Malice

by Lisa Jackson

He wasn’t sure. She, like Shana, had wanted to get her licks in and she had. But she certainly hadn’t seen Jennifer. He kept his eyes on the road as he headed north toward Culver City. Traffic on the freeway was moving at a good clip despite the yellow haze that had settled over the area. In the west, the orb of the sun glowed in the dingy smog. He cracked the window and fiddled with the air, still thinking about what Lorraine had told him, which was essentially, “Take your ball and go home.” But then, they’d never gotten along. And what were all the references to Alan Gray? He was someone Bentz hadn’t thought of for decades. But Lorraine hadn’t forgotten.

  As he spied signs for his exit Bentz realized he was making great time. Just a few more miles. The phone rang as he was moving onto the ramp. Catching site of Montoya’s cell number, he answered. “Bentz.”

  Montoya gave him a quick rundown of everything he knew, which wasn’t a lot. Except for the silver Chevy. An Impala, in fact. Just like the car that had caught his attention in the parking lot in San Juan Capistrano. He explained as much to Montoya. “So what I’m looking for is a six-or seven-year-old car, California plates, with an expired parking pass to a hospital.”

  “You didn’t happen to get which hospital?”

  “No. But there was a symbol on it…” What the hell was that image? He couldn’t remember. Just flat out couldn’t remember.

  “I saw on the news that there’s another double homicide. Twins,” Montoya said. “Same doer?”

  “Looks like.” Bentz’s hand clenched hard over the wheel, so tightly his knuckles blanched as a black BMW crawled up his ass. Montoya knew the story behind the Caldwell twins’ murders twelve years earlier. Bentz had confided in him long ago.

  “Copycat?”

  “Not buying it.” Bentz switched lanes to the exit ramp, sliding in behind an old pickup filled with gardening tools. He let the bastard in the black BMW fly by. The car had to be pushing ninety.

  Another car was in its wake. Keeping up.

  A streak of silver.

  Bentz saw the taillights and recognized an older model Chevy Impala. A dark-haired woman was behind the wheel…a sticker on the windshield.

  Holy crap!

  Jennifer!

  He dropped the phone. “Son of a bitch.” Signaling as a red Volkswagen beetle’s blinker started, indicating the driver wanted to edge toward the exit ramp, Bentz gunned his engine. With inches to spare, he swerved out of the lane marked exit only and accelerated.

  “Come on, come on,” he urged his rental. The silver car, a quarter of a mile ahead, was darting between lanes.

  Could it be?

  No way.

  Jaw set, he drove as fast as he dared, cutting through cars and trucks and vans, keeping the silver car in his sights. As if the driver knew she was being followed, she began even more evasive moves, slipping between cars, passing on the left or right. She didn’t seem to care, just as long as she was putting distance and vehicles between her car and his.

  But Bentz bore down on her, gaining ground.

  Suddenly, she cut to the right, skidding and nearly missing the Sunset Boulevard exit. Brake lights flashed. Horns blasted.

  The Impala disappeared down the ramp. Jaw set, Bentz tried to follow, cutting over to the right, but a minivan blocked his way. A woman wearing a cell phone headset, oblivious to everything around her, drove her minivan right on the bumper of a lumbering flatbed that was taking the off-ramp. There was no time to speed around both vehicles, so Bentz was stuck.

  He slammed a fist into the steering wheel.

  God, what he wouldn’t do for lights and a siren right now!

  To make the exit, he was forced to slow down and drop behind the minivan. Once off the freeway, he had to stop for a red light that the Chevy slipped through on amber and red. While Bentz gripped his steering wheel in frustration, Minivan Mom sat gabbing into the mouthpiece of her phone.

  Bentz looked down the road and saw the Impala speed under an other yellow light. He’d never catch her.

  So close, but so far away…

  California plates…He squinted. The last two numbers looked like 66, but he couldn’t make out the rest.

  By the time the light changed and Bentz was able to pass the boxy minivan, the silver car was gone, out of sight.

