Lisa Jackson - Malice

No way. The gate had latched behind her…right?

She reached her door and as she mounted the steps, began texting like crazy.

U really had me going for a sec.

C U later!

She reached in her purse for her keys and saw the neighbor’s cat perched on the rail of Chuck’s small porch. It stared at Lucy, its round eyes reflecting the porch light. “Hey, kitty.”

The silver tabby froze for a second, then dropped to the concrete and started to slink under the bottom rail. But it paused at the edge of the shadowy bushes, turned its sleek head toward Lucy and let out a long, low growl.

Crazy cat! “Hey, Platinum, it’s me, Lucy.”

Arching her back, Platinum hissed, showing needle-sharp teeth and round, wild eyes before scurrying madly under the fence.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Platinum, what’s wrong with you?” Lucy asked before she smelled it, a whiff of something foreign in the air. Cigarette smoke? Or…

Snap!

This time the noise was so close to her ear that she actually jumped.

She nearly screamed

From the corner of her eye, she saw something move in the dark ness. A figure, shadowy and shimmering, leapt at her.

What!!!

In its big hands was a thin leather strap.

Oh, God, no!

She tried to yell for help, knew she should run, but it was too late. He grabbed her arm, yanked her hard against him. “Oooph,” she gasped, forcing a weak scream from her airless lungs just as the strip of leather slithered around her neck and grew taut.

What was this?

Pain sliced through her.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. Couldn’t cough. Oh, dear God, the pain!

She clawed at the noose, trying to get her fingers under the smooth leather. The deadly strap didn’t budge.

She felt her attacker breathing fast and hard, getting off on her pain, yanking the leather hard.

Who? Who would want to kill me?

Why?

Her lungs burned and strained for oxygen. She kicked wildly, crazily, hoping her heel would connect with her attacker’s shin or anything nearby. She gasped hoarsely, trying to drag in any whisper of air.

Help me! Please, someone, help me!

Tearing at the damned ligature, she scratched her throat. A finger-nail ripped. Blood welled. Her head was in a vise. And her lungs, oh, God, her lungs…her lungs were about to burst! With a cruel jerk her assailant pulled tighter and the leather bit into the soft flesh beneath her chin.

Her eyes bulged.

Raw, searing pain ricocheted through her body.

She was going to die! Right here at her own front door!

She kicked frantically, hoping to hit her assailant or the door, to make some noise! Wake the neighbors! Anything she could!

Her thoughts swirled, rapid images of her parents back home, un aware that they would never see her again, and her Nana in Santa Barbara, and then there was Kurt, her sometime boyfriend…

Her eyes rolled back in her head, her lungs screamed silently as the will to fight back drained from her body. Her arms were heavy, her legs leaden, her entire being centered on the overwhelming need for air. It was over. She couldn’t fight, couldn’t remain conscious.

Her hands fell to her sides and she was vaguely aware that whoever was holding her was letting her fall onto the concrete stoop.

As the merciful blackness rolled over her, Lucy’s last thought was of Laney…dear sweet, trusting, stupid Laney.

“Bentz is back in town?” Russ Trinidad frowned into his drink, swirling the scotch and studying it as if it held the keys to the universe.

Hayes had asked Trinidad to meet him after work for a drink, which was unusual in and of itself. So Trinidad’s normally suspicious nature was on high alert. “What the hell is he doing back here?”

“It’s about his ex-wife.”

“Jennifer?” Trinidad snorted as water ran through bamboo stalks in a small waterfall near the entrance and soft Japanese music played in the background. “Piece of work, that one. Though I never really knew her.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Hayes said.

At six feet, Trinidad was shorter than Hayes, but kept up a military physique. In Trinidad’s world black was beautiful and bald was sexy as any head of messy hair. They were seated in a corner booth in a bar in Little Tokyo, not too far from Parker Center, the building housing the Robbery-Homicide Division of the LAPD, yet far enough away not to be a cop hangout. Trinidad was into his second glass of scotch while Hayes worked his way through his first sake.

Hayes had decided to confide in Trinidad, Bentz’s ex-partner, because the near-retiring detective was one of Bentz’s few allies in the department. However at this point Bentz had been gone so long, even Trinidad was iffy.

“Okay, I’ll bite.” Trinidad took a sip from his drink, saw a fleck of something foreign floating in the scotch, and flicked it out with a practiced finger. He drank again, didn’t bother complaining to the waitress. “Fill me in on our old friend Bentz.”

Hayes did.

Told him about meeting with the former LAPD detective the night before, about the photos Bentz had received showing his dead wife out and about in L.A.

“So he thinks his ex-wife might still be alive?” Trinidad said, frowning and finishing his drink. “He IDed her.”

“Yeah, but she was real busted up.”

“You’re buying into it?” Trinidad’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“I’m not buying into anything, but I checked. The only person to request a death certificate on her was Bentz himself. No one else bothered.” Unsettled, Hayes twisted his cup in his palms. “I mean it’s possible he’s gone off his nut. The guy nearly died in a freak accident. In a coma for a while.”

“And comes out of it only to be visited by his long-deceased ex-wife,” Trinidad scoffed. “How nice.”

“Or nuts.” Hayes took a swallow of the sake and watched a young Asian couple enter and take seats at the bar. “He gave me a copy of the envelope and death certificate that were sent to him. He’s having ’em checked for fingerprints and to see if there’s any DNA on the seal of the envelope through the New Orleans PD.”

“So you’re not stickin’ your neck out for him, are you? Nothing you can do unless you’ve got the originals and even if he gave them to you, I’d say you’d be making a mistake getting involved with this.”

“No problem since he didn’t. But I thought you were supposed to be his friend.”

Trinidad lifted a shoulder. “Friends don’t help friends become paranoid.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Rick Bentz is a loose cannon. Nearly lost it when he killed the Valdez kid, and, hey, that’s understandable. But afterward, he never pulled himself together. I thought maybe he’d got a handle on everything when he settled in with the New Orleans PD. Rumor has it he’s some kind of hero, solving difficult homicides. But, I’m telling you, there was a time he was this close”-he held up his thumb and forefinger so that they nearly touched-“to snapping. Looks like he finally did. My advice, even though you don’t want it: You’d be smart to avoid whatever it is he’s peddling.”

“Haven’t done anything yet.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the ‘yet’ part that’s the problem, isn’t it?” The edges of Trinidad’s mouth tightened.

At the bar, the Asian girl laughed as she ordered her drink and her boyfriend rubbed the back of her neck gently, but firmly, never letting up. Hayes bet he was already getting a hard-on. Young love. He’d been there a couple of times.

Trinidad patted the pocket of his shirt and found his cigarettes. He took one out, fingered it, and signaled for the waitress, not bothering to fight Hayes for the tab. Together they walked into the early evening light where the hazy sunset was reflected on the glass wall of a new condominium building. Farther down the street, the domed tower of the Cathedral of St. Vibiana was visible, its ornate Spanish architecture a contrast to the geometric skyline of downtown Los Angeles.