Malice

by Lisa Jackson

  “I don’t remember…” She hesitated, leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb of her car. “No, you’re right. I think maybe that’s the name. One time when we were together Jennifer had a few too many martinis and she said that the reason she married you was that Alan had a cruel streak. That he was obsessive and even handcuffed her to the bed once, wouldn’t let her go. After he’d sobered up, he’d apologized, but she never forgave him or forgot it.”

  Bentz didn’t move. Rage burned through him. At Gray. At his damned ex-wife.

  Jennifer had never confided this story to him.

  Was it the truth? Or a quickly fabricated lie to gain sympathy, come up with a reason why she threw over a millionaire for a cop?

  He didn’t know. Trying to understand Jennifer was like trying to walk on quicksand; his footing was never secure.

  “She said she suspected him-Alan-of being into more than real estate. She thought he might be into illegal stuff. What, I don’t know, but that’s the impression I got. Of course with Jennifer, I was never sure. She made a big deal of it, swore me to secrecy. Lord, I thought she was going to make me cross my heart and wish to die.”

  Bentz was irritated that he’d never heard this before. “You didn’t think of saying anything when she died.”

  Tally snapped her head up, suddenly worried. “No. Why would I?” And then she caught on. “It was a suicide, right? That’s what everyone thought. There was a note.” She was suddenly anxious, as if she realized she’d said far too much. “Look, I really don’t know what difference it makes now. And I’ve really got to get going. I don’t know anything else, really. And I don’t know how this could help you.”

  He didn’t either. But it was something.

  “Thanks,” he said and slipped a card from his wallet. On the back he slashed out the digits of his cell phone. “If you think of anything else.” He handed her the card and she nearly crushed it in her fist.

  “Of course,” she promised, but they both knew it was a lie.

  Tally White wanted nothing more to do with him, nor the memories of his dead ex-wife.

  He stepped away from her car as she pulled the driver’s door closed and jabbed her keys into the ignition. A moment later Tally gunned the Volkswagen out of the faculty lot, putting as much distance as she could between herself and Bentz.

  So what else was new?

  He had that effect on people.

  CHAPTER 21

  I’m alone in the elevator.

  Slowly, with a loud grinding noise, the large car ascends. When I reach the second floor, no one is there to meet me.

  Good.

  The stark hallway is empty as well.

  Perfect.

  Quickly, on noiseless footsteps I make my way down the pressboard corridor to my private room, the windowless space where I am totally alone. The place that no one knows about, that no one would link to me. The walls and floor are pressboard and a single bulb gives off a harsh, unshaded glow.

  I close the door.

  Lock it.

  Test the lock to make certain it’s solid.

  Then I let out a deep breath and survey my surroundings in this, a place many would see as a cell. But in here, by myself, I’m free. I usually hate being alone, but not here. Not in this one place that is my sanctuary. Here, I’m finally at peace.

  On a previous trip to this quiet place, I hung a full-length mirror on one wall-just so I would have company. Across from the reflective glass, I stacked big plastic tubs of clothes and makeup. I also assembled a short rod, screwed it into the walls so that I could hang plastic garment bags of nicer clothes, the dresses and jackets and pants that I kept for my special purpose. I even have a computer in here, a laptop that I can use while sitting on my faux leopard beanbag. The chair sits in one corner with a small battery-powered lamp on a TV tray. All the comforts of home.

  There’s a small bookcase, one I put together unassisted. The only books on the shelves are photo albums and scrapbooks, collections I’ve been keeping for years.

  After rechecking the lock one more time, I find my iPod and plug in. Today, I’ll listen to R.E.M. and feel the thrum of music run through my body. As I hum along, I drag the heavy tomes from their resting place, plop myself into the chair and open the pages. Some of the pictures and articles have yellowed with age, but they are all in perfect order, as I have so carefully placed them. Photographs of Bentz. Articles about him. His entire life as a police officer captured.

