Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (230 page)

“Hey! Who the hell are—” The words died in her throat when she noticed the belt in his hands. “Oh, Jesus!”

She screamed, but her attacker was on her in an instant. He slipped the thin belt over her head and looped it around her neck in a snap, cutting off her air, stifling her cry.

Oh, God!
This jerkwad was going to hurt her! Rape her! Kill her! Fear curdled her insides.

She kicked, landed one blow with her heel and her assailant let out a hiss of pain.

Good!

She tried again but was jerked roughly to one side, her airway cut off, the pain in her lungs hot and tight.

This can’t be happening,
she thought wildly. She was coughing and gasping, digging at the strap, struggling and flailing, throwing her weight around. Anything to loosen the ever-tightening collar!

No! No! No!

Kicking crazily, trying to land another blow on his shin, she slipped. He used the chance to wrench her up by the belt, holding her in the air. Dangling like a doll.

Hit the creep. Get the belt off your neck! Save yourself!
Though her lungs were on fire, she flung her fist backward, trying to hit the monster in the nose or eyes or anything! The fingers of her other hand were scratching at the strap on her throat.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

Help me. Please, someone,
any
one help me!

She wasn’t a wimp, but her strength was fading, the pain excruciating.

Passing out would be better.

No!

Don’t give up!

Fight!

Oh, God, the pain…I can’t breathe! Help! Please help me!

She gave up hitting and used both hands to try and free herself from the constricting strap.

Her fingers clawed at her neck.

Dug deep.

But it was too late.

Her lungs were bursting.

Pain screaming through her body.

Her heart thudding.

Blackness converging over her.

In that horrid instant, Laney knew. She knew she would never see her twenty-first birthday.

CHAPTER 10

H
ayes had been right.

Roy’s had definitely gone downhill, Bentz thought, driving past the restaurant.

Still a little shaken from his recent “Jennifer sighting,” he found a ridiculously small parking spot a couple of blocks from the restaurant. He wedged the Ford Escape into it and fed the meter. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he managed to avoid a couple of speeding skateboarders who whipped by, the wheels of their boards grinding against the concrete as he hitched his way to the front doors.

Named for its original owner and not Roy Rogers as many people thought, the place still had a western facade complete with Dutch doors that looked as if they belonged on a barn. There had once been a plastic rearing horse mounted over the front awning, until some smart-ass had climbed up on the roof in the middle of the night and painted the white stallion’s private parts fire-engine red.

That had been the end of the white stud.

Now the awning displayed a sign that simply said: Roy’s.

Good enough, Bentz figured as he pushed open the doors and stepped back in time.

Inside, the dark restaurant seemed dingy. Twelve years ago all the cowboy memorabilia gathered from the sets of old westerns and television shows had been retro-cool. Now the worn saddles, fence posts, cowboy hats, and chaps that adorned the place looked dusty and worn.

The crowd had changed, or at least aged, just like the old plank floors.

A long bar, complete with brass foot rail, swept along one side of the establishment. Tables and booths took care of the rest.

He found a booth, settled in, and ordered a nonalcoholic beer from a waitress who was splitting the seams of her cowgirl costume.

Before she could return, Bentz spied Jonas Hayes pushing through the front doors. Hayes, too, had aged. African American and six-four, he was still imposing, if slightly thicker around the middle than he had been when he was a rookie cop or a running back for UNLV. His close-cropped black hair showed a few bits of silver, and when he took his shades off, crow’s feet were visible at the corners of his eyes.

But he still dressed as if he were a model. Expensive suit, polished shoes, silk tie knotted to perfection.

Bentz waved him over and stood, stretching out his hand. “Helluva long time.”

Hayes nodded and clasped Bentz’s fingers in a strong, sure grip. “What’s it been? Eleven? Twelve years?”

“’Bout that.”

They sat down on opposite sides of the booth. “And then you show up outta the blue. Lookin’ for a favor.”

“You got it.”

Waitress Pseudo-cowgirl returned, her mood not appearing to have improved as she took Hayes’s order for a scotch on the rocks.

“Friendly,” Hayes observed once she’d huffed away.

“Don’t think she likes the getup she has to wear.”

“Can’t blame her. You still on the wagon?” Hayes nodded toward Bentz’s bottle.

“Yep. Gave it up after Jennifer died.”

“Probably a good thing.”

Bentz raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Well, most of the time. Trinidad still with the department?”

“A lifer and then some.” Hayes was nodding as the waitress, forcing a false smile, returned with Hayes’s drink and plastic-encased menus. She rattled off a couple of specials and was about to turn away when Bentz asked, “You still have the T-Bone and steak fries?”

Without an ounce of enthusiasm, she said, “It’s, like, been on the menu forever.”

