by Lisa Jackson
His jaw was set. Rock hard. Eyes as steady as his voice. The cop. Cold. Distant. Had seen it all. “Anything else you remember?”
“Only that she was sorry,” she said in a moment of bare, honest-to-the-bone truth. “For hurting you.”
He looked at Shana as if she were yanking his chain again.
Who could blame the guy?
“I’m serious, Rick. She loathed herself for what she referred to as ‘her curse,’ her need to throw away all that was good in her life. Yeah, she was self-centered and vain, but deep down there was a very good person. In her own weird way, Jennifer loved you. A lot.”
CHAPTER 9
That day Bentz saw Jennifer for the first time in L.A.
After leaving Shana’s Beverly Hills estate he’d driven southwest, deciding to find Figueroa Street and satisfy his own morbid curiosity.
He was still mentally digesting everything he’d learned from Shana, trying to cull the facts from the fiction, or at least from Shana’s very slanted view of things, as he wended his way through the early afternoon traffic. One thing was clear from his meeting with Shana McIntyre; the pictures of Jennifer had unsettled her. No way had Shana faked her reaction. That had to mean something.
And in her catty way she’d reminded him to check out Alan Gray, the man Jennifer had professed to love.
For a while.
A developer who had made his money in the seventies and eighties, long before the recently stalled economy, Alan Gray had been in and out of Jennifer’s life. Bentz reminded himself to look the mogul up and see what good old Alan was doing these days. He would be in his late fifties or early sixties by now, possibly retired.
Bentz would check.
Squinting against the bright sun, he flipped down his visor and spotted several motels that could well have been one of the spots where Jennifer and James had met for their trysts. Unfortunately, there would be no records to prove that any of the stucco-faced buildings had been the private spot where they had met.
And so what if they had?
It had been over twelve years.
In that span of time places had changed hands, old buildings torn down and new ones sprouting up. He was just about to turn toward Culver City when he caught a glimpse of a slim, dark-haired woman in a yellow sundress and dark glasses standing at a bus stop.
So what? he thought initially. But as he drove past, he saw her profile and his heart stopped. The nose and chin…the way she held her purse as she stood near a bench, her eyes trained down the street where the approaching bus lumbered and belched blue smoke. She lifted one hand to her forehead, shading her eyes even further.
Just as Jennifer had always done.
Shana’s words rushed back to him: “In her own weird way, Jennifer loved you.” He’d been stunned then and was still.
This is crazy, his mind warned. It’s not her. You know it’s not Jennifer. Power of suggestion, that’s all it is!
With one eye on his rearview mirror and the other trained ahead, he searched for a parking space as the bus slowed to a stop.
“Oh, hell.” Gunning his car into a parking lot for a strip mall he nosed his rental into the first available space, an area that warned that the lot was for customers only. The doors to the bus were open. Two teenaged boys plugged into iPods laughed and pushed each other as they hauled their skateboards onto the bus.
Bentz threw himself out of the car and hitched his way across the street.
She was gone.
The woman in the yellow dress was nowhere to be seen.
The doors of the bus closed and the driver turned on the flashers to signal that she was heading into traffic.
“No!” Bentz pushed into the street, his bad leg aching as he hobbled after the city vehicle. He reached the stop just as the bus rumbled noisily away.
Was she aboard?
As it pulled away from the curb, Bentz stared through the dusty windows. He scanned the face of every passenger he could see, but recognized no one. There wasn’t anyone remotely resembling his ex-wife.
Bentz took note of the bus number and the time, then studied the surrounding landscape. No dark-haired woman in a lemony sundress was strolling along the sidewalk or walking quickly around a corner or climbing into any of the vehicles lining the streets.
He felt a prickle of déjà vu run through his soul.
As if he’d been here before.
As if he’d been chasing Jennifer along these very streets.
He stared after the bus as it disappeared from view, considered chasing it down, trying to outrun it and board at the next stop.
