Lisa Jackson - Malice

“James.”

“I…I’m not sure. She never said his name, but I think so.”

“My brother, the priest.”

Licking her lips nervously, looking away, Tally seemed reticent to say any more, so he helped her along. “I know that James was Kristi’s biological father.” Even after all these years, that admission stuck in his craw. The betrayal had been deep, two pronged, coming at him from both his brother and his wife. Hell. “I know that they met at San Juan Capistrano, an inn down there.”

“Mission Saint Miguel, yeah. That and somewhere in Santa Monica.”

Shana had mentioned the pier before and it burned in his gut as he thought about how many times Jennifer had suggested they spend the day at the beach. How they’d taken Kristi to the famous amusement park located on the pier, the restaurants they’d frequented as the sun had blazed before settling into the horizon.

“She was big on the beach,” he offered.

“Oh, yeah.” Tally’s eyebrows quirked up for an instant. “Jennifer was never cut out to be a cop’s wife. She was frustrated, I think, as she gave up her aspirations as an artist to raise Kristi. Not that she was a bad mother…”

Oh, right. Saint Jennifer.

Tally went on, “She loved Kristi, I know that. But she hated the fact that she wasn’t your kid, Rick. She’d said that time and time again. Guilt ate at her.”

“Not enough to change her behavior.”

“No,” Tally said with a sigh. She was still squinting as two girls half ran by and yelled, “Hi, Mrs. White.”

“Hey, Brinn. Marcy.” Tally rained a smile on them before turning back to Bentz. “No, the guilt was bad, but it wasn’t enough to change anything, I suppose. Maybe nothing would have been. She loved you, but she was obsessed with James, if that makes any sense.”

Not on a dare, but he didn’t say as much.

“I’m sorry but there’s not a whole lot more I can tell you. You knew her as well as anyone.”

“I don’t feel like I knew her at all.” And that was the understatement of the century.

“Then you’re no different from anyone else.” She touched his arm, thought better of it, and drew her hand back. With a sigh, she added, “This has nothing to do with you, I know, but Jennifer once told me that the reason she married you was to get away from some other guy.”

“James?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Someone she knew before you.”

“Alan Gray?” Bentz wondered why his name kept coming up.

“I don’t remember…” She hesitated, leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb of her car. “No, you’re right. I think maybe that’s the name. One time when we were together Jennifer had a few too many martinis and she said that the reason she married you was that Alan had a cruel streak. That he was obsessive and even handcuffed her to the bed once, wouldn’t let her go. After he’d sobered up, he’d apologized, but she never forgave him or forgot it.”

Bentz didn’t move. Rage burned through him. At Gray. At his damned ex-wife.

Jennifer had never confided this story to him.

Was it the truth? Or a quickly fabricated lie to gain sympathy, come up with a reason why she threw over a millionaire for a cop?

He didn’t know. Trying to understand Jennifer was like trying to walk on quicksand; his footing was never secure.

“She said she suspected him-Alan-of being into more than real estate. She thought he might be into illegal stuff. What, I don’t know, but that’s the impression I got. Of course with Jennifer, I was never sure. She made a big deal of it, swore me to secrecy. Lord, I thought she was going to make me cross my heart and wish to die.”

Bentz was irritated that he’d never heard this before. “You didn’t think of saying anything when she died.”

Tally snapped her head up, suddenly worried. “No. Why would I?” And then she caught on. “It was a suicide, right? That’s what everyone thought. There was a note.” She was suddenly anxious, as if she realized she’d said far too much. “Look, I really don’t know what difference it makes now. And I’ve really got to get going. I don’t know anything else, really. And I don’t know how this could help you.”

He didn’t either. But it was something.

“Thanks,” he said and slipped a card from his wallet. On the back he slashed out the digits of his cell phone. “If you think of anything else.” He handed her the card and she nearly crushed it in her fist.

“Of course,” she promised, but they both knew it was a lie.

Tally White wanted nothing more to do with him, nor the memories of his dead ex-wife.

He stepped away from her car as she pulled the driver’s door closed and jabbed her keys into the ignition. A moment later Tally gunned the Volkswagen out of the faculty lot, putting as much distance as she could between herself and Bentz.

So what else was new?

He had that effect on people.

I’m alone in the elevator.

Slowly, with a loud grinding noise, the large car ascends. When I reach the second floor, no one is there to meet me.

Good.

The stark hallway is empty as well.

Perfect.

Quickly, on noiseless footsteps I make my way down the pressboard corridor to my private room, the windowless space where I am totally alone. The place that no one knows about, that no one would link to me. The walls and floor are pressboard and a single bulb gives off a harsh, unshaded glow.

I close the door.

Lock it.

Test the lock to make certain it’s solid.

Then I let out a deep breath and survey my surroundings in this, a place many would see as a cell. But in here, by myself, I’m free. I usually hate being alone, but not here. Not in this one place that is my sanctuary. Here, I’m finally at peace.

On a previous trip to this quiet place, I hung a full-length mirror on one wall-just so I would have company. Across from the reflective glass, I stacked big plastic tubs of clothes and makeup. I also assembled a short rod, screwed it into the walls so that I could hang plastic garment bags of nicer clothes, the dresses and jackets and pants that I kept for my special purpose. I even have a computer in here, a laptop that I can use while sitting on my faux leopard beanbag. The chair sits in one corner with a small battery-powered lamp on a TV tray. All the comforts of home.

There’s a small bookcase, one I put together unassisted. The only books on the shelves are photo albums and scrapbooks, collections I’ve been keeping for years.

After rechecking the lock one more time, I find my iPod and plug in. Today, I’ll listen to R.E.M. and feel the thrum of music run through my body. As I hum along, I drag the heavy tomes from their resting place, plop myself into the chair and open the pages. Some of the pictures and articles have yellowed with age, but they are all in perfect order, as I have so carefully placed them. Photographs of Bentz. Articles about him. His entire life as a police officer captured.

There is one of a crime scene where Detective Bentz, standing just on the other side of the yellow tape, is talking with two other officers. In the background sits the house where the victim was found. But I’m not interested in the little bungalow with a blooming wisteria running over the front porch. Nor do I pay any attention to the blood still visible on the front steps.

No.

I focus on Bentz.

The good-looking prick.

In this shot, his face is in profile. His features are harsh and rugged, his stern jaw set, his razor-thin lips flat in anger. Always the tough cop.

Yeah, right . “Bastard,” I say, keeping my voice low.

I spy another photograph of him on the Ferris wheel at an amusement park. Kristi is at his side. She is all of seven in the photo, and Bentz’s lips are wide in a grin-a rare shot of him having fun.