Malice. Lisa Jackson
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sign for the motel. Only a few cars rolled by and the night air was cool, felt good against his skin.
Inside the reception area the lights were on—dimmed, but on. Less than a cup of coffee sat like oil in the bottom of the glass pot in the coffeemaker. No one was behind the desk. Following instructions inscribed into a metal plate on the counter, he rang the small bell. After waiting half a minute, he rang it again, just as Rebecca slipped through a locked door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Devoid of makeup, her lipstick faded, her hair falling past her shoulders, she looked much younger than she had earlier. And crankier. “Can I help you?” she asked, then glanced pointedly at the clock. “Is something wrong?” She was already reaching for another key to his room, assuming that he’d locked himself out.
“I just need to know if you have a record of incoming phone calls to the rooms.”
“What?” She stifled a yawn, trying not to sound cross but failing. Obviously the staff at the So-Cal was stretched thin.
“Someone called me and didn’t identify herself. I need to know where the call came from.”
“Now?” Looking at him as if he were certifiably crazy, she opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know. It’s important.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he withdrew his wallet and showed her his badge.
“What?” She was suddenly wide awake. “You’re a cop?” Worry slid through her eyes as she slapped the cigarettes onto the counter.
“New Orleans Police Department.”
“Oh, Jesus, look, I don’t need any trouble here.”
“There won’t be any.” He second-guessed flashing the badge, but at least it was getting her attention.
“Look,” she said, licking her lips nervously as if she did have something to hide. “This…this isn’t a big operation. We’re not, like, the Hilton, you know.”
“But you have a central switchboard that calls come through, right?”
“Yeah, yeah…we do.” She was thinking hard.
“I assume there’s some sort of caller ID on it.” She was nodding. “So, I need to see origin of the calls that have come to my room.”
She pressed two fingers against one temple. “Can’t this wait until morning?”
“If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Okay.” With a tired sigh, she nodded. “Just give me a sec, okay?” She disappeared behind the door again. Bentz paced through the lobby past brochures of fishing trips, movie studio visits, and museums. He could only hope the badge had made an impression. Nervously jangling the change in his pocket, he walked to the large plate-glass window and peered out. He saw only a few cars parked between faded stripes in the parking lot.
“Okay, here ya go.” Rebecca returned to the lobby with a business card. Handing him the card, she said, “Only one call.”
“Only had one. Thanks.” He scanned the number jotted in her neat handwriting. A local number.
“Anytime,” she said without the slightest bit of enthusiasm. “Anything else?”
“This’ll do.”
“Good.” She scraped her pack of Marlboro Lights and her lighter from the counter, then followed Bentz outside.
He heard her lighter click as he reached his room.
Inside, using his cell phone, he dialed the single number listed on the printout. It rang ten times. He hung up; hit redial. Twelve more rings, no answering machine, no voice mail. He hung up and tried one last time, counting off the rings. On the eighth, a male voice said, “Yeah?”
“Who is this?” Bentz demanded.
“Paul. Who is this?” Indignant.
“I’m returning a call.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Someone called me from this phone.”
“Big surprise,” the guy said, his speech slightly slurred. “Duh. It’s a pay phone.”
A pay phone? Probably only a handful of those dinosaurs left in the country and you get a crank call from one. “Where?”
“What?” the stranger, Paul, demanded.
“The phone you’re on right now. Where is it?”
“I dunno…uh…in L.A. What do you think? Here on Wilshire. Yeah…there’s a bank on the corner. California Something, I think.”
“What’s the cross street?”
“Who the hell knows? It’s around Sixth or Seventh, I think…hey, look, I gotta use the phone, okay?”
Bentz wasn’t going to let the guy go. Not yet. “Just a sec. Did you see a woman using this phone, say, twenty minutes ago?”
“What is this?” The guy on the other end was getting pissed.
“I thought you might have been waiting for the phone and seen someone. A woman.”
“Shit, dude, I said no! Oh, for Christ’s sake!” He hung up, severing the connection.
Bentz clicked off his cell phone, gathered his keys, and slipped into his shoes. He didn’t know what good driving around L.A. in the dead of night would do, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep any time soon. Rebecca was just crushing her cigarette into the large ash can by the front door. The night air was still tinged with the faint smell of smoke as she watched him climb into the Ford.
Familiar with the area, he drove to Wilshire and cruised down the wide near-empty boulevard. A cop car screamed by, lights flashing. He kept his eyes on the street-level storefronts of buildings rising toward the night sky. In the blocks around Sixth and Seventh his gaze swept over the sidewalks and plazas of the massive buildings of steel and glass, searching for a damned pay phone. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but he knew he wouldn’t spot the woman who had called him. Unless she was an idiot. His gut told him that she’d be long gone by now. Still he felt the need to view the pay phone for himself.
He missed it on the first pass, but then, spotting California Palisades Bank, he wheeled around in their empty lot…and there it was. His tires squealed slightly as he tore from the parking lot and steered straight to the modern booth. Three sheets of dirty, graffiti-covered Plexiglas on a pole, in front of an edifice with a Korean market on the first floor.
Few people were on the street, but he parked and walked around the pay phone as a city bus sat idling at a bus stop.
Who was she?
Why had she called him? What was the purpose? To get him to track her down here? He scanned the area, dubious. No point in getting him here among these office buildings sitting like sleeping giants in the night, security lights casting eerie beams beyond tinted glass. On the avenue only a smattering of cars passed. Traffic lights glowed green and red down the broad boulevard while tall streetlamps rained down a fluorescent lonely atmosphere.
He saw nothing unusual.
Only that someone was seriously messing with his brain.
Who the hell was doing this to him?
And, more importantly, why?
CHAPTER 8
“I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me,” Kristi fumed on the other end of the wireless call.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah. Eight in the morning.”
“There. It’s barely six here,” Bentz grumbled, eyeing