Lisa Jackson - Malice

“I’ll see that this gets out there,” she said with a smile, and Bentz nodded.

“Thanks.”

“Good luck.” She was already turning away from him, ready to do her part to find his wife.

God, he hoped he didn’t have to rely on luck.

But he’d take whatever help he could get. If it was good luck. Or divine intervention. Or even a deal with the devil himself. No matter what it was, just so that Livvie could be safe.

Montoya landed at LAX, picked up his bag, and went straight to the rental-car desk. As he was taking steps to collect the Mustang, a much newer model than the one he had in New Orleans, he put in a call to Bentz. “I’m in Los Angeles,” he said when his partner answered.

“What? Here?”

“Couldn’t stand being your goddamned gopher another minute. Figured I could help out here. Be more hands-on.”

Bentz barked out a hollow laugh.

“Fill me in,” Montoya said. He listened to the latest in the chain of events that revolved around Jennifer Bentz’s ghostly appearances and Olivia’s abduction, ending with the picture Bentz had received and his fears for his wife.

“So now the FBI is on the case,” Bentz finished.

Montoya snorted through his nose, signed the required paperwork, and grabbed the Mustang’s keys. Bentz got along fine with the Feds, but Montoya would rather work without them. Yeah, the bureau had smart agents, state-of-the-art equipment, and a wide net, but still, Montoya preferred to run his own cases. His way.

“Where are you now?” he asked, heading to the lot.

“At Whitaker Junior College. Fernando Valdez didn’t show up for work or any of his day classes, but I’m hoping he appears tonight.”

“He works at the Blue Burro, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Been there?”

“Not yet. But the LAPD paid them a visit.”

“I might just check it out anyway. Then I’ll try to get a room at the dive you’ve been calling home the last week,” Montoya said. “Once you collar Fernando, call me.”

“If I find him.”

“He’s got to be somewhere. You just have to dig a little, think like the prick to find him. Be a cop, man.” He hung up and tossed his bag in the tiny space for the backseat. He had a map and a G.P.S. system that would lead him to Encino. Once in the Encino City limits, he’d check out the Mexican restaurant where Fernando worked.

Thanks to his heritage Montoya spoke Spanish as fluently as he did English. With a little luck and some patience, he might just learn something.

At Whitaker Junior College, Bentz parked near the gym, then found his way to the student union. After waiting in line behind two giggling female students, he grabbed an order of twin dogs and fries, bought a bottled Pepsi, and took a booth in the corner, behind a fake potted palm. As he ate he kept his gaze fastened on the door. Clusters of students came and went. Some looked young enough to be in high school, others much older, picking up the missed college credits of their youth or returning to college to make a stab at a new career. Goths, punks, beach babes, computer geeks-you name it-a small mixed bag of a student army attended the JC. He checked each face, but he didn’t see Fernando Valdez in the groups of students who were studying, eating, or listening to music as they filtered in and out of the student lounge.

He wasn’t surprised. Fernando was obviously trying to avoid the cops.

Though he hadn’t eaten all day, he barely tasted the wilted fries or the Polish dogs that had probably been spinning under a heat lamp for hours. His mind was elsewhere, on Olivia, hoping beyond hope that she was alive. Safe. Unbroken.

She’s tough. Remember that. She’s dealt with a homicidal maniac before.

It seemed like a waste of time to sit here on the off chance that Fernando Valdez would show up for his night class, but Bentz didn’t have many leads. Fernando was his best.

But Valdez wasn’t visiting the student union tonight.

Getting up from the table, Bentz felt a twinge in his leg. He ignored it as he tossed the remains of his dinner into a garbage can. Following the instructions posted near the waste cans, he placed his empty plastic basket in a bin marked for baskets and utensils, then carried his bottled Pepsi through the glass doors and into the coming night.

It wasn’t quite twilight, but the fog was rolling in again, settling over the walkways that bisected lush gardens and lawns.

As he thought about his wife, he kicked himself to hell and back again for being such a fool, for wearing blinders about Jennifer, for not realizing what he had in his marriage to the one woman he truly loved and trusted.

“Idiot,” he muttered as he made his way to Sydney Hall, a two-story concrete building that had all the style and grace of a county jail. Exterior stairs led to the second floor and the doors on the ground level opened outward to wide porches. In a quick check of the building, Bentz noticed that there were no interior hallways. Fernando, registered for “Writing the Play,” an English class located on the first level, would have to pass this way if he wanted to get to class.

Finishing the remains of his soda, noticing bugs already gathering near the globe lights at the doors, Bentz waited near the stairs while the students trickled into room 134. There was a chance Fernando wouldn’t show. No doubt Yolanda had warned him about Bentz. And the fact that he was MIA from his job and earlier class indicated he was wary.

Hell, he could be in Tijuana or deeper into Mexico by now. The border wasn’t that far south.

Still, Fernando was a U.S. citizen, born and raised in L.A. Bentz was betting that sooner or later, the kid would surface.

And when he did, Bentz intended to nail him.

Maybe tonight.

Maybe later.

But Bentz wasn’t about to back down.

He only hoped that he’d get lucky. No way could he spend an other night in his motel room waiting for the damned phone to ring, staring at that bone-chilling picture of Olivia. And the thought of Olivia spending another night as someone’s captive…he just couldn’t let his thoughts go there.

Bentz leaned on the wall near the stairs and watched as the door to the classroom opened and closed, slamming behind each group of would-be playwrights as they hurried inside.

The purple haze of dusk deepened into night.

No Fernando.

Come on, you bastard. Show the hell up.

But the noise of footsteps and conversation faded as the stream of students dribbled to nothing. Bentz checked his watch. Ten after seven. No one had entered the room for over five minutes.

It appeared that Fernando was a no-show. Again.

“Damn it.” Bentz drained the dregs from his bottle, watched a moth beat itself against the globe light and was about to toss his empty sixteen-ouncer into the trash when he spotted someone running through the mist. A man, he thought. The guy hurried past the gym and cut across a wide expanse of grass.

Bentz froze. Squinted into the night.

As the runner drew closer, Bentz recognized Fernando Valdez. The little prick was actually showing up.

Gotcha, Bentz thought, his pulse elevating. Finally. A break! Every muscle tense, his gaze glued on the kid, Bentz slid silently to a place beneath the stairs. Peering through the steps he fought to hold himself in check. He had to wait until the kid was close enough to nail. He couldn’t risk scaring the little creep off.

Fernando was breathing hard, running as if the devil himself were chasing him, sweating as if he’d been running for a while.

He was close now.

Just a little bit further.

Fingering his badge, Bentz waited for just the right moment.

Fernando reached the staircase.

Now!