“Thought so. I’ll take it. Medium rare. Blue cheese dressing on the salad.”

She didn’t bother writing it down, just looked at Hayes, who scanned the menu and folded it closed, ordering the barbecued pork chop special.

Once she’d disappeared again, he turned dark eyes on Bentz. “Okay, so what gives? What’s this ‘favor’ you want from me?”

“I want you to look at Jennifer’s death again.”

“Jennifer? As in your wife?”

“Ex-wife, but yeah.” Bentz settled back against the cushions and took a swallow from his bottle.

“That was twelve years ago, man. She died in a single-car accident. Probable suicide.” Again Hayes searched Bentz’s face with those black eyes. Cop’s eyes.

“That’s what we all thought at the time, but it’s a helluva way to kill yourself. Messy. Sometimes doesn’t get the job done right and you end up a vegetable, or taking someone else out with you, or spending the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Not a usual form of suicide. Why not just run the car in the garage or take pills? Slit your wrists in the tub? Hang yourself in the closet?”

“She was your wife. You tell me.”

Bentz was shaking his head. “Besides, she wouldn’t have wanted to mess herself up that way. Too vain.”

“She was killing herself, man. On pills and booze. Not thinkin’ right. She didn’t give a good goddamn about how she looked and she might have taken the car out cuz she didn’t want you or your kid to come home to it, y’know? Not a good thing for her daughter to find her dead.”

“She didn’t have to do it at home. There are other places. Motels.” He thought about the shabby condition of the So-Cal Inn, a perfect place for a suicide. Cheap. Private. Poolside view if you wanted it.

Hayes rotated his drink between his palms. “Okay, let’s cut the crap here. What’s going on?”

Bentz took another swallow of his beer, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a copy of the marred death certificate. Quickly he explained that it had been sent to the station, mailed from Culver City.

“So what?” Hayes said. “Someone messin’ with ya.”

Bentz nodded. “But it’s more than that.” He placed the photographs of Jennifer on the table. “I think someone is gaslighting me.”

“Oh, hell! These are Jennifer, right? And recent, I assume?”

“That’s what whoever sent them to me wants me to think.”

Hayes looked at him. “Dead ringer?”

“Perfect.”

“But…dead ringer from twelve years ago? No extra pounds, no more wrinkles.”

“You got it.”

“Son of a bitch.” Hayes stared at the pictures, then gave the death certificate a longer look, his eyes narrowing. At least he was listening now.

“Someone’s pretending to be Jennifer.”

“But why?” Hayes asked.

“Don’t know, but she’s not in this alone. Someone’s taking pictures.”

“So now it’s a conspiracy? To make you nuts.”

Bentz nodded.

“This is so far-fetched,” Hayes said, though his eyes strayed to the photographs again. “Man, oh, man. You and JFK? Okay, I’ll bite. Start from the beginning.”

Bentz filled him in. From waking up in the hospital, to see and smell and feel Jennifer in the room, to the sighting in his backyard. He left out the woman at the bus stop, worried that it was too vague, that she could have been anyone.

As he was wrapping it up, Hayes said, “And you think this person has been in New Orleans and L.A. She somehow knew the moment you would wake up from your coma…and then she hurried back to L.A. for a photo shoot around town?”

“No. If the dates on the photos are legit, she was back and forth between L.A. and New Orleans.”

“Then there should be plane tickets.”

“I’ve got someone looking into it; so far nothing.”

“Could’ve used an alias.”

“Jennifer Bentz is the alias,” he said, trying to convince himself. “I’ve got to find out who she really is and what she wants.”

“And you need my help.” Hayes was wary.

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Bentz brought up the call from the pay phone. “So what I’d like to see is photos from traffic cameras in the area, or security tapes from local businesses, or better yet, satellite images of the street.”

“You don’t want much, do you? As far as I can see, no crime has been committed.”

“Unless the woman in Jennifer’s grave isn’t her.”

“That’s a big leap.”

Bentz couldn’t argue the point, though he tried. The waitress returned and slid large platters onto the table. She warned them that the plates were “really hot,” asked them about refills and if they needed anything else.

“I’m good,” Bentz said and Hayes nodded, agreeing.

“Okay, just let me know if you change your mind.” With a quick turn, she moved toward a table where four women were being seated.

Once she was out of earshot, Hayes said, “So you want me to use the resources of the department to help you find whoever’s screwing with you.”

“You could work with Montoya, in New Orleans. As I said, he’s already started.”

“Right. We’ll form a joint task force to solve…oops, there’s been no crime.” Hayes stared at his pork chop, cornbread, and applesauce. “So basically you came to California because of a postmark and some photographs.”

