Lisa Jackson - Malice

The junior college that Yolanda Salazar and her brother Fernando Valdez attended was only five miles from their house in Encino. And the Blue Burro where Fernando worked stood smack-dab in the middle between home and school. It wasn’t too much of a leap to think that Fernando could walk, bike, or run to the JC, work, and home. He could also take the bus that stopped four blocks from the Salazar home, passed directly by the restaurant, and stopped at the main entrance to the college. Or, if everyone at the Salazar house was lying or hiding information, he could have easily borrowed one of the other vehicles or caught a ride with Sebastian or Yolanda.

The question was, as it had been from the moment Bentz had awakened from the coma at the hospital: who was the woman he’d seen driving Fernando’s car? Today, come hell or high water, he meant to find out. He figured he didn’t have a whole lot to lose. He was already persona non grata at the LAPD, and back in New Orleans, his job was still in question.

Besides, he didn’t give a flying fig about either; all that mattered was his wife’s safety.

He parked in the visitor lot, found the registrar’s office, and by flashing his badge and wearing his dead-serious cop face, convinced a frightened-looking girl of about twenty to give up Fernando and Yolanda’s class schedules.

With the help of the free campus maps on the counter, he was able to determine where and when both of Mario Valdez’s siblings were scheduled to be during the day. As luck would have it, he had missed the early class in Fernando’s schedule but the kid was supposed to be in Sydney Hall for an evening lecture.

Good.

Bentz planned to return before that class started.

He couldn’t wait to have a chat with the kid.

I don’t have a lot of time. It’s broad daylight, the damned fog is lifting, but I have to take the risk.

So I leave work and drive straight home, download my picture of Olivia, and print it out. I’m wearing thin gloves…no reason to get sloppy now. The result is superb. I captured the horrified expression on Olivia’s face perfectly and cropped out anything that would give a hint of where she is being held captive. All you can see are the bars of a cage and a pathetic, broken, frightened woman looking desperately at the camera.

“Phase one,” I say, pleased with myself. Then, before too much time slips by, I erase the image from my hard drive and slip the photo into a manila envelope. Rather than using up a day by mailing the picture to him, I decide it’s time to ramp things up. Push him hard. Let him know what it’s like to feel the hollowness, the despair, of losing someone he loves.

Oh, yes. Rick Bentz will soon learn what it’s like to be truly and horridly alone.

I put on my sweat pants and jacket, tuck my hair into a baseball cap, then find my running shoes and a pair of oversized sunglasses. Not the best disguise, but it will have to do. Even though the sweats will look out of place on this warm day, they help alter my shape, along with a sports bra that’s two sizes too tight. Satisfied, I scribble Rick Bentz’s name across the envelope, then drive quickly to that horrible dive of a motel where he stays in Culver City.

One sweep past the So-Cal Inn assures me he’s not in; his new rental car is not in the lot.

I park several blocks away, then, with the envelope tucked into my jacket, take off at an easy lope. Hiding my face from any traffic camera, I time the lights just right so that I barely have to slow to cross a street. When I reach the corner near the motel, I cut across the parking lot and drop the envelope at the door of the office. From the corner of my eye I see a kid at the desk, but he’s not paying any attention to what goes on beyond the television screen mounted in the corner.

I feel a rush of anticipation as I jog back to the car. From there, I find a place to fill up with gas. I duck into their restroom to change into work clothes. Looking in the cracked, dull mirror, I fluff my hair and pat on some powder to hide the fact that my cheeks are flushed.

Then I pay for the gas with cash, climb into my car, and head back to work. For the first time in years, I long for a cigarette, just to calm my nerves, but I ignore the craving.

How I would love to make a swing by the motel to make certain that stupid kid sees the package. But I restrain myself. No reason to take any unnecessary chances.

I only wish I could be a fly on the wall when Bentz opens the envelope. Oh, dear God, his expression will be priceless!

Bentz was on the road when he got the call. Caller ID flashed the number and name of the So-Cal Inn. “Bentz.”

“Hi, this is Rebecca, the manager of the So-Cal. You asked me to call you if anything odd happened?”

Bentz’s free hand gripped the wheel. “Yeah.”

“We found a package with your name on it at the front door.”

“A package?” he repeated.

“Well, an envelope. You know one of those manila things. Around eight by eleven. I thought you might have dropped it when you left.”

“No.” He thought about the last manila envelope he’d received with pictures of Jennifer and a marred death certificate. He didn’t doubt for a second that whatever was in this one, too, had come from the same source. “Hold on to it. Don’t open it and I’ll be right there. Ten minutes, fifteen tops.” He searched for an exit, switched lanes, and sped to the next off-ramp, barely slowing as he left the freeway until he hit the red light at the cross street.

Another set of pictures? More documents? Oh, Jesus…please let this be about Jennifer, not Olivia.

His guts were grinding, his fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel.

What now? Just what the hell now?

As soon as it turned green, he made a quick left turn under the freeway, swinging around to the southbound entrance of the 405. The light was with him and he gunned it.

He knew he hadn’t dropped an envelope or anything else at the motel.

So someone had left him a surprise, this time without mailing it. “Son of a bitch.”

Whoever was behind all this madness was getting bolder.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that this time the packet had something to do with Olivia. A ransom request? Or worse? His heart nosedived and he wasn’t able to drive fast enough to eat up the miles to the Culver City exit. Time seemed to stand still and dread burned a hole in his stomach but ten minutes after taking the call, he pulled into the familiar, pockmarked parking lot, cut the engine, and strode into the office.

Rebecca was waiting.

The envelope in question sat on the registration desk. Across the yellowish face was his name written in the same block letters that had addressed the envelope containing Jennifer’s death certificate and pictures.

“I found it when I walked in. I was out checking a room where the key wasn’t working and Tony was at the desk. He didn’t see who left it.”

Warily Bentz handled the thin package. She offered him a letter opener and he sliced the seal carefully. Rebecca watched as he tipped out the single sheet of paper within.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth as a picture of Olivia slid onto the desk’s Formica surface.

Bentz’s knees nearly gave way. His stomach turned over. He stared at the shot of Olivia, his beautiful Olivia, who eyed the camera dead-on with an expression of stark, cold fear. Pale as death, she was looking through bars, as if she were in some old western jail. Her hair was mussed; her eyes round and bloodshot, a red patch evident over her mouth where it seemed a gag had been taped. All of the life, the fire of her personality, had disappeared. Instead her expression was of pure terror.