relief. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, trying to get a grip on his own sanity. Desperately he clung to a thread of hope that Olivia hadn’t met such a horrible, grisly end.

  Yet, with that relief came an onslaught of guilt. Someone had died tonight. If not Sherry Petrocelli, then some other woman who had parents, possibly children, a husband, or friends who loved her. And he knew, deep down, that the victim was dead because of him. Because of his ego, his obsession with his first wife. His tunnel vision about Jennifer had brought death to several women and thrust his wife into harm’s way. Someone had personally damned him to a living hell.

  “I have to see,” he said to Hayes, his voice rough, his teeth clenched.

  “What?”

  “I have to see the body.”

  “You’re sure about this?” Hayes obviously disagreed. Shook his head.

  “I need to know, Jonas. You understand.”

  “No I don’t. For the love of God, Bentz, this ain’t gonna be pretty.” Hayes was still shaking his head, then seemed to realize he wasn’t going to dissuade his mule-headed friend. “All right, I’ll take you. But, for the record, I think this is a big mistake. Shit man. Oh, hell. We’ll do it and afterward, then we’ll pick up the rental and you can go back to the motel and get some sleep. You look like hell.”

  At the morgue, the Assistant Coroner tried to warn them. Her preliminary examination indicated that the Jane Doe’s fingerprints had been burned beyond recognition. Eighty percent of the body had been charred, and there were no visible scars or tattoos. “We’ll probably use dental records to confirm her ID,” she said.

  Still, Bentz had to see for himself.

  The attendant, a different one from the person who’d pulled back the sheet on Fortuna Esperanzo hours before, waited for a sign from Hayes.

  Bentz braced himself as a thunderous sound like a train in a tunnel roared through his brain. Powered by dread, it clamored down his spine and caused the back of his throat to turn to dust. What if he were wrong? What if the stiff, blackened body hidden by the thin sheet was actually Olivia? Oh God, no! He nearly backed down, but clenched his fists and set his jaw.

  With a nod from Hayes, the attendant drew back the cover.

  “Oh, shit,” Martinez said and turned away.

  Hayes winced.

  Bentz’s stomach roiled at the sight of burned flesh and white, staring eyes. Singed hair surrounded a nearly unrecognizable face. Teeth visible through blackened burned lips.

  “Not Olivia,” Bentz said, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. He was certain. Felt relief tinged with guilt. Thank God she hadn’t suffered the fear and pain this poor woman had endured.

  “It’s Petrocelli,” Hayes said. “Officer Sherry Petrocelli. Oh, man, I wasn’t expecting that.” He was shaken, his lips flat against his teeth as he motioned for the attendant to cover the scorched remains again. “I know they found her ID, but somehow I didn’t believe it.” Hayes wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of one hand. “Her husband needs to know. I guess I’d better make the notification.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Martinez offered, casting a horrified glance at the draped gurney as it was rolled away. “What a friggin’ nightmare. I hope to holy hell she was already dead when that car was ignited.”

  “Amen,” Hayes agreed. He took one last look at the gurney then said, “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to pick up that car if the rental place is still open. Then Martinez and I will go and give Jerry Petrocelli the bad news.” He let out a long sigh. “God I hate this.”

  “You and me both,” Martinez said.

  The pink light of dawn was just streaking through the small port-hole in the hull of the ship, a tiny window Olivia hadn’t noticed until daylight began to stream into the foul place. Vermin had taken over the boat during the night. The sounds of tiny feet on the floorboards and claws scratching at the wood had accompanied the creaks and moans of the boat moving slightly on the water. At one time during the pre-dawn hours Olivia had thought she heard someone come aboard. But if that had been the case, no one had hurried down the stairs to either rescue or attack her, despite her yells and screams.

  She’d barely slept. Her nerves had been jangled all night, expecting the boat to be ignited into a hideous conflagration that would kill her with deadly smoke, squeezing the air from her lungs, or, worse yet, burning her alive.

  She couldn’t let that happen. And yet, when she closed her eyes it overcame her…the horror, the pain. She saw her skin crinkling and charring, felt her muscles and tissue consumed by hungry, excruciating flames. Her eyelashes and hair would singe as she screamed deep in the belly of this empty boat.

  And no one would ever hear her.

  The vision was so horrifying, so vividly real that Olivia tried to keep her eyes open. Even the grim reality of this dank, smelly hold was preferable to the images her willing mind conjured.

  However, facing reality meant dealing with the inevitable. Olivia knew she would have to fight. When the time came, she would have to attack the woman who had detained her here. She’d rather take her chances against a knife or gun rather than be caged like an animal, forced to wait while the sick bitch decided her fate.

  At least now, after enough hours, not only was her brain working again, but her limbs were doing what she asked of them and she felt no residual effects from the stun gun.

  As the sun rose, she tried to plot her escape. She refused to be intimidated by a weapon if her abductor brandished one. Let her try.

  Who was this sick, deadly woman?

  What did she want?

  Why was she holding Olivia prisoner?

  Worse yet, what did she have planned?

  Nothing good, Olivia knew that much.

