Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious (253 page)

You’ll have to outwit her. It won’t be easy, but you’ll have to feign that your spirit is broken, gain her trust, then ambush her. Do not let it slip that you’re pregnant. She’ll use the baby against you, against Bentz, so not a single word.

Whoever her captor was and whatever she wanted, the bitch had planned her revenge on Bentz, step by step.

She wouldn’t be easily duped.

But Olivia would find a way. She had no other choice.

I can’t sleep. I am too keyed up, too excited.

Now, more than ever, I can’t afford a slipup. One wrong move and everything will be for naught: all the planning, all the waiting, all the salivating at the thought of Bentz’s unraveling. Caution is the word for the day. I must look normal, as if my routine hasn’t been altered.

Just in case anyone is watching.

After staring at the clock all night long, I get up only half an hour early. I make a quick power shake for me and a sandwich for
her.
I would like to kill her and be done with it, but I can’t, not yet. So I have to go through the motions of keeping her alive.

I even manage to drive to the club for a quick workout, including time on the weight machines and swimming a mile in the pool. The people I swim with recognize me, nod, and chat. It reminds me how important it is to stick to the schedule. Routine is everything.

So far, nothing I’ve done appears suspicious.

I wave and talk to the few type-A early risers I know, then get on the scale and make a loud disgusted sound as I read the results. Of course, my weight is perfect, my body fat lower than most female athletes.

Afterward, though I’m anxious and eager to see how Bentz’s pathetic wife is doing, I shower and change as if I’m not in a hurry, not rushed. But I can barely restrain myself from running to the car. I drive five miles over the limit to the storage unit, where I grab a few essentials. Checking my watch, I return to the car and race as fast as traffic will allow to the dock where the boat is moored.

People are out and about, dockworkers and fishermen predominantly, but no one is really watching me or giving me the least bit of attention. Why would they? It’s not as if I don’t belong on the boat; I’ve boarded a thousand times before.

I am pushing it time-wise, but can’t wait to see how little “Livvie” is doing. I have my taser with me, just in case she somehow gets violent. But really, she doesn’t have a prayer.

Which is perfect.

I love having that power over Bentz’s wife.

With my athletic bag slung over my shoulder, I head inside and check to make certain I’m alone. Then I climb down the staircase, my shoes ringing on the metal stairs.

She, of course, is waiting for me, sitting on the floor, and from the looks of her, I’d say had a worse night’s sleep than I did. Dark smudges underline her eyes. Her hair is a matted mess. The area around her mouth where she’s torn off the tape is still raw and red in one patch. Her clothes are wrinkled and dirty. In a nutshell: she looks like crap.

Which warms the cockles of my heart. If only her loyal husband could see her now.

Despite it all she isn’t screaming. She’s not begging or crying, which is more than a little disappointing. I’d like to break her spirit. Would love to see her grovel and plead. In fact, it’s one of my most cherished fantasies. Obviously it isn’t going to happen today.

But her time is running out. It won’t be long before she’ll be pleading for her life. Right now, it is still early. She doesn’t really know what she’s in for.

“Good morning,” I say sweetly.

“Who are you?” Defiance in her tone. Even belligerence.

“I thought you might want breakfast.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Let’s see, I’ve got a sandwich. Peanut butter. Nontraditional for the morning meal, but it’s all I could scrape together.” As I reach in my bag I feel her rising in the cage.

“Let me out.” She’s on her feet, facing me through the bars, staring me straight in the eyes. She’s calmer than I’d expected or hoped.

I lift my chin. “I don’t think so.” What kind of idiot does she take me for?

“I won’t press charges.”

She’s serious. Desperate. Good. I like that attitude much better.

“Oh, yeah, right. I believe that,” I mock. She’s being stupid. “After all the hard work I went through to get you here, do you really think I’m just going to release you? Give me a break, you’re smarter than that.”

“Why are you doing this? Who are you? Not Sherry Petrocelli.”

“Ding!” I say, pushing an imaginary button. “Score one for the blonde in the cage.”

“What do you want from me?” she pressed. She was single-minded. Just like Bentz.

“Nothing,” I say honestly. “From you.”

“This is about my husband.”

