Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 219

Last night he'd found a number for her and had tried it, only to get her lofty voice on the answering machine. "You've reached Leland and Shana. Leave a message. We'll get back to you...sometime."

Nice, he'd thought and didn't bother leaving his name or number. His cell would show up as "restricted call" and he wanted to catch her off guard. Didn't want to give her time to make up answers or avoid him. he'd thought and didn't bother leaving his name or number. His cell would show up as "restricted call" and he wanted to catch her off guard. Didn't want to give her time to make up answers or avoid him.

By the time he walked outside, the sun was already rising in the sky, glare bouncing off the pavement. His car was warm, its interior collecting heat more quickly than a solar panel in the middle of the Sahara. He rolled out of the parking lot and headed toward Santa Monica and Colorado Avenue, which he'd tentatively identified in one photo of Jennifer.

He'd already done some Internet research. An online map had shown three coffee shops in a twelve-block stretch.

Within twenty minutes he spotted it-a cafe on a corner that matched the photo. The Local Buzz, it was called. Two newspaper boxes stood by the front door, and tall cafe tables were positioned near the windows.

This was too easy, he thought. Whoever had taken the picture had lured him here without too much finesse.

He parked on a side street and made his way inside, where the smell of ground roast was overpowering. Jazz competed with the hiss of the steamer and the gentle din of conversation. The booths were full and several patrons had their laptops open, taking advantage of the free wi-fi connection. Bentz ordered a black coffee and waited while a surge of customers ordered lattes and mochas, everything from macchiatos and soy caramel lattes to plain coffee. Once the crowd dissipated, he approached the baristas again, this time showing them his pictures of Jennifer.

Neither coffee server claimed to have ever seen her. They were certain. The tall girl in frumpy suede boots and shorts barely glanced at the photos as she wiped off the hot milk nozzle and shook her head. But her partner, a shorter, rounder woman of around fifty, studied the shots thoughtfully. Above her rimless gla.s.ses her eyebrows drew together. "She could have come in when we were busy or when someone else was working, but she's not a regular. At least not a morning regular. I would know her." She went on to explain that there were six or seven servers on staff, so someone else might have helped the woman in the picture.

He glanced at the table where "Jennifer" had sat in the photo, went to the window and stared out at the street. To the left, a dozen or so blocks from here, the streets ended at the Pacific Ocean. He and Jennifer had spent some lazy afternoons there, walking the Santa Monica Pier and the path that cut alongside the beach. Long ago he'd considered Santa Monica their special place, a spot where, near the jutting pier, he and Jennifer had first made love in the sand.

He sipped his coffee and tried to imagine what Jennifer-no, make that the woman posing as Jennifer-had been doing here, and why he'd been led to this spot. What was the d.a.m.ned point? He stared out the window for a few minutes more, then left with his too-hot coffee and a feeling that he was being worked.

Shana, breaking the surface after swimming underwater the length of her pool, drew in a deep breath, then shook the wet hair from her eyes. Forty laps. She was congratulating herself on keeping in shape when she heard the doorbell peal.

She wasn't the only one. At the first bong of the dulcet tones Dirk, her husband's d.a.m.ned German shepherd/rottweiler mix, began barking his fool head off. He'd been lying at the edge of the pool, but was instantly on his feet, the hairs at the back of his neck bristling upward.

Great.

Just what she needed-a surprise visit by some stranger. She hoisted herself onto the tile strip near the waterfall, then climbed to her feet. She was naked, not even the small pieces of her string bikini covering her body. The housekeeper had the day off, the gardener had already left, so she'd taken her alone time to sunbathe for a perfect tan, one completely devoid of lines or shading. She'd just swum her laps after lying on her back on her favorite chaise. Had she not been interrupted, she would have lain facedown, toasting her backside.

"Later," she promised herself as she scooped up her white poolside robe, jammed her arms down the sleeves, and cinched the belt around her slim waist.

The doorbell rang once more, setting off Dirk all over again. "Hus.h.!.+" she commanded to the dog, then louder, "Coming!"

Quickly wringing the excess water from her hair, she slid into her low-heeled mules near the French doors before clicking through the sunroom, hallway, and foyer. Dirk was two steps behind. The loyal dog loved her for some unknown reason when she really didn't much care for him, or any dog for that matter. All that hair, the dirt, and the p.o.o.p in the yard bothered her. When the big mutt drank from his oversized water dish, the laundry room floor was splashed with a trail of drool-laced water that ran to the entry hall. If it were up to her, there would be no no pets, but Leland wouldn't hear of getting rid of his 150-pound, often snarling "baby." pets, but Leland wouldn't hear of getting rid of his 150-pound, often snarling "baby."

"Stay," she ordered and the dog stopped dead in his tracks. Peering through the beveled gla.s.s sidelight, she locked gazes with her visitor.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned."

