Malice

by Lisa Jackson

  Bentz cruised past the station and noted that Brinkman had parked in the spot Bentz usually claimed. No big surprise there; Brinkman, though a good cop, was always a pain in the ass. And who could blame the prick? It’s not as if Bentz could use it anyway. “Have at,” he said, then drove to a coffee shop with Internet access. He linked up as he sipped iced coffee. Crunching ice cubes, he searched for any information he could find on his first wife, even Googled himself in the process. For the most part, he was considered a hero, having solved more than one serial murder case since being hired by the New Orleans PD.

  But there was some bad press, too. From L.A., stories surrounding a cop with a tarnished badge, who had left the department with a high-profile case still unsolved.

  Then there was the shooting when he’d mistaken a twelve-year-old boy with a toy gun for a killer intending to take down his partner. Bentz had warned the kid, then fired.

  The boy, Mario Valdez, had been pronounced DOA at the hospital.

  Bentz had poured himself into a bottle and, his badge blackened, had left the department. Thankfully Melinda Jaskiel here in New Orleans had seen fit to give him a second chance.

  So he’d relocated.

  The rest, as they said, was history.

  And now someone was intentionally drawing him back to L.A. He didn’t doubt for a second that whoever was behind the photos and mutilated death certificate was intentionally luring him to Southern California.

  But why? And why now?

  He finished his coffee, then phoned Montoya’s cell and left a message on his voice mail asking Montoya to return the call. He scanned the small bistro where people clustered around tall café tables or sat in overstuffed chairs near the window. Two women in their forties were sharing a doughnut. Three teenagers, a boy and two girls, were slouched in the big chairs and sipping mocha-looking drinks piled high with whipped cream drizzled with chocolate. Without a break in their conversation they were all sending text messages at the speed of light.

  Fortunately, his first wife-or her ghost-was nowhere to be seen.

  Not that he’d be surprised when she showed up again.

  However the answer to the enigma of Jennifer rested in California. He pulled out the photos again. Definitely L.A. There was a palm tree visible in the corner of the shot of her running across the street, and a California license plate on a parked car. In the photo of her in the coffee shop, there was a bit of a street sign visible and he saw the letters ado Aven. Some avenue, probably. It could be many places, he thought, but his mind raced, old memories surfacing. Mercado, or Loredo or…His stomach dropped as he thought of Colorado Avenue in Santa Monica.

  If that was it, someone was really screwing with him.

  He and Jennifer had spent a lot of Saturday afternoons at the Third Street Promenade just off Santa Monica Boulevard. About a block and one major shopping mall away from Colorado Avenue. If he remembered right, the mall was accessible from Colorado. He felt that little buzz, like a caffeine rush, at the thought that he was connecting the dots.

  Too easily.

  He wasn’t that smart.

  But it was true that Santa Monica, with its outdoor shopping area, long beach, and trendy restaurants, had been one of Jennifer’s favorite cities, and significant to them as a couple.

  “Crap.” He rubbed a hand around the back of his neck and knew that, like it or not, he had to return to Southern California.

  Someone was luring him.

  Someone wanted him back.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. He’d left a lot of turmoil in Southern California. A lot. Most of it unresolved. Few people in the LAPD were sorry to see him leave.

  And now he was seeing ghosts and getting anonymous mail from the area near his former residence, a place he’d sworn never to set foot in again.

  Something definitely smelled rotten in the Golden State.

  And he needed to find out what it was, even if that meant he was playing right into some sicko’s hands. That bugged the shit out of him, but there was no way around it.

  He clicked off the computer and realized Olivia was due to clock out at the shop in fifteen minutes. Which was perfect. Like it or not, it was time to tell her what the hell was going on.

  Outside, the day had taken a turn for the worse, the clouds overhead thickening darkly. The air was dense and sultry, threatening a storm. He climbed into his car, rolled up the windows, and drove toward the French Quarter, where he managed to find a parking spot two blocks from Jackson Square.

