“N
o way he’s going to have his wife’s body exhumed.” Bledsoe barked out a laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Bentz has really lost it.”
“He could petition as a family member,” Jonas Hayes said while pouring himself another cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchen area of the squad room. Why he was defending a man who had yanked him all the way down to Santa Monica at night to work things out with their PD, Hayes didn’t understand. He must really hate himself.
“
Ex
-family member,” Bledsoe reminded him, rankling Hayes even further.
Hayes had always thought Bentz got a raw deal way back when, blamed for not solving the Caldwell case and shooting a kid while protecting his partner. Yeah, the guy got jammed up with the department. But those mistakes didn’t add up to making him the scapegoat for everything bad that had happened in homicide twelve years earlier.
Hayes stared down into his inky coffee. “If he finds out it’s not his ex-wife in that grave—”
“It’s her, for chrissakes! He fuckin’ identified her. Why the hell are you playing fuckin’ devil’s advocate?” From his chair at a table with the
L.A. Times
spread across it, Bledsoe pointed at the carafe in Hayes’s hands. “Any more in that?”
“Empty.”
“Shit.”
“You could make some more,” Martinez suggested as she walked into the kitchen and rinsed out her cup.
“Yeah, right.” Bledsoe snorted at the idea.
“Have you ever made the coffee?” she demanded.
“Yeah, I think so…back in ninety-seven,” Bledsoe said with a snicker.
Paula Sweet, a detective who sometimes worked with the K-9 Division, swept into the lunchroom. “I remember that.” In her mid-thirties, Sweet had been divorced twice, seemed content to be on her own, and was known to take in stray dogs and cats. She glanced at Martinez. “Believe me, you don’t want Bledsoe anywhere near the coffeepot.”
“Hey! It wasn’t that bad.”
Sweet gave him the you-are-so-full-of-it stare. “No, it was worse. You got the crossword in there?” She was already pushing pages aside, searching for a section of the newspaper.
“Somewhere.” Bledsoe shrugged and turned his attention back to Hayes. “Maybe an exhumation wouldn’t be such a bad idea. We pop the coffin, take some DNA samples, and find out the corpse inside is really his ex-old lady. Then Bentz can crawl back under the rock he came from.”
“If
it’s her,” Hayes said.
“Don’t tell me you’re buying his crap now.” Bledsoe snorted in disgust. “Of course it’s her. As I said, he positively identified her. Him.” He pushed his chair back so hard it scraped against the floor. “Once a bad cop, always a bad cop.”
“Ouch.” Sweet found the section of the paper she wanted and swept it off Bledsoe’s table. “Didn’t mean to tick him off,” she said to the room as a whole.
Bledsoe scowled, obviously disgusted that no one was jumping on his let’s-all-blame-Rick Bentz bandwagon.
“Don’t worry about it.” Martinez grabbed the empty pot and began rinsing it. “He’s always in a bad mood.”
“And you’re always a bitch.”
Martinez swallowed a smile, pleased that she’d goaded him. “Don’t ever want to disappoint,” she mocked.
“I’m outta here. I have work to do.” The senior detective left the table in a mess and strode out.
“And good riddance,” Sweet whispered, glancing conspiratorially at Martinez, who grinned even more widely.
Hayes rubbed the back of his neck. He understood the tension in the air.
It was late in the day. Everyone in the homicide area of the Robbery-Homicide Division had been logging in overtime. The detectives’ nerves were strung tight as bowstrings, their tempers pushed to the limit. Because the truth of the matter was that they were getting nowhere fast solving the Springer twins’ homicides.
Yeah, it hadn’t been long since the murders had been committed, but not one solid lead had developed. No one had seen anything, heard anything out of the ordinary, or sensed anything was wrong. Interviews with friends, family, and neighbors had produced zero suspects. They had zippo to go on. The press was squeezing their public information officer, and in the meantime they’d dragged the old Caldwell twins case back to page one.
All the attention to the Springer twins’ double homicide didn’t change the fact that it was just one of many as yet unsolved homicides. Some were older, others fresh. A domestic violence homicide had happened just last night while Hayes had been in Santa Monica, saving Rick Bentz’s ass, as well as trying to convince him to go home.