Get a grip, he silently told himself. It wasn’t her. It’s just the power of suggestion, all because of Shana, the bitch. Jennifer, living or dead, is not on that bus. Come on, man, get real! When in known history did Jennifer ever take public transportation?
“I just don’t like it, that’s all,” Kristi admitted. She was driving with one hand, her cell phone in the other as she talked with Reuben Montoya, her father’s partner.
“He needed to get away.”
“Why?” she demanded, working her way through the narrow streets of Baton Rouge as she drove toward All Saints College.
“He just said he needed some time away. He was going stir crazy not being able to work.”
“Why go back to L.A.?”
“Ask him.”
“I did and he stonewalled me.” Kristi was beginning to panic. Something was wrong, really wrong. Ever since the accident her dad hadn’t been himself. She’d thought-no, hoped-that after he worked through physical therapy he would return to normal, but that wasn’t the case.
“Your father can handle himself,” Montoya said. “Don’t worry about him.”
“Trust me, I don’t want to.” She hung up and drove into the parking lot of her apartment building, which faced the campus. A once-grand old house, the building had been cut into single units, each one becoming a basic collegiate apartment. She lived here alone with her cat, punctuated by the occasions when Jay taught forensic science at the college. Those nights he stayed with her. The rest of the time he lived in New Orleans and worked for the crime lab.
Once they were married this December and she was finished with school, they would live in New Orleans. Fingers crossed that the first draft of her true-crime book would be finished by then.
But first, her father. God, what was Bentz doing? She mulled it over as she pulled out a sack of groceries from the back of her Honda hatchback and hiked up to her third-floor studio. She toyed with the idea of calling Olivia, her stepmother, but their relationship hadn’t always been smooth. It would be better to talk with her in person, but who could find the time?
As she was placing the last of her cheapo low-cal meals-for-one in the freezer, she saw Houdini outside the window. The black cat slunk inside and she picked him up, stroking his head as her phone chirped. “Hello?” she said as her quirky feline hopped down to the floor.
“Hey, Kristi, it’s Olivia.”
Perfect.
“Hi.”
“How’re things at school?”
What was this? Olivia never called. “All good,” Kristi said tentatively.
“And the wedding?”
“Everything’s on target.” Kristi kicked out a chair at her café table and sat down. “How about with you?”
“Good.”
Time to cut out the crap. “So why’s Dad in L.A.?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I can’t really say,” Olivia admitted, “but it seemed like something he had to do.” Her voice faded for a moment, as if she were looking away from the phone. Kristi’s heart began to drum as she anticipated what was to come: that her father and Olivia were getting a divorce. “He didn’t tell you about it?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. Just some BS about old cases in L.A. and that he’d be back soon. It all seemed bogus and I was wondering what was going on. Thought maybe there was something wrong between you.”
A beat. No ans
wer. Kristi’s heart hit the floor.
“Your dad…he’s struggled since the accident. Can’t stand sitting around here, so I think he needed to do something to give himself a new perspective or…think things through.”
“What things?” Kristi asked cautiously. There was an undercurrent to this conversation she didn’t understand.
“I’m not sure. I don’t even think he knows, but when he does, I’m sure he’ll tell us.”
I wouldn’t bet on it.
“Anyway, I was calling to see if you wanted to get dinner sometime, or coffee? Maybe the next time you’re in New Orleans.”
“Sure.” It wasn’t as if Olivia hadn’t tried to bridge the whole stepmother gap with her before. They’d done some things together, but usually Dad was along. This was a little out of the ordinary. “I’m coming down in about a week,” Kristi offered.
“Then let’s make a date. If your dad’s back, maybe we’ll let him join us.” She paused a second, then added, “But maybe not.”
“You got it.” Kristi hung up. If your dad’s back, Olivia had said. So she was in the dark, too. Kristi didn’t like it. Whatever her father was going through, it wasn’t good.