“Seemed like the logical place to start.”

“As I said, someone’s just fuckin’ with you.”

“No doubt. But why?”

“You tell me.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Same old Hayes; the guy needed a firm push. “So the long and short of it is I need to know if Jennifer is in that casket.”

“What?” Hayes nearly dropped his fork.

“She was buried before we could do the DNA matching we do today,” Bentz said around a mouthful of steak. “All the testing was still in its infancy.”

“And you want her tested because you think what?” Jonas asked, his fork tines jabbed in Bentz’s direction. “That Jennifer might not be in there? That she might really be alive?”

“This is just a place to start.”

“Hell.”

“So you’ll get me the file on her suicide?”

“Remind me again why I would do this for you?”

“Because I saved your sorry black ass more than once in the past.” And it was true. When Hayes had been going through his divorce with his nutcase of a first wife, Alonda, Bentz had covered for him. The fact that his wife had left Hayes for another woman had really messed the guy up. Bentz figured adultery was adultery, no matter who you slept with, but Hayes, always a ladies’ man, had been devastated. He’d spent a couple of months partying until dawn, proving his manhood by picking up a lot of different women, and literally fucking up.

Fortunately he’d pulled himself together, but it had been touch and go for a while.

“Okay,” Hayes said reluctantly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And I might need a little help with the exhumation order.”

“Exhumation? Lord, this just keeps getting better and better,” Hayes complained, but he didn’t offer further argument as he finished his drink, ordered another, then cut into what had to be a cold piece of pork.

Snap!

Lucy Springer turned, eyeing the edge of the park as she hurried along the sidewalk to her apartment. She saw nothing alarming in the shadows, just an old man walking his dog about a block down the street. The dog, a skinny greyhound, it seemed, was relieving itself on a tree. But the night was thick and dark, the hint of fog rolling in, making everything in the bluish glow of streetlamps appear out of focus and ghostly.

Goose bumps pimpled her scalp. Her pulse elevated.

The street was just too…quiet.

“Jeez.” Inwardly she told herself she was being a big wuss, or pussy as her boyfriend Kurt would say. She needed to get over her case of nerves. Cell phone in hand, she paused at the corner, waiting for the light to change.

With the press of a button, she located her sister’s cell phone number and started texting.

Snap!

Her head whipped up and she looked over her shoulder. What was that sound? Not someone stepping on a twig. More like a sharp, hard click. Something she should recognize.

But she saw no one. Just the old man and dog ambling off in the opposite direction.

There wasn’t much traffic so she stepped into the street against the light and kept texting Laney.

Where R U?

Almost 21.

Legal.

Meet at Silvio’s! 11 p.m. Drinks on me @ midnight.

Party on!

It was strange that Laney wasn’t texting or calling back. They’d been planning this celebration forever! Well, make that twenty-one years. Finally she and her twin were going to be adults! So why the hell was her sister avoiding her?

It was odd.

Not like Laney.

Lucy unlocked the gate to her building and walked through as her phone chirped. She glanced down to check it, vaguely aware of the gate clanging shut behind her.

A text from Laney!

Finally.

It was a picture-text and she clicked it open to see a fuzzy shot of her sister. Laney’s eyes were wide and round with fear and some kind of red gag was pulled tight over her mouth. She looked scared to death!

What?

“Oh, God,” Lucy whispered, her heart pounding crazily, horror creeping up her spine.

What was this?

And then she got it.

This sick picture was Laney’s idea of a joke. “Bitch,” Lucy muttered under her breath. Though she had to hand it to her younger twin; the look on Laney’s face was one of pure terror. Well, of course. Wasn’t Laney going to USC and majoring in theater? Didn’t she have an acting scholarship, for God’s sake? Hadn’t she done a few acting jobs in commercials? Laney knew how to convey emotions perfectly and she had friends in the school who were experts in makeup and film.

Still, it scared the crap out of Lucy. “Not very funny,” Lucy said aloud and then stiffened as she heard the tiniest of noises…Breathing?

No way. The gate had latched behind her…right?

She reached her door and as she mounted the steps, began texting like crazy.

U really had me going for a sec.

C U later!

She reached in her purse for her keys and saw the neighbor’s cat perched on the rail of Chuck’s small porch. It stared at Lucy, its round eyes reflecting the porch light. “Hey, kitty.”

The silver tabby froze for a second, then dropped to the concrete and started to slink under the bottom rail. But it paused at the edge of the shadowy bushes, turned its sleek head toward Lucy and let out a long, low growl.

Crazy cat! “Hey, Platinum, it’s me, Lucy.”

Arching her back, Platinum hissed, showing needle-sharp teeth and round, wild eyes before scurrying madly under the fence.