“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Otherwise you’re chasing a ghost.”
Bentz scowled. Felt the heat of Montoya’s stare. “I’m not chasing a ghost.”
“Then?”
“And I’m not going out of my mind.”
“Which leaves…what? You believe that someone’s dressing up to look like your ex and then gaslighting you? Is that what you’re thinking, that you’re caught up in some kind of weird scenario straight out of a Hitchcock movie?”
“As I said, I don’t know what to believe.”
“You tell this to Olivia?”
“No.” He looked away. “Not yet.”
“Afraid she might have you committed?” One of Montoya’s dark eyebrows raised as he finished his coffee.
“Nah, just that she wouldn’t understand.”
“Hell, I don’t understand.”
“Exactly.”
Pushing his empty cup aside and resting his elbow on the table, Montoya asked, “So what do you want me to do?”
“Keep it quiet. For now. But I might need some favors.”
“Such as?”
“A few things. Since I’m on leave, I can’t get information as easily as before. I might need you to do some digging.”
“In finding this woman?”
“Maybe,” Bentz said. “For starters, I’ll need someone to have this letter fingerprinted and checked for DNA—lift the stamp and the envelope flap. Can you get me a copy of everything?”
“Sure.” Montoya looked at the document.
“And have the lab check, see if the photographs have been altered. They should be able to tell, right?”
“Probably.” He eyed the pictures. “At least I’ll give the lab guys a run at it. There’s one tech—Ralph Lee—specializes in all kinds of photography.”
“Good. After I take copies, have him look at the originals. Blow them up, sharpen the focus if possible, find details that might help me pinpoint the locations and time they were taken. See if there are street names, license plate numbers, clocks on the buildings, or the position of the sun, anything that confirms the time and date of the original pictures.”
Montoya frowned. “What’re you gonna do with the copies?”
“Not sure. I’m still working on it.”
Bentz returned the eight-by-tens and the death certificate to the manila envelope. He wasn’t even certain himself what he needed, not yet, but he was sick of jumping at shadows, of feeling that his brain was fraying, bit by bit. He just couldn’t sit back and let whoever was behind this run with it. “So, for now, don’t say anything. If Jaskiel or anyone else at the department thinks I’ve been seeing things, it’ll take a whole lotta convincing for me to get back to work.”
Montoya scratched at his chin and pushed his chair back, the diamond stud in his earlobe catching the light.
Bentz saw a flicker of doubt in his partner’s dark eyes. “You don’t believe me.”
“Me? A doubter? No way. Not my style.” He offered a quick, hard-edged Montoya grin. “But as you said earlier, it’s strange. I’m like you. I don’t know what to believe.”
T
he postmark from Southern California really bothered Bentz. Burned in his brain as he drove away from Bourbon Street. He’d found a Quickie Print and taken several copies of the photographs and death certificate, even using the enhance and enlarge options to get more definition. Then he’d handed the originals to Montoya.
He was convinced that someone from his past, or Jennifer’s past, was tracking him down. But who? Why? And why screw with his mind?
He slowed for a red light, brooding as the Jeep idled. Overhead, dark clouds scudded slowly across the sky and the smell of the Mississippi River reached his nostrils through the open window.
He remembered Jennifer’s image as she’d stood in the woods skirting his backyard. So close to his house—Olivia’s home. And now the photographs. He glanced to the passenger seat. The picture of Jennifer crossing the street met his eye. Either the woman in the photo was his ex-wife or a dead ringer.
Ghosts don’t show in photographs.
Crazy manifestations aren’t real images and therefore cannot be caught on film.
So she was real?
His gut tightened.
So who had been in the backyard of his home, the house that Olivia had brought into the marriage? All in all, this latest encounter was too close for comfort. Too close to Olivia.
He didn’t like the thought of his wife being dragged into this, whatever the hell it was. She lived here, too, and just the inkling of her safety being the least bit compromised didn’t set well. Olivia had always felt safe at this house. Though Hairy S was useless as a guard dog, they did have a security system Bentz had insisted she install years ago. They rarely used it, but that would have to change.
The light turned green and he waited for an elderly woman on a scooter who was still in the crosswalk. Once she’d eased out of the way, he took the corner fast, then stood on the brakes. A jaywalking teenage boy in a baggy T-shirt and shorts loped across the pavement while plugged into his iPod. The kid never noticed that Bentz had nearly mowed him over.
Bentz cruised past the station and noted that Brinkman had parked in the spot Bentz usually claimed. No big surprise there; Brinkman, though a good cop, was always a pain in the ass. And who could blame the prick? It’s not as if Bentz could use it anyway. “Have at,” he said, then drove to a coffee shop with Internet access. He linked up as he sipped iced coffee. Crunching ice cubes, he searched for any information he could find on his first wife, even Googled himself in the process. For the most part, he was considered a hero, having solved more than one serial murder case since being hired by the New Orleans PD.
But there was some bad press, too. From L.A., stories surrounding a cop with a tarnished badge, who had left the department with a high-profile case still unsolved.
