Lisa Jackson - Malice

He showed her copies of the pictures, but held back on the death certificate.

“Oh dear God.” She was shaking her head as she eyed the photographs of her stepsister. “These…these really do look like Jen. I mean, yeah. But it has to be an imposter; someone who looks so much like her that one of your enemies, maybe someone you sent to prison, decided to play a practical joke on you.” She looked up. “Seems as if it worked.”

If you only knew. He thought about the woman in his backyard, the dreams he’d had of Jennifer. “I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“A few pictures of a look-alike do not a case make. They wouldn’t bring you all this way.” She frowned. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something that drove you to come back to California.”

“I have a little time off.”

“Another department trying to get rid of dead wood?”

“It’s not just the photos, Lorraine. I think I’ve seen her.”

“Oh, Jesus.” She pressed a slender hand to her forehead. “This is really getting nuts. So, what? You want to know if I’ve come into contact with her? Maybe gone out for a drink? Had her over for dinner?”

He didn’t say anything; he often found it was best to let people rant and rave. He frequently learned more from silence than from a series of direct questions. “Well, you’ve really lost it this time. This is just plain nuts.” She paced over to the plate-glass window that dominated the living room. Outside, a hummingbird was flitting along the deep purple blooms of a climbing vine that wound its way to the eaves.

“You know, Rick,” she said. “You’ve lost it. Really. If Jennifer were really alive, I would know it. She would have contacted me. Where has she been hiding all these years? And if she wasn’t the woman in the car, who was? Why did you identify the wrong woman? Don’t tell me you were drunk.”

“Of course not! I thought…I still think she was behind the wheel.”

“But now you’re not sure? Because of photos of a woman who looks like her? Because you think you saw her?”

Bentz ignored the question. “What do you remember about the last time you saw her?”

“Oh, God, do you really want to go into all that?” she asked, retracting into her hard shell.

“Sure, Lorraine. Why mince words?”

Her lips pulled into a knot of dislike and her nostrils flared. “Okay, she did call me a few days before the accident. She was obviously troubled, maybe drunk, I don’t know. But not right. When I asked her what was wrong, she blamed you. Said you didn’t believe that she loved you, and it was eating away at her. I knew about the infidelity, of course, but for some reason she had it bad for you. Well…you, and the priest. Your half brother, was it?”

Bentz’s guts twisted, but he kept his expression bland. “Anything else?”

“Nothing that involves you. Sometime I think back and wish she’d stayed with Gray. If she would have stuck it out with Alan Gray, she’d still be alive today. Alive and rich. Instead…” She shrugged. “I told her she was making a mistake when she broke it off with Alan, but she wouldn’t listen.”

Getting to his feet, he tried not to wince, didn’t want to let on to Lorraine that he felt any pain whatsoever.

As she walked him to the door, she said, “You know, even if Jennifer is alive, why the hell are you doing this? Give it up, already. Let sleeping dogs, or dead ex-wives, lie. If you’re really bothered, you should leave it to the professionals. Tell the police what you know. Let them handle it. You’re married again. Go home. Pay attention to your new wife.” Lorraine opened the door and waited for him to walk onto the cracked cement porch. Spying a dying petunia blossom, she deadheaded the shriveling pink bloom and added, “Don’t make the same mistake twice. If you give your new wife some attention, maybe she won’t stray the way Jennifer did.”

Bentz ignored that last bit of advice. “If you think of anything else or hear from her-”

“For the love of God, Bentz, she’s dead. D-E-A-D. And I haven’t heard of anyone coming back since J.C. did it oh, what was it? A few thousand years ago!” She closed the door but before it latched tossed out, “Say hi to Crystal for me.”

He didn’t bother correcting her. Kristi had only vague memories of her mother’s stepsister. Not once since Jennifer’s death had Lorraine called or sent a card or tried to contact Kristi in any way. Bentz saw no reason to change that now.

He drove away from Torrance without much new information. Lorraine had been insufferable in the past and she hadn’t mellowed much with age, but the key question was, had she been honest with him?

He wasn’t sure. She, like Shana, had wanted to get her licks in and she had. But she certainly hadn’t seen Jennifer. He kept his eyes on the road as he headed north toward Culver City. Traffic on the freeway was moving at a good clip despite the yellow haze that had settled over the area. In the west, the orb of the sun glowed in the dingy smog. He cracked the window and fiddled with the air, still thinking about what Lorraine had told him, which was essentially, “Take your ball and go home.” But then, they’d never gotten along. And what were all the references to Alan Gray? He was someone Bentz hadn’t thought of for decades. But Lorraine hadn’t forgotten.

As he spied signs for his exit Bentz realized he was making great time. Just a few more miles. The phone rang as he was moving onto the ramp. Catching site of Montoya’s cell number, he answered. “Bentz.”

Montoya gave him a quick rundown of everything he knew, which wasn’t a lot. Except for the silver Chevy. An Impala, in fact. Just like the car that had caught his attention in the parking lot in San Juan Capistrano. He explained as much to Montoya. “So what I’m looking for is a six-or seven-year-old car, California plates, with an expired parking pass to a hospital.”

“You didn’t happen to get which hospital?”

“No. But there was a symbol on it…” What the hell was that image? He couldn’t remember. Just flat out couldn’t remember.

“I saw on the news that there’s another double homicide. Twins,” Montoya said. “Same doer?”

“Looks like.” Bentz’s hand clenched hard over the wheel, so tightly his knuckles blanched as a black BMW crawled up his ass. Montoya knew the story behind the Caldwell twins’ murders twelve years earlier. Bentz had confided in him long ago.

“Copycat?”

“Not buying it.” Bentz switched lanes to the exit ramp, sliding in behind an old pickup filled with gardening tools. He let the bastard in the black BMW fly by. The car had to be pushing ninety.

Another car was in its wake. Keeping up.

A streak of silver.

Bentz saw the taillights and recognized an older model Chevy Impala. A dark-haired woman was behind the wheel…a sticker on the windshield.

Holy crap!

Jennifer!

He dropped the phone. “Son of a bitch.” Signaling as a red Volkswagen beetle’s blinker started, indicating the driver wanted to edge toward the exit ramp, Bentz gunned his engine. With inches to spare, he swerved out of the lane marked exit only and accelerated.

“Come on, come on,” he urged his rental. The silver car, a quarter of a mile ahead, was darting between lanes.

Could it be?

No way.

Jaw set, he drove as fast as he dared, cutting through cars and trucks and vans, keeping the silver car in his sights. As if the driver knew she was being followed, she began even more evasive moves, slipping between cars, passing on the left or right. She didn’t seem to care, just as long as she was putting distance and vehicles between her car and his.