  There is one of a crime scene where Detective Bentz, standing just on the other side of the yellow tape, is talking with two other officers. In the background sits the house where the victim was found. But I’m not interested in the little bungalow with a blooming wisteria running over the front porch. Nor do I pay any attention to the blood still visible on the front steps.

  No.

  I focus on Bentz.

  The good-looking prick.

  In this shot, his face is in profile. His features are harsh and rugged, his stern jaw set, his razor-thin lips flat in anger. Always the tough cop.

  Yeah, right. “Bastard,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  I spy another photograph of him on the Ferris wheel at an amusement park. Kristi is at his side. She is all of seven in the photo, and Bentz’s lips are wide in a grin-a rare shot of him having fun.

  The photograph, not clear to begin with, is around twenty years old. I run my fingers over the images. As I have done hundreds of times.

  Twenty years!

  Twenty effin’ years.

  The child a grown woman.

  It’s true, I think ruefully, time flies.

  But no more. Time is about to stand still.

  These pages with their clear plastic covers are filled with his life. Old wedding photos of his first marriage are fading, washing out, the fashions worn by the happy couple evidence of another era.

  As the music runs through my brain I flip forward quickly, my fingers urging the years to spin past, faster and faster. Until I stop at the present. Here the more recent pictures of his new wife, Olivia, are fresh and clear.

  New wife.

  New life.

  We’ll see about that.

  One picture of the bitch, a photograph where she’s looking straight into the camera, catches my eye. In the shot, Olivia is serene and smiles slightly, as if she knows a secret, as if she can read my mind.

  What a nut case!

  And to think that Bentz actually believes he’s happy with a woman who has several screws loose!

  A psychic?

  If so, then she should be worried.

  Really worried.

  But then, of course, she’s a fraud.

  Do she and Bentz believe her “visions?”

  Well, then how about this, Olivia? Tune into what’s happening to you, will you? What do you think about lying six feet under, huh?

  Rick Bentz won’t be able to save you.

  And he’ll know what real mental anguish is.

  I glare at the woman staring up at me. So smug. So self-satisfied. As if she really thinks she can see the future.

  Oh, like, sure.

  “No way,” I whisper to her. “No damned way.” But her curved lips get to me and I remember that somewhere in her past she had a twisted ability to see murders committed as they happened.

  How will she feel about her own? I wonder.

  The thought is thrilling, brings a zing into my veins, not so much for her pain and suffering but for Bentz’s.

  He’ll be the one who will have to deal with the torment, the pure, soul-sick torture of knowing that, because of him, the woman he loves will be subjected to excruciating, mind-shattering fear and deep, abysmal pain.

  But I can’t get ahead of myself.

  Everything is falling into place, but my mission is far from over. Still undone.

  There are those who need to be destroyed, those who have served their purpose by leaking information about Jennifer to Bentz, those who knew her well and now are of no
further use. I take a deep breath.

  To remind myself of my mission, to stay on target, I reach into my pocket and pull out my Pomeroy 2550, a sweet little multipurpose tool that disguises its sharp blades in an innocuous plastic shell. Designed to look like a pink manicure kit, the tool can become lethal with the flick of a tiny lever. It boasts a corkscrew, screwdriver, nail clipper, a pair of petite scissors, and a tiny little knife as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel.

  My favorite.

  The razor-thin blade is perfect.

  Grinning at this newfound ritual that solidifies my determination, I hum along to the refrain of “Losing My Religion” as I slowly draw the blade across my inner wrist.

  A sharp sting.

  I suck in my breath in a hiss, losing track of the words to the song. But it’s a bittersweet pain and I locate the melody again, catching up to the band.

  With eager eyes, I watch the blood bloom. My blood rise against my skin.

  Reverently, almost mesmerized by the image I’m creating, I drizzle the thick red drops onto the photograph of Olivia.

  She smiles up at me through a nearly opaque sheen of red.

  Unknowing.

  Fearless.

