Malice

CHAPTER 14

Bentz found his car and made note of a few changes in the parking lot. One of the twin pickups had left and there was now an old Datsun with expired plates idling in front of the bookstore. A teenage girl was behind the wheel, gabbing on her cell phone. WASH ME was still in prime position in front of the tavern, but the silver Chevy with the stickers was no longer parked near the dirty van.

He wondered if one of the cars could belong to “Jennifer” or whoever she was. If so, she certainly was no ghost. As far as he knew the State of California only issued licenses to living people and, if folklore were to be believed, ghosts really didn’t need wheels.

On a whim, he walked into the tavern, glanced at the waitstaff and few patrons huddled over a long bar or staring at a big screen in the corner. Satisfied that whoever he’d been chasing hadn’t taken refuge in the establishment, Bentz ordered a zero-alcohol, made small talk with the waitress, and asked if she knew who owned the Chevy. She gave him a blank stare that was almost identical to the expression of the bartender when Bentz posed the same question to him. If they knew anything, they weren’t going to give it up, but his gut told him they didn’t have any idea of the answer and didn’t really care.

Ignoring the beer and leaving some bills on his table, he left the tavern and headed to the bookstore, where a shopkeeper nearing eighty was waiting to close. Now the girl who had been in the Datsun had moved inside and was still talking on her cell as she cruised the aisles, concentrating on a wall of books in an area labeled “Vampires and Ghosts.” Without a break in her conversation, she picked up various books, thumbed through them, then replaced them on the shelf.

The bookstore was nearly empty, one balding guy near thirty poring over computer texts and a woman with a little girl in pigtails perusing the children’s books section.

No one here could have played the part of Jennifer.

The grocery, too, was devoid of customers. Bentz bought a sixteen-ounce Pepsi and checked the aisles. Two teenaged boys in long hair and baggy shorts were checking out the candy section while stealing peeks and whispering about the “hot” girl at the till. A harried young mother, toddler on one hip, eyebrows knit in concern, was shopping for disposable diapers and scowling at the price.

They were the only patrons.

No Jennifer.

Of course.

Outside, behind the strip mall, two men in their early twenties stood smoking near a Dumpster.

Nothing surprising there. Bentz drank his soda and wondered why the hell he’d come down here. What, if anything, had he learned?

Just that you’re a gullible ass, willing to chase shadows.

He climbed into his rental and kicked himself for not having the presence of mind to take pictures of the woman he’d been chasing; even a dark image on his cell phone would have helped.

He twisted his key in the ignition, then looked at the empty spot in the lot where the silver Chevy had been parked. There was something about that car that had seemed out of place. His cop instincts were in overdrive, which happened whenever he experienced an anomaly-something that didn’t seem to fit.

He tried to recall anything about the vehicle. It was an Impala, he thought, maybe a 2000. He tried to visualize the numbers on the license plate, but only remembered that it had current tags issued in California. There was something unique about the plates…two or three sixes in the number. He wasn’t certain. But there was some kind of expired parking pass on the front windshield, a hospital permit of some kind, though part of the information had faded to the point that it hadn’t been easily visible, and he’d been in a hurry. Yet he sensed there was something about the pass that was a little out of the ordinary…what the hell was it?

He tried to envision the damned thing. Failed and gave up. Whatever had caught his attention was now gone. It would come to him. Probably in the middle of the night.

Again, he should have taken pictures. With that thought he cut the engine and got out of his Ford to snap photos with his cell phone. He took shots of the license plates and makes and models of the cars parked but also in the lot and on the street leading to the old inn. All told there were only eight, and one of them was on blocks, the plates long expired. A no-counter.

Then there was that old parking pass thing.

Bentz decided to check out any hospitals in the area. There was a good chance that whoever owned the Chevy had some kind of hospital or medical facility connection. Unless the sticker belonged to a previous owner.

He was driving back through the quaint town when his cell phone rang and he picked up, barely registering that the screen read UNKNOWN CALLER. “Bentz.”

“Hi, Rick,” a woman said, her voice vaguely familiar and frosty as hell. “This is Lorraine. You called.”

Lorraine Newell. Jennifer’s stepsister.

“That’s right. I’m in L.A. and wondered if we could get together.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I have some questions about Jennifer’s death.”

“Oh, for the love of God. You have a helluva lot of nerve.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “I knew calling you back was a big mistake. What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet.”

“Come on, you’re not going to try and be coy now, are you? It’s so not you. Let’s not mince words. I’ve always thought you were a straight shooter. A miserable son of a bitch, but a straight shooter.”

“Can we meet tomorrow?”

“I’m busy most of the day. Work and appointments.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

She hesitated. “Why do I know I’m going to regret this?” She paused as if second-guessing herself, then said, “Okay. Fine! Can you be at my place around…four-thirty? I’ve got a dinner meeting, but I suppose I can give you a few minutes. For Jennifer.”

