Malice

by Lisa Jackson

  “Why are we meeting at the station house? I thought you would pick me up.”

  “Yeah, I wish, but I’ve got to make a statement. Some loose ends to tie up.”

  “Oh, God, someone else died,” she said, knowing it was true. She stopped dead in her tracks and a woman pushing a stroller nearly ran into her.

  “Sorry,” the woman said, diverting around Olivia, who moved to the side of the wide hallway to stop by a T-shirt shop. “Am I right?” she asked, her heart drumming with dread. “Was someone else killed?”

  “I think so. It’s the person who impersonated Jennifer.” He sounded weary and distracted. “It’s a long story, but I saw her jump from an observation platform into the ocean, a good thirty or forty feet below.”

  “She jumped?”

  “She was running away from me.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, the cacophony of the airport turning into the rush of the sea, the people fading as, in her mind’s eye, she witnessed a woman leaping to her death in the water below.

  “A few hours later, the Coast Guard found a body.”

  Olivia leaned against the wall and closed her eyes for a second. “So she’s dead? The person who’s been gaslighting you?” Olivia couldn’t believe it.

  “Yeah. I think so. I’m going to have to ID the body in the morgue, which is kind of a joke. I mean, I only met her up close once. I don’t even know her real name.”

  “You spoke with her. Had a conversation?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Face-to-face, not one of those midnight prank calls.”

  “I was with her earlier today,” he said. “I caught up with her and she was going to tell me the truth, or so she claimed, but…oh, hell…listen, I’ve got to go.”

  “No, wait! You met with this ‘Jennifer?’”

  “Yes. Look, Livvie, I’ll tell you everything soon. Once I ID the body, I’ll probably have to answer some more questions, but that will be at RHD, at Parker Center, so we’ll hook up there. It’s not far from the morgue. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”

  Someone was calling her, a number she didn’t recognize, trying to cut in. She ignored the interruption and watched as two parents shepherded their bags and stair-step children wearing Mickey Mouse ears toward the main terminal.

  “A police officer is picking you up,” Bentz was saying. “Name’s Sherry Petrocelli. She’s a friend of Hayes’s. She’ll drive you to Parker Center. That’s where the LAPD has their Robbery-Homicide Division.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you. Hayes gave Petrocelli your cell number, so she’ll be calling.”

  “I think she just did,” Olivia said.

  “Good. I’ll see you soon.”

  “I can’t wait. Love you.”

  “If you only knew.”

  Those damned hot tears touched her eyes again. Her throat was thick, choked with emotion. She whispered, “Maybe it’ll be over now.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the connection. “I don’t know if it will ever be over.” And he hung up.

  “Rick-” But it was too late. She stood there with the phone in her hand, feeling like an idiot. On the verge of a crying jag again.

  That just wouldn’t do. Her emotions and hormones be damned. She couldn’t function in such an overwrought emotional state, near tears. She was a grown woman, soon to be a mother. Setting her jaw, she started walking again.

  For the first time since touching down on California soil, she felt a measure of renewed determination to see this through. She told her self she was up for the challenge, whatever it was.

  Bring it on, she thought, slipping her phone into her purse and sliding a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose. I’m ready.

  Come on, come on, answer the damned phone.

  I watch the passengers as they stream into the baggage claim area, hustling, herding, searching for their luggage. Loud and oblivious to me, they corral the children and guard their laptops as they wait for the carousel to spin, delivering their bags to them.

  Where is she?

  For a second I panic. Maybe she didn’t make the flight. Perhaps I got the information wrong.

  Or worse yet, I’m a suspect and they’re waiting for me. Because Sherry Petrocelli didn’t call the office to check in. My heart races at the thought that I could be caught before I’m finished, before I complete my task of utterly destroying Rick Bentz.

  But a quick scan of the area assures me no cops are loitering on the chairs or hiding behind an open newspaper. These business travelers and families are not undercover detectives.

  No, the baggage claim area looks clean.

  I take a deep breath. I have to remain calm. Appear sincere. Make certain she believes that I’m Petrocelli. With that in mind, I force a smile that feels as false as plastic. But it will have to do.

