Malice. Lisa Jackson
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eternity,” she whispered. For a moment he almost bought into her act, but she blew it by chuckling. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help that.”
He swallowed a smile. At least she was joking, kidding around with him. “Okay, fair enough. You got me.”
“So what do you know?”
“Nothing yet.” They talked a few minutes and she told him she’d had dinner with Lydia Kane, a friend she’d met while in grad school. He gave her the name and number of his motel and promised to call her the next day.
“Be careful,” she said. “To be honest, I don’t know what to wish for. That you find Jennifer is dead and that someone is just playing a sick game with you…or that she’s really alive.”
“Either way will be messy.”
“I know. I mean it, Rick. Don’t take too many chances. We need you.”
“We?”
She hesitated just a second. “Yeah, all of us. Kristi and me, well, and Hairy S and Chia, too.”
“I’ll be home soon,” he promised, but they both knew he was just placating her. He had no idea when he’d return to New Orleans.
“Just let me know how many wild geese you catch.”
“Funny girl.”
“Sometimes,” she said.
“Most of the time. I’ll call you.”
He hung up and considered taking the next plane east. Why not? She was right. He was still chasing a ghost and he was either being set up or losing his mind.
He bet on the first.
And knew he was going to ride it out.
He had to.
CHAPTER 7
For Bentz, dinner consisted of the prepackaged cheese and crackers and diet Coke he found in the vending machine in the breezeway leading to the pool area.
He bit off the cellophane as he walked back to his room, then went to work. He’d already made lists of the people Jennifer had been closest to. He would start trying to track them down while munching on the oily crackers and processed cheddar.
He figured some of Jennifer’s nearest and dearest might still be in the area, so he could set up meetings. That was, if anyone was willing to talk with him. No doubt he’d be considered persona non grata with most of them. As for the acquaintances who had moved, he’d have to hunt for them and make an attempt to contact them by phone.
And what will you say to them? That you think you’ve seen Jennifer even though you buried her twelve years ago?
He didn’t have an answer for that one, he thought. He set up his laptop with its Internet card on the scarred Formica desk, cracked the blinds so that he could view the parking lot, and settled into the straight-backed chair.
Dredging a cracker through one of the tiny plastic troughs of cheese, he noticed a blue Pontiac from the late sixties pull into one of the parking slots. The guy behind the wheel, wearing a plaid driver’s cap and a goatee, grabbed a couple of bags from the front seat and climbed out. Immediately a tiny spotted dog that looked like it had a little bit of Jack Russell terrier in it hopped onto the pavement and danced at its owner’s feet. With surprising agility, the man locked the car with his key, then, whistling and calling to “Spike,” hauled his two plastic bags and a small briefcase into the room adjoining Bentz’s.
Once the door closed Bentz turned his attention back to the laptop and the issue at hand—Jennifer’s acquaintances. He’d have to play it by ear with them. He didn’t plan to tell any of Jennifer’s friends that he’d thought he’d seen her, not unless they volunteered some sort of information about fake “hauntings” first.
But getting them to open up would be a trick.
Anyone who knew anything about Jennifer’s death would have maintained silence for twelve years, keeping the truth not just from him but from his daughter and the police. Bentz, ex-cop and ex-husband, would be hard-pressed to pry anything from those who had known her.
He’d already put together a short list of friends pared down from all her known acquaintances. These women had been the closest to Jennifer. They would most understand her, most likely to have been her confidantes.
Shana Wynn, whose last married name he knew of was McIntyre, had been one of Jennifer’s best friends and, as Bentz recalled, a real bitch. Beautiful. Smart. Out for number one. She and Jennifer had been college roommates and they’d had a lot in common. If anyone knew that Jennifer had faked her own death, it would be Shana.
Tally White also made the “must interview” list. Tally’s daughter Melody had been a friend of Kristi’s in elementary school. Jennifer and Tally had gotten close. Real close. Both women had been divorced.
Fortuna Esperanzo had become a friend of Jennifer’s when they’d both worked briefly at an art gallery in Venice.
Then there was Lorraine Newell, Jennifer’s stepsister, who hadn’t liked Bentz from the get-go. A dark-haired prima donna with a princess complex, Lorraine hadn’t been particularly close to Jennifer, either, and hadn’t bothered to keep in contact with Kristi since Jennifer’s death.
There were others as well, but these four women were at the top of his list. He just had to find them. Which was easier said than done. So far his online searches had only turned up one plum: Shana McIntyre’s current address. He clicked open a file with information on her and jotted the street number and name on the envelope he used to carry his photos. Hopefully, Shana was in town and would be willing to see him when he paid her a visit.
Bentz slid the photos out of the envelope and fanned them out on the desk. Tapping the photo of Jennifer looking out of the coffee shop, he did an online search of coffee shops on Colorado Avenue. Bingo! Plenty to choose from. A cup of coffee would be his first order of business in the morning.
He worked late into the night, finally gave up, and flopped onto the thin mattress with a sinkhole in the center. Propping himself up with pillows, he turned on the television, watched some sports updates, and, with the latest scores flashing across the screen, drifted off.
The remote was still in his hand when the bedside phone rang, jerking him awake. He picked up, knowing it couldn’t be good if someone was calling so late, phoning at the motel and not on his cell. “This is Bentz,” he said, cobwebs still in his mind, some kind of cage fighting on the TV screen. For a second he heard nothing. “Hello?”
He hit the television’s mute button.
Soft crying was barely audible.
“Hello?” he said again. “Who is this? Are you okay?”
More muffled sobbing as he pushed himself up in bed. “Who are you trying to reach?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice raspy and raw. For a second he thought she was apologizing for calling the wrong person, but then she said, “Please forgive me, RJ. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
What? His heart nearly stopped. “Who is this?” he demanded, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Click!
The phone went dead in his hand. “Hello?” he said, and hit the button on the receiver’s cradle in rapid succession. “Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hello? Hello? Damn!”
She’d hung up. With suddenly sweating hands, he replaced the receiver and felt as if a cold knife had sliced through his heart. The voice had been familiar. Or had it?
Jennifer.
She’d been the only one in his entire life to call him RJ. Holy crap. He swallowed hard. Told himself not to panic.
It has to be someone impersonating her.