by Lisa Jackson
It was exactly what Hayes would have thought if anything ever happened to his Maren.
“You’ll catch the bastard who did this,” Corrine reassured him.
“I hope so.”
“Have faith, if not in divine intervention, then in the skill of the department. Forensics and technology are a whole new ball game. Twelve years ago we didn’t have half the forensic tests that we have now. The perp is toast. And if he turns out to be the Twenty-one killer, then it’s a two-for-one. Cause for celebration.”
He wanted to believe it.
Corrine was massaging his shoulders, trying to ease out the knots of tension in his muscles. “How about a drink?” she suggested. “I’ve got pasta, those bowties-”
“Farfalle.”
“Yeah, I guess. With pesto and an Italian sausage or two.”
“This from the Irish girl?”
She laughed. “And I’m fresh out of corned beef and cabbage.” Her fingers were strong and comforting, but his head was on the case. Why had the killer struck now? Why the Springer twins? Who the hell was he? Would he kill again soon or wait another twelve years?
“Talk to me,” she said, still massaging him. It was a ritual they practiced when a particularly tough case was getting to either one of them. “You really believe the murders are connected.”
“Have to be.”
“Noooo. Don’t close your mind.”
“How would a copycat know the details of a twelve-year-old cold case that weren’t released to the press?”
“Cops talk.”
Hayes looked up at her. “To killers?”
“Unwittingly. Or maybe whoever was talking had one too many beers and was overheard.”
“Long shot.”
“Okay then, maybe conversation in prison. The Twenty-one is locked up for another crime but shoots his mouth off. Now his cellmate is on parole and thinking he’ll take up where the Twenty-one left off.”
“No.”
“I’m just suggesting you keep your mind open. It could be a copycat.” Still kneading the tension from his shoulders, Corrine leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Or you might be right. Maybe the Twenty-one is back, from who knows where, ready to rock and roll. Maybe you should check recent parolees.”
“Already doin’ it.”
“Of course you are.” He looked up and she was grinning.
“Bentz is back in town,” he said.
Corrine nodded. “I heard the news. It’s all over the department.” When Hayes lifted an eyebrow, she shrugged. “Trinidad put the word out, I think.”
“Some people aren’t thrilled.” He looked pointedly at her and she smiled.
“You mean Bledsoe?” she teased.
“I was wondering about you.”
“Well, I’m not exactly president of the Rick Bentz fan club, but I figure what happened is ancient history.” She winked. “Besides, I got myself a new guy and he’s lots cuter.”
“You haven’t seen Bentz.”
“Okay, okay, you’re right. The jury’s still out on that one.”
“He’s still recuperating from an accident. Sometimes uses a cane.”
“So now you want me to feel sorry for him since he and I both are gimps?”
“That’s not what I meant. And you’re no gimp. Not anymore!”
“Good.” Corrine sighed and shook her head. “It’s weird. Who would think it would matter? He’s been gone what, ten years?”
“Twelve.”
“Really? Oh, yeah, he left around the time of the Caldwell twins’ murders…That is a coincidence.” She pulled a face. “Gotta be a coincidence.” She looked at him and he could almost see the gears turning in her mind. “Right?”
“Has to be.”
“I will admit this, though: Bentz’s visit is causing a bit of a stir. While you were out at the scene, the gossip ran like wildfire through the department. Isn’t that weird?”
“Who would care?” he asked.
“To start off with, Bledsoe. He’s pissed as hell, though I don’t know why. Give me a break. It’s not like Bentz is coming back looking for a job.”
“Bledsoe’s always pissed.”
“Yeah, and I think Trinidad is nervous…why, I don’t know. Probably because he was Bentz’s partner and friend. Doesn’t want any of his old stink to rub off.”
“What about Rankin?” Hayes was thinking aloud.
“Who knows? It’s been a long, long time.”
“She had it bad for Bentz.”
“Didn’t we all?” she teased, then said, “Stick around for dinner. You know I make a mean pesto.”