  It’s essential that Olivia Bentz trust me, buy into the fact that I’m chauffeuring her to her beloved husband.

  God, that thought makes me want to puke.

  I study the entrance to the baggage claim area, eyeing the faces of the travelers, hunting for the one that is forever burned into my brain.

  For the love of God, where is she? I start to pace, then stop. I don’t want to attract attention; as it is I’ve been carefully avoiding the security cameras, keeping my back to them and my face covered. The wig and glasses help, but I can’t take too many chances.

  My palms are beginning to sweat.

  Where the hell is she?

  Damn it, could the bitch just show up?

  I called her, left a message from Petrocelli’s phone…

  The cell phone jangles.

  Finally!

  I answer quickly, forcing the name off my lips. “Officer Petrocelli.”

  “Hi, this is Olivia Bentz. I think you tried to call me. My husband said you were going to pick me up at the airport, somewhere in Baggage Claim?” She sounds harried and tired.

  Perfect.

  My own tight nerves relax a bit. “That’s right,” I say.

  “I’m here near the United carousel.” Then I spy her approaching the area. Wearing sunglasses, her hair pulled away from her face, she’s carrying a purse and pulling a single overnight bag.

  She packed light.

  Smart girl.

  We both smile and hang up our respective phones.

  “Olivia Bentz?” I call out as I flag her down. “How was your flight?”

  She shrugs. “Delayed.”

  “I’m Sherry, a friend of Jonas Hayes. He asked me to pick you up.”

  “So I heard.”

  She eyes my uniform and I say, “You know I’m with the LAPD. Right?” She nods politely when I flip open Petrocelli’s wallet with her badge. With my wig, I look enough like Sherry to satisfy her.

  “I appreciate the lift, Officer Petrocelli,” she says. So well-mannered and polite.

  “Call me Sherry. The car’s right outside,” I tell her, and we walk through the doors to the parking area where the police cruiser awaits. I open the back door.

  “You can put your things back here,” I say, and she does, even her purse, which, I assume holds her phone. While she moves toward the front seat I spy her phone in a pocket of her purse. I remove my hat, and while I’m stowing it on the backseat I pick up her cell phone, click it to off, then tuck it back into the purse as I straighten. She’s already slipping into the passenger seat.

  Perfect.

  Unafraid, she doesn’t hesitate for a second and I feel a sense of well-being. How long I’ve waited for just this moment. But I can’t get too cocky. Not yet. I’ve got a narrow window of time, so I hurry to the driver’s side. The sooner I drive away from the airport with all its damned security cameras and wannabe cops, the better. I can’t foul up now. Not when I’m so close, so damned close.

  “How far is it to the Center?” she asks as she straps on her seat belt and I climb behind the wheel.

  “Not far.” I flash her a warm smile. “It
’s after rush hour, so it shouldn’t take long. Half an hour at most.”

  “Good.”

  “Ever been to L.A. before?” I ask.

  “Once, a long time ago. In my early twenties. I lived in Arizona-Tucson-for a while. While I was there I drove to San Diego a couple of times, and once I made it to Los Angeles. As I said, it’s been a while.”

  Perfect. So she won’t have any real sense of direction. Because she’s not going anywhere near Parker Center.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  How long had they been in this sterile interrogation room? Bentz shifted in the wooden chair, thinking it had been an eternity since he’d talked to Olivia on the phone.

  The coffee in front of him had gone cold, but Bentz wasn’t interested. Hayes, who’d been conducting the interview, had stepped out to see if Olivia had arrived. Bentz imagined her sitting in the squad room, waiting patiently. It wasn’t fair to drag her into this, but he was glad she had come. Couldn’t wait to see her. Touch her.

  Bentz stood up and stretched, sick of the small, airless interrogation room. So typical; there was at least one in every precinct. A camera mounted high in the corner near the ceiling had recorded the entire conversation. Bentz could have asked for a lawyer or kept his mouth shut, but he had nothing to hide.

  He knew it.

  He sensed Hayes knew it. His account of the events at Devil’s Caldron had been confirmed by Travis and his girlfriend. This was an exercise in futility, but one that ensured Hayes didn’t make any mistakes.

