Lisa Jackson - Malice

“Does it?”

“Not much. Mainly pisses her off.”

“Sounds like your kind of woman.”

“She is,” Bentz agreed. “But it worries me. I’m going to call Montoya and have him keep an eye on her until I get home.”

“She probably won’t like having a keeper.”

“Doesn’t matter.” It was the best he could do for now, though it didn’t seem like enough. He’d never forgive himself if Olivia got dragged into this mess. He couldn’t have his wife in danger. Spying the sign for his exit, Bentz pulled into the right lane.

“You saw a jogger.” Hayes stared out the window to the lights of downtown Los Angeles, where skyscrapers rose into the blue-black sky. “Same guy you saw the night you jumped off the pier?”

“One was a man; the other a woman.”

“You sure? You said they were both slim and athletic. Both wore baseball caps, no hair showing.”

That much was true. And he had questioned the gender both nights. “Could go either way, I guess.”

“I got the tapes from the Santa Monica Pier webcam.”

Bentz, easing down the ramp, slid Hayes a glance. “ You got them? And I didn’t? When I was the one who requested them?”

“The company that owns them wanted to go through the local police and the Santa Monica PD called me.”

Burned, Bentz asked, “See anything interesting?”

“No woman in a red dress, not for two hours before or after. No woman matching Jennifer’s description, but all the other players were in place. The old man smoking his cigar, the guy and the girl sucking tonsils, and a jogger. The runner didn’t just pass by, but stopped and stared the length of the pier about the time you were running along the boardwalk. That, in and of itself, isn’t a big deal. I didn’t make anything of it until you mentioned seeing a jogger tonight.”

“Could be a coincidence.”

“Could be, but something’s going on.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.”

“Okay. Something big’s going on. And I don’t put much stock in coincidence.”

“Me, neither.”

“So it all seems to be about you and your first wife.” Hayes rubbed at his jaw, pinching his lip as he thought. “Why now? Why would someone wait twelve damned years to get back at you?”

“I wish I knew.” Bentz slowed for a red light at the end of the ramp.

“I’ll want all the info you have. Everything.”

“It’s yours.”

“And you’ll have to stand down.”

“Don’t know if I can do that.”

“Look, let’s get real. The department’s still gonna consider you a person of interest and really, you can’t blame them. You can’t compromise our investigation, Bentz. You know that. No detective works his own case. And as it is Bledsoe wants to rip you a new one.”

“He’s always ready to rip someone a new one. May as well be me,” Bentz said philosophically, though there was an edge in his voice.

“Be that as it may, everyone in the department agrees that you showing up in L.A. triggered some of these homicides. We need to sort everything out.”

“It’s about time,” Bentz said, thinking that finally, with the help of the department, he’d get some answers. Hopefully before another person ended up dead.

“So you talked to Shana McIntyre and Lorraine Newell since you’ve been in town. Anyone else?”

Bentz nodded, one step ahead of him. “I also spoke with Tally White, an old friend of Jennifer’s. A schoolteacher. They met through the kids. Tally’s daughter Melody is the same age as Kristi. I also got in touch with Fortuna Esperanzo, who used to be Jennifer’s friend. They worked together in an art gallery in Venice. Fortuna is still employed there.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah,” Bentz said, fighting off a feeling of foreboding. “I’ve got information on them at the motel. We could swing by and I’ll give it to you.”

“Let’s do it.”

Bentz moved into the next lane so that he could take the 405 toward Culver City. Despite his exhaustion, adrenaline fired his blood and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Nor would he really stand down. He would continue to pursue his investigation, steady and low key. He wouldn’t impede the LAPD’s work, but he intended to stay abreast of their progress. It would be easy enough to do. He still had Montoya and a few other friends back in the New Orleans Police Department, people who were willing to check files and run facts for him, stay on top of what was happening here. Hell, Montoya lived and breathed for this kind of shit.

Hayes could tell him to back off all he wanted, but Bentz wasn’t stopping now. Not when the stakes were rising, lives were being brutally ended, all because of Bentz.

Two women were dead and now his wife had been harassed. Threatened. His grip clenched hard over the wheel. The truth of the matter was, Bentz was scared to death, and the only way he knew to shatter that fear was to cut to the source.

Find the killer.

But, for now, he’d at least appear to play by the rules. He turned onto the street that led to the So-Cal Inn. The lights of the motel blazed bright in the night, casting a glow over the cars parked in the lot. Bentz scanned the cars parked there, noting that all the regulars were present as he pulled into his slot and cut the engine. “So looks like you just caught a new case,” Bentz said, pocketing his keys. “What are you going to do first?”

“Eat some crow.” Hayes threw Bentz a dark look. “I hate to say it, but looks like you were right. I think the first step is to exhume your ex-wife’s body. Let’s see who’s in that casket.”

Fortuna Esperanzo was an insomniac. Sleep forever eluded her. Her mind would never slow down enough, was forever spinning. Even with a deluxe personalized mattress, the ambient sound of a tiny waterfall trying to soothe her, and heavy draperies that completely blocked out all traces of the Southern California sun, she never slept well. Tonight she’d given up the fight after a few hours of restlessness and taken the sleep medication her doctor had prescribed. Now she was drifting off at last, falling to a level of sleep so relaxing that she didn’t hear the sounds of her own snoring. But she felt her cat, Princess Kitty, move on the bed beside her.

Groggily, not even bothering to check the clock, Fortuna rolled over, unconcerned by the white Angora’s antics. Nocturnal by nature, Princess Kitty had been skittish ever since Fortuna had found her wandering the streets of Venice, her long hair matted, her tiny body thin as a rail. That had been twenty-one years ago and the cat was still going strong, jittery and nervous as ever.

Suddenly Princess Kitty hissed.

What? Fortuna pulled herself from the thick veil of sleep.

A growl and another hiss.

“Shh,” Fortuna said, forcing one eye open just as the cat jumped off the bed. What the hell was the matter with Princess? “I’m not letting you out.”

She caught a whiff of something sweet and cloying, and her skin goose-pimpled.

“Kitty?” she said, her voice trembling, fear clutching her heart.

That awful smell! What was it? Gas? Oh, Lord, was there a gas leak in the house?

Was there someone in the room with her? Oh, God no! She strained to see, but she wasn’t wearing her contacts and the room was nearly stygian, pitch black. She couldn’t make out anything but darkness, black on inky black.

Did something move by the closet?

The hairs on the back of her arms lifted. She reached for her cell phone, which sat charging on the night table.

At that second, she felt rather than saw movement. Whatever was there leapt across the short span of tiled floor to the bed.

Fortuna started to scream. To move.