Lisa Jackson - Malice

“Wait a second,” Montoya said when Bentz paused to take a drink. “You’re saying you believe she might actually be alive?”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“Otherwise you’re chasing a ghost.”

Bentz scowled. Felt the heat of Montoya’s stare. “I’m not chasing a ghost.”

“Then?”

“And I’m not going out of my mind.”

“Which leaves…what? You believe that someone’s dressing up to look like your ex and then gaslighting you? Is that what you’re thinking, that you’re caught up in some kind of weird scenario straight out of a Hitchcock movie?”

“As I said, I don’t know what to believe.”

“You tell this to Olivia?”

“No.” He looked away. “Not yet.”

“Afraid she might have you committed?” One of Montoya’s dark eyebrows raised as he finished his coffee.

“Nah, just that she wouldn’t understand.”

“Hell, I don’t understand.”

“Exactly.”

Pushing his empty cup aside and resting his elbow on the table, Montoya asked, “So what do you want me to do?”

“Keep it quiet. For now. But I might need some favors.”

“Such as?”

“A few things. Since I’m on leave, I can’t get information as easily as before. I might need you to do some digging.”

“In finding this woman?”

“Maybe,” Bentz said. “For starters, I’ll need someone to have this letter fingerprinted and checked for DNA-lift the stamp and the envelope flap. Can you get me a copy of everything?”

“Sure.” Montoya looked at the document.

“And have the lab check, see if the photographs have been altered. They should be able to tell, right?”

“Probably.” He eyed the pictures. “At least I’ll give the lab guys a run at it. There’s one tech-Ralph Lee-specializes in all kinds of photography.”

“Good. After I take copies, have him look at the originals. Blow them up, sharpen the focus if possible, find details that might help me pinpoint the locations and time they were taken. See if there are street names, license plate numbers, clocks on the buildings, or the position of the sun, anything that confirms the time and date of the original pictures.”

Montoya frowned. “What’re you gonna do with the copies?”

“Not sure. I’m still working on it.”

Bentz returned the eight-by-tens and the death certificate to the manila envelope. He wasn’t even certain himself what he needed, not yet, but he was sick of jumping at shadows, of feeling that his brain was fraying, bit by bit. He just couldn’t sit back and let whoever was behind this run with it. “So, for now, don’t say anything. If Jaskiel or anyone else at the department thinks I’ve been seeing things, it’ll take a whole lotta convincing for me to get back to work.”

Montoya scratched at his chin and pushed his chair back, the diamond stud in his earlobe catching the light.

Bentz saw a flicker of doubt in his partner’s dark eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

“Me? A doubter? No way. Not my style.” He offered a quick, hard-edged Montoya grin. “But as you said earlier, it’s strange. I’m like you. I don’t know what to believe.”

The postmark from Southern California really bothered Bentz. Burned in his brain as he drove away from Bourbon Street. He’d found a Quickie Print and taken several copies of the photographs and death certificate, even using the enhance and enlarge options to get more definition. Then he’d handed the originals to Montoya.

He was convinced that someone from his past, or Jennifer’s past, was tracking him down. But who? Why? And why screw with his mind?

He slowed for a red light, brooding as the Jeep idled. Overhead, dark clouds scudded slowly across the sky and the smell of the Mississippi River reached his nostrils through the open window.

He remembered Jennifer’s image as she’d stood in the woods skirting his backyard. So close to his house-Olivia’s home. And now the photographs. He glanced to the passenger seat. The picture of Jennifer crossing the street met his eye. Either the woman in the photo was his ex-wife or a dead ringer.

Ghosts don’t show in photographs.

Crazy manifestations aren’t real images and therefore cannot be caught on film.

So she was real?

His gut tightened.

So who had been in the backyard of his home, the house that Olivia had brought into the marriage? All in all, this latest encounter was too close for comfort. Too close to Olivia.

He didn’t like the thought of his wife being dragged into this, whatever the hell it was. She lived here, too, and just the inkling of her safety being the least bit compromised didn’t set well. Olivia had always felt safe at this house. Though Hairy S was useless as a guard dog, they did have a security system Bentz had insisted she install years ago. They rarely used it, but that would have to change.

The light turned green and he waited for an elderly woman on a scooter who was still in the crosswalk. Once she’d eased out of the way, he took the corner fast, then stood on the brakes. A jaywalking teenage boy in a baggy T-shirt and shorts loped across the pavement while plugged into his iPod. The kid never noticed that Bentz had nearly mowed him over.

Bentz cruised past the station and noted that Brinkman had parked in the spot Bentz usually claimed. No big surprise there; Brinkman, though a good cop, was always a pain in the ass. And who could blame the prick? It’s not as if Bentz could use it anyway. “Have at,” he said, then drove to a coffee shop with Internet access. He linked up as he sipped iced coffee. Crunching ice cubes, he searched for any information he could find on his first wife, even Googled himself in the process. For the most part, he was considered a hero, having solved more than one serial murder case since being hired by the New Orleans PD.

But there was some bad press, too. From L.A., stories surrounding a cop with a tarnished badge, who had left the department with a high-profile case still unsolved.

Then there was the shooting when he’d mistaken a twelve-year-old boy with a toy gun for a killer intending to take down his partner. Bentz had warned the kid, then fired.

The boy, Mario Valdez, had been pronounced DOA at the hospital.

Bentz had poured himself into a bottle and, his badge blackened, had left the department. Thankfully Melinda Jaskiel here in New Orleans had seen fit to give him a second chance.

So he’d relocated.

The rest, as they said, was history.

And now someone was intentionally drawing him back to L.A. He didn’t doubt for a second that whoever was behind the photos and mutilated death certificate was intentionally luring him to Southern California.

But why? And why now?

He finished his coffee, then phoned Montoya’s cell and left a message on his voice mail asking Montoya to return the call. He scanned the small bistro where people clustered around tall café tables or sat in overstuffed chairs near the window. Two women in their forties were sharing a doughnut. Three teenagers, a boy and two girls, were slouched in the big chairs and sipping mocha-looking drinks piled high with whipped cream drizzled with chocolate. Without a break in their conversation they were all sending text messages at the speed of light.

Fortunately, his first wife-or her ghost-was nowhere to be seen.

Not that he’d be surprised when she showed up again.

However the answer to the enigma of Jennifer rested in California. He pulled out the photos again. Definitely L.A. There was a palm tree visible in the corner of the shot of her running across the street, and a California license plate on a parked car. In the photo of her in the coffee shop, there was a bit of a street sign visible and he saw the letters ado Aven. Some avenue, probably. It could be many places, he thought, but his mind raced, old memories surfacing. Mercado, or Loredo or…His stomach dropped as he thought of Colorado Avenue in Santa Monica.