“Bingo. Now you’re up to two right answers. Another one and you’ll be in the bonus round.”

“You think this is a joke? A game?” she asks, glaring at me as if I’m crazy, when she’s the one locked up.

“A joke? No.” I feel the boat sway a little, smell the scent of the beasts who were locked up before her. “A game? Possibly. Only I know the outcome and you, I’m afraid, don’t.”

“Fill me in.”

God, she’s ballsy! What the hell is she doing trying to get information from me? Asking questions when she should be submissive and fearful and begging for her life? I’m the one in charge. Doesn’t she get it? “You don’t need to know anything.”

“Do you know my husband?”

“RJ? Oh, yeah.”

“So you’ve been pretending to be Jennifer?”

I can’t help but laugh. Then I make a low, flat sound. “Meeeep. Sorry, you just lost. No lightning round for you! And not even lovely parting gifts. You just get to stay here. Alone. That’s your prize.” She doesn’t even break a smile, the humorless bitch. “Look I don’t have a lot of time, so I thought I’d show you something, give you something to eat, and get going. Let’s see.” I make a big deal out of looking through my bag, then slide the wrapped sandwich and a can of Dr Pepper through the bars. I’m wearing gloves, just in case something goes wrong. You can’t be too careful. I leave her miserable breakfast in the cage, but she ignores it.

Fine. If she wants to starve herself, it’s no skin off my nose.

But I’m sure her tough facade is about to crack. She’ll have more interest in the family album, I’m certain.

I open the scrapbook carefully and turn to one of my favorite pages, the Christmas section. There’s a photograph with Jennifer sitting in an overstuffed chair, Rick at her side, his hand placed possessively on her shoulder. A lit Christmas tree fills one corner of the shot and Kristi, a toddler with a big smile and a cockeyed red bow in her hair is balanced on Jennifer’s lap. “I know it’s not the holiday season, but I thought I’d share this with you.”

I lay the open album on the floor, just out of reach, on my side of the cage. She glances down disdainfully, but her hard shell cracks a little. Fear and outrage begin to show as she looks at the photos in the open album.

“What is this?” she asks in the barest of whispers. The album got to her. Finally. “Where did you get it?”

“Just something to think about,” I say.

“Why?”

“So you can see for yourself that the man you married was obsessed with his first wife. I think everyone should have a little clarity; a little understanding before they die.” I smile again. “It’s only a matter of time, you know.”

And then, while she’s still stunned, I reach into my athletic bag again and retrieve my digital camera. Aiming and shooting quickly, I catch her horrified expression.

The picture is perfect.

“Your husband? He’s going to love this shot,” I assure her, as I look at the picture I’ve captured. “Just love it.” Then, feeling victorious, I pack up my things and hurry up the stairs.

Let her think about her bleak future.

The woman was mad, Olivia thought. Cold, calculating, and mad as a hatter.

And obsessed with Bentz.

As Olivia stood imprisoned in the cage, gently rocking with the boat, fear slithered through her like a nest of tiny worms. She stared at the photo album left only a few feet from her cell. Opened to the page with the twenty-odd-year-old Christmas picture, the leather-bound volume was thick. Its plastic-coated pages had been filled with snapshots and clippings and cards, the work of an obsessed, sick mind.

Why?

Who was she?

Why was she so intent on Bentz?

Not that it mattered; the important thing was that Olivia had to escape. And soon. How, she didn’t know, but she had to find a way because she was certain that she was scheduled to die.

She just didn’t know when.

She noticed something else on the pages. Red smudges like…drops of blood? Crimson drips staining the photographs and smeared over the plastic. Oh, God. Whose blood? This maniac who held her? Or someone else’s?

Jennifer’s.

This woman is consumed with her.

No way! Jennifer was long dead.

Olivia was suddenly and violently nauseous. In an instant, she knew she was going to throw up. She scrambled across her cell and barely made it to the bucket before she retched though there was little in her stomach but acid and bile.

Again!

Her insides protested and she felt weak.

It couldn’t be morning sickness. Not like this.

No, she was certain, this had nothing to do with her pregnancy. She was reacting to the horror that had become her life.