  I smear the blood over the plastic that protects her image and yet she grins.

  Poor, dumb bitch.

  “Don’t tell me you need another favor,” Montoya said when Bentz phoned him as he drove with the pack on the clogged L.A. freeway. He had the window cracked but closed it and cranked up the A/C.

  “You’re off work anyway.”

  “And I thought I’d go home, spend some time with my wife, and relax. This is your deal, Bentz, not mine.” Despite his complaints, Montoya didn’t sound pissed off.

  “Okay, okay, but I could use some help.”

  “What?”

  “Some more searches of Internet and police records.”

  “Great.”

  “I need the name of an astrologer who may or may not still be alive or practicing. All I have is a first name: Phyllis.”

  “No last name. Nothing else?”

  “She was somewhere in the Los Angeles area. And then, if you can, find out if Alan Gray is still in business. He’s a developer in Southern California. At least he was twenty-five years ago.”

  “Alan Gray?” Montoya repeated “Have I heard of him?”

  “Probably. I might have mentioned him. He’s a big shot. Multimillionaire, owned a house in Malibu, I think, and maybe had an apartment in New York, and a place somewhere in Italy, too. Even a yacht that he kept moored down at Marina del Rey, if I remember right. He was involved with Jennifer before she and I became an item, and I’d like to see if he’s still around.”

  “You don’t ask for much.”

  “Only what I need,” he said and hung up.

  It was late in the afternoon, the sun sitting low in the sky, the heat of the day settling into the pavement. Bentz decided to grab some dinner at Oscar’s, a restaurant he and Jennifer had often frequented in their old neighborhood. He needed a quiet place where he could find some vestiges of the past and try to put together everything he knew about his ex-wife. Which changed day to day, as if Jennifer really had been a chameleon. Bentz hoped to mesh the old with the new to get some idea of the woman who, with each passing day, was becoming more of a stranger to him.

  Even in death, Jennifer Nichols Bentz was the ultimate enigma.

  Shana McIntyre was pissed as hell as she walked into her cedar-lined closet and yanked the headband from her hair.

  She should never have talked with Bentz, never have confided in him, never have told him one solitary thing about Jennifer. The woman was dead, damn it. She had driven herself into a damned tree and, thankfully, was at rest.

  In the dressing area of her massive closet and connecting bath, Shana stripped off her tennis skirt and sleeveless tee to stand naked in front of the floor to ceiling mirror. Not too bad for a woman on the north end of forty, she thought, though she’d have to consider some boob work and a full face-lift in the next five years to add to her tummy tuck and lipo. She pulled her breasts up to a spot where they were perky again and thought she could use another cup size as well. B to C. That would be nice. Then she drew back the skin around her chin and mouth. The lines there weren’t too bad yet, but there was a bit of sag that would only get worse. At least Jennifer Bentz would never have to worry about laugh lines, age spots, or cellulite. Early death, though scary, in some ways was seductive.

  Shana believed that Jennifer was dead and had been for twelve years. Whoever had sent Bentz those photos was just mind-fucking him.

  So why had Shana thought it necessary to play with Bentz? True, she’d had her own doubts about Jen’s death, but come on, there was no way the woman was alive today.

  It’s because you were attracted to him, her mind silently accused, though she would never admit as much. A cop? Come on. But, then, Bentz always had been and was still undeniably sexy, and lately Shana had been more than a little denied in the sex department. Leland had once been a wild man, insatiable, but with advancing age and a few health issues his interest in sex, along with his ability, had diminished.

  No amount of talking would get him to go to a doctor and inquire about Viagra. It was as if even suggesting the idea were an affront to his manhood.

  What manhood, she thought unkindly because, truth be told, she was losing interest in the man she once would have killed to marry. Hadn’t she seduced him away from his first wife, that imbecile Isabella?