Big of you.

“I live in Torrance now.”

“I’ve got the address,” he admitted.

“Of course you do.” There was a bitter sneer in her voice.

“See you then,” he said, but she’d already hung up.

As he merged onto a highway, he let his mind sort through new information. He didn’t have much to go on. A Chevy Impala with some kind of parking permit, a vehicle that might or might not be a part of this Jennifer fraud. A few other vehicles as well.

And then there was Shana. She was the only one in L.A. who knew about Saint Miguel. Either that or she fed him that information to direct him there, so that “Jennifer” could show up. What part was Shana really playing?

True, he still didn’t have a lot to go on, but it was a little more than he’d had two hours earlier. Nothing might come of it, but then again, it was a start.

“You’re telling me this new double is like the Caldwell twins all over again?” Corrine asked as Hayes hung his jacket on a hook near the door of her apartment. With two small bedrooms and a killer view of the mountains, the unit was compact but breathtaking, clean and neat. Just like its owner.

“Identical. Down to the way the clothes were folded, the ribbons in their hair, the damned way their bodies were positioned.” He was tired and hungry and grouchy.

She shook her head. “You know the names?” she asked and her eyes had turned dark.

“Yeah, he left their ID. Elaine and Lucille Springer.”

“Damn!” She let out a breath. “I remember seeing the missing persons’ reports, from Glendale.”

“Yep.”

“Son of a bitch.” Shoving her hair from her eyes, she glared out the window. “Both dead. Like before.”

“Just like.”

“You tell the next of kin?”

“Yeah. I talked to the parents,” he said, remembering their denial, their worst fears confirmed, then the horror and grief. “Nice people. He’s some kind of insurance salesman. She’s a teacher.”

Corrine nodded slightly, her jaw tight, her eyes shadowed as if she felt the pain of these people she’d never met. “I remember,” she said softly.

“They came to the morgue, made the IDs, and you could see it killed them.” He shook his head, wiped a hand over his face. “Killed them.” He recalled the Springers: the father, Greg, dressed in khakis and an Izod golf shirt, his face pale beneath a tan. His wife, Cathy, the mother of the twins, had walked in quietly, like a zombie, face masked with an expression of denial. Oh, God, it had been bad.

Hayes slumped into the recliner positioned in front of the television. It sat near the high counter and stools that separated the compact kitchen from the living area. Corrine came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders.

“It’s never easy,” she said.

“Both kids. Gone.” One minute they’d been parents, happy and secure in life, the next they were totally bereft. Hayes had tried and failed to erase the vision of Cathy Springer’s face, the denial in her blue eyes giving way to horror, her knees buckling as she collapsed into her husband’s shaking arms.

“Nooooo!” Cathy had wailed over and over again, her grief-stricken cries echoing down the long corridor. Her fists had curled, pounded frantically against her husband’s chest as he’d tried to calm her.

And the father. Greg’s demeanor had been riddled with defeat and pain, his gaze accusing as he’d stared at the detective. Hayes had known what he was thinking. Why my girls? Why mine? Why not yours? Or anyone else’s? Why my sweet innocent babies?

It was exactly what Hayes would have thought if anything ever happened to his Maren.

“You’ll catch the bastard who did this,” Corrine reassured him.

“I hope so.”

“Have faith, if not in divine intervention, then in the skill of the department. Forensics and technology are a whole new ball game. Twelve years ago we didn’t have half the forensic tests that we have now. The perp is toast. And if he turns out to be the Twenty-one killer, then it’s a two-for-one. Cause for celebration.”

He wanted to believe it.

Corrine was massaging his shoulders, trying to ease out the knots of tension in his muscles. “How about a drink?” she suggested. “I’ve got pasta, those bowties-”

“Farfalle.”

“Yeah, I guess. With pesto and an Italian sausage or two.”

“This from the Irish girl?”

She laughed. “And I’m fresh out of corned beef and cabbage.” Her fingers were strong and comforting, but his head was on the case. Why had the killer struck now? Why the Springer twins? Who the hell was he? Would he kill again soon or wait another twelve years?

“Talk to me,” she said, still massaging him. It was a ritual they practiced when a particularly tough case was getting to either one of them. “You really believe the murders are connected.”

“Have to be.”

“Noooo. Don’t close your mind.”

“How would a copycat know the details of a twelve-year-old cold case that weren’t released to the press?”

“Cops talk.”

Hayes looked up at her. “To killers?”

“Unwittingly. Or maybe whoever was talking had one too many beers and was overheard.”

“Long shot.”

“Okay then, maybe conversation in prison. The Twenty-one is locked up for another crime but shoots his mouth off. Now his cellmate is on parole and thinking he’ll take up where the Twenty-one left off.”