  He glanced at his reflection on the wall. God only knew who was standing behind the two-way mirror. Andrew Bledsoe and Riva Martinez were probably there, waiting for him to slip up and make a mistake. Maybe the DA was there, along with other detectives. Hell, maybe even Dawn Rankin was watching.

  It was ridiculous, but Bentz understood procedure. Rake Rick Bentz over the coals. Prove that he’s a good cop gone bad, someone insane enough to show up in Los Angeles and start killing people who had known his ex-wife.

  Even though he’d talked things through with Hayes earlier, this was official, “for the record.” So he’d suffered through the questions about his marriage to Jennifer, her betrayal, the divorce, the fact that while they’d been living together a second time, trying to see if it would work, she’d cheated on him all over again. And around that time, the accident that had taken her life. He understood that it was necessary to rehash this dark period in his life, though that hadn’t made it any easier.

  Then Hayes had segued to Jennifer the ghost, and Bentz had recalled how he’d seen her in his hospital room back in Louisiana. How he’d determined that the woman “haunting” him was actually a real flesh-and-blood imposter, one he’d stupidly driven along the coast. They’d stopped at Devil’s Caldron, the park overlooking the sea, where she’d made the tragic leap into the ocean that had killed her.

  “Well, tomorrow morning we should have some answers about your ghost. Or at least, your ex-wife,” Hayes had said. The detective had cut through bureaucratic red tape and arranged for the exhumation of Jennifer’s body, scheduled for the next morning. A step in the right direction.

  Bentz was questioned about Shana McIntyre and Lorraine Newell. Hayes brought up the Caldwell twins, asked what he knew about the double homicide so similar to the Springer twins’ case. “We’ve been through this before,” Bentz had said, knowing that Olivia was waiting for him. He was tired, hungry and could offer them nothing more than the truth.

  “Look, I can say all this a million ways,” he’d said, “but it won’t change what happened. I had nothing to do with Shana’s murder or Lorraine’s, and I don’t have a clue what happened to those twins. It sounds like the Twenty-one or a copycat. That they were killed after I returned to Los Angeles…I agree, there seems to be a connection. Am I a catalyst? I hope to hell not, but I don’t know. It would be quite a coincidence, and I don’t have a lot of faith in those.”

  Bentz looked up as the door opened and Hayes stepped in. “Is she out there?” Bentz asked.

  “Not yet,” Hayes said.

  An icy dread chilled Bentz. “What do you mean? They should be here by now. Would you give me my damned cell phone back?”

  “Procedure, man.” Hayes held up his hands defensively. “You’ll get it back just as soon as we’re done here. Martinez is tracking down Petrocelli right now.” Across the table, his tie loosened, Hayes looked as bone weary as Bentz felt. “I just need to get a few more things on the record.”

  Bentz raked one hand through his hair. “And that would be?”

  “At Devil’s Caldron today, did the victim know you were armed?”

  “She saw my gun. Made some comment about it earlier in the car.”

  “So you were chasing her with a gun.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t take it out of my holster. She knew I wouldn’t fire at her.”

  “How would she know that?”

  Good question. “Because she knows me. She knows things about me only Jennifer knew.” His guts ground as he admitted, “It seems like every time I learned something I didn’t know about Jennifer from one of her friends, that friend ended up dead. Almost…I know this sounds crazy, but it’s almost as if they were expendable and had served their purpose.” He looked at Hayes and shook his head. “It’s pretty damned freaky. Like she was one step ahead of me. She seemed to figure out my next move before I even made it. Damn it, Hayes, she knew I’d be at the airport.” And as he said the words, a new horror crawled through him. “Oh, God,” he whispered, “Olivia.”

  “What?”

  His mind was racing ahead, fueled by adrenaline and stark, gut-churning terror. If “Jennifer” knew his whereabouts, would she have been tracking Olivia’s, too? “My wife. I told you about the menacing calls she’s been getting. What if this psycho’s after her, too?”

  “But Jennifer or whoever she is, is dead now, right? You witnessed her jump into the sea.”