After a long day of classes Laney Springer threw her books onto the tiny café table one of her roommates had donated to the cause of their shared apartment. God, it had been a day from hell, starting with Professor Williams’s dullsville lecture on the Korean War. Why she’d ever thought Modern History: American Politics in the Twentieth Century would be an interesting way to fill her schedule was beyond her. Thankfully, the semester was wrapping up. Professor Williams would soon be history-literally.
She walked to the refrigerator and peeked inside. The contents were pathetic: dried-out pizza in its box, the pieces of pepperoni already picked off. A bag of celery was turning brown beside some half-drunk bottles of Diet Pepsi.
Gross.
She shut the door and decided she shouldn’t eat anyway. Not if she wanted to fit comfortably into her tight, tiny, shimmery silver dress tonight. And she did. If nothing else, she wanted to look hot, hot, hot.
Forget the old pizza.
This was her big night. Well, technically not just hers, but her twin sister Lucy’s, too.
At midnight both of them would turn twenty-one. Finally legal!
Of course there were still over six hours of waiting until the clock struck midnight. The witching hour. Kind of a reverse Cinderella syndrome. She had fake ID, but tonight, she was going to burn her fraudulent Oregon license.
The good news was that she wouldn’t have to wait an extra fourteen minutes after her twin sister took her first legal sip. Lucy always lorded it over Laney that she had been born at 12:47 while Laney hadn’t come along until 1:01. But tonight it didn’t matter. It was the date, not the time.
There was going to be a big party; all her friends would be there, even Cody Wyatt, the really cool guy in her English Lit class. Good. Because she knew she’d have to put up with Lucy’s creep of a boyfriend, Kurt Jones. What a loser! A thirty-year-old high school dropout who had never married the mother of his kid and, according to Lucy, didn’t want anything to do with his three-year-old son. Now Kurt was hanging out with Lucy and she was making all kinds of excuses for him. No doubt he was her dealer. Lucy was really getting into weed and who knew what else.
It worried Laney.
A little marijuana was one thing; the other stuff could be a huge problem. But tonight, if Kurt showed up, Laney figured she’d ignore the prick. Who cared what he did?
Weed, meth, coke, pills, he does it all.
She hoped Lucy would dump his ass.
For good.
Keyed up, she decided to work out, stretch muscles that had been cramped into uncomfortable desks all day. She’d get enough cardio tonight on the dance floor, but she wanted to tone her body. So first she’d lift some weights, then she’d pop in her yoga DVD and stretch out. Afterward, she’d take a long shower and wash her hair and spend as much time as she wanted with her makeup. It was, after all, almost her birthday. Correction. Make that their birthday. Hers and Lucy’s.
She found her iPod in her book bag and slipped the player into the sound system her roommate Trisha owned. The music was loud, but all the renters in the triplex were college kids; no one complained about music, parties, or even pets that were strictly forbidden.
On her way to the bedroom she shared with Trisha, Laney grabbed the communal free weights from the bookcase. Kicking a clear spot on the rug in the small space between the foot of her unmade bed and Trisha’s dresser, Laney started working on her arms to a song by Fergie. No flapping wings for this girl. Not ever. If she had to do a thousand triceps curls when she was eighty, so be it. Eighty. Wow. Like sixty years into the future. Fifty-nine as of tonight!
The reps came easy at first and she closed her eyes. The song and mood changed. She got lost in the beat and melodies of Justin Timber-lake, then Maroon 5…
One more set; she was really feeling it now.
Come on, come on, she encouraged herself as the music pounded through her brain. You can do it; don’t give up.
She was breathing hard, sweating big-time.
Once her biceps and triceps were screaming, she stretched out on the floor and started with leg lifts.
She thought she heard someone come in and yelled, “I’m in here!” over the throb of bass and a long keyboard riff, then kept working out until her body was covered in sweat and her legs ached.