  And that scared her to death.

  Don’t let it paralyze you. Think, Olivia. Figure out how to get out of here. You’re a smart woman and there are tools available. You just have to figure out how to retrieve them, use them.

  She eyed her surroundings, but they were sparse, only cluttered by bits or debris and rat droppings that confirmed the presence of tiny beasts living in the nooks and crevices of the boat. Great. She tried not to dwell on the vermin. She assumed that she was in a cargo hold of some kind, locked in a cage used for hauling animals. She was supposed to use the bucket to relieve herself, the jug for drinking water.

  She hadn’t used either.

  So far.

  But that would change soon.

  A mop hung on one of the walls, a harpoon and life vests and oars on the other. There was a built-in cabinet, the doors shut tight. Otherwise the hold was empty, bisected by the narrow, steep stairs.

  She checked the steel bars surrounding her. They were firmly attached, too strong to move, too close together to slip between. The gate, too, was solid. It wouldn’t budge without a key. She lifted her bound hands and tried to prod the pins in the hinges, but they were set firmly. She couldn’t knock them loose.

  No. Right now, she was locked up tight.

  And going out of her mind.

  Cuffed as she was, Olivia was able to test the strength of the cage, but she couldn’t get out. She’d tried to reach through the bars to grab the spear gun or oars from the wall, but of course, it was impossible. The valuable potential weapons stared at her, taunted her.

 
No, she had to find another way out. If her abductor returned, which Olivia assumed she would, then Olivia had to lure her into the cage, somehow steal the keys or physically restrain her.

  It wouldn’t be easy. The woman who’d abducted her was not only clever, she was tough. Athletic. Stronger than she looked, Olivia knew, by the way the woman had wrestled her into this prison of a boat.

  You’ll have to outwit her. It won’t be easy, but you’ll have to feign that your spirit is broken, gain her trust, then ambush her. Do not let it slip that you’re pregnant. She’ll use the baby against you, against Bentz, so not a single word.

  Whoever her captor was and whatever she wanted, the bitch had planned her revenge on Bentz, step by step.

  She wouldn’t be easily duped.

  But Olivia would find a way. She had no other choice.

  I can’t sleep. I am too keyed up, too excited.

  Now, more than ever, I can’t afford a slipup. One wrong move and everything will be for naught: all the planning, all the waiting, all the salivating at the thought of Bentz’s unraveling. Caution is the word for the day. I must look normal, as if my routine hasn’t been altered.

  Just in case anyone is watching.

  After staring at the clock all night long, I get up only half an hour early. I make a quick power shake for me and a sandwich for her. I would like to kill her and be done with it, but I can’t, not yet. So I have to go through the motions of keeping her alive.

  I even manage to drive to the club for a quick workout, including time on the weight machines and swimming a mile in the pool. The people I swim with recognize me, nod, and chat. It reminds me how important it is to stick to the schedule. Routine is everything.

  So far, nothing I’ve done appears suspicious.

  I wave and talk to the few type-A early risers I know, then get on the scale and make a loud disgusted sound as I read the results. Of course, my weight is perfect, my body fat lower than most female athletes.

  Afterward, though I’m anxious and eager to see how Bentz’s pathetic wife is doing, I shower and change as if I’m not in a hurry, not rushed. But I can barely restrain myself from running to the car. I drive five miles over the limit to the storage unit, where I grab a few essentials. Checking my watch, I return to the car and race as fast as traffic will allow to the dock where the boat is moored.

  People are out and about, dockworkers and fishermen predominantly, but no one is really watching me or giving me the least bit of attention. Why would they? It’s not as if I don’t belong on the boat; I’ve boarded a thousand times before.

  I am pushing it time-wise, but can’t wait to see how little “Livvie” is doing. I have my taser with me, just in case she somehow gets violent. But really, she doesn’t have a prayer.

  Which is perfect.

  I love having that power over Bentz’s wife.

  With my athletic bag slung over my shoulder, I head inside and check to make certain I’m alone. Then I climb down the staircase, my shoes ringing on the metal stairs.

  She, of course, is waiting for me, sitting on the floor, and from the looks of her, I’d say had a worse night’s sleep than I did. Dark smudges underline her eyes. Her hair is a matted mess. The area around her mouth where she’s torn off the tape is still raw and red in one patch. Her clothes are wrinkled and dirty. In a nutshell: she looks like crap.

  Which warms the cockles of my heart. If only her loyal husband could see her now.

  Despite it all she isn’t screaming. She’s not begging or crying, which is more than a little disappointing. I’d like to break her spirit. Would love to see her grovel and plead. In fact, it’s one of my most cherished fantasies. Obviously it isn’t going to happen today.

  But her time is running out. It won’t be long before she’ll be pleading for her life. Right now, it is still early. She doesn’t really know what she’s in for.

  “Good morning,” I say sweetly.

  “Who are you?” Defiance in her tone. Even belligerence.

  “I thought you might want breakfast.”

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Let’s see, I’ve got a sandwich. Peanut butter. Nontraditional for the morning meal, but it’s all I could scrape together.” As I reach in my bag I feel her rising in the cage.