  And Rick Bentz, even with his uneven walk, oozed virility. He caused her mind to wander down twisted and darkly seductive paths she didn’t dare follow. Jennifer had hinted that he was a great lover. She’d insisted that she hadn’t strayed for sex so much as for forbidden sex, with a priest, no less. Her husband’s half brother.

  But then Jen had been one messed-up woman. Shana had thought so when they’d hung out together.

  God, that seemed like another lifetime.

  It was ancient history, long before she noticed the strands of gray in her hair and the evidence of sagging in certain areas of her body that had once been firm.

  Christ, it was hell growing old…older, she reminded herself. She wasn’t yet fifty and she knew a lot of women who were over sixty and looked fabulous, though they had to work at it.

  “Ugh.” She eyed her figure again and told herself to buck up. She was told over and over how beautiful she was, how great she looked, and so far no one had dared tacked on the “for your age” line that diminished the compliment.

  She threw a cover-up over her body, though there was no reason. The maid had left long ago, the gardener wasn’t scheduled for a few more days, Leland was out of town again wooing some big client in Palm Springs.

  Hurrying down the marble stairs, she cut through the sunroom and out to the yard, where Dirk was barking loudly at the neighbor’s Chihuahuas, who were yipping from the other side of the hedge and fence. “Enough,” Shana said and dragged Dirk into the house. She stuffed him into the laundry room and closed the door.

  She just needed some time alone, without the aggravation of Leland’s dog giving her a headache. These days she spent more time with the damned animal than she did her husband.

  She eyed the refrigerator and thought of the chocolate mousse pie within. It was a ritual she allowed herself. Each week she bought a different decadent dessert and left it calling to her on the third shelf of the refrigerator. She allowed herself one bite of pure heaven, then left the rest to slowly dehydrate and turn dark. Lemon meringue or key lime pie, coconut or Boston cream or fudge cake or eclairs. They all rented space on the glass shelf at eye level, then were evicted on the next Saturday night.

  Her ritual of self-deprivation and control.

  Today she wouldn’t even bother opening the door but hurried back outside and crossed the patio to the pool. It was twilight, the pool light glowing at the far end, the aquamarine water smooth and welcoming.

  She dropped her cover-up an
d kicked off her flip-flops near the edge of the pool. Descending the mosaic tiled steps, she slid into the warm water and relaxed as it surrounded her calves, then her hips, and finally embraced her waist.

  Vaguely aware that those nasty little Chihuahuas had quit their incessant yapping, she began her nightly ritual, her second workout today, with even strokes. Freestyle to the far end, breaststroke back, sidestroke for two laps. That was one set. She’d do five sets and then, only then, would she allow herself a drink. For next to the white box containing the chocolate mousse was a pitcher of martinis, already made and chilling.

  It was another test of her willpower, waiting until after her exercise regimen before allowing herself a tall drink with exactly three olives. She’d suck the pimento out of each. God, Jennifer had loved martinis.

  Stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, breathe, turn.

  She headed back, changing her rhythm as her body movements altered for the breaststroke. Night was closing in, the moon high. The subdued outdoor lighting cast small pools of light near the walkways. Brighter beams washed up the trunks of the palms, and the huge arched windows of the house were illuminated from within.

  It was a gorgeous place to live.

  Even if her life had become lonely.

  Stroke, stroke, stroke.

  She lost herself in her routine, silently counting off the turns, knowing instinctively from the way her muscles strained when she was coming to the end of her self-imposed exercise regimen.

  She could almost taste the martinis as she completed the final lap. Letting water drip from her body, she started up the steps. She was reaching for her cover-up when she heard something.

  A footstep?

  A chorus of barking arose from the other side of the fence as the Chihuahuas started up again. Inside the house, Dirk responded with a low, warning growl.

  “Great,” Shana said, intent on marching into the house and giving the dog a piece of her mind. What the hell was wrong with him? He never engaged the yappy rat-dogs from inside the house. It would serve the neighbors right if Dirk ever got loose and attacked those ankle biters. God, she hated them.