Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 258

"I checked the roster of recent parolees with a history of violent crimes. Looking for suspects who might fit the profile of the Twenty-one killer," Bledsoe said as he approached Hayes's desk.

Hayes leaned back in his chair. Martinez perched on the edge of his desk. They were waiting for a call from Doug O'Leary, the forensic dentist who'd been called in to compare Jennifer Bentz's dental records with the body that had been buried in her coffin.

Bledsoe continued, "These are the guys that have been locked up since the Caldwell twins were killed and before the Springer twins became homicide victims. There are only three who even remotely meet the profile.

"There's Freddy Baxter. He got out last January, had pled down to Man-One for running over his girlfriend with his car. But he has an alibi, solid. Was with his brother in Vegas when the Springer girls were abducted." Bledsoe was holding up three fingers on his right hand, his thumb holding his pinkie down. With the dismissal of Baxter as a suspect, the ring finger went down.

"Then we've got Mickey Eldridge, cut up his old lady during a fight and was released in December, just in time for Christmas. But that wife, who almost died because of his butcher job on her, swears he's changed, found religion or some such lame excuse, and she was at his side on the night in question." Bledsoe's index finger curled into his fist, leaving his middle one poking straight to the heavens.

"Our last nut job with enough b.a.l.l.s and rage to do the job is George St. Arnaux. He's my personal favorite. Remember him? The whacko who systematically cut off his victims fingers and toes. How the h.e.l.l did he get out, I ask ya? Because some legal eagle swears she found an eyewitness who claims the killer was a white guy, not a black, so our friend George was released, though the taxpayers are going to be paying for a new trial, I'll bet. But George, he was with the lawyer, or so she claims. I think there's something going on there, ya know what I mean?"

"Not everyone's mind is in the gutter like yours," Martinez said. "You already said she's his lawyer."

"And she's boinking him, let me tell you." His voice lowered, "Some women get off on all that crazy, dangerous stuff, know what I mean?"

"Boinking? Grow up, would ya? We're not in the seventh grade." Martinez was not one to hide her feelings. "And your point was...?" Grow up, would ya? We're not in the seventh grade." Martinez was not one to hide her feelings. "And your point was...?"

"Yeah, right." Bledsoe put his hand down and sent her a scowl meant to cut her to the quick, but she held her ground. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't intimidate her. "Anyway, I've got no parolee in the state of California I can hang this on. s.h.i.+t."

Hayes felt the weight of the investigation. It had been too many days since the coeds had been found dead. The trail was getting cold, not that it had been hot or even warm to begin with. The Springer twins' murders had moved from page one to further back in the paper, but the killer was still out there. Justice was a long way from being served.

Bledsoe wasn't finished. "I talked to everyone who knew the Springer twins, retraced their steps. We had officers questioning all the neighbors, friends, relatives. We tried to establish some kind of connection between them and the Caldwell twins, but came up with nada." He rubbed his face with one hand. "Which brings me back to our 'friend.'" He made air quotes with his fingers. "And I use the term loosely when I call him a detective. This can't be random."

"Even if it's not random, it doesn't mean he's the perp," Martinez said. "If you want to pin it on him, you've got to come up with some proof, Bledsoe. Do your job."

Just then Hayes spotted Rick Bentz, who strode into the squad room and made a beeline for his desk. "Looks like you'll get a chance to ask him about it yourself." Hayes smiled for the first time that day. "Knock yourself out."

"I will." Bledsoe stepped away from Hayes's desk, making way for the detective from New Orleans. "Bentz," he said by way of greeting.

Bentz was having none of it. He sent Bledsoe a scathing glance as he brandished a large manila envelope. "I received this at the motel this morning," he said and dumped the contents of the envelope onto Hayes's blotter. A photograph of a terrified woman staring through bars settled near his calendar.

Every muscle in Hayes's body constricted.

Bentz looked over his shoulder to Bledsoe and said, "My wife."

Martinez didn't say a word, just stared at the frightened, captive woman.

"And this is a tape from the So-Cal Inn, where the package was left. The security camera caught a runner who dropped the envelope at the door and took off. I'm hoping you can check the local traffic cameras, find out if they photographed her image anywhere. Maybe caught her getting into a car."

"Her?" Bledsoe said, his eyebrows becoming one line.

"I think so. The tape is inconclusive, but I thought you might be able to enhance it, get a close-up of the face, though it's mainly turned away from the camera."

"Another jogger," Hayes said.

"That's right. You can compare the image to the photo taken by the webcam at Santa Monica." He shook his head. "As for the runner I saw on the street at Lorraine Newell's house the night she was killed, I don't know. It was too dark. But I'm willing to bet my badge that she's involved."