Then there was the shooting when he’d mistaken a twelve-year-old boy with a toy gun for a killer intending to take down his partner. Bentz had warned the kid, then fired.
The boy, Mario Valdez, had been pronounced DOA at the hospital.
Bentz had poured himself into a bottle and, his badge blackened, had left the department. Thankfully Melinda Jaskiel here in New Orleans had seen fit to give him a second chance.
So he’d relocated.
The rest, as they said, was history.
And now someone was intentionally drawing him back to L.A. He didn’t doubt for a second that whoever was behind the photos and mutilated death certificate was intentionally luring him to Southern California.
But
why?
And
why now?
He finished his coffee, then phoned Montoya’s cell and left a message on his voice mail asking Montoya to return the call. He scanned the small bistro where people clustered around tall café tables or sat in overstuffed chairs near the window. Two women in their forties were sharing a doughnut. Three teenagers, a boy and two girls, were slouched in the big chairs and sipping mocha-looking drinks piled high with whipped cream drizzled with chocolate. Without a break in their conversation they were all sending text messages at the speed of light.
Fortunately, his first wife—or her ghost—was nowhere to be seen.
Not that he’d be surprised when she showed up again.
However the answer to the enigma of Jennifer rested in California. He pulled out the photos again. Definitely L.A. There was a palm tree visible in the corner of the shot of her running across the street, and a California license plate on a parked car. In the photo of her in the coffee shop, there was a bit of a street sign visible and he saw the letters
ado Aven.
Some avenue, probably. It could be many places, he thought, but his mind raced, old memories surfacing. Mercado, or Loredo or…His stomach dropped as he thought of Colorado Avenue in Santa Monica.
If that was it, someone was really screwing with him.
He and Jennifer had spent a lot of Saturday afternoons at the Third Street Promenade just off Santa Monica Boulevard. About a block and one major shopping mall away from Colorado Avenue. If he remembered right, the mall was accessible from Colorado. He felt that little buzz, like a caffeine rush, at the thought that he was connecting the dots.
Too easily.
He wasn’t that smart.
But it was true that Santa Monica, with its outdoor shopping area, long beach, and trendy restaurants, had been one of Jennifer’s favorite cities, and significant to them as a couple.
“Crap.” He rubbed a hand around the back of his neck and knew that, like it or not, he had to return to Southern California.
Someone was luring him.
Someone wanted him back.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. He’d left a lot of turmoil in Southern California. A lot. Most of it unresolved. Few people in the LAPD were sorry to see him leave.
And now he was seeing ghosts and getting anonymous mail from the area near his former residence, a place he’d sworn never to set foot in again.
Something definitely smelled rotten in the Golden State.
And he needed to find out what it was, even if that meant he was playing right into some sicko’s hands. That bugged the shit out of him, but there was no way around it.
He clicked off the computer and realized Olivia was due to clock out at the shop in fifteen minutes. Which was perfect. Like it or not, it was time to tell her what the hell was going on.
Outside, the day had taken a turn for the worse, the clouds overhead thickening darkly. The air was dense and sultry, threatening a storm. He climbed into his car, rolled up the windows, and drove toward the French Quarter, where he managed to find a parking spot two blocks from Jackson Square.
Using his damned cane, he made his way to the shop, little more than a tourist trap, at least in his opinion. Olivia liked meeting people and working with Tawilda, a thin, elegant black woman who had been at the store forever, and Manda, a later addition to the staff at the Third Eye. So Livvie had decided to stay on while finishing school and setting up her practice.
The place gave Bentz the creeps.
The little storefront was filled with shelves displaying an assortment of New Age crystals, religious artifacts, books on voodoo, Mardi Gras beads, and tiny alligator heads complete with glittering eyes. Then there were the dolls—all kinds of dolls that reminded him of dead children with their painted faces, false smiles, and eyes that were shuttered by squared-off fake lashes. The dolls were a recent addition to the store and, according to Olivia, a hit, the rare, high-priced ones boosting the shop’s profits.
Bentz didn’t get it.
He’d once made the mistake of asking, “Who the hell buys this voodoo garbage?”
Olivia, standing at the kitchen window while adding seeds to her parrot’s feeder, hadn’t been offended. She’d just looked over her shoulder, offered him an enigmatic smile, and said, “You wouldn’t want to know. Careful, Bentz, someone you crossed or sent up the river might want to place a hex on you.”
“I don’t believe in that crap.”
“Not yet. Just wait until you break out in a rash, or…your eyes turn red, or…oh, I don’t know…you lose your ability to make love, even to the point that your favorite appendage just drops off,” she’d teased, raising a naughty eyebrow. That was all it had taken.
“You’re asking for it,” he’d warned, advancing on her.
“Oh, yeah, and who’s gonna give it to me?”
He’d grabbed her then, swept her off her feet, while the seeds scattered over the counter and floor. Chia had squawked and the dog had barked crazily as Bentz carried his wife up the stairs. Squealing, Olivia had laughed, her sandals falling to clatter noisily on the steps.