“No.”

“I’m just suggesting you keep your mind open. It could be a copycat.” Still kneading the tension from his shoulders, Corrine leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Or you might be right. Maybe the Twenty-one is back, from who knows where, ready to rock and roll. Maybe you should check recent parolees.”

“Already doin’ it.”

“Of course you are.” He looked up and she was grinning.

“Bentz is back in town,” he said.

Corrine nodded. “I heard the news. It’s all over the department.” When Hayes lifted an eyebrow, she shrugged. “Trinidad put the word out, I think.”

“Some people aren’t thrilled.” He looked pointedly at her and she smiled.

“You mean Bledsoe?” she teased.

“I was wondering about you.”

“Well, I’m not exactly president of the Rick Bentz fan club, but I figure what happened is ancient history.” She winked. “Besides, I got myself a new guy and he’s lots cuter.”

“You haven’t seen Bentz.”

“Okay, okay, you’re right. The jury’s still out on that one.”

“He’s still recuperating from an accident. Sometimes uses a cane.”

“So now you want me to feel sorry for him since he and I both are gimps?”

“That’s not what I meant. And you’re no gimp. Not anymore!”

“Good.” Corrine sighed and shook her head. “It’s weird. Who would think it would matter? He’s been gone what, ten years?”

“Twelve.”

“Really? Oh, yeah, he left around the time of the Caldwell twins’ murders…That is a coincidence.” She pulled a face. “Gotta be a coincidence.” She looked at him and he could almost see the gears turning in her mind. “Right?”

“Has to be.”

“I will admit this, though: Bentz’s visit is causing a bit of a stir. While you were out at the scene, the gossip ran like wildfire through the department. Isn’t that weird?”

“Who would care?” he asked.

“To start off with, Bledsoe. He’s pissed as hell, though I don’t know why. Give me a break. It’s not like Bentz is coming back looking for a job.”

“Bledsoe’s always pissed.”

“Yeah, and I think Trinidad is nervous…why, I don’t know. Probably because he was Bentz’s partner and friend. Doesn’t want any of his old stink to rub off.”

“What about Rankin?” Hayes was thinking aloud.

“Who knows? It’s been a long, long time.”

“She had it bad for Bentz.”

“Didn’t we all?” she teased, then said, “Stick around for dinner. You know I make a mean pesto.”

“I do know, but I’m not hungry. Sorry.”

With a sigh she nodded. “Yeah, I know. I get it.” And she did. Corrine O’Donnell had been a crack detective, the lead on several high-profile cases, until she’d broken her leg and blown out the ACL on her knee during a chase when she’d been hit by a car. Lucky to be alive, she was now reduced to pushing papers in the department. Active duty was out. Despite the fact that she worked out, was strong and otherwise healthy, the knee was still an issue. Though she tried to hide it, she sometimes, though rarely, walked with a bit of a limp. What really bugged her, Hayes knew, was the fact that she couldn’t wear three-inch heels any longer.

“I’ll get you the drink.”

“I should go back to the station.”

“Tomorrow’s early enough,” she said, rattling around in the freezer for ice cubes. “You’re not going to bring those poor girls back.”

That much was true, yet they both knew that the first hours after a murder were the most crucial. As the time between the commission of the homicide and the gathering of evidence lengthened, the chances of catching the killer diminished.

“It’s so weird that the Twenty-one killer would show up after all these years.” She appeared holding out a short glass with three fingers of whiskey, then handed him a cold can of ginger ale. “You can do your own mixing.”

She winked at him and he smiled for the first time since seeing the bodies. Being with her was easy; she didn’t make too many demands and understood him, far better than either of his wives had. And she was pretty. Trim and lithe, with the build of the long-distance runner she’d once been, Corrine O’Donnell was a force to be reckoned with. Her eyes were large and deep-set, a flinty gray that, when she was aroused, smoldered deep and dark. If he hadn’t been so gun-shy, he might just let himself fall in love with her, not that she was asking for any commitment.

Yet.

“Look, Hayes, you’re off duty. Have a drink…maybe nothing quite as strong as this, though, since you and I both know you’re going back to the station.” She plucked the glass from his hands, carried it back to the kitchen, and returned with a light beer. “Okay, so relax, have a little dinner, then go back and hit it again.”

“You’re okay with that?” he said, skeptical. Delilah would have had a fit; but then, Delilah had never been a cop.

“Okay with it? Well, I’m not thrilled, but yeah, I’m okay. However, the minute you catch the creep, you throw his ass in jail and you hightail it back here.”

“It could take longer than a few hours,” he said, but took a swallow from the long-necked bottle of Coors light.

“For a super-detective like you?” she mocked, walking around the chair and throwing her bad leg over his to sit on his lap. “Naaahh.” Then she kissed him, hard, her lips warm and pliant.