CHAPTER 34

B
entz felt as if he hadn’t slept a wink. He’d spent most of the night trying to find a clue as to what had happened to Olivia. Where she was. If she were still alive.

He’d pulled up Olivia’s cell phone records online and seen that the last call she’d taken was right after he’d spoken with her after she’d landed at the airport. No doubt the brief call was from Sherry Petrocelli’s number. He’d dialed that number just in case he was wrong, but a taped recording threw him into Petrocelli’s voice mail.

According to phone records, after the call from Petrocelli, Olivia hadn’t spoken to anyone; there were only short, one-minute calls from a couple of numbers: his and Hayes’s. “Shit,” he’d said, frustrated as hell. He’d called Hayes, given him the info, then reminded the detective that there was a G.P.S. locator in his wife’s phone.

Bentz had gotten nowhere with the cell phone company on that one; Hayes would have to use his police department influence to pry out any information he could from them.

After digging through the cell phone info, Bentz had been up most of the night on the computer, searching for anything he could find on Yolanda Salazar and Fernando Valdez. He studied the DMV photo of Fernando that Montoya had sent, wondering what the kid was up to. Most of the information Yolanda and Sebastian Salazar had given them the night before had checked out, including the name of the restaurant where her brother worked. Sebastian had told Hayes that Fernando worked the afternoon shift at the Blue Burro, and Bentz intended to pay the guy a visit later in the day. Bentz was tired of playing by the rules; he just wanted answers and he wanted them fast.

Before it was too late.
If it’s not already,
his mind mocked now as it had all night. In the morning, he tried to wash away the grit from his eyes and wake up his tired muscles by showering and shaving. Then he walked outside to an overcast L.A. day. It was only seven-thirty in the morning and already a thick layer of smog accompanied an unlikely chill in the air, a surprising drop in temperature. He paused at the office door and looked down the length of the porch toward the doorway of the room he’d called home for the better part of a week. In the parking lot, the blue Pontiac was missing; Spike and his owner had probably moved out. A beat-up red pickup was parked in the Pontiac’s spot.

Time marched on.

Things changed.

And Olivia was missing.

Anger mixed with fear, twisting his guts. She had to be safe;
had
to.

He ducked into the So-Cals’ office for a cup of coffee, then, cup in hand, walked onto the porch to make some calls. Sipping coffee that settled badly in his stomach, he phoned Montoya, who, too, had worked most of the night and had dug up some more information on the Valdez family. Apparently Fernando was a theater major, interested in writing plays, while his sister Yolanda was studying accounting. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the damned car. The one that Jennifer had been driving. He hung up, not knowing much more than he had last night.

Nothing made any sense. Nothing. In a haze of misery Bentz walked to his new rental car, a white Honda hatchback. He stopped at a mini-mart and bought two doughnuts that he ate on the way to the cemetery. He couldn’t remember his last meal, but decided it had to be better than this breakfast.

The backhoe was already at work, men with shovels waiting for the big machine to do its job before they handled the final excavation by hand. Workers stood talking together in the rising fog, laughing, leaning on their shovels, telling jokes, and smoking, while Bentz felt his world collapsing around him.

As the huge machine scooped up dry earth, Bentz flashed back to the day of the funeral, when he had stood next to his grief-stricken daughter and watched as Jennifer’s coffin had been lowered into the ground. The people who had come were a blur now, but he remembered Shana and Tally. Fortuna had attended, as had Jennifer’s stepsister Lorraine, along with other family and friends. Bentz’s brother had presided over the ceremony, looking stricken and ashen. As he’d mumbled prayers, a bank of thick clouds had rolled in, blocking the sun. James had loved Jennifer, he’d said, but, though only a few mourners had known the truth, he’d loved her in ways unbefitting a man of the cloth. His vows of celibacy had choked him far more than his clerical collar ever had. Bentz had clutched Kristi’s hand and locked gazes with Alan Gray, the man Jennifer had nearly married before she’d fallen in love with Bentz and become the wife of a cop. At the burial Alan had stood back from the crowd, a millionaire who really didn’t belong. His expression had been bland and void of emotion, as if he were playing poker in a high-stakes game in Vegas. Bentz had looked away and Gray had left before the final prayer had been intoned. Bentz had thought Gray’s appearance had been odd at the time, but he had forgotten that detail.

