Malice. Lisa Jackson
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help. Hayes poured out a few and popped them into his mouth, downing them with the remainder of this morning’s coffee, the dregs of which had settled into the bottom of his travel cup. The taste was bitter, but tolerable. He slid his shades onto his nose, glanced in his rearview, checking traffic, then eased onto the street.
If Rick Bentz was in L.A., something was coming down.
Something that wasn’t good.
I really have to congratulate myself.
Job well done!
Rick Hot-Fucking-Shot Bentz is back in L.A.!
No big surprise there.
Like a hungry lion leaping onto a weak gazelle, Rick Bentz took the bait. Just in time.
I check the calendar and nod to myself. Feel a little thrill race down my spine. It didn’t take long and he’s still recuperating, not quite agile or fleet-footed, still using a cane, which is just damned perfect. I can’t help but experience a wave of pride. In myself. Not just for this, his return, but for my patience. I had to wait until the timing was right, but now I think I can pour myself a drink, a strong one.
Let’s see…how about a martini? That would be fitting. I walk to the bar and find the vodka and curse myself for being out of olives. Oh, damn…well, who cares? I find the vermouth and pour just a whisper, then shake the concoction with ice and pour…mmm. Since there are no olives I settle for a twist of lemon…perfect.
I walk to the full-length mirror, where I see myself and lift my glass toward the woman in the glass. She’s beautiful. Tall. Willowy. The ravages of age not yet apparent. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders in easy waves. Her smile is infectious, her eyes those of a woman who knows what she wants and always gets it.
“To new beginnings,” I say, touching the rim of my glass to the mirror and hearing the soft little click of glass on glass. “You and I, we’ve waited a long time for this.”
“That we have. But no longer,” she replies, arched eyebrows lifting conspiratorially.
I tingle inside knowing that everything we—I—have worked for is about to come to fruition.
The window is open and I feel evening settling in the rising moon, a ghostly crescent glowing in the twilight sky.
“Cheers,” my reflection says back to me, her eyes twinkling in naughty anticipation as she holds her glass aloft. “May we be successful.”
“Oh, we will,” I assure her, smiling as she grins back at me. “We will.” Then we drink as one, feeling the cool cocktail slide so easily down our throats. Together we think of Rick Bentz.
Handsome in a rugged way. Athletic and muscular rather than thin. With a square jaw and eyes that could cut through any kind of lie, he’s smart and pensive, his emotions usually under tight rein.
And yet he has an Achilles heel.
One that will bring him down.
“Bravo,” I say to the mirror. Because I know that soon, that sick son of a bitch will get his.
CHAPTER 6
Bentz had a lot of ground to cover and he didn’t want to waste time.
First things first: He had to find a place to stay. He decided to stick close to where he’d lived with Jennifer and in the area of the zip code on the envelope that had been sent to him.
Though hotel prices in Southern California were through the roof, he found a motel in the older part of Culver City that advertised, “inexpensive, clean rooms.” The So-Cal Inn was a long, low-lying stucco building that, he guessed, was built in the decade after World War II, and offered, along with weekly rates, a swimming pool, air-conditioned rooms, cable TV, and wi-fi. The place also claimed to be “pet and kid friendly.”
Everything he needed and more.
Bentz parked in front and walked into the small reception area, where a glass pot of coffee sat congealing on a hot plate. A kid who looked no more than fourteen was working, fiddling with the remote to a television mounted on the wall over a display of brochures for activities in the area. “Mom,” the teen yelled toward a half-open door behind the long desk, then pointed the remote at the television and pressed down over and over again, in rapid-fire succession, with the agility of the generation that grew up with text messaging and video games. However, the TV channel or volume didn’t change and the boy’s frustration was evidenced in his red cheeks and set jaw.
As Bentz reached the counter a woman slipped through the open door. Her red hair was piled high on her head, her mascara so thick her eyelids appeared weighted down. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. Perfumed by cigarette smoke, she was trim and lithe in shorts and a print top that wrapped around her chest to tie under one arm. Pinned over one of her breasts was a nametag that read: REBECCA ALLISON—MANAGER. “Can I help you?” she asked, her shiny lips curving into a friendly smile.
“Lookin’ for a room. For one. Nothing fancy.”
“We have a few that have wonderful views of the pool,” she said, quickly flipping into salesperson mode. “They’ve each got a sliding door to a private sitting area that opens up to the pool.”
“Are they the cheapest?”
Her smile didn’t falter. “Well, no. If you’d like something less expensive, I’ve got several that overlook the parking lot,” and she quoted him the daily and weekly rates.
“One of those will do fine,” he said. “For the week.”
“Great.” She ran his credit card while the kid muttered something under his breath about friggin’ cheap-ass remotes, and the deal was sealed.
Rebecca sent the boy a sharp look, then turned back to Bentz. “Here’s a map of the area. We serve a continental breakfast here from six until ten in the morning, and coffee’s available all day.”
He resisted another glance at the sludge pot.
“If you need anything, just call the main desk.”
“This damned thing—” the kid said.
“Tony!” Rebecca said sharply. “Enough.”
The boy went immediately into pout mode, turning his back on his mother and shaking the remote as if he could somehow make the bad connections spark.
Bentz walked out and squinted into the white haze. For the next week, at least, he was a resident of Southern California.
Hayes strode across the lush lawn in front of his ex-wife’s apartment as the sun settled over the hills to the west. He clicked the remote lock for his SUV and nearly ran into a woman walking two beagles who tugged their leashes taut. “Hey, watch it,” she said, sending him a withering glare. He barely noticed as he yanked open the driver’s door.
The interior of his car was blistering, the steering wheel almost too hot to touch. But the temperature inside his 4Runner was nothing compared to the heat churning in his gut. Jesus, he was mad. Who the hell did Delilah think she was, pulling out of the marriage because she couldn’t hack being married to a cop any longer? She’d known he was a career man with the LAPD when she’d married him twelve years ago.
But then she’d been pregnant.
And they’d both wanted the kid.
That part, he thought, considering his daughter, they’d gotten right. The rest had been up and down, a roller-coaster ride exacerbated by his career and Delilah’s mood swings.
So now they were divorced. Shit. Making him a two-time loser. He’d already been married once before to Alonda, his college sweetheart. That had ended when he’d found her in bed with her best friend and she’d admitted to him that she was gay. Had been all along. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him, but…
Great.
He’d stormed