The last person Shana had expected to find on her doorstep was Rick Bentz. But there he was in the flesh, arms folded over his chest, legs slightly apart as he stood between the gigantic pots overflowing with trailing red and white petunias. A pair of aviator-type sungla.s.ses were perched on the bridge of a nose that had been broken at least once, probably a couple of times. He'd trimmed down, too, lost maybe fifteen or twenty pounds since she'd last seen him a dozen or so years ago at Jennifer's funeral.

He'd been a mess then.

Pouring himself into a bottle.

Filled with self-pity and self-loathing, or so she suspected from the psych cla.s.ses she'd taken at the community college after George, her first husband, had left her for a little flit of a thing named, of all things, Bambi. For the love of G.o.d, how much more cliched could a guy get?

Well, at least she'd learned from that experience.

Now, she unlocked and opened one of the heavy double doors. "Rick Bentz." She felt her lips twist down at the corners, though a small part of her, that ridiculous, jealous, super-compet.i.tive feminine part of her, was secretly interested. She'd told herself that she'd never liked the man. He had a way of staring at her and, without words, urging, almost forcing, her to speak. She became much too glib and nervous around him. It was the whole cop thing. Cops always always made her uneasy. But she had to admit he was s.e.xy. In that raw, rugged way that Hollywood was always trying to exploit. made her uneasy. But she had to admit he was s.e.xy. In that raw, rugged way that Hollywood was always trying to exploit.

"Shana." He nodded. Forced a smile. "It's been a while."

"More than a while. What're you doing here?"

"In town for a couple of days. Thought I'd look you up."

"And what? Catch up?" she asked, feeling one of her eyebrows lift of its own accord. She knew bulls.h.i.+t when she heard it. "Come on, what is this? Some kind of official business?" She stood in the doorway, blocking Bentz and also keeping Dirk, who couldn't keep from growling a bit, at bay.

"Nothing official." His smile was d.a.m.ned near disarming. "I'd just like to talk to you about Jennifer."

That floored her. "Really. Now? After she's been gone for what? Ten or twelve years? A little late, isn't it?" She folded her arms under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, felt them lift upward. Good. They were incredible and she knew it. "You know, it seems to me you didn't pay her a whole lot of attention when she was alive, so why would you want to talk about her now?" She eyed him critically. The guy favored one leg as he stood. What the h.e.l.l was his deal?

"That's what I'd like to talk to you about."

Hmm.

More out of morbid curiosity than an urge to help, Shana moved out of the doorway, grabbing Dirk's collar and dragging him toward the patio. She figured she might as well work on her tan while she was at it. The dog gave off another low warning growl as she led Bentz down the hallway and through the French doors to the patio. Dirk definitely didn't make it easy, the big beast. Behind her Bentz limped a little, she noticed, though he tried like h.e.l.l to hide it.

Once outside, she let go of the dog. "Leave us alone, Dirk. Go!" she said and snapped her fingers, motioning toward the side of the patio where a thicket of palms provided some shade. The dog hesitated for just a second, then padded obediently to a spot in the gra.s.s. After a quick circle he laid down, chin on his paws, eyes focused on Bentz.

"Pretty big dog," Bentz observed, staring at Dirk's ma.s.sive head.

"My husband's. Has him for protection." A little stretch of the truth there, but hey, why not? "Really, all he does is bark at the neighbor's yappy little Chihuahuas. I guess I should offer you something to drink. Something...nonalcoholic?" she asked, smiling through her barb at his affinity for the bottle.

"I'm fine."

She doubted it. Otherwise he wouldn't be here. "So what's up?" She settled into one of the faux-wicker chairs surrounding a large gla.s.s table and motioned him to have a seat. "What is it you want to know about Jennifer?"

Bentz sat in the shade of an oversized umbrella. "Her suicide," he said.

Shana frowned, felt her lips pull into a knot of frustration.

"You were one of her closest friends. I thought you could tell me her state of mind before her death-did she really want to end it all?"

"Wow. That's it? You want my take on what she was thinking?"

"Yeah."

Okay, he asked. Shana rolled the years back in her head, remembered Jennifer-fun and naughty and terminally s.e.xy. "It never made sense to me. She was too full of life, too into herself to want to end it."

"We found a note."

"Oh, pooh!" She swiped at the air as if a bothersome fly were buzzing around her head. "I don't know what that was all about. Sure, she told me she fought depression at times, but...I didn't think it was that serious. Maybe I was wrong, but I would have bet at the time she wrote the note it was just a way to get attention, you know? She was big on that. I mean who kills themselves by driving into a tree?"

He was listening, not bothering to take notes.