Only after doing all the reps she’d planned did she spring to her feet. Good girl! Way to go! She grabbed her towel and headed to the living area where the music was still blasting. Time to stretch these muscles. Besides, she wanted to give Trish or Kim a chance to wish her a happy birthday.
But she didn’t see either of her roommates flopped on the secondhand couch Kim had found. And they weren’t nuking popcorn or boiling ramen in the kitchen.
Odd.
Hadn’t she heard one of her roommates return?
Dabbing at the sweat on her face, she strode over to check Kim’s room. Empty.
Snap!
A strange sound. Muted.
Had her iPod skipped?
She backed out of Kim’s room, pulled the door shut behind her, and headed back to the living area. On her way to the stereo she noticed a hint of cigarette smoke in the air. No big deal. They all had taken up cigs.
Snap!
Behind her?
In the hallway?
Fear sprayed through her blood.
“Kim?” she said starting to turn.
In a split second she saw that the door she’d just shut, the one to Kim’s room was open and someone was looming in the darkened hallway. Someone who hadn’t been there an instant before.
“Hey! Who the hell are-” The words died in her throat when she noticed the belt in his hands. “Oh, Jesus!”
She screamed, but her attacker was on her in an instant. He slipped the thin belt over her head and looped it around her neck in a snap, cutting off her air, stifling her cry.
Oh, God! This jerkwad was going to hurt her! Rape her! Kill her! Fear curdled her insides.
She kicked, landed one blow with her heel and her assailant let out a hiss of pain.
Good!
She tried again but was jerked roughly to one side, her airway cut off, the pain in her lungs hot and tight.
This can’t be happening, she thought wildly. She was coughing and gasping, digging at the strap, struggling and flailing, throwing her weight around. Anything to loosen the ever-tightening collar!
No! No! No!
Kicking crazily, trying to land another blow on his shin, she slipped. He used the chance to wrench her up by the belt, holding her in the air. Dangling like a doll.
Hit the creep. Get the belt off your neck! Save yourself! Though her lungs were on fire, she flung her fist backward, trying to hit the monster in the nose or eyes or anything! The fingers of her other hand were scratching at the strap on her throat
.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Help me. Please, someone, anyone help me!
She wasn’t a wimp, but her strength was fading, the pain excruciating.
Passing out would be better.
No!
Don’t give up!
Fight!
Oh, God, the pain…I can’t breathe! Help! Please help me!
She gave up hitting and used both hands to try and free herself from the constricting strap.
Her fingers clawed at her neck.
Dug deep.
But it was too late.
Her lungs were bursting.
Pain screaming through her body.
Her heart thudding.
Blackness converging over her.
In that horrid instant, Laney knew. She knew she would never see her twenty-first birthday.
CHAPTER 10
Hayes had been right.
Roy’s had definitely gone downhill, Bentz thought, driving past the restaurant.
Still a little shaken from his recent “Jennifer sighting,” he found a ridiculously small parking spot a couple of blocks from the restaurant. He wedged the Ford Escape into it and fed the meter. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he managed to avoid a couple of speeding skateboarders who whipped by, the wheels of their boards grinding against the concrete as he hitched his way to the front doors.
Named for its original owner and not Roy Rogers as many people thought, the place still had a western facade complete with Dutch doors that looked as if they belonged on a barn. There had once been a plastic rearing horse mounted over the front awning, until some smart-ass had climbed up on the roof in the middle of the night and painted the white stallion’s private parts fire-engine red.
That had been the end of the white stud.
Now the awning displayed a sign that simply said: Roy’s.
Good enough, Bentz figured as he pushed open the doors and stepped back in time.
Inside, the dark restaurant seemed dingy. Twelve years ago all the cowboy memorabilia gathered from the sets of old westerns and television shows had been retro-cool. Now the worn saddles, fence posts, cowboy hats, and chaps that adorned the place looked dusty and worn.