Malice

by Lisa Jackson

  Three boys and four girls each were spotlighted before Maren took on a Toni Braxton song. Hayes watched her, his little girl, only twelve years old, belting out a number like a pro. She’d barely developed, still wore braces, but she was as beautiful as her mother and a helluva lot more talented.

  Maren moved to the music, her mocha-colored skin shimmering under the lights. Her straightened hair streamed down her back, and her dark brown eyes seemed impossibly large and expressive in her sweet face. She was tall and thin, like both her parents, her newfound curves in proportion, her dimples “cute” rather than sexy. At least he hoped so.

  She sang a soulful rendition of “Unbreak My Heart” that nearly brought down the house, then finished with the upbeat Whitney Houston song “How Will I Know?”

  Hayes jumped to his feet and clapped wildly. After the bows and brief words of thanks from Miss Bette, Hayes carried some flowers he’d picked up at Safeway to the stage and handed them to his daughter. Maren’s gasp of delight and Delilah’s cool look of surprise said it all.

  “Good job, honey! You were incredible. Move over, Mariah Carey.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” one of the other mothers muttered.

  “Oh, Dad.” Maren rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop that infectious grin from stealing across her lips. “I thought you were working.”

  “I was.”

  “Mom said you wouldn’t come.”

  Hayes shot his ex a quick don’t-do-this glare. “Mom was wrong.” He hugged his daughter.

  “I just didn’t want her to be disappointed again,” Delilah said.

  Hayes wasn’t going to be pulled into it. Not here. Not now. “Well, she wasn’t. What do you say I take you out for pizza?”

  He expected Delilah to argue that it was too late, or that Maren had homework, but instead she stiffly agreed. There was no doubt that she could be a bitch sometimes, but Hayes believed her motives were all about protecting Maren. She might’ve turned into a grumbling, unhappy, never-satisfied wife, but Delilah was still a damned good mother.

  For that, he supposed, he should be thankful.

  Once they were outside, he flipped his phone on and saw that he had messages. He was about to answer them when he caught Delilah’s meaningful glare. “I just have to listen to these,” he said, walking to his car and leaning against the hood. “I’ll meet you at Dino’s.”

  “Sure,” she said tightly, obviously disbelieving as she ushered Maren to her white Lexus SUV.

  The calls were from Riva Martinez. Donovan Caldwell had been phoning the station demanding information on the Springer twins’ homicides, insisting that he should be privy to everything the LAPD had on file as they’d “royally screwed” the case of his sisters’ murders twelve years earlier.

  Hayes called her back on the way to Dino’s. “I think you should refer Mr. Caldwell to the Public Information Officer,” he suggested.

  “Already did, and he told me to go scratch,” Martinez informed him. “He’s figured out that Bentz is in town again. Caught some write-up online about Bentz’s stunt on the Santa Monica Pier. Anyway, this Caldwell guy is out for blood. He wants to talk to Bentz, to Bledsoe, to Trinidad, or anyone associated with his sisters’ case. If you ask me, he’s a damned psycho.”

  “He lost his whole family over the bungled case.”

  “Hell, Hayes, listen to you. We didn’t bungle it; we just haven’t solved it. Yet.”

  She had a point. Hayes checked his watch. “I’ll talk to him. I just can’t do it right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can handle him, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I do. Thanks.” Hayes hung up and tried to push all the thorny pressures of the job aside. He had more pressing matters to worry about. Pepperoni or sausage pizza…and how to step carefully through the verbal minefield of the next hour or two with Delilah.

  Bentz hit a dead end.

  Ramona Salazar, whoever she was, meant nothing to him, and he couldn’t find any association between Salazar and Jennifer. He stretched out on the ugly bed, pointed the remote at the TV, and watched an all-news channel. Again they replayed footage from Shana’s house: the ambulance parked inside the gated driveway, the swimming pool from an aerial shot, the McIntyres in happier times. Bentz sank into the mattress with a pang of guilt. If he hadn’t come to L.A. would she still be alive? Or was this a random act of violence?

