by Lisa Jackson
As night descended and the lights came up, he walked along the pier, using his damned cane. He peered at the carousel without much interest, not really seeing it through the fog. His thoughts churned about the woman in the silver car, the murder of the twins, the crank calls, and the “ghost” he’d seen outside the crumbling building in Mission San Capistrano.
This was personal.
Whoever was behind the hoax knew just how to get to him and had spent a long while pulling the scheme together. He doubted the mastermind was anyone he’d arrested and sent to prison. If one of the thugs he’d collared had a hard-on to get back at him, the jerk would have just done it. Taken a potshot at Bentz, knifed him in the street, blown up his car. Something deadly and finite.
This was different. Someone wanted to play psychological games with him. Someone he’d wronged personally.
Jennifer.
She was the one person he’d never forgiven and had let her know it. Even when they’d tried to get together a second time, Bentz had been guarded. Untrusting. Ready for the other shoe to drop. And drop it had.
Big time.
He passed a store selling sunglasses and beach paraphernalia, but barely paid attention as he reached the part of the pier that jutted out over the water, an arm that stretched into the Pacific and the thickening mist. Though there were streetlights offering illumination, the fog swirled and rose, creating an eerie luminous veil. One he couldn’t see beyond.
Only a handful of other pedestrians were around. One young couple, a guy in a stocking cap and baggy shorts was all over a blond girl whose hair was clipped to the top of her head. Entangled on the park bench, the two kids seemed oblivious to the rest of the world.
Young love, Bentz thought and flashed on Olivia and the way she made him feel whenever they were alone. As if he were the only man in the universe. Older love. He pulled out his phone to give her a call and noticed an old man smoking a cigar and resting against the rails. Sporting a trimmed goatee and shaved head, the man nearly drowned in a jacket that was several sizes too large for him. A slim runner in a baseball cap was leaning forward, his hands on his knees as he caught his breath from a workout. Farther west, closer to the end of the pier, shrouded in haze was a solitary woman.
Bentz stopped short.
In a red dress with long dark hair falling down her back, she faced away from him, staring out to sea.
Jennifer! She has a dress like that.
Bentz’s heart skipped a beat.
Had, he reminded himself. She had a dress like the one this woman was wearing, a knee-length shimmery thing with a nipped-in waist and no sleeves…Holy shit, it was identical to his ex-wife’s. He remembered Jennifer showing it to him after a day of shopping. “What do you think?” she’d asked, twirling in front of him, allowing the candlelight to play upon the soft folds of red silk.
“It’s nice.”
“Oh, come on RJ,” she’d cooed. “It’s way more than ‘nice.’”
“If you say so.”
She’d laughed then, throwing back her head. “Yeah, well, I do say so. I think it’s probably sexy. Or damned gorgeous.” With a lift of one dark eyebrow she’d backed her way down the hallway and into the bedroom and he, like a fish to a lure, had followed.
Now, his fingers curled over the handle of his cane.
Don’t go there, he told himself as he noticed the woman on the pier was barefoot. Jennifer always went barefoot at the beach. Oh, hell, don’t assume every shoeless slim woman with coffee-colored hair is Jennifer…no! He corrected himself. Don’t assume she’s the woman impersonating your ex-wife.
Nonetheless, drawn to the vision, he started walking west, toward the sea. His eyes were trained on her, searching for something that would expose her as a fraud, but she was too far away, the mist too dense. He walked faster. As if she sensed him following, she backed away from the rail and started walking quickly toward the end of the pier, where heavy fog rolled in, masking her image.
Bentz swallowed hard, tried to figure out what he would say to her. His pulse was pounding, thudding in his brain as he followed. This time, damn it, she wasn’t going to get away. There was no place to run.
And yet she seemed intent on escape.
He felt it.
Faster and faster he hurried, his cane hitting the planks of the boardwalk in a staccato beat, his leg throbbing.
He had no time for the pain.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, his brain screamed, catch her.