Now, watching the back hoe extract soil from his wife’s grave was surreal, the low-laying fog making it more so. Bentz believed with all his heart that the decaying body inside the coffin belonged to his wife.

Who else?

And yet he was jittery. Tense. Expecting the worst. He began to sweat despite the cool temperature. The men with shovels were just getting to work when Hayes arrived in a tan suit that looked as pressed and crisp as if it had just come from the dry cleaners. Dark shirt and matching tie finished the outfit and complemented the polish on his shoes. Always a dandy.

“No word from your wife?” Hayes asked.

“I was hoping you knew something.”

“Working on it.” Hayes touched the knot of his tie. “Tracked down the phone with the G.P.S.,” he said.

“What?”

“No, don’t get excited. Obviously the phone was dumped. We found it in the sand beneath the Santa Monica Pier.”

“Shit!”

“We’re checking with the webcam people again. So far nothing, but it’s still early.”

Santa Monica. Again.
Bentz’s guts twisted because he knew why the phone had been left there. Because of Jennifer. Because that pier and town were so much a part of her life, their life together. Whoever had kidnapped her was pointing that out, rubbing salt in the wounds, laughing at him.

“Son of a bitch.” Bentz couldn’t stop the black fury that overtook him. “Jennifer,” he spat out. “She’s playing with me.”

“It’s not Jennifer,” Hayes said, hitching his chin toward the coffin.

“I know…you know what I mean. The woman I was with in the car. She looked a lot like Jennifer. A lot, but her voice was off and she was too young, and once I was that close, I knew she wasn’t my ex-wife. But damn it, she knew so much about Jennifer…about us.” His skin crawled at the memory of kissing her, of touching her. His stomach roiled at the thought of the taste of her and how he’d been duped. Furious with himself, he tried to focus, to move on, to think like a cop, not a husband. “Okay. So the phone’s a bust, what else are you doing?”

“Backtracking mostly. Talking to people at the airport who might have seen Olivia connect with Petrocelli at baggage claim. We’re checking security cameras at the airport and piecing together Sherry’s schedule yesterday.”

It’s not enough,
Bentz thought. “Have you called the FBI?”

“The captain’s taking it up with—”

“It’s a kidnapping case, Hayes.”

“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours. Not that our Missing Persons Department plays by that rule.”

“I hope not. Jesus H. Christ! A police officer is dead. Along with a lot of other people. So, not only do we have kidnapping, we’ve got a serial killer on the loose. A cop-killer. I think the Feds should be involved.”

“They’re already checking into the Springer twins’ murder. We’re just not sure that all these incidents are connected,” Hayes admitted. “Bledsoe’s working that angle.”

“Great.” Bentz couldn’t stand to think that Olivia’s safety might hinge on Andrew Bledsoe’s investigative work. “What about Fernando Valdez? Have you talked to him?”

“Still trying to find him. He didn’t go back to the Salazars’ house last night. We watched.” He glanced at Bentz. “I talked to Jerry Petrocelli. He was devastated.”

“I bet,” he said, hoping to high heaven that he wouldn’t be the next husband to learn that his wife had been murdered by this whack job. Not if he could help it.

Bentz watched as the casket was carried to the van by six strong guys…so reminiscent of the burial when Jennifer was originally laid to rest. The dusty box was slid into the back of the vehicle. “At least now we’ll know if it’s Jennifer inside,” he said as the back doors of the van were slammed shut.

“It won’t take long,” Hayes said. “We’ve already received the records from her dentist. Got an expert who’s going to compare them to what we find in the skull.”

And then what?
Bentz wondered. No other body had washed onto the beach, so they still didn’t know what had happened to the woman who’d teased him, lured him to the cliffs, and jumped into the sea. God, why would anyone do that? Who was this woman who looked so much like Jennifer? Why was she tormenting him? And what the hell had she done with Olivia?