  He didn’t believe that for a second.

  He called his daughter, left a message, and Kristi phoned back within five minutes.

  “Hey, Dad, what’s up?” she asked.

  Bentz couldn’t help but smile as he conjured up her face, as beautiful as her mother’s. Rolling off the bed, he walked to the window. “Just hanging out.” He peered through the blinds to the parking lot where darkness had settled in, the big neon sign for the So-Cal Inn glowing brightly over the asphalt.

  “Still in L.A., right? Working on an old case that doesn’t involve Mom. Right?” He heard the sarcasm in her voice. “You know, Dad, it’s really weird that you can’t confide in me. I don’t like it.”

  There was no way out of this. She was too smart and he didn’t like trying to deceive her. “Fine, you’re right. I’m looking into her death.” He picked up the remote and muted the sports report. The basketball players still jumped, but they did it all in silence.

  “Why?” Kristi asked. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I’m not sure your mother committed suicide. I think she might have been murdered.”

  There was a beat, a pause. Kristi, who was usually quick to rush in, even finish his sentences for him, was uncharacteristically silent. “And why do you think that?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Five minutes long or five hours long?” she asked as the television flickered noiselessly. “Come on, Dad, give.”

  “Okay, I guess you deserve to know.”

  “Duh.”

  “The truth is, I’m not even sure it’s your mom in her grave.”

  “What! Are you serious?” There was an edge of panic to her voice. “Now you’re freaking me out.”

  No surprise there. It was the reason he hadn’t wanted to confide in his daughter in the first place.

  “Holy God, not in her grave? What the hell is going on?”

  He told her. Starting with the death certificate and the photos he’d received, including the “sightings” of Jennifer or her impersonator, ending up with his jump off the pier and Shana McIntyre’s murder. “So that’s what I’m doing in Southern California.”

  “I can’t believe this,” she said, obviously upset. “I mean, Mom’s not alive. You know that, right? We went through all this. I thought you were just tripping on the meds. Come on! If she were alive, she would have contacted us, or at least me. And if you think you’re seeing her ghost…I guess I can get that,” she grudgingly admitted. “It’s not like you, but I’ve seen things I can’t explain. I still see images of people in black-and-white and then they die. That’s pretty damned eerie. And Olivia, she saw through the eyes of a killer, so…just because you saw Mom or thought you saw her, doesn’t mean she’s alive.” She took in a deep breath and he imagined her pushing the hair from her eyes. “I can’t believe this.”

  “I’m just sorting it out. Obviously someone wants me here in L.A. Whoever it is lured me in.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to unravel.”

  “Well, I don’t like it.”

  He snorted. “That makes two of us.”

  “You’re not like the Lone Ranger, are you? Tell me there are people helping you.”

  He’d never felt so alone in his life, but he wouldn’t admit that. He’d already burdened her with enough difficult information. To worry her further wasn’t necessary. “Yep. Montoya in New Orleans and I’ve still got a few friends in LAPD.” He sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring the television and the fact that he was beginning to hate this place. The four walls of the litt
le motel room were closing in on him and he missed his daughter. Missed his wife.

  “Who? Who are your friends there?” she demanded, because she’d been old enough to remember when they’d lived in Los Angeles. She knew her father did not leave on good terms by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Jonas Hayes, to start with. You remember him?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s got my back.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you. I assume Olivia knows all this.”

  He squeezed the back of his neck. “Uh-huh.”

  “So the daughter is the last to know.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I would,” she said, steamed.

  She was really pissed off. Nothing Bentz could do about it now.

  “Is that why you called?” Kristi demanded. “Something about this case?”

  He felt the anger radiating through the connection. “I thought you might remember if your mom ever mentioned a woman by the name of Ramona Salazar?”

  “Ramona who? Salazar?” she repeated. “No. No Ramonas.”

  “What about Phyllis?”

  “Just the astrologer.”

  “You knew about her?” Bentz’s muscles stiffened.