His body, racked with tension, responded instantly. He kissed her back, felt her tongue join his just as his cock came to life. She was already working at his tie and buttons and his hands were all over her ass, ripping off her jeans.

For the next twenty minutes, Jonas Hayes forgot all about the double homicide.

Bentz stopped at a take-out deli in Culver City that was only a few blocks from the motel. He ordered pastrami on rye with a side of coleslaw and a Pepsi from a kid who looked to be all of sixteen. The kid, ROBBIE according to the tag pinned on his shirt, had a severe case of acne and an expression that said he would rather be anywhere but behind the counter at the Corner Deli. The place was almost empty, with any luck because of the late hour and not lack of quality. Another kid swabbed the floors while Robbie put together Bentz’s order.

Fifteen minutes later, Bentz was back in his motel and eating at his desk. Between bites of his sandwich, he sat at his laptop and made a list of the car descriptions and plate numbers he’d photographed in the shopping center and near the inn. He kicked himself for not paying attention to the Impala, but he was able to get the other cars’ plates from the pictures he’d taken.

He didn’t have a printer, so he sent an e-mail to himself that he could print later. Then he’d see if Hayes could run the plates and find out who owned the cars parked near the abandoned inn.

He finished the sandwich and wiped his fingers on a napkin before running a search of medical facilities in the area, just in case the silver Impala was somehow connected to his sighting of Jennifer. His search, which included the greater L.A. area, came up with hundreds of names.

There had to be a way of narrowing it.

He finished his soda, rattled the ice in the cup, and thought about the cars in the parking lot, a fixation, he decided, but something to work with.

He doubted the driver of the Impala was from San Juan Capistrano, so he centered his search in L.A. Culver City was an obvious choice, but too obvious. Again, the list was long.

Frowning, he leaned back in his desk chair and stared at the screen. What was it about that permit on the Chevy that bugged him?

Something unique. It had been faded and sun-bleached, the numbers nearly impossible to read, as if whomever had used the permit hadn’t updated it in a long while. Maybe a hospital worker who had retired, or moved to another job, or sold the car?

Tapping a pen on the desk, he closed his eyes, drawing up the image. There had been numbers and a date, and the name of the hospital, and something else…a logo or picture of…what? Some familiar symbol that scurried around in the dark, murky corners of his brain but wouldn’t come to the fore. Crap! He concentrated to no end. The symbol eluded him and he gave up. Sooner or later, he knew he’d remember something important about it.

He hoped.

He wadded up the trash from his meal, tossed it into a wastebasket. After cranking up the A/C a few notches cooler, he did some exercises on a towel stretched over the thin carpet. His leg already hurt, but he kept at it until his muscles ached and he was sweating. Finally he gave up on the repetitions and hit the shower.

With his tiny, complimentary bar of soap and a thimbleful of generic shampoo, he washed off the grime, dust, and sweat of the day. The spray was weak, but warm, and he let the water run over his hip and knee, both of which were beginning to throb and remind him that he was getting old, hadn’t yet recovered. He couldn’t go chasing ghosts upstairs and across courtyards and through dirty, dark corridors and expect not to pay the price.

He managed to dry himself with another impossibly thin towel, then flopped onto the bed and used the remote to turn on the TV.

He found a station with “breaking news.”

Video of a crime scene. The camera panned an overpass of the freeway, police officers worked a roped-off area, a warehouse behind a reporter in a blue jacket. Holding a microphone and staring soberly into the camera, she said, “Today, here in a storage unit beneath the 110 freeway, officers discovered a grisly scene. The bodies of two girls, whom sources have revealed are sisters-twins-were discovered, victims of a tragic double murder.”

“What?” Bentz froze, his hand still holding the remote, his gaze riveted to the tiny screen.

“The names of the victims have been withheld pending notification of next of kin. A source close to the investigation, speaking on the condition of anonymity, told us that the girls had been reported missing early this morning, the day of their twenty-first birthdays.” The reporter paused meaningfully, then added, “Unfortunately, they never made it to their party, the one they had planned to celebrate with family and close friends.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Bentz sat bolt upright and stared at the TV. Déjà vu cast a stranglehold on his throat. Twins? On their twenty-first birthday? The footage changed to a different camera angle and Bentz watched as Detective Andrew Bledsoe, a few pounds heavier than Bentz remembered, flecks of gray showing in his black hair, talked to the reporter. Bledsoe, appearing serious and troubled, offered her nothing concrete, but Bentz knew the truth.

He fell back on his cheap pillow and felt sick inside.

The cops weren’t saying much, but Bentz could read between the lines.

The Los Angeles Police Department feared that the Twenty-one killer, the madman who had taken lives in the past and gotten away with it, was back.

And back with a vengeance.