  Using his damned cane, he made his way to the shop, little more than a tourist trap, at least in his opinion. Olivia liked meeting people and working with Tawilda, a thin, elegant black woman who had been at the store forever, and Manda, a later addition to the staff at the Third Eye. So Livvie had decided to stay on while finishing school and setting up her practice.

  The place gave Bentz the creeps.

  The little storefront was filled with shelves displaying an assortment of New Age crystals, religious artifacts, books on voodoo, Mardi Gras beads, and tiny alligator heads complete with glittering eyes. Then there were the dolls-all kinds of dolls that reminded him of dead children with their painted faces, false smiles, and eyes that were shuttered by squared-off fake lashes. The dolls were a recent addition to the store and, according to Olivia, a hit, the rare, high-priced ones boosting the shop’s profits.

  Bentz didn’t get it.

  He’d once made the mistake of asking, “Who the hell buys this voodoo garbage?”

  Olivia, standing at the kitchen window while adding seeds to her parrot’s feeder, hadn’t been offended. She’d just looked over her shoulder, offered him an enigmatic smile, and said, “You wouldn’t want to know. Careful, Bentz, someone you crossed or sent up the river might want to place a hex on you.”

  “I don’t believe in that crap.”

  “Not yet. Just wait until you break out in a rash, or…your eyes turn red, or…oh, I don’t know…you lose your ability to make love, even to the point that your favorite appendage just drops off,” she’d teased, raising a naughty eyebrow. That was all it had taken.

  “You’re asking for it,” he’d warned, advancing on her.

  “Oh, yeah, and who’s gonna give it to me?”

  He’d grabbed her then, swept her off her feet, while the seeds scattered over the counter and floor. Chia had squawked and the dog had barked crazily as Bentz carried his wife up the stairs. Squealing, Olivia had laughed, her sandals falling to clatter noisily on the steps.

  Once he’d reached the bedroom, he’d kicked the door closed and fallen with her onto the bed. Then he’d gone about showing her that his male parts were still very much fully attached and working just fine.

  God, he loved her, he thought now as the first drops of the rain fell from the leaden sky and he made his way along the busy sidewalk skirting Jackson Square. Yet now their relationship was strained and lacked the vitality, the easy, flirtatious fun that had once infused it.

  There was still passion; just not the spontaneity or quirky playfulness that they’d enjoyed.

  And whose fault is that, Detective Superhero?

  His leg began to ache as he walked past the open doors of restaurants, hardly noticing the strains of jazz music and the peppery scents of Cajun cooking that wafted into the street.

  He had considered confiding in her about the whole weird Jennifer thing, but he’d never been much of a talker, wasn’t a person who expressed all his hopes and fears. Now all that had changed. Push was definitely coming to shove.

  He wended through a collection of artists displaying their work on the outside of the wrought iron fence surrounding the square. As a saxophone player blew out a familiar song, his case open for donations, a tarot reader was hard at work laying down cards in front of a twenty-something eagerly listening to the fortune-teller’s every word.

  Another day in the Quarter.

  As the rain fell, Bentz crossed the street behind a horse-draw
n carriage, then stepped into the open doorway of the Third Eye. Olivia was just ringing up a sale, several T-shirts, a little box of sand complete with stones and a rake for relaxation, and a baby alligator head. Along with two antique looking, frozen-faced dolls.

  Eyeing the ghoulish merchandise, Bentz thought it was high time his wife started expanding her psychology practice. Time to get out of this shop of weird artifacts and start talking to people with problems.

  “Hey.” Olivia spied Bentz as he tried to move out of the way of the customer, a bag-toting woman who bustled past a display of oyster-shell art on her way to the door.

  “Hey back at you.”

  Olivia grinned, that same smile that could stop his heart. “What’re you doing here? Slumming?”

  “Looking for a hot dinner date.”

  “Moi?” she asked coyly, pointing an index finger at her chest.

