Shana Wynn, whose last married name he knew of was McIntyre, had been one of Jennifer’s best friends and, as Bentz recalled, a real bitch. Beautiful. Smart. Out for number one. She and Jennifer had been college roommates and they’d had a lot in common. If anyone knew that Jennifer had faked her own death, it would be Shana.
Tally White also made the “must interview” list. Tally’s daughter Melody had been a friend of Kristi’s in elementary school. Jennifer and Tally had gotten close. Real close. Both women had been divorced.
Fortuna Esperanzo had become a friend of Jennifer’s when they’d both worked briefly at an art gallery in Venice.
Then there was Lorraine Newell, Jennifer’s stepsister, who hadn’t liked Bentz from the get-go. A dark-haired prima donna with a princess complex, Lorraine hadn’t been particularly close to Jennifer, either, and hadn’t bothered to keep in contact with Kristi since Jennifer’s death.
There were others as well, but these four women were at the top of his list. He just had to find them. Which was easier said than done. So far his online searches had only turned up one plum: Shana McIntyre’s current address. He clicked open a file with information on her and jotted the street number and name on the envelope he used to carry his photos. Hopefully, Shana was in town and would be willing to see him when he paid her a visit.
Bentz slid the photos out of the envelope and fanned them out on the desk. Tapping the photo of Jennifer looking out of the coffee shop, he did an online search of coffee shops on Colorado Avenue. Bingo! Plenty to choose from. A cup of coffee would be his first order of business in the morning.
He worked late into the night, finally gave up, and flopped onto the thin mattress with a sinkhole in the center. Propping himself up with pillows, he turned on the television, watched some sports updates, and, with the latest scores flashing across the screen, drifted off.
The remote was still in his hand when the bedside phone rang, jerking him awake. He picked up, knowing it couldn’t be good if someone was calling so late, phoning at the motel and not on his cell. “This is Bentz,” he said, cobwebs still in his mind, some kind of cage fighting on the TV screen. For a second he heard nothing. “Hello?”
He hit the television’s mute button.
Soft crying was barely audible.
“Hello?” he said again. “Who is this? Are you okay?”
More muffled sobbing as he pushed himself up in bed. “Who are you trying to reach?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice raspy and raw. For a second he thought she was apologizing for calling the wrong person, but then she said, “Please forgive me, RJ. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
What? His heart nearly stopped. “Who is this?” he demanded, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Click!
The phone went dead in his hand. “Hello?” he said, and hit the button on the receiver’s cradle in rapid succession. “Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hello? Hello? Damn!”
She’d hung up. With suddenly sweating hands, he replaced the receiver and felt as if a cold knife had sliced through his heart. The voice had been familiar. Or had it?
Jennifer.
She’d been the only one in his entire life to call him RJ. Holy crap. He swallowed hard. Told himself not to panic.
It has to be someone impersonating her.
What the hell was going on? He rolled out of bed, threw on a T-shirt and the pair of khakis he’d draped over the back of the desk chair. Zipping up, he walked barefoot to the office under the lone security lamp mounted high over the neon sign for the motel. Only a few cars rolled by and the night air was cool, felt good against his skin.
Inside the reception area the lights were on-dimmed, but on. Less than a cup of coffee sat like oil in the bottom of the glass pot in the coffeemaker. No one was behind the desk. Following instructions inscribed into a metal plate on the counter, he rang the small bell. After waiting half a minute, he rang it again, just as Rebecca slipped through a locked door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Devoid of makeup, her lipstick faded, her hair falling past her shoulders, she looked much younger than she had earlier. And crankier. “Can I help you?” she asked, then glanced pointedly at the clock. “Is something wrong?” She was already reaching for another key to his room, assuming that he’d locked himself out.
“I just need to know if you have a record of incoming phone calls to the rooms.”
“What?” She stifled a yawn, trying not to sound cross but failing. Obviously the staff at the So-Cal was stretched thin.
“Someone called me and didn’t identify herself. I need to know where the call came from.”
“Now?” Looking at him as if he were certifiably crazy, she opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know. It’s important.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he withdrew his wallet and showed her his badge.
“What?” She was suddenly wide awake. “You’re a cop?” Worry slid through her eyes as she slapped the cigarettes onto the counter.
“New Orleans Police Department.”
“Oh, Jesus, look, I don’t need any trouble here.”
“There won’t be any.” He second-guessed flashing the badge, but at least it was getting her attention.
“Look,” she said, licking her lips nervously as if she did have something to hide. “This…this isn’t a big operation. We’re not, like, the Hilton, you know.”
“But you have a central switchboard that calls come through, right?”
“Yeah, yeah…we do.” She was thinking hard.
“I assume there’s some sort of caller ID on it.” She was nodding. “So, I need to see origin of the calls that have come to my room.”
She pressed two fingers against one temple. “Can’t this wait until morning?”
“If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Okay.” With a tired sigh, she nodded. “Just give me a sec, okay?” She disappeared behind the door again. Bentz paced through the lobby past brochures of fishing trips, movie studio visits, and museums. He could only hope the badge had made an impression. Nervously jangling the change in his pocket, he walked to the large plate-glass window and peered out. He saw only a few cars parked between faded stripes in the parking lot.
“Okay, here ya go.” Rebecca returned to the lobby with a business card. Handing him the card, she said, “Only one call.”
“Only had one. Thanks.” He scanned the number jotted in her neat handwriting. A local number.
“Anytime,” she said without the slightest bit of enthusiasm. “Anything else?”
“This’ll do.”
“Good.” She scraped her pack of Marlboro Lights and her lighter from the counter, then followed Bentz outside.
He heard her lighter click as he reached his room.
Inside, using his cell phone, he dialed the single number listed on the printout. It rang ten times. He hung up; hit redial. Twelve more rings, no answering machine, no voice mail. He hung up and tried one last time, counting off the rings. On the eighth, a male voice said, “Yeah?”
“Who is this?” Bentz demanded.
“Paul. Who is this?” Indignant.
“I’m returning a call.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Someone called me from this phone.”
“Big surprise,” the guy said, his speech slightly slurred. “Duh. It’s a pay phone.”
A pay phone? Probably only a handful of those dinosaurs left in the country and you get a crank call from one. “Where?”
“What?” the stranger, Paul, demanded.
“The phone you’re on right now. Where is it?”
“I dunno…uh…in L.A. What do you think? Here on Wilshire. Yeah…there’s a bank on the corner. California Something, I think.”