  “Sure. I even called her once for a reading, but Mom hit the roof, thought you wouldn’t approve, so I never got the reading and Mom told me to keep it on the down low, that it was ‘just our little secret’ or some other melodramatic phrase. You know how she was.”

  Apparently not.

  “Jeez, I’d nearly forgotten all about her.”

  Bentz mentally kicked himself. Of course Kristi would know things about Jennifer that he didn’t. Montoya had already mentioned a woman named Phyllis Terrapin. “So, how into this astrologer was she?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Just something Mom did. Like her hair and her nails. I only saw her a couple of times when Mom had picked me up.” Kristi laughed. “I called her ‘the Turtle’ behind her back because of her name and she kinda looked like one, short neck, big glasses. Mom didn’t think it was funny, which I thought was weird. She usually had a pretty wicked sense of humor, but not when I teased her about the whole astrology thing.”

  “Of course she didn’t,” he said. How many other secrets had mother and daughter shared, secrets he’d been totally oblivious to?

  They talked for a while longer, but Kristi had nothing more to add about Phyllis “the Turtle” or anything else he’d been investigating out here. “I’ll call you in a few days,” he promised, and they hung up. “Phyllis the Turtle,” he muttered under his breath. Probably nothing, but he’d check her out.

  He stood, stretched out his back, and noticed the remains of his Californian wrap drying out on the desk. He scooped the wilting lettuce and soggy tomatoes into the white sack, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it into the trash. Then he settled into his desk chair again, placing the laptop on his thighs and turning so that his heels were propped on the bed. This way he could catch the latest TV news and scores as he did his thousandth Internet search.

  He’d just typed in Phyllis’s name when his cell phone rang again.

  Caller ID showed that the phone was registered to L. Newell. Lorraine? Jennifer’s stepsister?

  He answered before the damned thing rang twice. “Bentz.”

  “Oh. Hi. It’s Lorraine.” She sounded tense. Breathless. What was this all about? “I…thought you should know…Oh, God…”

  “What?” he asked, his senses on alert, an eerie feeling crawling along his skin.

  “I saw her. I saw Jennifer.”

  Bentz’s feet dropped to the floor. He slid his laptop onto the desk. “What?”

  “I said I saw-”

  “I know, but where? When?” He couldn’t believe it. His heart was thudding, adrenaline spurting through his veins, his hands clutching the phone as if it were a lifeline.

  “Just a few minutes ago. Here. On my street. In Torrance,” she said, her voice quavering. She sounded scared as hell. “In…in a gray car.”

  Really? Bentz was already grabbing his keys and wallet with his free hand.

  “I don’t think she expected me to be looking out the window.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Wait a minute. You saw a woman who looked like Jennifer in a gray car?” Again, he glanced through the blinds to the dark parking lot illuminated by the motel sign. Something felt wrong about this.

  “Yes!”

  “How could you see her?”

  “Uh…the streetlight. The car stopped under the streetlight and she looked right at the house. Right at me.”

  “Is she there now?”

  “I don’t know. She drove past slowly, around the cul-de-sac, only three or four minutes ago. I’m frightened. She’s dead, Rick. She’s supposed to be dead.” Lorraine’s voice was hoarse with panic. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought I should call you.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. Sit tight.”

  He hung up and threw on his shoulder holster, new jacket, and shoes. His cell phone was just about out of juice, but he pocketed it along with his badge. Ignoring the ache in his leg Bentz flew out of the room and into the parking lot. Inside his car, he snapped on the ignition and drove out of the lot, squealing onto the street.

  Someone else had seen Jennifer, or the woman who looked like her. Finally.

  Once he was on the side street heading toward the 405, he phoned Jonas Hayes.

  The call went directly to voice mail and he explained what he was doing.

  Then he hit the freeway heading south, weaving through taillights to move ahead, pushing the speed limit. The night was clear and somewhere above the lights of the city the stars shone. He saw the moon and the blink of airplanes cutting across the sky, but his mind was on the phone conversation with Lorraine.