As if reading his mind, Hayes said, “We’ll find her.” His cell phone chimed. “Later, Bentz.” He fished the phone out of his pocket and took the call as he walked back to his 4Runner and the vehicle carrying the casket took off. Bentz was left staring into the dry, empty hole where he’d thought he’d buried his first wife forever. Even in the hazy morning light, he felt a chill snake down his spine, as if someone were watching him, unseen eyes observing his every move. He looked up and turned, searching through the fog. A human form seemed to materialize, then fade, leaves and limbs of trees shivering. Was someone watching him from the shrubbery on the other side of the fence?

He told himself that he was imagining things, that the exhumation had weirded him out, but he walked toward the area where he’d thought he’d seen the branches move. As he approached he was certain he caught a glimpse of eyes peering at him! Green eyes, so like Jennifer’s, studying him through the thick mist.

His pulse skyrocketed.

“No way,” he said between clenched teeth. But despite his denial, he had to check it out. Picking up speed, he broke into a jog, his gaze fastened on the area where he’d first caught sight of the voyeur. As he spurred himself forward, his knee and thigh protested, but he gutted it out. Upon reaching the fence, he vaulted over, landing with most of his weight on his good leg.

No one was in the scrub brush of the vacant lot. No green eyes were staring at him. But he’d been certain someone had been here, watching…waiting, anticipating that he’d be at the exhumation; someone who knew where Olivia was.

Hell.

He pressed forward to a small copse of trees that stood still and quiet in the swirling fog. But he had seen her here, before she slipped through the sycamores and scrub brush.

A ghost in the mist.

“Where are you, you bitch?” Methodically, he searched the area, a strip of trees, grass, and brush between the cemetery and the subdivision abutting it.

He strained to listen. No twig snapped, no footstep over the sound of his own heartbeat and breathing. He heard only the sounds of muted traffic and voices from the men working on the exhumation.

Frustrated, he peered over the fence that edged the tree line and again saw nothing. No one.

No one was here,
he told himself.
Just you and your paranoia. A mirage you conjured in your tired and willing brain.

He took one last sweeping look, but found nothing.

“Hell.” He climbed over the fence again, paid no attention to the pain in his leg, and decided he was going to take the law into his own hands. He knew that Hayes and the LAPD were doing their best to locate Olivia, but they were playing by the rules, doing everything by the book, and he didn’t give a damn about what protocol should be used, or whether he was compromising the damned case.

Olivia was missing.

Maybe already dead.

Bentz wasn’t going to mess around any longer.

He’d do whatever it took to find his wife.

“Screw this.” Montoya hung up the phone. He wasn’t one to sit on the sidelines when the action was elsewhere. Bentz was in trouble, seeing ghosts, for God’s sake. Now Olivia was missing. Bentz was going even further around the bend, and there wasn’t a whole helluva lot he could do from here in New Orleans.

So California, here I come.

He had the next two days off anyway, and there was some leave he could use if he needed it. He didn’t even wait for the end of his shift, just told Jaskiel that he wanted to take a few hours comp time, and walked out the door.

On the way home he called Abby at work and gave her the same word. Fortunately she was cool with it.

“Do what ya have to do,” she told him. “But be careful, would you? Come back in one piece. I’m not great at playing Nancy Nurse.”

“You got it.” He hung up smiling. At the house he packed a quick bag, then jumped into his Mustang again and headed to the airport.

Hayes returned to the office to find Bledsoe on a rampage, trying to build a case to nail Bentz for any and all crimes committed in L.A. and the surrounding area for the last week.

“I’m tellin’ ya,” Bledsoe reiterated when Hayes ran into him in the men’s room. “If Bentz hadn’t shown up, five people that we know of would be alive today.” He zipped up, then made a pass at the sink. “Ask the family members of McIntyre, Newell, Esperanzo, and the Springer twins what they think.”

“They’re not cops.”

“Oh, and add Donovan Caldwell, Alan Gray, and even Bonita Unsel to the mix. I’ve talked to them all; they think Bentz is our doer.”

Hayes shook his head. “Again, not cops.”

“Unsel was.”

“With a major grudge. She and Bentz had a thing.”

“Big deal. Bentz was quite a swordsman in his day. Cut a pretty wide swath through the department.” Then with a smarmy grin Bledsoe added, “Even your girlfriend hooked up with him a few times.”

Hayes had expected the zinger; it was just Bledsoe’s style. “You talked to Alan Gray?” Hayes asked.