"Is this the woman who you drove up above Devil's Caldron?"

"No." Bentz appeared sure of that fact. "But, trust me, they know each other."

"Holy s.h.i.+t," Bledsoe said.

"Come on, Jonas." Bentz stared straight at Hayes. "Let's nail this jogger. Let's go find my wife."

Hayes's phone rang. He held a finger up to indicate for Bentz to wait a second, then answered. "Detective Hayes."

"Hey, yeah, this is Dr. O'Leary," the forensic dentist on the other end of the connection said. "I've got your results, detective. No big surprise here. We've got a match. The woman you exhumed this morning is definitely Jennifer Bentz."

CHAPTER 36.

Bentz was stunned. And yet it was what he'd expected. Of course the body in the grave was Jennifer. So everything he'd believed for twelve years had been the truth. Jennifer was dead and the imposter had only been a part of a wide scheme to get him to return to Los Angeles.

Why?

To torment him?

To kidnap and torture Olivia? To start a killing spree?

"So this whole thing has been a wild goose chase?" Bledsoe shook his head.

"A smoke screen," Bentz corrected.

"And you dragged your wife into it? For the love of Christ, it's dangerous being married to you, Bentz. Not only for your spouse but for the people who knew her."

If Bledsoe wanted to twist the knife, he was doing a d.a.m.ned good job, Bentz thought. The glint in Bledsoe's eyes told Bentz the L.A. detective was enjoying his discomfiture. "So let's go after the person who's been staging this debacle," Bentz said.

"Meaning of course that you're not a suspect." Bledsoe took a swallow of his coffee to hide his smile.

"I didn't kidnap my own wife." Bentz warned himself to play it cool; Bledsoe was just looking for a reason to make him the scapegoat. Again.

To make matters worse, he saw Dawn Rankin walking through the squad room. She caught his gaze and her lips tightened a bit before she forced a smile and approached. "Back again?" she asked. "You just can't seem to stay away, can you?"

"It's business," Hayes cut in, saving him. Dawn, as always, ran hot and cold. One minute Bentz thought she was long over him, had buried the hatchet; the next she was hissing with a forked tongue. He felt lucky that their relations.h.i.+p had been short.

"Let me know if I can help," Dawn said with just a touch of sarcasm before she left.

"Piece of work," Bledsoe said. "Maybe you were lucky to have hooked up with Jennifer Nichols after all."

Bentz didn't buy the other detective's stab at camaraderie. Bledsoe, he knew, would just as soon kick him to the curb as help him. Fortunately Bledsoe's cell phone rang and he drifted off, cradling a cup of coffee.

"So this is what we know," Hayes said once he, Martinez, and Bentz had a little privacy. "The body in the grave was Jennifer's. The prints on the Chevy are many and varied, but other than yours, Bentz, they don't match anyone in the system. We're still trying. There was no other evidence in the car and our search-and-rescue team did not recover the body of the fake Jennifer in the Pacific Ocean."

"That's because she's alive. I saw her again."

"What?"

"This morning," Bentz said. "At the cemetery."

"And you didn't think it was important enough to tell anyone?" Martinez said.

"I wasn't sure, okay?"

Hayes waved the dissension away. "So now we've got this photo and the envelope it came in. Since our perp has been careful so far, I'd be willing to wager these materials will be clean, but we'll check for prints or DNA. And then there's this." He held up the security tape. "Let's have a look, compare it to the pictures we got from the webcam at the Santa Monica Pier. And you," he said to Bentz, "file a report with Missing Persons. Make it official. I'm sure the FBI is going to want to talk to you, too."

Hayes as ever was dotting all his Is and crossing his Ts. Running the case by the book. All of which wasted time. As he had from the beginning of this madness, Bentz felt the grains of sand running in a river through the hourgla.s.s. The more time that went by, the more likely he would never find Olivia and that thought brought him to his knees. "What about Yolanda Salazar and her brother?"

"Still trying to locate him. He didn't show up for work today, skipped his early cla.s.s."

"On the run."

"Looks like."

d.a.m.n! He'd thought Fernando was the key. The kid was the one person who would know the ident.i.ty of the Jennifer imposter. He was probably working with her, an accomplice. They had to flush him out. He'd thought Fernando was the key. The kid was the one person who would know the ident.i.ty of the Jennifer imposter. He was probably working with her, an accomplice. They had to flush him out.

"He has to surface some time," Bentz said. "Let's go."

Martinez hopped off the desk.

Hayes rolled his chair back and said, "Maybe we'll get lucky."

