Malice. Lisa Jackson
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by the cracked sidewalks and wrought-iron bars on some windows.
His old house looked pretty much the same. Sometime in the past twelve years, it had been painted a dove gray, but now was in dire need of another coat. The garage door was blistered and didn’t quite close, the yard overgrown and dry. Weeds turned brown in the sun-bleached bark chips near the tired front porch. A FOR RENT sign was wedged into the grass, but it too was fading beneath the intense California sun.
Leaving his cane in the rental, Bentz walked around the house and peered through the dirty windows to spy dusty floors and dingy walls, some the same color they had been a dozen years earlier. Stepping backward and shading his eyes, he gazed up to the window and was bombarded by memories of images within his former bedroom, the scene he’d walked into more than a decade ago. Twisted sheets of the unmade bed and slivers of broken glass spattered beneath the gaping hole where a mirror once hung. In his mind he retraced the path to the spare bedroom on the second floor, the guest room Jennifer had used as her office. He remembered that it had taken a while to find the note that she’d left, not in an obvious location on a table or a counter, but tucked away in her desk drawer, written to Kristi and signed in Jennifer’s flowing hand.
He’d always wondered about that.
The suicide note to their daughter that had been tucked away in the pages of the latest self-help book Jennifer had been reading. The Power of Me, or something just as self-centered.
All the advice in the world hadn’t helped his screwed-up ex-wife.
But she hadn’t left the note out in the open.
As if she’d had second thoughts.
Or was waiting. Hadn’t yet made a final decision.
At the time he’d discovered the note he’d pushed aside the nagging questions and had rationalized that in her pursuit of death, as in so many facets of her life, Jennifer had done a lousy job. But now he had renewed doubts. What if Jennifer’s death hadn’t been suicide? What if she hadn’t been driving the car? What if the woman he’d identified as his wife and buried six feet under had been someone else?
Just who was decomposing in that grave?
His gut twisted at the thought and he didn’t let his mind wander too far down that dark, rocky path.
He returned to the Escape and drove nearly five miles to a cemetery, the spot where he’d thought Jennifer had been laid to rest. Parking in the shade of a live oak tree, he fished out his wallet and found a battered card for Detective Jonas Hayes of the LAPD. He’d carried the damned card around for twelve years and remembered the day Hayes had pressed the card into his palm. “Hey, if you ever need anything,” he’d said after the burial as clouds had rolled in and rain had started to fall. So long ago…and now Bentz wondered if Jennifer were truly entombed in the casket lying under the granite headstone.
He walked through the drying grass and found the plot, read the simple inscription, and felt a strange pang in his heart. Had he made a mistake? Did the corpse beneath his feet belong to someone else? He glared down at the grass, as if he could see through the sod and six feet of dry earth to the casket where a woman’s body had been decomposing for twelve long years.
A whisper of a breeze slid across the back of his neck and the scent of gardenias was suddenly heavy in the air. Did he hear someone whisper his name? He turned, expecting to see Jennifer beckoning with that come-hither naughty smile that had been her trademark. But she wasn’t leaning against one of the taller headstones, her auburn hair shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. Nor was she standing anywhere within the wrought-iron fencing surrounding the silent graveyard.
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