“I do know, but I’m not hungry. Sorry.”
With a sigh she nodded. “Yeah, I know. I get it.” And she did. Corrine O’Donnell had been a crack detective, the lead on several high-profile cases, until she’d broken her leg and blown out the ACL on her knee during a chase when she’d been hit by a car. Lucky to be alive, she was now reduced to pushing papers in the department. Active duty was out. Despite the fact that she worked out, was strong and otherwise healthy, the knee was still an issue. Though she tried to hide it, she sometimes, though rarely, walked with a bit of a limp. What really bugged her, Hayes knew, was the fact that she couldn’t wear three-inch heels any longer.
“I’ll get you the drink.”
“I should go back to the station.”
“Tomorrow’s early enough,” she said, rattling around in the freezer for ice cubes. “You’re not going to bring those poor girls back.”
That much was true, yet they both knew that the first hours after a murder were the most crucial. As the time between the commission of the homicide and the gathering of evidence lengthened, the chances of catching the killer diminished.
“It’s so weird that the Twenty-one killer would show up after all these years.” She appeared holding out a short glass with three fingers of whiskey, then handed him a cold can of ginger ale. “You can do your own mixing.”
She winked at him and he smiled for the first time since seeing the bodies. Being with her was easy; she didn’t make too many demands and understood him, far better than either of his wives had. And she was pretty. Trim and lithe, with the build of the long-distance runner she’d once been, Corrine O’Donnell was a force to be reckoned with. Her eyes were large and deep-set, a flinty gray that, when she was aroused, smoldered deep and dark. If he hadn’t been so gun-shy, he might just let himself fall in love with her, not that she was asking for any commitment.
Yet.
“Look, Hayes, you’re off duty. Have a drink…maybe nothing quite as strong as this, though, since you and I both know you’re going back to the station.” She plucked the glass from his hands, carried it back to the kitchen, and returned with a light beer. “Okay, so relax, have a little dinner, then go back and hit it again.”
“You’re okay with that?” he said, skeptical. Delilah would have had a fit; but then, Delilah had never been a cop.
“Okay with it? Well, I’m not thrilled, but yeah, I’m okay. However, the minute you catch the creep, you throw his ass in jail and you hightail it back here.”
“It could take longer than a few hours,” he said, but took a swallow from the long-necked bottle of Coors light.
“For a super-detective like you?” she mocked, walking around the chair and throwing her bad leg over his to sit on his lap. “Naaahh.” Then she kissed him, hard, her lips warm and pliant.
His body, racked with tension, responded instantly. He kissed her back, felt her tongue join his just as his cock came to life. She was already working at his tie and buttons and his hands were all over her ass, ripping off her jeans.
For the next twenty minutes, Jonas Hayes forgot all about the double homicide.
Bentz stopped at a take-out deli in Culver City that was only a few blocks from the motel. He ordered pastrami on rye with a side of coleslaw and a Pepsi from a kid who looked to be all of sixteen. The kid, ROBBIE according to the tag pinned on his shirt, had
a severe case of acne and an expression that said he would rather be anywhere but behind the counter at the Corner Deli. The place was almost empty, with any luck because of the late hour and not lack of quality. Another kid swabbed the floors while Robbie put together Bentz’s order.
Fifteen minutes later, Bentz was back in his motel and eating at his desk. Between bites of his sandwich, he sat at his laptop and made a list of the car descriptions and plate numbers he’d photographed in the shopping center and near the inn. He kicked himself for not paying attention to the Impala, but he was able to get the other cars’ plates from the pictures he’d taken.
He didn’t have a printer, so he sent an e-mail to himself that he could print later. Then he’d see if Hayes could run the plates and find out who owned the cars parked near the abandoned inn.
He finished the sandwich and wiped his fingers on a napkin before running a search of medical facilities in the area, just in case the silver Impala was somehow connected to his sighting of Jennifer. His search, which included the greater L.A. area, came up with hundreds of names.
There had to be a way of narrowing it.