  “I know.” But he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that clung to him.

  “We’ve been over this,” Hayes reminded him. “Petrocelli met her at the airport.”

  “Then where the hell are they?” He couldn’t help the terror pulsing through his veins, pounding in his ears. He glanced at his watch. “They should be here by now.”

  “Maybe Olivia decided to check into a hotel? Get settled in somewhere instead of waiting around here.”

  “No way.” Olivia had been as desperate to see him as he was to see her. He’d heard it in her voice.

  Hayes sat back in the chair and slung his loose tie over one shoulder. “Look, you saw this Jennifer jump off the cliffs into Devil’s Caldron, right? So your wife is safe.”

  Bentz wasn’t certain. Nothing made sense anymore. Everything he believed in had gone sideways or turned upside down. He rubbed a hand over the stubble covering his jaw and tried to think clearly. Logically. Find the nugget of truth woven into so many lies. “Let’s just get this interview over.”

  “We’re done here.” Hayes rose, straightening his tie. “But I’ll need you to ID the woman we found at Devil’s Caldron. The morgue isn’t far.” He opened the door and nodded toward the squad room. “Martinez will help you get your vouchered possessions, and then we can go.”

  While Hayes went over to his desk, Riva Martinez led Bentz down the hall to the property desk.

  “Hey, my wife didn’t show up yet, did she?” Bentz asked her, trying to keep a cordial tone. “Olivia Bentz?”

  “Not yet. I called Petrocelli’s cell, but she didn’t pick up.” Riva Martinez smiled at the property clerk, then started filling out the paperwork. As she handed him his gun, the look she sent Bentz could have cut through granite.

  Bentz slung the holster over one shoulder, wondering what he ever did to piss off Riva Martinez. Maybe it was just the fact that her caseload had doubled since he’d returned to L.A.

  “They should be here by now,” he said, concern mounting. “It’s not that far.”


  With a shrug, she handed him the bin containing his cell phone, wallet, house keys. “Probably traffic. Last week there was an accident on the 405, made me forty minutes late for my shift.”

  She nodded toward the paperwork. “Sign here to verify that you got everything back.” After he signed, she gave him a copy of the receipt, then turned and walked briskly down the corridor.

  Bentz watched her leave, the bad feeling in his gut worsening as she disappeared behind a tall rubber tree. Something was wrong.

  As he headed back to the squad room, Bentz powered up his phone. No messages from Olivia. “Damn it.” He dialed her. Got nowhere. “Come on, come on,” he whispered as uniformed cops and detectives passed by. His call went to Olivia’s voice mail box and he asked her to call him ASAP, then hung up.

  This wasn’t like her.

  Relax. She’s with a cop. Who knows what’s holding them up? Maybe a problem with her luggage, or they stopped to get something to eat. Maybe her cell phone battery is dead… But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He speed-dialed Montoya, who picked up before the second ring.

  “Montoya.”

  “Got your call,” Bentz said.

  “Yeah, I just talked to Hayes. I sent him information on the owner of the Chevy, Yolanda Salazar. A relative sold it to her for cash. She never changed the title, which isn’t a big deal, but the kicker is this: Her name is Yolanda Valdez Salazar. She’s the older sister of Mario.”

  “What? Are you kidding me? Mario Valdez’s sister,” Bentz repeated, stunned. But he knew from the tone of Montoya’s voice this was no joke. In a second he was back in the dark alley, a person aiming a gun at Trinidad…

  A silver glint of moonlight on the black gun barrel.

  Panic tearing through his heart.

  “Police. Drop it!” he yelled in warning.

  But in the next instant, the gun didn’t fall away.

  He’s going to shoot! He’s going to shoot Trinidad!

  As the realization throbbed in his brain, Bentz pulled the trigger.

  And the gunman went down…

  Now, a dozen years later, that fatal moment was still emblazoned in Bentz’s memory. The rush of relief that he’d saved his partner’s life had quickly given way to horror when he saw that the gunman was just a kid, a boy with a toy pistol. It was a nightmare Bentz would never be able to put completely behind him. “Sweet Jesus,” Bentz said, half to Montoya, half to himself.