  Frowning thoughtfully, he pretended to look her over, head to toe. “Yeah, I guess you’ll do.”

  “Nice, Bentz,” she said with an easy laugh. “I guess you’ll do, too.”

  “Damned straight.”

  “The male of the species, always so humble,” she said to Manda as she clocked out. That done, she crossed the shop and gave her husband a quick kiss on the cheek. “What’s this all about?”

  “You asked me what was going on and I thought it’s time you knew.”

  Her smile faded. “Should I be worried?”

  He hesitated, wanting to reassure her. But in the end he decided to play it straight. “Not really. At least not yet and not about our relationship, but there is something pretty weird going on.” He spied her umbrella by the door and snagged it, then, taking the bend of her arm, escorted her out of the shop. Rain peppered the sidewalk and coursed through the gutters. Artists, tarot readers, musicians, and performers quickly covered their wares with plastic tarps or folded up their tables for the day before scurrying for cover.

  Bentz opened the umbrella and held it high over Olivia’s head as they dashed along the sidewalk. Rain slid down his back as he tried like hell to avoid both puddles and pedestrians. A bicyclist raced by, cutting in and out of traffic. A horn blasted and somewhere a horse whinnied nervously.

  In a second the shower turned into a downpour.

  Half-running to the restaurant, Bentz felt the familiar pain in his hip, a constant reminder that he wasn’t a hundred percent.

  The shoulders of his jacket and hems of his pant legs managed to get soaked despite his efforts.

  Olivia was laughing, her eyes sparkling with wicked delight at being caught in the storm. “You’re soaked,” she said as they reached the doorway of the restaurant.

  “That’s because I was being gallant and keeping you dry.”

  “Which I appreciate. Thanks.” She winked at him. “I’ll return the favor sometime.”

  “Yeah, right.” Beneath the cover of a striped awning, Bentz shook the rain from the umbrella, then held the door for her. Inside, tiny lights were strung from the open rafters, appearing like stars over head, and the walls were paneled with warm reddish wood complimenting areas of exposed brick.

  A hostess led them to a far corner where they were seated at a window table. Outside the rain continued to pour down, gunmetal-gray clouds huddling over the city, water running wildly in the gutters. Inside, beneath lazy paddle fans a waiter brought water and menus, then lit the single candle before promising to return.

  “So, about what’s happening,” Olivia prodded, once they were alone again. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like it?”

  “Because you’re a very smart woman.”

  “Mmm.”

  “And you’re some kind of kook psychic.”

  “Whom you love,” she reminded him.

  “Right.”

  “Make that adore.”

  “Now you’re pushing it.”

  “You’re avoiding the subject.”

  “Waiting for the right moment,” he said, eyeing the menu and not bringing up Jennifer until after they ordered. Once the waiter had re treated again, Bentz laid it all out. He started with the moment he’d woken up in the hospital and felt the drop in temperature before witnessing his dead wife in the doorway. He told Olivia about the other sightings as well. Finally, he admitted to spying Jennifer again just off the veranda a few days earlier, then just recently receiving the marred death certificate and photographs.

  With each of his confessed sightings, Olivia became more and more serious. “I don’t understand,” she whispered, her gaze seeking his. “How? Why?”

  He handed her the copies he’d kept and watched her face turn ashen. “I wish I knew the answer to that.”

  “Jennifer’s dead.” She glanced up at him for confirmation.

  “Yes.”

  “There was a suicide note, you made the ID on the body.”

  “I know.”

  “Then…?”

  “An imposter, probably.”

  “Or…your imagination.”

  “Don’t think so.” He tapped the pictures with a finger. “These are real.”

  “Or someone faked them.”

  “That’s possible.”

  “Rick, she’s not alive!” She cleared her throat and leaned back in her chair. “Did you…have you told Kristi?”

  “She was there when I woke up and she thought it was hallucinations from the drugs or aftereffects from the coma. Said it was all a ‘bad trip.’ I didn’t want to upset her, so I haven’t mentioned it again. Neither has she.”