He finished his soda, rattled the ice in the cup, and thought about the cars in the parking lot, a fixation, he decided, but something to work with.
He doubted the driver of the Impala was from San Juan Capistrano, so he centered his search in L.A. Culver City was an obvious choice, but too obvious. Again, the list was long.
Frowning, he leaned back in his desk chair and stared at the screen. What was it about that permit on the Chevy that bugged him?
Something unique. It had been faded and sun-bleached, the numbers nearly impossible to read, as if whomever had used the permit hadn’t updated it in a long while. Maybe a hospital worker who had retired, or moved to another job, or sold the car?
Tapping a pen on the desk, he closed his eyes, drawing up the image. There had been numbers and a date, and the name of the hospital, and something else…a logo or picture of…what? Some familiar symbol that scurried around in the dark, murky corners of his brain but wouldn’t come to the fore. Crap! He concentrated to no end. The symbol eluded him and he gave up. Sooner or later, he knew he’d remember something important about it.
He hoped.
He wadded up the trash from his meal, tossed it into a wastebasket. After cranking up the A/C a few notches cooler, he did some exercises on a towel stretched over the thin carpet. His leg already hurt, but he kept at it until his muscles ached and he was sweating. Finally he gave up on the repetitions and hit the shower.
With his tiny, complimentary bar of soap and a thimbleful of generic shampoo, he washed off the grime, dust, and sweat of the day. The spray was weak, but warm, and he let the water run over his hip and knee, both of which were beginning to throb and remind him that he was getting old, hadn’t yet recovered. He couldn’t go chasing ghosts upstairs and across courtyards and through dirty, dark corridors and expect not to pay the price.
He managed to dry himself with another impossibly thin towel, then flopped onto the bed and used the remote to turn on the TV.
He found a station with “breaking news.”
Video of a crime scene. The camera panned an overpass of the freeway, police officers worked a roped-off area, a warehouse behind a reporter in a blue jacket. Holding a microphone and staring soberly into the camera, she said, “Today, here in a storage unit beneath the 110 freeway, officers discovered a grisly scene. The bodies of two girls, whom sources have revealed are sisters-twins-were discovered, victims of a tragic double murder.”
“What?” Bentz froze, his hand still holding the remote, his gaze riveted to the tiny screen.
“The names of the victims have been withheld pending notification of next of kin. A source close to the investigation, speaking on the condition of anonymity, told us that the girls had been reported missing early this morning, the day of their twenty-first birthdays.” The reporter paused meaningfully, then added, “Unfortunately, they never made it to their party, the one they had planned to celebrate with family and close friends.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Bentz sat bolt upright and stared at the TV. Déjà vu cast a stranglehold on his throat. Twins? On their twenty-first birthday? The footage changed to a different camera angle and Bentz watched as Detective Andrew Bledsoe, a few pounds heavier than Bentz remembered, flecks of gray showing in his black hair, talked to the reporter. Bledsoe, appearing serious and troubled, offered her nothing concrete, but Bentz knew the truth.
He fell back on his cheap pillow and felt sick inside.
The cops weren’t saying much, but Bentz could read between the lines.
The Los Angeles Police Department feared that the Twenty-one killer, the madman who had taken lives in the past and gotten away with it, was back.
And back with a vengeance.
CHAPTER 15
“I’m sorry!” Bentz said, his voice echoing as it reached her from the other side of the tunnel, “This is something I have to do.”
“No! Don’t go! Rick, don’t leave me! Don’t leave us!” Olivia ran after him through the darkness, her legs pumping but feeling wooden, her feet tripping on the rails and gravel of the track. She pushed forward, her heart pumping. He wasn’t that far ahead of her, but he was backing up, still facing her, but running away.
“Rick!” she screamed. “Stop!”
“I can’t.”
“But the baby. Rick, we’re going to have a baby!”
Another noise, loud and fierce. The thunder of a heavy engine, the clack of wheels against rails.