Martinez was already walking down the hallway, but she paused to throw a glance over her shoulder at Hayes. "Oh sure. And maybe my boyfriend, Armando, will get down on one knee with a three-carat diamond ring and propose tonight." She snorted a laugh. "Forgive me if I don't hold my breath."

The boat had never been set on fire. Not before or after her captor's visit.

Olivia did not know why she had been spared a fiery death, but now that the day had worn on and she was still alive she felt calmer. Slightly. She knew the maniac who had duped and abducted her would eventually kill her, but not before she got what she wanted.

Which was...what?

Olivia had no idea, but she would be d.a.m.ned if she'd give the woman the satisfaction of killing her.

Reluctantly, Olivia had eaten the sandwich, which she'd half expected to be tainted. But no, she'd survived. And she'd drunk the can of soda as well as used the bucket to relieve herself. It was gross, but worked.

And all the while, she considered her fate.

One way or another, she had to escape. She couldn't hope for Bentz or the police or someone else to come and rescue her. Nope, she thought, staring at the oar on the wall; she had to do it herself.

She looked around the hold, searching for anything that could help set her free, but there was nothing. Her eyes were drawn back to the oar. If she could somehow get hold of the long-handled blade, she could smack her jailer and knock her down and grab her d.a.m.ned keys. If the woman ever got close enough.

Oh, Olivia would like nothing better than to turn the tables on the b.i.t.c.h and lock her inside this stinky cage, then walk around with a d.a.m.ned stun gun and a gas can.

Again she studied the oar. Wooden, with narrow red, white, and blue bands painted near the blade, it looked heavy enough to knock a five-foot-six woman to kingdom come. And that was exactly what Olivia planned.

If she could just figure a way to reach it.

She felt the rock of the boat on its moorings and knew they were in some marina. She'd been told no one could hear her if she made a ruckus, but that was a lie. She heard seagulls crying and people shouting, engines catching and rumbling, but all the sounds were muted and it was probably because she was alone, aware of every little sc.r.a.pe of a rodent's claws, or antic.i.p.ating the sound of footsteps on the ladder.

She had cried out earlier, after the psychopath woman had left and she was certain she was going to be burned to death. She had removed her shoes and banged on the bars of her prison, creating a dull clang. But no one had heard her. No one had boarded the boat, the Merry-Anne Merry-Anne if the faded name scrawled on the life jackets could be believed. if the faded name scrawled on the life jackets could be believed.

Now, her throat raw from screaming, she sat in a corner of the cell, watching the sunlight fade and the hold become dark again. It was unnerving. Creepy. And she refused to let her imagination run away with her.

Instead, she tried to figure a way out of her dire situation. There had to be a logical solution to the problem of how to save herself as well as her unborn child.

As a psychologist, she had studied the human mind. She had learned various therapeutic approaches for people who were losing a grip on reality. That was what she needed: a plan.

Right. She would have laughed aloud if she had the energy. Psychologists did not treat unwilling patients; at least, not with any degree of success.

She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest. How do you deal rationally with someone who has lost touch with reality? Someone lacking in sound moral judgment? Someone inherently evil?

"G.o.d help me," she whispered as night fell and, once again, she was alone in the thick, stygian darkness.

"I'm sorry about your wife," Corrine O'Donnell said as she finished with the Missing Persons report. Bentz had already spent several hours with the FBI and had ended up here, in Missing Persons. The paperwork was necessary, but he was crawling out of his skin, watching the minutes tick by.

"Yeah." "Sorry" didn't begin to describe the fear that slithered through him, the cold, stark terror of knowing that Olivia was in the hands of a madwoman.

"Try not to worry. We'll find her." She offered a smile and he remembered fleetingly that he'd cared for her, more as a friend than a lover, but they'd shared a lot in their on-again, off-again affair.

"You happy with Hayes?" he asked.

"Well...I'd like to say ecstatic, ecstatic, but, you know, at this age, we're both carrying a lot of baggage, both careful because we've been hurt. Maybe too careful." Then, as if she realized she'd fallen too easily into the trap of shared confidences, she said, "Just sign, here." She pointed to a spot on the form, where Bentz scribbled his signature. but, you know, at this age, we're both carrying a lot of baggage, both careful because we've been hurt. Maybe too careful." Then, as if she realized she'd fallen too easily into the trap of shared confidences, she said, "Just sign, here." She pointed to a spot on the form, where Bentz scribbled his signature.

"I'll see that this gets out there," she said with a smile, and Bentz nodded.

"Thanks."

"Good luck." She was already turning away from him, ready to do her part to find his wife.

G.o.d, he hoped he didn't have to rely on luck.

But he'd take whatever help he could get. If it was good luck. Or divine intervention. Or even a deal with the devil himself. No matter what it was, just so that Livvie could be safe.