And what would he do when he tapped her on the shoulder and she wasn’t his ex-wife?
For Christ’s sake, don’t worry about that. Be more concerned if she is. What then, Bentz? What if she’s the damned look-alike or worse yet, Jennifer herself in the damned flesh? No ghost. Your ex-wife!
She, too, was hurrying, running barefoot toward the end of the pier, her legs flashing beneath her red hemline.
His leg was screaming in pain, thigh muscles on fire, hip aching, but he went into a dead run as he saw her, plunging into wisps of hanging fog.
Where was she going? She was running straight into the darkness, headed for the black night at the end of the pier.
Bentz’s lungs burned, his leg aching as she finally paused and braced the rail. At last! Now, finally he would have a chance to confront her.
But a moment later her hands reached out to the railing, bracing against it.
What the hell?
Without hesitation, she climbed onto the top bar, then over.
Oh, for God’s sake, she wouldn’t jump. Or would she? This was Jennifer. Daring crazy Jennifer.
“No!” he yelled.
For a heartbeat she balanced on the tiny edge, teetering. In that instant she glanced back, and Bentz drank in her beautiful face, her gaze locking with his. A split second later, she looked at the black water swirling around the pilings, gauging the distance, the depth. Oh, God, she was really going to jump!
“Stop! Jennifer!” he yelled.
One minute she was standing there, caught in a swirl of fog.
Then, before his eyes, she disappeared.
As if she’d actually leapt over the edge.
“No! Jen!” He rushed forward, running with dread prodding him on. “Oh, God!”
What the hell had happened? His eyes searched the gloom.
Did he hear a splash over the lapping tide?
Yes?
No?
God, where was she?
Confused, convinced he’d find her hanging from the railing, he grit his teeth and hurried to the rail to the very spot where she’d climbed over. Below the shifting water was dark as ink, no swimmer or body visible.
No Jennifer.
He yelled. Called her name.
He had nothing but a penlight. Still, he had to look. Moving gingerly, Bentz climbed over the rail and planted his feet on the thin ledge. The fingers of his left hand gripped the rail as he shined the small beam downward, but it did little to pierce the damned fog or illuminate much of the black water.
“Jennifer! Jesus, God! Jennifer!” he screamed at the dark swirling tide.
“Hey you!” some guy shouted frantically.
But Bentz didn’t look up, his eyes on the black churning waters below. Was she there? Hiding? Caught under water?
Or had it all been a vision of his willing mind? Had there even been a woman on the pier at all?
He didn’t know, but he couldn’t let her drown, whoever she was.
“Son of a bitch!”
He let go. The sea air rushing up at him, swift and furious.
He hit the water hard, the jolt of landing rattling his aching body. The cold began to seep through his skin as he sank fast, downward into the stark black depths.
Down, down, down. Into the night-black sea. Salt water closed around him as he kicked off his shoes and jacket, his eyes open and burning as he tried to penetrate the infinite darkness of the vast Pacific.
Nothing!
He searched the inky water, holding his
breath, knowing she had to be here, somewhere. Close. Where are you? For the love of God, Jennifer!
His lungs were near bursting as he kicked, propelling himself upward, letting out a stream of air as he broke the surface. He gulped in air and cursed as he hunted for her.
Where the hell had she gone?
Where, damn it?
He shook his hair from his eyes, willing her to appear.
Come on. Come on!
Give it up, Bentz, his mind taunted. She doesn’t exist. You know it. You’re chasing a damned figment of your imagination.
Fear, cold as the ocean, slid through him. He was cracking up. That was it. Oh, sweet Jesus…
Don’t give up! You saw her!
Treading water, he scoured the surroundings with his gaze-under the pier, along the pilings, near the shore, and beneath the shifty surface of the murky depths.
There was no sign of a woman in a red dress.
Or anyone at all. He spun around in the water, his bad leg dragging, his lungs tight as he eyed the undulating sea to no avail. Where was she? Where had she gone?