  Adrenaline racing, nerves stretched to the breaking point, Bentz prowled the area. As he waited at a red light, his cell phone rang.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Montoya demanded and Bentz explained.

  “You think you saw the same woman on the freeway? Come on. What’re the chances of that?”

  “She knew I was at Lorraine Newell’s.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. She probably followed me. Second guessed what I would do.”

  “L.A.’s a big city. Lots of dark-haired women. It wasn’t Jennifer or the woman who looks like her.”

  “I’m telling you-”

  “What? You’re telling me what? That in a city of millions of people you just ran across the one you were looking for on the freeway? You’re talking needle in a haystack.”

  “It was the same car, damn it. And a dark-haired woman driving, but no, I didn’t see her face. I did catch a glimpse of that parking pass. It had a cross on it, like the hospital was affiliated with some Christian church.”

  “If you say so.”

  “The license plate ended in 66, but I didn’t catch any of the other letters or numbers.”

  “You’re sure that wasn’t 666?”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

  “That’s the problem, Bentz. This whole thing is some lame-ass joke this woman is pulling on you. When are you going to wise up and get back here? Look, I got work to do here. Real work. Call me when you come to your senses.” Montoya hung up, leaving Bentz to cruise the side streets for nearly an hour.

  He checked parking lots and streets and traffic, searching out the silver Chevy. There were lots of silver or gray cars, all catching light in the sunny, hazy day, but none of them were the Impala.

  Giving up, he stayed off the freeway to wend his way back to Culver City through Westwood and Beverly Hills. He was nearly back at the inn when his phone rang again. This time no caller was listed.

  “Bentz,” he said.

  “Catch me if you can, RJ,” a breathy female voice whispered.

  His heart leapt to his throat. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “Oh, I think you know.” She laughed, a deep, naughty chuckle that caused his blood to run cold. “You just have trouble believing what is right in front of your face. I’m back RJ, and the good news is that you still want me.”

  I glance in the rearview mirror, catching my own smile. “Good job,” I tell myself. Rick Bentz is running around in circles, chasing down all of his ex-wife’s old acquaintances, digging up the past. Which is just damned perfect.

  It’s a good feeling, knowing I finally got to him. “You bastard,” I say, thinking of his chiseled face. “You deserve it.” Still driving, I kick off my high heels and drive barefoot, my toes curling over the accelerator. I sensed his frustration through the wireless connection and it was a rush. Following him at a distance, watching him tear after a ghost.

  I’m still on an adrenaline high, one I plan to keep going.

  Approaching the freeway overpass I toss the phone into the passenger seat and roll down my window. Yes, it’s a little smoggy, but it’s L.A. Of course there’s haze. It doesn’t stop the wind from rushing through my hair as I wind my way toward the ramp.

  The prepaid cell phone is perfect.

  No way to trace a call.

  Poor Bentz. He won’t be able to find me; not until I want him to.

  He fell right into the trap that I laid for him. Maybe he’s losing his edge.

  Good.

  He never knew that I watched him; followed him. I knew exactly when he was visiting Shana McIntyre and, today, that bitch Lorraine Ne
well. Jesus, she’s a miserable human being.

  And as for Bentz?

  Dear God, the man is predictable.

  Always has been. These people never change.

  I punch the throttle, then check my speed and ease up a bit. This wouldn’t be a good time for a ticket.

  But my heart pounds wildly.

  It’s time to ramp things up a bit.

  I warm inside at the thought. My reflection winks at me. “Smart girl,” I say into the wind as I consider my next move.

  Bentz will never know what hit him.

  CHAPTER 17

  Hayes slapped the files shut and leaned back in his desk chair. It squeaked in protest, adding to the cacophony of sounds-computer keys clicking, phones ringing, conversations buzzing. And beneath it all was the ever-present rumble of the ancient air conditioning system.

  Someone laughed as a printer clicked out pages a few desks over. Trinidad was taking a statement from a long-legged black woman, most likely a witness in one of the open cases. They had more than their share of homicides to solve, but the buzz in the department was about the Springer twins’ murders. This was a crime that had captured the attention of the media as well as the horrified public. Reporters had been calling, keeping the Public Information Officer as busy as the detectives solving the case.