"She could've had an accident, I'll grant you that. She was known to drink a little and then there were pills, but..." She looked him straight in the eye. "If you're asking me if I think Jennifer was capable of suicide, I'd say no. Just like I said pretty loudly at the time she died."

Bentz nodded. As if he remembered.

"I lived with Jennifer at Berkeley and then afterward when...you know she was dating Alan Gray? No, not just dating. I think they were engaged for a while, right?"

She saw the narrowing of his eyes, the quiet a.s.sent behind his shaded gla.s.ses.

"But she didn't move in with Alan, probably because she met you. Personally, I thought she was crazy. I mean, Alan was this super-rich real estate developer. G.o.d, he must've been worth tens of millions. Yet, she fell for you. A cop. Threw the millionaire over. Go figure." Shana sighed theatrically. "But then who could figure our girl out? Jennifer was nothing if not a dichotomy." Shana remembered Jennifer the flirt. Jennifer the extrovert. Jennifer the wild. But never could she recall Jennifer the morose. "However, I never considered Jennifer someone who would hurt herself. Not intentionally. I mean I just don't think she was capable of it. She would do a lot of things for attention. A lot. But never really self-destructive." Shana caught herself and sighed. "Well, unless you mean the affair." She met his gaze, but she doubted it so much as flickered behind his shades. "James was definitely her Achilles' heel." She looked away to the pool where sunlight danced on the water, clear and aquamarine. "Look, it's been a long time and really, I don't know what was in her head at the time. I just doubt that it was suicide."

Bentz asked her a few more questions about her friends.h.i.+p, then, when she looked at her watch, came up with the bombsh.e.l.l.

"Do you think Jennifer could have faked her death?"

"What?" She was shocked. "Are you kidding?" But he wasn't. His face was stone-cold sober. "No way. I mean, how would she go about it?" Her thoughts swirled. Goose b.u.mps rose on the back of her arms. Was this some kind of trick question? But Bentz's expression told her differently. "Okay, I don't know what you're getting at, but no, I don't think she could have...what? Staged the accident? Put someone up to it? Killed another woman? No...that's nuts, Rick." She felt her insides churning. This was just too weird. "Weren't you the one who identified her body?"

He nodded, his lips tightening just a bit.

"Well, then, did you make a mistake?"

"I don't know," he said and she let out a long breath. "She didn't talk to you about it? Didn't show up afterward?"

"No! For the love of G.o.d!" Was the man bonkers? Holy c.r.a.p! "What kind of dope are you smoking, Bentz? Jennifer's dead. We both know it."

"If you say so."

Shana leaned back in her chair and eyed the man who had been Jennifer's husband. He hadn't been known to hallucinate. At least, not before all his problems. At one point he'd been the s.h.i.+ning star of the LAPD, but that star had been tarnished, along with his badge.

Today, though, he looked like the old Bentz. Handsome and hard-edged. Oh, he was a little more shopworn around the edges, the years starting to show. But this Bentz was clear-eyed and determined. Pa.s.sionate. Some of the qualities Jennifer had been drawn to in the first place.

"What makes you think Jennifer is alive?" she asked. This conversation was weird, weird, weird.

He withdrew something from an envelope-photos that he fanned over the gla.s.s-topped table. Shana's heart nearly stopped. The woman in each shot was Jennifer, or her G.o.dd.a.m.ned identical twin. "Where'd you get these? I mean...you're saying these are recent?" she asked, her mind boggled. Jennifer was dead.

"Someone sent them to me. I thought you might have an idea who."

"Not a clue...but...this can't be...I mean, she's dead. You were the one who-" She picked up the shot of Jennifer crossing the street. A chill slid down her spine.

"I'm just looking into her death," he said as she eyed the pictures, looking for flaws, some hint that this was a twisted hoax.

"Where did these come from?" she asked.

"Postmarked Culver City."

"Where you lived." She swallowed hard. Heard the dry wind rustling the palm fronds. Felt cold as death inside. "This has to be an illusion."

"I know, but I have some time, so I thought I'd check into it a little deeper."

"Why?"

He didn't answer, just asked, "Is there anything you can tell me about the last week or so of her life that was unusual or different?"

"Aside from the fact that she died?" Shana asked bitterly, then eyed the pictures again. The truth of the matter was that she missed Jennifer. She wasn't crazy about talking to Jennifer's ex-husband, a real son of a b.i.t.c.h who'd been distant from his wife, always putting his work before his d.a.m.ned family.

She felt an allegiance to Jennifer, even now when she was no longer with the living. Discussing her with Rick seemed a betrayal somehow. Shana glanced away from Rick Bentz's intimidating glare to the garden where heavy-blossomed bougainvillea clung to an arbor, the leaves rustling in a soft breeze.

But what was the point to keeping mum now? Her allegiance was long over. Jennifer was gone.