As people shouted above, he let the tide push him under the pier and through the supports. He swam, head above water, looking for any sign of her, any clue to where she’d been. He scanned the entire area. The beach was empty here. No one clung to the pier overhead, and he didn’t see anything bobbing in the water.
“Jennifer!” he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth, his voice echoing crazily over the water and rush of the tide. He held fast to a barnacle-laden piling, searching again and again, breathing hard, willing her to appear. Come on, come on! Where are you?
“Jennifer!” he shouted again, spitting salt water. The smell of brine stung his nostrils as waves slapped over him, his wet clothes moving with the tide. He didn’t see anything or hear a response other than voices high overhead, feet pounding on the boardwalk. Still he tried to find her, or any evidence that she’d been here. He kept searching, releasing the piling and treading water as he squinted through the fog, straining to see any sign of movement along the long stretch of darkness beneath the pier.
Nothing but darkness…the play of shifting shadows beneath the pier, but further out, beyond the overhang, streetlights cast an ethereal glow. The thin light was caught in the shifting fog while the neon glow of the amusement park rose like a blazing specter in the mist.
All unworldly.
All surreal.
Jennifer, or whoever she really was, had disappeared. He searched around each support post, eyeing the shadows and feeling as if cold death were lurking nearby. He held fast to one of the supports and called her name again and again, but it came back to him, his own voice, echoing hollowly over the rumble of the sea.
Shivering, he felt a fish glide past as he released the piling and swam toward the shore.
His heart thudded at the prospect of finding her, dead from the leap into the water, dead because she’d been running from him.
After luring you onto the pier…this is all part of her plan. Don’t go into the blame game; not yet.
And she’s not here. You’re alone.
The voices overhead were louder now, more of them, though, from down here they seemed disembodied, muted by fog and tide.
She’s not here. She was never here. You imagined her again. The red dress…it’s symbolic. Jennifer casting herself into the vast darkness of the water punctuated by the skeletal pier…
Dear God, what had happened to her?
Now the shouts on the boardwalk overhead were audible.
“I saw him, I tell you. Some guy jumped into the water.”
“You saw him? In this fog?”
“Yes! Damn it, some lunatic did a swan dive off the railing.”
“So now it’s a dive. Barney, you’ve been drinkin’ bad tequila again.”
“For the love of Christ, I’m tellin’ ya, a guy in a suit jumped off the goddamned pier!”
“There’s nothin’ down there.”
“How can ya tell? It’s so hard to see with the fog,” Barney insisted. “I called 9-1-1. The police should be here any minute.”
Good, Bentz thought. He could use a little help. He swam from under the pier, toward the shore, rolling with incoming waves. He was relieved to see the flickering lights of emergency vehicles on the ridge above the beach. As he clambered through the shallow surf a flashlight beam caught him from above.
“There he is!”
“I told ya!” Barney again, and other voices joined in as a crowd gathered overhead on the pier. Over it all, the sound of a siren screamed through the night, getting closer. Bentz dragged himself out of the water and up the beach. Cold to the bone, he slogged his way up the wet sand and turned back toward the water.
The lights of the city were blazing, the Ferris wheel casting an eerie reflection on the shimmering waters. He wondered about Jennifer in that cold dark bay. Was she hiding in the shadows, laughing at him, pleased that she’d goaded him into leaping from the railing? Or was she caught beneath the surface, entangled in seaweed, staring sightlessly upward as the red shroud of her dress billowed against her deathly white skin?
For the love of God, get a grip! He swiped a shaking hand over his face as several people ran up to greet him.
The couple he’d seen on the pier was the first to arrive.
“Hey, dude, are you okay?” The guy was in his twenties, his stocking cap pulled low over curls that sprang from the edges. He seemed genuinely concerned and called over his shoulder, “Hey, anyone got a blanket or something?”
“I’m fine.” Just cold, tired, and afraid I’m going out of my friggin’ mind! Bentz coughed. He couldn’t stop shaking. “There was a woman on the pier-she jumped into the water and I went in after her.”