  And time was sliding by without any serious leads.

  Hayes picked up the remainder of his iced tea, a drink that had been ignored, the ice melting since lunch. He took a long swallow and felt the paper cup getting weak.

  He’d spent the day rereading the cold case file on the Caldwell twins’ homicides, trying to find some bit of evidence that had been overlooked twelve years earlier.

  He’d come up dry.

  After Bentz had bailed, Trinidad had been assigned another partner, a female detective named Bonita Unsel, who had since left the department. She and Trinidad, with Bledsoe’s help, had handled the case by the book, but the Twenty-one killer had literally gotten away with murder. Twice.

  Absently, his mind on the case, Hayes finished the drink as he scrolled through the crime scene photos on the computer. A box of evidence had been pulled, and as he’d combed through it he’d noted that the ribbon used in the first killings appeared identical to the ribbons that had bound and gagged the Springer twins.

  The son of a bitch had kept his killing kit intact, down to the heavy red ribbon with wire running through it, the kind used to wrap fancy, expensive Christmas presents. Years ago the department had hunted down the manufacturer of the ribbon, checked with distributors and local stores, only to come up with a big goose egg.

  Nor had they been able to find any fingerprints or trace evidence to link the suspects. They’d spent hours interviewing friends and acquaintances of the victims. Boyfriends, girlfriends, family members, classmates. Lots of interviews leading nowhere.

  The primary suspect had been a boy named Chad Emerson who had dated both girls at one time or another, but his alibi had been solid and he’d seem genuinely devastated by the Caldwell twins’ deaths. Same with the older brother, Donovan, whom Bledsoe had been certain was involved. Nothing concrete. So he’d been envious of the attention his sisters received; jealousy itself wasn’t a crime, and it wasn’t unusual. Nonetheless Hayes intended to check out both suspects and see if they had any connection whatsoever to the Springer twins.

  “Hey!”

  He looked up to see Dawn Rankin, one of the other detectives in the department, walking toward his desk. She dropped a report into his in basket. “I sent this to you via e-mail, but thought you’d like a hard copy. The shooting in West Hollywood. Witness statements.”

  “Not an accident?”

  She shook her head. “Looks like we’ll get an indictment. Weird, huh? Best friends and one ends up killing the other over a woman.”

  “Stupidity has no bounds.”

  “I guess.” She flashed him a wicked little grin. “Hey, I heard that Rick Bentz is back, digging into his wife’s death.”

  “Ex-wife, but yeah.”

  “What’s that all about?” Dawn’s eyebrows drew together. She was a pretty woman. Petite, smart, with a smooth complexion that required little or no makeup, she forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Not sure. Thinks he’s being gaslit, that someone’s manipulating him into thinking Jennifer is still alive.”

  “He made the ID.”

  “Yeah, he knows.” Hayes felt a twinge of a headache coming on. “He never struck me as the kind who would fall into this kind of trap. I mean if someone was messin’ with him, he’d blow them off.”

  “Unless he wants to believe she’s still alive.” She threw up a hand. “Not that I could ever figure him out.”

  Hayes remembered now: back in his younger days Bentz had hooked up with Dawn. Aside from a passing interest, she seemed long over him, though at the time of the breakup, according to rumors, it had been messy.

  “Anyway, I spent the afternoon talking to people who knew the vics in the Springer case. I even tracked down the boyfriends of both the Springer girls. They both, conveniently, have alibis, but the one who dated Lucy, Kurt Jones, has a record. Nothing serious or violent, but drug charges. The word on the street is he’s a dealer.” She shook her head. “Small-time stuff. I don’t think he’s our guy.”

  “Not likely to be linked to the Caldwell twins.”

  “He’s old enough, just not the right kind of nut job.”