"All I know is that Jennifer talked about leaving a lot. She mentioned giving herself a break and you your freedom." To his credit, the man winced, if only slightly. "She thought you were more cut out to be a parent than she was, even though you worked too much, got too involved with your cases, and drank a whole lot more than you should." Shana lifted her hair up, letting the breeze skim across her nape. "She was smart enough to realize you were a good father. For what that's worth."

Crossing one leg over the other, she wondered, could those pictures be real? No way. The woman in the pictures was too young. Or she had an exceptional plastic surgeon. Shana dragged her gaze away, got back to skewering Bentz. "You already said you know she had a lover." From the tightening of Bentz's jaw, Shana knew she had hit a nerve. "She was planning to cut it off with him, too. Her life was getting too complicated and since James was your half brother..."

"And the father of my daughter."

Jesus, he was way ahead of her. Shana shrugged and wished she'd made a pitcher of margaritas. She was suddenly thirsty as well as nervous. "Well, she knew that her affair, with him being a priest and all, only spelled trouble for both of them."

"Did he know she was going to end it?" Bentz asked gravely.

"Suspected it, I think. She hadn't actually done the dirty deed, but he'd sensed it was coming. He was beside himself."

Bentz's jaw slid to the side and she knew she was getting to him. Good. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d deserved it for ignoring his wife, probably sending her to an early grave, and then showing up here on Shana's doorstep out of the blue. He was s.e.xy, though, in that earthy way she found fascinating, if a little dangerous. Rugged and tough...despite the fact that he was a cop. Shana leaned forward, making sure her robe gaped open a bit, displaying a hint of her perfect decolletage, her latest investment since her d.a.m.ned b.o.o.bs had started going south sometime after thirty-five.

"So what did he do?"

"Father James?" she asked coyly, suddenly glad to get back at this b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"Yeah. Him."

"He was upset, of course. They had a couple of fights. He was...out of control."

There was a slight tic in Bentz's jaw. "You think he had something to do with her accident?"

"I...I wouldn't say that," she hedged, but then what had she known about a priest who had continually broken his vow to G.o.d and church? Hadn't she asked herself that very same question? She decided to change the subject. "You know, that brother of yours, he was d.a.m.ned s.e.xy and pa.s.sionate. A problem, I think, since he happened to be a priest." She fluttered her fingers. "That vow of celibacy tends to get in the way. It can be a real b.u.mmer."

Bentz was silently seething and she loved it. She decided to push it a bit. "You know, they sometimes met up on the Santa Monica Pier, or somewhere around there. I believe that's where they first really hooked up. On the beach maybe, not far from the amus.e.m.e.nt park." She saw Bentz flinch and knew she'd hit a mark. Good. She went on. "Let's see, and then...Jeez, what was it that she was always talking about?" she asked and noticed the tightening of the corners of Bentz's mouth. "Oh, I know! This was a biggie for her for some reason. They used to meet at some inn at San Juan Capistrano, I think."

He tensed even more, his eyes, behind his shades, squinting. "You know the name?"

"No, but I remember Jennifer saying it was part of an old mission. Not the main one that's there. It's a smaller church that was sold and remodeled into an inn." She tried to recall the details. "Wait a sec. Didn't she tell me they always stayed in room number seven? It was, like, their lucky number, or something."

"Number seven?" he repeated tightly.

"Yeah, I think so, though why I remember that, I don't know." But suddenly a conversation she'd had with Jennifer after one of her trysts came back to her now. Jennifer's eyes had been bright with mischief, her lips curved into an aren't-I-naughty smile as she sipped a martini and spilled a few juicy details of her secret life. And the name of the motel in Capistrano? It floated to her, then away. So d.a.m.ned elusive. "I think the name of the inn was Mission San...San Mich.e.l.le." That didn't sound right. What the h.e.l.l was it? "No...no. Wait!" She snapped her fingers as it came to her. "Mission San Miguel, that was it! It was special to them. They'd been there the first time, you know, when she got pregnant and then again, when they restarted the affair." She saw the revulsion that Bentz was trying so hard to mask and she felt a thrill of satisfaction.

The jerk deserved a dose of cold, hard reality. He was the reason Jennifer had been so messed up; his distance had forced her into the arms of another man. She leaned a bit closer and said in a throaty stage whisper, "It's kind of ironic, don't you think, being as Father James was a man of G.o.d and all. I guess he could sleep with Jennifer, break all kinds of vows, and then head on over to the confessional to cleanse his soul." She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not Catholic, but that is how it works, isn't it?"

"I don't know." He seemed to be making a mental note. "Any other place?"

"Oh, I think there was some little no-tell motel over on Figueroa, somewhere near USC, but I'm not really sure." Maybe she was telling him too much. Maybe she should keep her mouth shut. Nothing she said would bring Jennifer back.