The blond girlfriend shook her head. “I didn’t see a woman.”
“She was there at the end of the dock.”
“Is that why you were running?” Girlfriend asked. “I saw you throw away your cane.”
Bentz nodded as the sirens screamed closer.
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know, but we need a search.”
Bentz’s teeth began to chatter and he was shivering. The police cruiser, lights flashing, screeched to a halt at the end of the beach and two officers climbed out.
“He’s going into shock,” the older man who’d been smoking his cigar said.
Bentz shook his head and held up a hand to stop further nonsense. “No. Really. Just cold. I’m serious about a woman leaping off the pier, damn it! I saw her. She jumped in.”
“Let’s go!” Several guys took off running to the waterline, though Bentz had little hope they would find anyone. Jennifer, or whoever she was, had disappeared.
Again.
The old guy ripped off his too-large jacket that smelled of burned tobacco. “Here. You need this.”
Grateful, Bentz thrust his arms into the warm sleeves of the jacket, never taking his eyes off the shoreline, where the men were beginning their search.
“Sir?” called a low voice.
Bentz turned to see two officers from the police cruiser striding across the expanse of sand as a fire truck and rescue vehicle arrived.
“We have some paramedics here to assist you,” one of the uniforms said.
“It’s all right. I’m a cop.” Bentz dug into his pocket and found, thankfully, his waterlogged wallet and badge. He handed it to the officer. “I don’t need the ambulance. I’m okay, really, but you might want to get your search and rescue team in. I saw a woman jump from the pier.”
The cop nodded, his eyes assessing Bentz. “But, sir, you need to get checked out.”
“All I need is a smoke and someone to call Detective Jonas Hayes. LAPD Homicide.”
“Someone dead?”
Bentz shook his head. “Hayes is a friend of mine.” He forced a smile as the young kid came up with a Camel and a light, the first cigarette Bentz had smoked in a long, long while. He drew hard on the cigarette
, felt the warm smoke curl in his lungs. Exhaled. “I used to work for the LAPD.”
CHAPTER 18
“Hell, Bentz, I’ve got better things to do than babysit you.” Hayes was pissed and didn’t try for a second to hide his irritation. It had been Hayes’s idea to meet in the bar half a block away from the So-Cal Inn in Culver City.
Bentz stared sullenly over the bar into the huge mirror that reflected the entire length of the long, narrow establishment. The bar top was tile with pendant lights straight out of the sixties hanging over it. He asked, “How’s the Springer double homicide coming?”
“You know I can’t talk to you about it.” Hayes nursed a Manhattan while Bentz ignored his nonalcoholic beer. “But…we haven’t got any really good leads. Lots of bad ones.” He waved away the topic of the double homicide. “So you still think Jennifer is alive, haunting you? And she took a flying leap into Santa Monica Bay.”
“I don’t think it’s Jennifer, but I can’t be sure. Not unless there’s an exhumation. I’m going forward with it.”
“Whatever.” Hayes was still steamed, his forehead lined with wrinkles of worry, his lips pulled into a frown. “Your gun get wet?”
“Wasn’t wearing it. Locked in the glove box. But my cell phone’s deader than a doornail.” Bentz counted himself lucky that his pistol and the envelope with the photos and death certificate had been locked in the car, safe and dry. Even his cane had survived, but his jacket and good shoes were somewhere on the bottom of Santa Monica Bay. Now he was wearing his battered old Nikes.
He was also grateful that Jonas had smoothed things over with the cops. Although the search team had not found a body or evidence of a female swimmer, Jonas had been able to convince the Santa Monica Police that things were “cool.”
Even if he hadn’t believed it himself.
After a peripheral search of the area, the fire truck and ambulance had been sent off and the officers had taken Bentz’s statement without any citations being issued. Hayes had even given him the time to shower and change clothes at the motel before they’d met at this dive.