  Was it possible?

  Was “Jennifer” showing herself? Or casing Lorraine’s house?

  Or was Lorraine just freaking out?

  Imagining things?

  Like you? His mind teased while the speedometer inched past eighty.

  As he maneuvered around a shiny red BMW another theory struck him. “Damn.” Shana was already dead. Could “Jennifer” be looking for her next victim? That thought hit him hard. Was the woman he’d been looking for a murderess? His stomach twisted into a painful knot and he stepped on it, flying past a semi hauling milk and smelling of diesel, just as an idiot on a motorcycle blew by him and the eighteen-wheeler as if they were standing still. The biker had to be doing a hundred, maybe more, cutting through traffic. Idiot!

  Minutes ticked by and Bentz willed his cell phone to ring. He needed to talk to Hayes, or someone from the department, he thought just as he saw his exit ramp and some girl driving a Honda sped around him while texting. He barely noticed.

  Bentz couldn’t take any chances with Lorraine’s life. There was no way of telling what this “Jennifer” was up to, but his gut told him it wasn’t good. As he neared his exit ramp, he slowed and put another message to Hayes’s voice mail, asking the L.A. detective to return the call immediately.

  Bentz needed this confirmation. That he wasn’t going out of his mind. That he wasn’t conjuring up and fantasizing about a dead woman. Lorraine’s sighting of Jennifer could do just that. At least now, if nothing else, by the time he left Lorraine’s place tonight, the LAPD would know that Lorraine had been frightened, maybe even threatened by a woman who resembled Jennifer Bentz.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, easing down the ramp into a clog of traffic at the stop light. A small man wearing an overcoat, camouflage pants, and a hat with a long feather slowly pushed an overflowing grocery store cart across all the lanes of traffic while Bentz felt time slipping by. Precious time.

  At last the man rolled past, the light changed, and the idling vehicles were able to move again. Bentz gunned it, his heart hammering crazily. Fueled at the prospect of coming face to
face with Jennifer.

  Lorraine Newell knew she was a dead woman.

  Shaking, she watched as her assailant, the woman who had held the phone to her ear and a gun to her temple, hung up the phone in her living room. All the shades were drawn. They were alone. And she’d lied to Rick Bentz, begged him to come over. She should have warned him, told him the truth, but she’d been afraid, so damned afraid. Either way this witch was going to kill her.

  Trembling inside, she looked at the woman holding the gun on her, the dark, deadly muzzle only inches from her forehead.

  “He’s coming,” she whispered and thought she might pee all over herself. How had she been so foolish to open the door to this woman, to agree to let her use her phone? She was just being a Good Samaritan. She’d wanted to help. When she’d opened the door, handing her phone through the crack, the woman who had pleaded that she’d needed to call a tow truck and that her cell was out of batteries had turned into a demon. She’d slammed the door in Lorraine’s face, pulled a black gun from her jacket, and rammed the steely muzzle deep into Lorraine’s ribs.

  Once in the house, she’d bound Lorraine’s hands behind her back, then held the phone to her ear and forced Lorraine to read from a careful script, only improvising when she had to.

  And she had.

  Oh, God forgive her, she would have done anything to save her life. But it was for nothing. She knew it now.

  “You…you can leave me out of it,” she said, in a desperate plea, sweat running down her back, her insides quivering. “I won’t say anything to anyone. I promise. When Bentz gets here I’ll…I’ll tell him it was all part of a joke.”

  “It is,” the woman said cryptically.

  “Please.”

  “Shut up!”

  If only she could run. Could knock the gun away. But it was too late. She didn’t doubt for a second that this fiend would blow her to kingdom come.

  Without a modicum of mercy her captor snatched the paper away-the script she’d forced Lorraine to read. Lorraine had searched the woman’s face for a shred of compassion, a crack in her icy veneer. But the woman’s expression was stone cold as she then prodded Lorraine forward, down a short hallway, and into the kitchen.