Lisa Jackson - Malice

“Good. I’ll meet you. Hayes gave Petrocelli your cell number, so she’ll be calling.”

“I think she just did,” Olivia said.

“Good. I’ll see you soon.”

“I can’t wait. Love you.”

“If you only knew.”

Those damned hot tears touched her eyes again. Her throat was thick, choked with emotion. She whispered, “Maybe it’ll be over now.”

There was a pause on the other end of the connection. “I don’t know if it will ever be over.” And he hung up.

“Rick-” But it was too late. She stood there with the phone in her hand, feeling like an idiot. On the verge of a crying jag again.

That just wouldn’t do. Her emotions and hormones be damned. She couldn’t function in such an overwrought emotional state, near tears. She was a grown woman, soon to be a mother. Setting her jaw, she started walking again.

For the first time since touching down on California soil, she felt a measure of renewed determination to see this through. She told her self she was up for the challenge, whatever it was.

Bring it on, she thought, slipping her phone into her purse and sliding a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose. I’m ready.

Come on, come on, answer the damned phone.

I watch the passengers as they stream into the baggage claim area, hustling, herding, searching for their luggage. Loud and oblivious to me, they corral the children and guard their laptops as they wait for the carousel to spin, delivering their bags to them.

Where is she?

For a second I panic. Maybe she didn’t make the flight. Perhaps I got the information wrong.

Or worse yet, I’m a suspect and they’re waiting for me. Because Sherry Petrocelli didn’t call the office to check in. My heart races at the thought that I could be caught before I’m finished, before I complete my task of utterly destroying Rick Bentz.

But a quick scan of the area assures me no cops are loitering on the chairs or hiding behind an open newspaper. These business travelers and families are not undercover detectives.

No, the baggage claim area looks clean.

I take a deep breath. I have to remain calm. Appear sincere. Make certain she believes that I’m Petrocelli. With that in mind, I force a smile that feels as false as plastic. But it will have to do.

It’s essential that Olivia Bentz trust me, buy into the fact that I’m chauffeuring her to her beloved husband.

God, that thought makes me want to puke.

I study the entrance to the baggage claim area, eyeing the faces of the travelers, hunting for the one that is forever burned into my brain.

For the love of God, where is she? I start to pace, then stop. I don’t want to attract attention; as it is I’ve been carefully avoiding the security cameras, keeping my back to them and my face covered. The wig and glasses help, but I can’t take too many chances.

My palms are beginning to sweat.

Where the hell is she?

Damn it, could the bitch just show up?

I called her, left a message from Petrocelli’s phone…

The cell phone jangles.

Finally!

I answer quickly, forcing the name off my lips. “Officer Petrocelli.”

“Hi, this is Olivia Bentz. I think you tried to call me. My husband said you were going to pick me up at the airport, somewhere in Baggage Claim?” She sounds harried and tired.

Perfect.

My own tight nerves relax a bit. “That’s right,” I say.

“I’m here near the United carousel.” Then I spy her approaching the area. Wearing sunglasses, her hair pulled away from her face, she’s carrying a purse and pulling a single overnight bag.

She packed light.

Smart girl.

We both smile and hang up our respective phones.

“Olivia Bentz?” I call out as I flag her down. “How was your flight?”

She shrugs. “Delayed.”

“I’m Sherry, a friend of Jonas Hayes. He asked me to pick you up.”

“So I heard.”

She eyes my uniform and I say, “You know I’m with the LAPD. Right?” She nods politely when I flip open Petrocelli’s wallet with her badge. With my wig, I look enough like Sherry to satisfy her.

“I appreciate the lift, Officer Petrocelli,” she says. So well-mannered and polite.

“Call me Sherry. The car’s right outside,” I tell her, and we walk through the doors to the parking area where the police cruiser awaits. I open the back door.

“You can put your things back here,” I say, and she does, even her purse, which, I assume holds her phone. While she moves toward the front seat I spy her phone in a pocket of her purse. I remove my hat, and while I’m stowing it on the backseat I pick up her cell phone, click it to off, then tuck it back into the purse as I straighten. She’s already slipping into the passenger seat.

Perfect.

Unafraid, she doesn’t hesitate for a second and I feel a sense of well-being. How long I’ve waited for just this moment. But I can’t get too cocky. Not yet. I’ve got a narrow window of time, so I hurry to the driver’s side. The sooner I drive away from the airport with all its damned security cameras and wannabe cops, the better. I can’t foul up now. Not when I’m so close, so damned close.

“How far is it to the Center?” she asks as she straps on her seat belt and I climb behind the wheel.

“Not far.” I flash her a warm smile. “It’s after rush hour, so it shouldn’t take long. Half an hour at most.”

“Good.”

“Ever been to L.A. before?” I ask.

“Once, a long time ago. In my early twenties. I lived in Arizona-Tucson-for a while. While I was there I drove to San Diego a couple of times, and once I made it to Los Angeles. As I said, it’s been a while.”

Perfect. So she won’t have any real sense of direction. Because she’s not going anywhere near Parker Center.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

How long had they been in this sterile interrogation room? Bentz shifted in the wooden chair, thinking it had been an eternity since he’d talked to Olivia on the phone.

The coffee in front of him had gone cold, but Bentz wasn’t interested. Hayes, who’d been conducting the interview, had stepped out to see if Olivia had arrived. Bentz imagined her sitting in the squad room, waiting patiently. It wasn’t fair to drag her into this, but he was glad she had come. Couldn’t wait to see her. Touch her.

Bentz stood up and stretched, sick of the small, airless interrogation room. So typical; there was at least one in every precinct. A camera mounted high in the corner near the ceiling had recorded the entire conversation. Bentz could have asked for a lawyer or kept his mouth shut, but he had nothing to hide.

He knew it.

He sensed Hayes knew it. His account of the events at Devil’s Caldron had been confirmed by Travis and his girlfriend. This was an exercise in futility, but one that ensured Hayes didn’t make any mistakes.

He glanced at his reflection on the wall. God only knew who was standing behind the two-way mirror. Andrew Bledsoe and Riva Martinez were probably there, waiting for him to slip up and make a mistake. Maybe the DA was there, along with other detectives. Hell, maybe even Dawn Rankin was watching.

It was ridiculous, but Bentz understood procedure. Rake Rick Bentz over the coals. Prove that he’s a good cop gone bad, someone insane enough to show up in Los Angeles and start killing people who had known his ex-wife.

Even though he’d talked things through with Hayes earlier, this was official, “for the record.” So he’d suffered through the questions about his marriage to Jennifer, her betrayal, the divorce, the fact that while they’d been living together a second time, trying to see if it would work, she’d cheated on him all over again. And around that time, the accident that had taken her life. He understood that it was necessary to rehash this dark period in his life, though that hadn’t made it any easier.