Lisa Jackson - Malice

The only difference Olivia felt was the weight of her secret. Not telling Bentz was killing her. She didn’t like secrets or, for that matter, surprises, so as she drove to the Third Eye she made a definitive decision. Today she would make arrangements to take a week or two off and fly to California.

Though Rick had only been gone a few days, Olivia knew he wouldn’t be back for a while. It was as if he were running away. From her. From their life.

Oh, yeah, he had an explanation. He had this sudden obsession with his first wife and he was out chasing ghosts in California. On top of that, a gruesome double murder had taken place in L.A., a killing that was nearly identical to the Caldwell twins’ double homicide. He’d never felt right about leaving Southern California with that case still wide open, and he’d taken a lot of heat about it. She knew her husband well enough to realize that he saw the possibility of solving this new crime as a chance to redeem himself, an opportunity to catch the killer and put him behind bars once and for all. Not that the LAPD would appreciate his efforts.

But he was still running away and it was time to find out why. He’d been acting weird ever since he’d come out of the coma, and unfortunately she was never able to call him on it. At first, she’d been relieved he was alive. While he was recovering she’d forced herself to remain patient, understanding that he was not only suffering pain but also dealing with loss of purpose. She had been encouraging, tolerant, supportive.

But she was sick of it.

It was time he bucked up.

Beneath his distracted, distant exterior was the man she had fallen in love with, and she was determined to find him again.

What he needed, she decided, was what her grandmother referred to as “the two-by-four by the back door. Sometimes ya need it to get their attention.” To Olivia’s knowledge, Grannie Gin had never kept a piece of lumber propped on the sun porch. It was just her way of saying “a kick in the pants” or a large dose of reality.

And that was just what Olivia planned to hit Rick with. The truth.

She parked her beat-up truck in a lot, then walked toward the Third Eye. On her way down the street she passed a baby boutique and paused to look at the window display. There was a quaint assortment of layette sets, cute little one-piece sleepers, and bibs deco rated with all kinds of animals. One bib, decorated à la New Orleans, was embroidered with a grinning baby alligator with a bow around its neck. It was surprisingly adorable.

Her own reflection, a watery image, superimposed itself upon the window. She was going to be a mother! Her husband needed to know.

What the hell was she waiting for?

Why in the world was she scared?

She put her hand over her flat stomach, walked into the shop, and, on a ridiculous whim, bought the alligator bib.

It was the first thing she’d bought for the new little Bentz-well, unless she counted the multiple pregnancy tests. Her appointment with her doctor wasn’t for another couple of weeks. That didn’t matter. She was going to quit being a wimp and tell Bentz that he was going to be a father again.

And he’d damned well better like it.

Unlike its Italian namesake, the city of Venice, California, still had just a few of its original canals. Most of the waterways built back in 1905 had since been paved over when the city of Los Angeles decided it needed more real streets for cars. However, the remaining canals and stretch of sandy beach were enough to lend character to the seaside community, which was packed on this sunny, warm day. Mild weather had brought out the bicyclers and skaters, along with an array of street performers who reminded Bentz of the musicians who peddled their talents in the squares of New Orleans. Like his home, this town boasted a carnival atmosphere, a sense of “anything goes.”

The art gallery where Fortuna Esperanzo worked was only a few blocks from the beach, tucked between a tourist shop that sold everything from T-shirts to cameras and an “authentic” Mexican restaurant with a sprinkling of outside tables. The panorama was much the same as it had been a dozen years earlier.

Bentz parked the rental, eyed his cane, left it on the floor of the backseat, and jaywalked across the wide street. The salty scent of the ocean wafted to him, reminding him of his dunk in Santa Monica Bay the previous night. When he’d lost Jennifer. Again.

He stepped under an awning and through the open door of a gallery filled with abstract and modern sculpture and seemed empty. Bentz hitched his way up a wide wooden staircase which led to an open second-floor loft. It was filled with paintings, mosaic work, and tapestries by local artists.

In one corner Fortuna Esperanzo stood on a ladder, replacing the bulb of a light that was trained on a huge, unframed canvas. Wild black strokes slashed across a field of orange and red. The painting was called simply Rage.

“Nice,” Bentz remarked sarcastically.

Startled, Fortuna dropped the lightbulb and it shattered. “Oh shit!” She glared down, eyeing him over the top of the ladder with small, dark eyes framed by perfectly plucked, pencil-thin eyebrows.

Her pink glazed lips pursing into a tight knot of dislike. “I figured you would take the hint when I didn’t call you back, Bentz.” Slowly she descended the rungs to stand on the floor, carefully avoiding the shards of thin glass. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” She skewered him with a stare of disbelief. She was thin to the point of being bony, her taupe size-practically-nothing skirt and sweater hanging off her thin frame. “You really expect me to believe that after twelve or so years you’re just dropping by for a chat? Give me a flippin’ break. Where the hell is my broom?” She walked to an alcove and retrieved a push broom and dustpan. “You want to talk?” she muttered as she began cleaning up the mess. “About what?”

“Jennifer.”

“Oh, God, why?” She stood suddenly and stared at Bentz as if he’d just flown in from Jupiter. “What good will it do now? That poor woman.”

Downstairs another patron wandered into the gallery. Bentz saw her through the open railing. A silver-haired woman with red reading glasses perched on the end of her tiny nose, she wore a perpetual scowl along with white capri pants and a sleeveless top, She wandered through the displays only to stop and contemplate a glass mosaic cat that might have been the ugliest piece of so-called art Bentz had ever seen.

Jesus, was she serious? A piece of crap with a price tag that probably exceeded what Bentz made in a week?

Fortuna leaned over the railing and called cheerfully, “Hello, Mrs. Fielding! I’ll be right down.” She left her broom and dustpan propped against the ladder and glanced at Bentz. “You know, I really don’t have anything to tell you.”

“I’ll wait.”

Rolling her eyes as if to say “whatever” she headed down the stairs at a quick clip. Once on the main floor, she began showing the dour Mrs. Fielding pieces of colored glass that resembled African beasts. Ugly lions and gazelles and elephants. At least, that was his interpretation. Who knew what the artist really had in mind?

Bentz took it upon himself to clean up the mess, hauled the broom and dustpan back to the little closet, and even found another lightbulb. He’d just screwed it in so that it showcased the black and red mess of a painting when Fortuna walked up the stairs.

“Oh, don’t think you’re getting on my good side just because you played janitor,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I could have done it myself.” She spied a piece of glass he’d missed and picked it up before folding her arms over her chest. “Just what the hell is it you want to know?”