Once he’d reached the bedroom, he’d kicked the door closed and fallen with her onto the bed. Then he’d gone about showing her that his male parts were still very much fully attached and working just fine.
God, he loved her, he thought now as the first drops of the rain fell from the leaden sky and he made his way along the busy sidewalk skirting Jackson Square. Yet now their relationship was strained and lacked the vitality, the easy, flirtatious fun that had once infused it.
There was still passion; just not the spontaneity or quirky playfulness that they’d enjoyed.
And whose fault is that, Detective Superhero?
His leg began to ache as he walked past the open doors of restaurants, hardly noticing the strains of jazz music and the peppery scents of Cajun cooking that wafted into the street.
He had considered confiding in her about the whole weird Jennifer thing, but he’d never been much of a talker, wasn’t a person who expressed all his hopes and fears. Now all that had changed. Push was definitely coming to shove.
He wended through a collection of artists displaying their work on the outside of the wrought iron fence surrounding the square. As a saxophone player blew out a familiar song, his case open for donations, a tarot reader was hard at work laying down cards in front of a twenty-something eagerly listening to the fortune-teller’s every word.
Another day in the Quarter.
As the rain fell, Bentz crossed the street behind a horse-drawn carriage, then stepped into the open doorway of the Third Eye. Olivia was just ringing up a sale, several T-shirts, a little box of sand complete with stones and a rake for relaxation, and a baby alligator head. Along with two antique looking, frozen-faced dolls.
Eyeing the ghoulish merchandise, Bentz thought it was high time his wife started expanding her psychology practice. Time to get out of this shop of weird artifacts and start talking to people with problems.
“Hey.” Olivia spied Bentz as he tried to move out of the way of the customer, a bag-toting woman who bustled past a display of oyster-shell art on her way to the door.
“Hey back at you.”
Olivia grinned, that same smile that could stop his heart. “What’re you doing here? Slumming?”
“Looking for a hot dinner date.”
“Moi?” she asked coyly, pointing an index finger at her chest.
Frowning thoughtfully, he pretended to look her over, head to toe. “Yeah, I guess you’ll do.”
“Nice, Bentz,” she said with an easy laugh. “I guess you’ll do, too.”
“Damned straight.”
“The male of the species, always so humble,” she said to Manda as she clocked out. That done, she crossed the shop and gave her husband a quick kiss on the cheek. “What’s this all about?”
“You asked me what was going on and I thought it’s time you knew.”
Her smile faded. “Should I be worried?”
He hesitated, wanting to reassure her. But in the end he decided to play it straight. “Not really. At least not yet and not about our relationship, but there is something pretty weird going on.” He spied her umbrella by the door and snagged it, then, taking the bend of her arm, escorted her out of the shop. Rain peppered the sidewalk and coursed through the gutters. Artists, tarot readers, musicians, and performers quickly covered their wares with plastic tarps or folded up their tables for the day before scurrying for cover.
Bentz opened the umbrella and held it high over Olivia’s head as they dashed along the sidewalk. Rain slid down his back as he tried like hell to avoid both puddles and pedestrians. A bicyclist raced by, cutting in and out of traffic. A horn blasted and somewhere a horse whinnied nervously.
In a second the shower turned into a downpour.
Half-running to the restaurant, Bentz felt the familiar pain in his hip, a constant reminder that he wasn’t a hundred percent.
The shoulders of his jacket and hems of his pant legs managed to get soaked despite his efforts.
Olivia was laughing, her eyes sparkling with wicked delight at being caught in the storm. “You’re soaked,” she said as they reached the doorway of the restaurant.
“That’s because I was being gallant and keeping you dry.”
“Which I appreciate. Thanks.” She winked at him. “I’ll return the favor sometime.”
“Yeah, right.” Beneath the cover of a striped awning, Bentz shook the rain from the umbrella, then held the door for her. Inside, tiny lights were strung from the open rafters, appearing like stars over head, and the walls were paneled with warm reddish wood complimenting areas of exposed brick.
A hostess led them to a far corner where they were seated at a window table. Outside the rain continued to pour down, gunmetal-gray clouds huddling over the city, water running wildly in the gutters. Inside, beneath lazy paddle fans a waiter brought water and menus, then lit the single candle before promising to return.
“So, about what’s happening,” Olivia prodded, once they were alone again. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like it?”
“Because you’re a very smart woman.”
“Mmm.”
“And you’re some kind of kook psychic.”
“Whom you love,” she reminded him.
“Right.”
“Make that adore.”
“Now you’re pushing it.”
“You’re avoiding the subject.”
“Waiting for the right moment,” he said, eyeing the menu and not bringing up Jennifer until after they ordered. Once the waiter had re treated again, Bentz laid it all out. He started with the moment he’d woken up in the hospital and felt the drop in temperature before witnessing his dead wife in the doorway. He told Olivia about the other sightings as well. Finally, he admitted to spying Jennifer again just off the veranda a few days earlier, then just recently receiving the marred death certificate and photographs.