In the domestic case, the husband was the primary suspect, his wife of three years the victim. Then there was the nineteen-year-old kid in the morgue who’d taken five to the chest in the early hours of the morning.
All those were just the tip of the iceberg.
Everyone’s caseload was getting heavier by the second.
Hayes walked back to his desk, glanced at the clock, and inwardly groaned. He wouldn’t be home early tonight, and he’d probably have to cancel his plans with Corrine.
She would understand, of course, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be a little pissed.
He settled into his desk chair and started clicking through pictures of the Springer crime scene, trying to see something new. He flipped to the statements of the people closest to the girls, including the last people to see them alive. In Elaine’s case, it was her roommate, Trisha Lamont, who had caught a glimpse of Elaine, or “Laney,” as Trisha called her, cutting across the quad after their last class together. Trisha had assumed she’d gone straight home, and no other evidence or statements discounted that.
He checked the statement from Cody Wyatt, who, according to Trisha, was the closest thing to a boyfriend Laney had. But Wyatt hadn’t seen Laney since early morning when they’d met for coffee at the student union the day she’d been abducted.
The person who’d found the bodies, Felicia Katz, was a blank; seemed like the girl was just unlucky enough to have her storage unit next door to the crime scene.
There was one guy, Phillip Armes, who had been walking his dog in the park near Lucille Springer’s apartment. He claimed to have seen a tall man whose race was undetermined walk across the street toward Lucille’s apartment house. But it had been far away, dark, and old Phillip was pushing eighty with thick glasses. Not much of a witness. Lucille’s neighbors hadn’t heard or seen anything, but scuff marks on the porch of the girl’s apartment might be consistent with an attack.
The only sure thing was that Lucille and Elaine had been text-messaging that night. Around the time Phillip Armes said he’d seen Lucille with the guy following her, she’d been busily sending messages to her sister. Both cell phones had been discovered at the kill site, their messages intact, messages that corresponded to the records obtained from the cell phone company.
The bastard who had abducted Elaine had sent a picture of her, trussed and terrified, to Lucille just before the attack.
Twelve years ago, during the Caldwell investigation, the victims didn’t have cell phones. It was one deviation from the current crime, but you could chalk it up to recent changes in technology, availability, and pop culture. That one factor was about the only difference in the crimes, though the Caldwell twins had been left in an abandoned warehouse, and the Springer girls were found in a storage unit.
Hayes was eyeing the reports, tapping the eraser end of a pencil against his lips, only vaguely aware of people coming and going. He felt, rather than saw, Dawn Rankin stop by his desk. Her purse was in one hand, a sweater tossed over her arm, as if she intended to leave for the day. “Guess who I got a call from?” she asked, her tone serious.
“I give.”
“Donovan Caldwell. Remember? The brother of the victims?”
“Yeah?”
She had his attention now and she knew it. Her big smile showed a bit of a gap between her front teeth. “He’s calling up with the same old story his family used to peddle; that we haven’t done enough. Now two more innocent lives have been lost because we’re inept and blah, blah, blah.”
“After twelve years.”
“Yeah.” She nodded.
“Just like Bentz.”
“What?”
“He shows up and the killer strikes again. What’s that all about?”
“Two separate instances.”
“Maybe.”
She bit her lip as she thought. “I’m not sure. As Bledsoe pointed out—only if you believe in coincidence. Me?” She frowned darkly as she walked away. “I’m betting there’s a connection.”
Hayes watched her go and reminded himself she had a personal ax to grind with Bentz, as did Bledsoe and a few others. Could it be that Hayes’s faith in the guy was unfounded? Even his old partner, Russ Trinidad, wanted nothing to do with Bentz. “I hate to say it,” Trinidad had confided in Hayes just this morning, “but the guy’s bad news. I already told you I’m too damned close to retirement to get caught up in his mess. He wants to dig up his ex-wife? Fine. But leave me out of it.”
Maybe Bledsoe had a point, Hayes thought, tossing his pencil onto the desk. It might be best if Bentz dug up Jennifer’s corpse, had a DNA test done, and settled the matter once and for all.
