Lisa Jackson - Malice

“Home,” he said sarcastically as he placed his cane near the door and dropped his food onto the desk. According to Montoya, Ramona Salazar had died about a year earlier. Bentz powered up his laptop and opened up some kind of wrap sandwich he’d picked up just before Montoya called. The “Californian,” as it was so imaginatively named-a green tortilla slathered in some kind of lemon/Dijon sauce and filled with free-range smoked turkey, whatever the hell that really meant, a slice of pepper-jack cheese, avocados, tomatoes, and sprouts. It was all pretty damned bland, but he barely noticed as he clicked onto his e-mail and found the information Montoya had forwarded.

Sure enough, Romana Salazar was connected to the car, at least he’d hoped this was the right woman and the right car. Otherwise he was back to square one.

He didn’t have a printer, but figured he might be able to use the “business office,” which was really just a small PC for guests shoved to the side of the registration desk in the So-Cal office. Rebecca would be on duty, and she’d told him he could use the ancient desktop and printer any time. As long as she was around and her son Tony wasn’t online playing computer games behind his mother’s back.

First up, he thought, connecting with a search engine and typing in Ramona Salazar’s name, he’d collect any and all information he could find on the woman, including her obituary.

If he was barking up the wrong tree, so be it.

At least he finally had a scent to follow.

Maren sang like the proverbial lark, her mezzo voice rising to the rafters of the little church in Hollywood. Hayes focused on his daughter’s shiny face in the rows of Miss Bette’s students as they sang as an ensemble for several songs, harmonizing on an old spiritual, then rocking out with songs from the eighties and nineties. Hayes recognized a few Michael Jackson numbers and a couple by Elton John.

After the group sang and harmonized, each of the students individually sang solos on the small, old-fashioned stage that looked like it had come right off the set of Little House on the Prairie.

Hayes had slipped into the little church in Hollywood late, caught a disapproving glare from Delilah, then turned his cell phone to “silent.” From that moment on, he’d listened raptly while his daughter, at least in his opinion, outshined everyone.

The singers were all were coached by the same statuesque African-American woman who accompanied each either at the piano or on an acoustic guitar. Hayes suffered through the individual performances. All of the kids could carry a tune alright, but none of them could hope to make it past the first round of an American Idol competition no matter what their proud, smiling, nearly smug parents who filled the pews thought. Well, except Maren, of course. She was the star. Hayes figured he was as bad as the other proud mamas and papas, except, his daughter really was talented.

Three boys and four girls each were spotlighted before Maren took on a Toni Braxton song. Hayes watched her, his little girl, only twelve years old, belting out a number like a pro. She’d barely developed, still wore braces, but she was as beautiful as her mother and a helluva lot more talented.

Maren moved to the music, her mocha-colored skin shimmering under the lights. Her straightened hair streamed down her back, and her dark brown eyes seemed impossibly large and expressive in her sweet face. She was tall and thin, like both her parents, her newfound curves in proportion, her dimples “cute” rather than sexy. At least he hoped so.

She sang a soulful rendition of “Unbreak My Heart” that nearly brought down the house, then finished with the upbeat Whitney Houston song “How Will I Know?”

Hayes jumped to his feet and clapped wildly. After the bows and brief words of thanks from Miss Bette, Hayes carried some flowers he’d picked up at Safeway to the stage and handed them to his daughter. Maren’s gasp of delight and Delilah’s cool look of surprise said it all.

“Good job, honey! You were incredible. Move over, Mariah Carey.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” one of the other mothers muttered.

“Oh, Dad.” Maren rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop that infectious grin from stealing across her lips. “I thought you were working.”

“I was.”

“Mom said you wouldn’t come.”

Hayes shot his ex a quick don’t-do-this glare. “Mom was wrong.” He hugged his daughter.

“I just didn’t want her to be disappointed again,” Delilah said.

Hayes wasn’t going to be pulled into it. Not here. Not now. “Well, she wasn’t. What do you say I take you out for pizza?”

He expected Delilah to argue that it was too late, or that Maren had homework, but instead she stiffly agreed. There was no doubt that she could be a bitch sometimes, but Hayes believed her motives were all about protecting Maren. She might’ve turned into a grumbling, unhappy, never-satisfied wife, but Delilah was still a damned good mother.

For that, he supposed, he should be thankful.

Once they were outside, he flipped his phone on and saw that he had messages. He was about to answer them when he caught Delilah’s meaningful glare. “I just have to listen to these,” he said, walking to his car and leaning against the hood. “I’ll meet you at Dino’s.”

“Sure,” she said tightly, obviously disbelieving as she ushered Maren to her white Lexus SUV.

The calls were from Riva Martinez. Donovan Caldwell had been phoning the station demanding information on the Springer twins’ homicides, insisting that he should be privy to everything the LAPD had on file as they’d “royally screwed” the case of his sisters’ murders twelve years earlier.

Hayes called her back on the way to Dino’s. “I think you should refer Mr. Caldwell to the Public Information Officer,” he suggested.

“Already did, and he told me to go scratch,” Martinez informed him. “He’s figured out that Bentz is in town again. Caught some write-up online about Bentz’s stunt on the Santa Monica Pier. Anyway, this Caldwell guy is out for blood. He wants to talk to Bentz, to Bledsoe, to Trinidad, or anyone associated with his sisters’ case. If you ask me, he’s a damned psycho.”

“He lost his whole family over the bungled case.”

“Hell, Hayes, listen to you. We didn’t bungle it; we just haven’t solved it. Yet.”

She had a point. Hayes checked his watch. “I’ll talk to him. I just can’t do it right now.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can handle him, but I thought you’d want to know.”

“I do. Thanks.” Hayes hung up and tried to push all the thorny pressures of the job aside. He had more pressing matters to worry about. Pepperoni or sausage pizza…and how to step carefully through the verbal minefield of the next hour or two with Delilah.

Bentz hit a dead end.

Ramona Salazar, whoever she was, meant nothing to him, and he couldn’t find any association between Salazar and Jennifer. He stretched out on the ugly bed, pointed the remote at the TV, and watched an all-news channel. Again they replayed footage from Shana’s house: the ambulance parked inside the gated driveway, the swimming pool from an aerial shot, the McIntyres in happier times. Bentz sank into the mattress with a pang of guilt. If he hadn’t come to L.A. would she still be alive? Or was this a random act of violence?

He didn’t believe that for a second.

He called his daughter, left a message, and Kristi phoned back within five minutes.

“Hey, Dad, what’s up?” she asked.

Bentz couldn’t help but smile as he conjured up her face, as beautiful as her mother’s. Rolling off the bed, he walked to the window. “Just hanging out.” He peered through the blinds to the parking lot where darkness had settled in, the big neon sign for the So-Cal Inn glowing brightly over the asphalt.