  Bledsoe overheard the tail end of the conversation as he walked into the squad room. “Don’t tell me, you’re talking about my favorite ex-dick Bentz.” He pulled a face. “Wouldn’t you know he’d show up when the Twenty-one comes out of the woodwork? I’m thinking the killer came out because he knows Bentz is here, just to rub it in his face and piss him off.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s how serial killers work,” Dawn said, obviously irritated at the intrusion. Bledsoe had that way about him, an ability to aggravate without trying. “Next you’ll be saying Bentz killed the Springer girls.”

  “Nah. He’s a bastard, but not a killer…but then again, there was the Valdez kid. Bentz nailed him.”

  “Accident,” Dawn said. “That’s low, even for you.”

  “I’m just not a big fan of coincidence,” Bledsoe said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “I’m just sayin’.” His phone rang, and he left, walking smartly away, cell jammed to his ear.

  “Jerk,” Dawn said, watching the other detective leave while scrounging in her purse for her pack of Marlboro Lights.

  “I didn’t know you were a Bentz fan.”

  Her eyes slid back to Hayes. “A fan? No. He’s another son of a bitch. But Bledsoe?” She said, retrieving her new pack. “They have special spots in hell for his kind.”

  An hour before dusk Bentz drove to Santa Monica, a place that kept coming up in conversation and had been a part of his life with Jennifer. A pretty damned important part, considering they’d first made love here, before they’d been married. Had that memory been Jennifer’s fascination with this quaint seaside town? Or was he kidding himself? He found a parking spot on the street and was about to lock up when he noticed his cane in the backseat. Since the nagging pain in his leg had intensified after chasing “Jennifer” through Saint Miguel’s Inn at San Juan Capistrano he grabbed the damn thing and headed toward the sea.

  He passed under the archway spanning the approach to the long pier. Though it wasn’t yet dark, the neon lights of the amusement park already glowed over the water. A roller coaster climbed high above the arcades and other rides. Passengers’ screams rose over the rattle of cars on steel tracks. Larger still, the gigantic Pacific Wheel turned more slowly, rotating high above the water, giving patrons a bird’s-eye view of the beaches and storefronts as it spun over the ever-darkening ocean.

  Rick stared at the brilliant display looming above the beach and water. How many times had he and Jennifer brought Kristi here? How often had they taken her to the aquarium? Eaten hotdogs? Walk
ed barefoot in the sand?

  His gut clenched.

  He remembered several nights when he and his wife had come here alone, without their daughter. They’d walked along the pier, feeling the salt spray of the ocean after stopping for a drink at one of the hotels near the beach.

  And still she’d found time to meet James here.

  Now, he twisted the kinks from his neck and decided against strolling along the beach while mentally walking down memory lane. The pain running down his leg wouldn’t allow him to tromp through the sand and reminisce. He settled for dinner in a noisy Cuban restaurant decorated in brilliant primary colors, as it had been for years. The square tables were angled throughout a main dining area separated by half walls and potted palms while the up-tempo melody of a Caribbean-flavored song swept through the rooms. Although the restaurant was crowded, he lucked out and was led to a table near the windows where he watched what remained of the sunset through the glass.

  The setting sun wasn’t one of the Pacific’s best displays as the fog was rolling in, blurring the horizon, distorting sea and sky, causing most of the pedestrians along the beach and pier to disperse.

  He and Jennifer had been in a couple of times, even celebrated one of her birthdays here, but the memory was fuzzy and he didn’t work too hard at calling it up. He wondered if she’d dared dine here with James, not that it mattered. Not anymore. Long ago, he’d been wounded by her affair. The second time around, the pain had been much less. He’d half-expected it and he’d been prepared, enclosed in his own emotional armor or some such crap.

  So what about the woman driving the silver Impala? How the hell had she found him? Or had she? Was he making more of it than it was?

  Maybe the erratic driver was little more than a figment of his imagination, an image incited by this whole damned mess. It could be the woman just resembled Jennifer and his freaked-out psyche had morphed her into the real thing.

  You’re losing it, his conscience taunted, and that pissed him off because he was certain it was just what the person behind this elaborate fraud wanted.

  He ordered a cup of black bean soup and pork adobo, both of which were as good or better than he remembered. The pork was succulent, the soup spicy, the memories bittersweet.