  But then his daughter was caught up in writing her book and planning her wedding. Kristi didn’t want to think that her father had lost his marbles. Because, even though now he was certain he was being tormented by an outside force, he also suspected deep inside that some of his visions of Jennifer had been conjured in his mind.

  Maybe outside influences had tripped a latch in his brain and, though he was loath to admit it, he didn’t know what was real and what was a figment of his imagination.

  “She hasn’t seen these?” Olivia motioned to the photos.

  “No.”

  Slowly letting out her breath, Olivia stared at the marred death certificate, then the pictures once more. Her eyebrows pulled together to form little lines in her forehead and her full lips twisted in revulsion. “This is really sick.”

  “Can’t argue that.”

  “Do you have any idea who sent these?” She held the photos and certificate up, then shook her head and handed everything back to Bentz.

  “No. But Montoya’s having the lab check out the originals. Fingerprints, DNA, photo-altering-anything else the department can find out including what kind of red pen was used to write the question mark.” He tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket just as the waiter delivered the first course.

  “You think she’s alive?” Olivia asked.

  “No.” He stirred his seafood stew and shook his head. “But I don’t think she’s a ghost, either.”

  “Obviously. So…an imposter. Someone messing with you.” She nodded to herself, picking up her fork. “Who?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question.”

  Irritated, she stabbed bits of lettuce and shrimp onto her fork. “So you think there’s someone here in Louisiana pretending to be Jennifer, and she makes herself visible to only you. And you think she showed up at the hospital months ago, at the precise moment you woke up. Nonetheless, the pictures and death certificate were mailed from L.A.” Her eyes narrowed as she bit into her salad. “Is that about it?”

  “Yeah. About.”

  “So why go to all that trouble? Why not mail the package from here in New Orleans?”

  “Jennifer died in Southern California.”

  “If it was her in the van.”

  “It was.”

  “You say she hasn’t aged, right? But how close were you to her?”

  Good point. “Not close enough.”

  “Hmm. And the photos, they make her look young, bu
t again, they could’ve been doctored. Or her face superimposed over another woman’s body.”

  “The answer is in L.A.”

  “Although you saw her in Louisiana?”

  “These shots were taken around L.A.”

  “Maybe.”

  The whole Photoshop thing again. “Her body is buried in California,” he said and watched her reaction.

  “Jesus, are you thinking of exhuming her?” Revulsion showed on her face. “Because you think you saw her? Because you received some pictures and a marked-up death certificate with a postmark from the town where you lived. Isn’t that a little extreme? I mean, would anyone even order it?”

  “I don’t know, but I think so.”

  “So you’re thinking of going to California,” she guessed, shaking her head.

  “Yeah. While I’m off duty.”

  “So soon.”

  He nodded. “Montoya will watch my back here, look after you.”

  “You think I need looking after?”

  “No. But…”

  “But just in case I feel abandoned, he’s around. Right?” she mocked. “In the off chance that I feel you’re on a wild goose chase, or following a ghost or…I don’t know, dealing with all those old feelings you haven’t quite laid to rest, I can count on your partner, not you. Is that what you’re saying?”

  He felt the muscles in his back tighten.

  “I don’t need to be babysat or coddled, okay? I’ve lived in that house most of my life. A lot of it alone. I don’t need ‘looking after.’ Sometimes I wonder if you’ve lost your mind!”

  That makes two of us.

  “Maybe you should just let the cops handle this.”

  “I’m a cop.”

  “No, not this time.” She shook her head, golden strands of her hair catching in the candlelight. “This time I think you’re the victim.”

  “Listen, Livvie-”

  “To what? Some excuse to go chasing after a woman who’s dead? Some trumped-up rationale? This is a situation for the police,” she said, pointing to the death certificate and photographs of Jennifer. “And as for ‘seeing’ Jennifer, maybe you should take that up with your doctor or, heaven forbid, a shrink. These photos…they have to be fakes!”