If Jennifer Bentz was buried in that casket, all well and good. And if she wasn’t?
He figured it was nothing short of the damned gates of hell opening.
The school was a long, low brick structure that could have been a county building in the Midwest except for the shady row of royal palms lining the drive. Also, one of the two flags gave the location away. Alongside the stars and stripes of Old Glory waved the flag for the state of California with its field of white and large grizzly bear in the foreground.
Bentz drove slowly past the main doors of the school. He avoided the bus-only lane and passed a long porch designated as the student pickup and drop-off area. On the far side of the drive he located a parking lot marked
FACULTY ONLY
.
Ignoring the sign, he pulled into an empty spot, cut the engine, and waited. From his vantage point he viewed one long wing of the school and beyond it caught a glimpse of the curved end of a track.
He had a hankering for a smoke. Maybe it because of the butt he’d smoked last night on the beach. Or maybe it was because he was so close to a middle school, where, at twelve, he had coughed his way through his first cigarette.
School was out, the area devoid of any but a few kids with backpacks or skateboards making their way across the adjoining lots and sidewalks.
Bentz figured most of the teachers and administrators were still inside finishing up, making lesson plans for the next day, correcting papers, or whatever it was that teachers did.
In groups of two or three, or even singles, members of the staff filtered out. They were chatting, laughing, rattling keys, and putting on sunglasses. A few looked at him quizzically, probably making note of his license plate and features…a lone guy hanging around near a school.
One prim woman dressed in a red skirt, white shirt, and blue over-blouse seemed ready to accost him. Even her sandals had the patriotic theme down, straps of red, white, and blue surrounding her feet. However instead of confronting him, she gave him an icy glare reserved for the likes of a pedophile, then climbed into her green Honda and roared off. She was adjusting the earbud of her cell phone, ready to make a call. Bentz figured she might be dialing 9-1-1 and the police might show up to question or arrest him at any second.
Have at,
he thought watching a scrap of paper kick up in her wake.
Before the cavalry arrived, though, Bentz noticed Tally White emerge through the glass doors. She was walking alongside another teacher and they were engrossed in their conversation. Tally was tall, nearly five-ten, and had put on a few pounds over the years. She’d always been a little too thin, runner-lean, but now curves were evident beneath her peach slacks and matching shell. Her brown hair showed bits of gray and was cut into one of those wedge hairdos, where the back is shorter than the sides.
Her friend was a good five inches shorter than she, a square-bodied black woman whose oversized sunglasses hid half her face. Wild corkscrew curls were untamed by the headband that forced them away from her forehead. The two teachers were laughing and talking, lugging book bags and heading toward cars parked a few spaces from him.
“Showtime,” he told himself as he stepped out of the car and said, “Hi, Tally.”
She looked away from her companion, and upon spying Bentz, nearly tripped.
“Oh, God. Rick?” She wasn’t sure and squinted, as if she needed glasses. “Rick Bentz?”
“Good to see you.”
“But why are you…? I mean I know you called and I should have phoned you back, but I didn’t know you were here, in California.” She glanced nervously around the parking lot, as if looking for an escape route, or that she was afraid someone might see her speaking with him. She visibly squared her shoulders as if ready to take on the world. Or at least Bentz’s part of it. “Wow. I…I never thought I’d see you again.”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “About Jennifer.”
Beneath her tan she seemed to pale and she glanced around the emptying parking lot. A minivan with two men in the front seat slid out the gate. “Here?”
“I’d buy you a cup of coffee. Or a glass of wine?”
“Uh, no…” She suddenly remembered her coworker. “Oh. Sherilou,” Tally said, motioning toward Rick with the fingers of the hand holding onto the book bag. “This is Rick Bentz, an old…the husband of one of my friends. Rick—Sherilou. She and I both teach English.”
Sherilou shifted her purse and books, then shook hands with Bentz. “Glad to meet you,” she said, though it was a patent lie. Her eyes were filled with suspicion and her handshake was weak. Unsure.
“I’d better scoot,” Sherilou said with a false smile at Rick.
“Nice to meet you,” Bentz said as sun glinted off the hood of Tally’s VW.
“You, too.” To Tally, she added, “Look, I’ve got to get going.”