  “Let me out.” She’s on her feet, facing me through the bars, staring me straight in the eyes. She’s calmer than I’d expected or hoped.

  I lift my chin. “I don’t think so.” What kind of idiot does she take me for?

  “I won’t press charges.”

  She’s serious. Desperate. Good. I like that attitude much better.

  “Oh, yeah, right. I believe that,” I mock. She’s being stupid. “After all the hard work I went through to get you here, do you really think I’m just going to release you? Give me a break, you’re smarter than that.”

  “Why are you doing this? Who are you? Not Sherry Petrocelli.”

  “Ding!” I say, pushing an imaginary button. “Score one for the blonde in the cage.”

  “What do you want from me?” she pressed. She was single-minded. Just like Bentz.

  “Nothing,” I say honestly. “From you.”

  “This is about my husband.”

  “Bingo. Now you’re up to two right answers. Another one and you’ll be in the bonus round.”

  “You think this is a joke? A game?” she asks, glaring at me as if I’m crazy, when she’s the one locked up.

  “A joke? No.” I feel the boat sway a little, smell the scent of the beasts who were locked up before her. “A game? Possibly. Only I know the outcome and you, I’m afraid, don’t.”

  “Fill me in.”

  God, she’s ballsy! What the hell is she doing trying to get information from me? Asking questions when she should be submissive and fearful and begging for her life? I’m the one in charge. Doesn’t she get it? “You don’t need to know anything.”

  “Do you know my husband?”

  “RJ? Oh, yeah.”

  “So you’ve been pretending to be Jennifer?”

  I can’t help but laugh. Then I make a low, flat sound. “Meeeep. Sorry, you just lost. No lightning round for you! And not even lovely parting gifts. You just get to stay here. Alone. That’s your prize.” She doesn’t even break a smile, the humorless bitch. “Look I don’t have a lot of time, so I thought I’d show you something, give you something to eat, and get going. Let’s see.” I make a big deal out of looking through my bag, then slide the wrapped sandwich and a can of Dr Pepper through the bars. I’m wearing gloves, just in case something goes wrong. You can’t be too careful. I leave her miserable breakfast in the cage, but she ignores it.

  Fine. If she wants to starve herself, it’s no skin off my nose.

  But I’m sure her tough facade is about to crack. She’ll have more interest in the family album, I’m certain.

  I open the scrapbook carefully and turn to one of my favorite pages, the Christmas section. There’s a photograph with Jennifer sitting in an overstuffed chair, Rick at her side, his hand placed possessively on her shoulder. A lit Christmas tree fills one corner of the shot and Kristi, a toddler with a big smile and a cockeyed red bow in her hair is balanced on Jennifer’s lap. “I know it’s not the holiday season, but I thought I’d share this with you.”

  I lay the open album on the floor, just out of reach, on my side of the cage. She glances down disdainfully, but her hard shell cracks a little. Fear and outrage begin to show as she looks at the photos in the open album.

  “What is this?” she asks in the barest of whispers. The album got to her. Finally. “Where did you get it?”

  “Just something to think about,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “So you can see for yourself that the man you married was obsessed with his first wife. I think everyone should have a little clarity; a little understanding before they die.” I smile again. “It’s only a matter of time, you know.”

  And then, while she’s still stunned,
I reach into my athletic bag again and retrieve my digital camera. Aiming and shooting quickly, I catch her horrified expression.

  The picture is perfect.

  “Your husband? He’s going to love this shot,” I assure her, as I look at the picture I’ve captured. “Just love it.” Then, feeling victorious, I pack up my things and hurry up the stairs.

  Let her think about her bleak future.

  The woman was mad, Olivia thought. Cold, calculating, and mad as a hatter.

  And obsessed with Bentz.

  As Olivia stood imprisoned in the cage, gently rocking with the boat, fear slithered through her like a nest of tiny worms. She stared at the photo album left only a few feet from her cell. Opened to the page with the twenty-odd-year-old Christmas picture, the leather-bound volume was thick. Its plastic-coated pages had been filled with snapshots and clippings and cards, the work of an obsessed, sick mind.

  Why?

  Who was she?

  Why was she so intent on Bentz?

  Not that it mattered; the important thing was that Olivia had to escape. And soon. How, she didn’t know, but she had to find a way because she was certain that she was scheduled to die.

  She just didn’t know when.

  She noticed something else on the pages. Red smudges like…drops of blood? Crimson drips staining the photographs and smeared over the plastic. Oh, God. Whose blood? This maniac who held her? Or someone else’s?

  Jennifer’s.

  This woman is consumed with her.

  No way! Jennifer was long dead.

  Olivia was suddenly and violently nauseous. In an instant, she knew she was going to throw up. She scrambled across her cell and barely made it to the bucket before she retched though there was little in her stomach but acid and bile.

  Again!

  Her insides protested and she felt weak.

  It couldn’t be morning sickness. Not like this.

  No, she was certain, this had nothing to do with her pregnancy. She was reacting to the horror that had become her life.