Bentz turned away as if he hadn’t heard her and continued moving through the cavernous tunnel, leaving Olivia gasping, racing, trying to outrun the huge engine with its ominous light bearing down on her.
No!
A whistle blasted, shrieking so loudly she thought her eardrums would shatter.
No! Oh, God, no!
“Rick! Help!” she cried as the end of the tunnel seemed to shrink, becoming smaller and farther away.
Her heart drummed and her legs were heavy, so heavy.
“Bentz!” she tried to scream, but her throat was strangled, her voice a whisper.
He turned back toward her for a second and she saw his badge, catching in the bright sunlight. “I can’t,” he said as the day turned to night and suddenly he wasn’t alone. A woman was with him, a beautiful woman with long dark hair and crimson lips. She took his hand, linked her fingers through his, and smiled with malice and glee as she pulled him away.
“No! Wait! Rick-”
The train thundered ever closer, the tracks quaking. She stumbled, barely able to right herself.
A horrific whistle shrieked while brakes squealed. The sound of metal screeching against metal was deafening, the smell of burning diesel acrid in her nostrils.
Steam swirled all around her.
Help me! Help my baby!
But her prayer fell on deaf ears as steam and shrill noise reverberated through the tunnel.
“No!” she yelled, startling herself awake.
Her heart was pounding, her body drenched in sweat, the sheets of her bed twisted. Dear God. It was a dream. Only a flippin’ dream. Taking in deep breaths, she glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen. Still a few hours before she had to get up and dressed for a day at the shop.
She sat upright, pushed her hair from her eyes, and realized her fingers were trembling, the residual effect from the nightmare.
From his dog bed on the floor, Hairy S lifted his scruffy head. His ears pricked forward and his little tail beat against his bed hopefully. “Oh, sure,” she said. “Come on, jump up!”
He didn’t need a second more of encouragement. The dog hopped from his bed, made a running leap, and landed near Olivia’s pillows. After washing her face enthusiastically, he burrowed under the covers and she stretched out again. With one hand she scratched Hairy behind his ears. His warm body curled close to hers.
A far cry from her husband’s embrace, b
ut it would have to do for now. Her husband. What the hell was he doing in L.A.? Chasing after a ghost, or a dream? She tried not to think that he was still harboring feelings for his dead ex-wife, but she knew better. His guilt, she thought, was swallowing him whole and someone was preying upon him.
Who?
The same nagging question that had been with her since he’d shown her the mutilated death certificate kept poking at her brain relentlessly. It’s not that she didn’t believe in ghosts; she just wasn’t certain. She’d had her fair share of dealing with unexplained, if not paranormal, activity. Hadn’t she, herself, seen through the eyes of a twisted, sadistic serial killer?
Oh, for some of that insight now.
She glanced at the clock. It was only one-twenty in the morning in L.A. Was Bentz still awake? Was he thinking about her? Chasing down a dream? She touched her still-flat abdomen and wondered if she and Bentz and the baby would ever have a normal life.
Yeah, well, what’s that? You knew what you signed up for when you married a workaholic.
Sighing, she closed her eyes, determined to relax and find sleep again. She was just starting to doze when the phone rang. Smiling, she said to the dog. “I guess he can’t sleep, either.”
She picked up the receiver and said, “Hey,” a smile audible in her voice.
“Do you know what your husband’s doing in California?” a woman’s hoarse voice whispered.
“What?” Olivia was suddenly wide awake, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling in fear. “Who is this?”
“He’s looking for her. And do you know why? She’s his true love, not you. Jennifer. He’s never forgotten her.”
“Who is this?” she demanded again.
But the phone went dead.
“Bitch!” Olivia hissed into the receiver. Of course Bentz was in L.A. She knew that. She also knew that he was looking for Jennifer or a woman who was impersonating his ex-wife. She looked at caller ID; the display flashed UNKNOWN CALLER. “Great.” No name. No number. No area code. No way to figure out who had called her. It’s no one, just a crank call, someone who knows Bentz went to L.A. to determine what happened to Jennifer.