He was alone at his ex-wife’s final resting place. The cemetery was empty, not a soul besides himself visible. Some of the plots displayed fresh flowers. A few had been adorned with plastic bouquets and others were festooned with tiny American flags that had faded in the harsh sunlight. However, no other person, nor ghost for that matter, stood inside the ominous black wrought-iron fence.
Of course not.
She’s dead, Bentz. Dead. You know it. You identified her body with your own eyes, for Christ’s sake! And you don’t believe in ghosts. Try remembering that one, will ya?
He lingered a few more minutes, trying to piece together what was happening to him. He didn’t think he was cracking up, and he knew he didn’t believe in ghosts. Dead women did not just reappear.
So why come here, to the cemetery?
Without an answer he returned to the car, which was now sweltering from the sun. Leaving the driver’s door open, he sat behind the wheel and turned on the engine to get the A/C pumping. As the car cooled, he eyed Hayes’s business card. On one side was the official information for Detective Jonas Hayes of the LAPD; on the other was a phone number scratched hurriedly a long time ago.
Bentz punched the private number into his cell and was rewarded with a message from a lifeless voice that told him it was no longer in service. “Great.” Bentz flipped the card over and tried again, this time phoning the police department directly and asking for Detective Jonas Hayes.
Without too much fuss he was put through to Hayes’s voice mail. He left a message saying he was in town and wanted to meet. Afterward he called and left another message for Olivia. As he hung up he had the uncanny feeling that he was being watched, that hidden eyes were observing his every move. He scanned the cemetery as he drove off, checked his mirrors and saw no one tailing him, no one tracking his movements.
“You’re an idiot,” he told himself, then went in search of a cheap, clean motel.
Jonas Hayes swore under his breath. He was tired. Dead tired. He’d spent too many hours the previous day trying to hammer out details for the custody of Maren, his daughter, then hadn’t slept a wink before pulling a full shift. And now he had Rick Bentz calling him.
“Hell,” he muttered. There were a lot of reasons he didn’t want to return the call. He waited until his shift was over and he was in his car miles away from the department before he dialed the cell number Bentz had left.
On the third ring, Bentz answered. “Rick Bentz.”
“The death-defying Rick Bentz, who lives through a lightning strike?” he joked, though truth to tell there wasn’t anything remotely humorous about Bentz calling.
“Not exactly accurate, but close enough. Bad news travels fast.”
“Gossip has no bounds. These days with the Internet, cell phones with cameras, traffic lights with cameras, security cameras everywhere, you have no privacy. You can’t take a leak in New Orleans without someone putting it up on YouTube for all of us out here to view.”
“Is that right?” Bentz said. “Then how the hell don’t we get the suspects on film?”
“We do. A lot of times. At least the stupid ones. That is, when we get lucky.”
“So you got dinner plans? I’m in town and I’ll buy.”
Hayes saw it coming. Big as life. And he didn’t like it one bit. “Sounds like you need a favor.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybes about it. That’s why you rose from the dead, Bentz. Admit it.”
“We’ll talk about rising from the dead over steaks. How about Roy’s if it’s still around?”
Roy’s had once been a hip, happening place, an homage to the days of the great westerns. “It’s around and seedier than ever. But the food’s still good and happy hour drinks are five bucks.”
“That’s a bargain?”
“In Hollywood? Yeah. But tonight won’t work. I’m already booked. Is the offer still good tomorrow?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you there…say, around seven?”
“That’ll work. Tomorrow at seven. See ya there.”
Hayes hung up, opened the console between the two front seats of his old 4Runner and found a bottle of Rolaids he kept in the glove box. His heartburn was acting up and the call from Bentz didn’t help. Hayes poured out a few and popped them into his mouth, downing them with the remainder of this morning’s coffee, the dregs of which had settled into the bottom of his travel cup. The taste was bitter, but tolerable. He slid his shades onto his nose, glanced in his rearview, checking traffic, then eased onto the street.
If Rick Bentz was in L.A., something was coming down.
Something that wasn’t good.
I really have to congratulate myself.
Job well done!
Rick Hot-Fucking-Shot Bentz is back in L.A.!
No big surprise there.
Like a hungry lion leaping onto a weak gazelle, Rick Bentz took the bait. Just in time.
I check the calendar and nod to myself. Feel a little thrill race down my spine. It didn’t take long and he’s still recuperating, not quite agile or fleet-footed, still using a cane, which is just damned perfect. I can’t help but experience a wave of pride. In myself. Not just for this, his return, but for my patience. I had to wait until the timing was right, but now I think I can pour myself a drink, a strong one.
Let’s see…how about a martini? That would be fitting. I walk to the bar and find the vodka and curse myself for being out of olives. Oh, damn…well, who cares? I find the vermouth and pour just a whisper, then shake the concoction with ice and pour…mmm. Since there are no olives I settle for a twist of lemon…perfect.
I walk to the full-length mirror, where I see myself and lift my glass toward the woman in the glass. She’s beautiful. Tall. Willowy. The ravages of age not yet apparent. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders in easy waves. Her smile is infectious, her eyes those of a woman who knows what she wants and always gets it.
“To new beginnings,” I say touching the rim of my glass to the mirror and hearing the soft little click of glass on glass. “You and I, we’ve waited a long time for this.”
“That we have. But no longer,” she replies, arched eyebrows lifting conspiratorially.
I tingle inside knowing that everything we-I-have worked for is about to come to fruition.
The window is open and I feel evening settling in the rising moon, a ghostly crescent glowing in the twilight sky.
“Cheers,” my reflection says back to me, her eyes twinkling in naughty anticipation as she holds her glass aloft. “May we be successful.”
“Oh, we will,” I assure her, smiling as she grins back at me. “We will.” Then we drink as one, feeling the cool cocktail slide so easily down our throats. Together we think of Rick Bentz.
Handsome in a rugged way. Athletic and muscular rather than thin. With a square jaw and eyes that could cut through any kind of lie, he’s smart and pensive, his emotions usually under tight rein.
And yet he has an Achilles heel.
One that will bring him down.
“Bravo,” I say to the mirror. Because I know that soon, that sick son of a bitch will get his.
CHAPTER 6
Bentz had a lot of ground to cover and he didn’t want to waste time.
First things first: He had to find a place to stay. He decided to stick close to where he’d lived with Jennifer and in the area of the zip code on the envelope that had been sent to him.
Though hotel prices in Southern California were through the roof, he found a motel in the older part of Culver City that advertised, “inexpensive, clean rooms.” The So-Cal Inn was a long, low-lying stucco building that, he guessed, was built in the decade after World War II, and offered, along with weekly rates, a swimming pool, air-conditioned rooms, cable TV, and wi-fi. The place also claimed to be “pet and kid friendly.”