Lisa Jackson - Malice

Hayes and Martinez were on her heels with a big guy, most likely her husband, following.

“I’ll call you back,” he said to Montoya and hung up.

“Can’t you leave us in peace? Isn’t it enough that you killed my baby brother and ruined my mother’s life?” she said as Bentz swung around to face her.

She spat then, hitting him square in the face.

Bentz’s hands clenched into fists. Crazy bitch! He could barely contain his fury.

“Back off!” Hayes shouted. He waved Bentz toward the car, motioning for him to return to the backseat in a feeble attempt to defuse the situation. “Mrs. Salazar, we just need to ask you some questions about your car,” he insisted to Yolanda.

“Then why is he here?” She hooked a finger at Bentz as he wiped his face.

Certainly not to endure your abuse, Bentz wanted to say.

“Do you know where your car is now?” Hayes stepped between Yolanda and Bentz.

“With Fernando…oh, Dios. Fernando. Where is he?” Her anger appeared to morph into genuine fear.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Salazar. But we have your vehicle.”

“Where?” She seemed stunned.

“At the police lot. We’re looking through it for evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“It could be linked to three homicides.”

“What?” She glanced at Bentz, but some of her hostility had evaporated. “Homicides?”

“That’s right. Who usually drives the car?”

“I-I do.”

Hayes looked at the driveway where a pickup with a canopy was parked beside a shiny Lexus. “Who drives those?”

“The Nissan truck is mine,” the husband said and Yolanda sent him a withering look. “Yolanda drives the Lexus. We use the Chevy as an extra car, bought it from Carlos because it was a good deal. Lately Fernando has been borrowing it.”

“He lives here?” Martinez asked.

Yolanda’s lips pinched in disapproval, but Sebastian nodded and answered, “Most of the time.”

“Does he have another vehicle?” Martinez had taken out a small notepad and was jotting down the information.

“His Blazer is in the shop; needs a new transmission. He hasn’t decided if it’s worth it yet.”

“Where’s Fernando now?” Martinez asked, risking a look at the dog, who was now standing on his hind legs and digging at the meshed steel of the fence.

“I don’t know.” Yolanda shot a nervous glance up the street, as if she expected her brother to appear at any second.

“Is he at work?” Martinez asked.

“School,” Sebastian said, wrapping a big arm around Yolanda’s shoulders. “He takes night classes at the junior college. Like my wife. He usually comes home after work at the restaurant, The Blue Burro, but today he didn’t. Called and said he was going straight to school.”

“You got a phone number for him?”

“No!” Yolanda said, obviously scared, but Sebastian placed a hand on the back of her neck and rubbed it as he gave Martinez the number.

“Damn it, Sebastian!” Yolanda said, pushing his hand away.

Her husband wasn’t put off. “If he’s in trouble, we need to know about it.”

Hayes tried a different tack. “Does Fernando have a girlfriend? Anyone he would loan the car to?”

“No one serious,” she said.

Sebastian scowled. “Fernando, he knows lots of girls. But I don’t know about loaning the car to any of them. He should know better than that, you know? The car, it belongs to my wife.”

Hayes asked, “Do you know a woman named Jennifer Bentz?” When Yolanda shrugged, he continued. “Come on back inside, I have some pictures I’d like you to see.”

Yolanda shot Bentz one last hateful glance, then begrudgingly returned to the house.

Still seething, Bentz climbed into the back of the Toyota, leaving the door open so that a breeze slid into the car.

He wondered about Yolanda and the damned car.

She hadn’t been driving it earlier today.

Nor had Fernando.

But Fernando Valdez was the next person on Bentz’s list to interview.

Despite Hayes’s warning, he put in a call to the phone number, but Fernando didn’t pick up.

Bentz leaned against the seat, wondering if Yolanda was telling the truth. Something he doubted. He watched a bicyclist in reflective gear whiz past while a cat in a neighboring yard slunk through the shrubbery, hunting.

Meanwhile, Rufus had settled down to whining and pacing.

Bentz used his cell phone to reserve another rental car. He also called the So-Cal Inn, hoping against hope that Olivia might have slipped through the cracks and come looking for him there.

No such luck, of course.

He rented another room, one facing the interior pool this time, and gave Rebecca specific instructions to phone him if she heard from his wife. It was a long shot, of course, but he had to cover all his bases, even the most obscure.

Twenty minutes later, Hayes and Martinez were emerging from the house when Bentz’s phone rang. He picked it up, hoping to see Olivia’s number on the screen. Instead he saw Montoya’s.

“Bentz.”

“You were right,” Montoya said. “I pulled up some records on Yolanda Valdez in Los Angeles County, dug a little deeper, and it seems that she was married to an Erik Judd for a short period of time. Erik was a roofer and he had an accident; fell four stories and died before the divorce was final.”

“They were getting a divorce?”

“Had filed the papers.”

“How do you know this?” Bentz said, looking outside to the night. No county offices would be open.

“You just have to know what you’re doing, who to call, and how to work the Internet. Public records can be located.”

“If you say so.”

“I do, and the kicker is this: He had a five hundred thousand dollar insurance policy on him. Half a million. The beneficiary, none other than his soon to be ex-wife.”

“Anything fishy about the accident?”

“The insurance company didn’t balk. According to bank records, Yolanda owns her house in Encino outright and still has eighty thou sand in the bank.” Montoya sounded pleased with himself. “No student loans for this girl.”

“Thanks,” Bentz said. “Now, do me a favor. Find out what you can about the brother. Fernando Valdez. He’s been using the car that Jennifer was driving. I think he lives with his sister and brother-in law, but right now he’s MIA.”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thanks.”

“You owe me a beer… No, wait, I think the debt is more than that. You’re up to half a case already.”

“I’m good for it,” Bentz said. “You haven’t heard from Olivia, have you?”

“No. Why? Didn’t she show up?”

“Nope. She landed at LAX. We talked on the phone. She was meeting Officer Petrocelli and I haven’t heard from her since.”

“You’re sure she was on the plane? If she was on her cell, she could have been anywhere.”

“Yeah. I checked with the airline.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Bentz admitted, refusing to be defeated. “But I’ll find her.”

“Of course you will, man,” Montoya said but there was an undercurrent of worry in his voice, one that was echoed in Bentz’s own fears.

I have to work quickly, and I’m getting a little rattled. I feel it and I don’t like it. It’s not that I’m not fast on my feet; it’s that I prefer to have everything worked out to the finest little detail. That’s why it’s taken twelve years to execute this plan. Twelve, long, torturous years.

I can’t blow it now, I think, stripping off my clothes in a cabin on the boat and seeing my reflection in the slim mirror. I’m in good shape, better than anyone would guess or know, and I give myself credit. It’s taken years to hone my muscles, to look just how I want.