Hayes stretched his neck and rotated his shoulders in an attempt to dispel some of the tension mounting in his upper back. Between his caseload and his ex-wife’s most recent custody demands, he needed a break. He used to have time to run or play pickup ball, but lately he’d been too busy to squeeze in a workout.
He reviewed the information he knew about the McIntyre murder. The department had gotten the call around eight in the morning, when the maid had found a very dead Shana McIntyre face up in the pool. The maid had dialed 9-1-1; a uniformed cop had responded, then called in RHD.
Hayes and Bledsoe had caught the case and arrived about the same time as SID, the Scientific Investigation Division, rolled up. Of course a T.V. camera crew showed up shortly thereafter.
Shana McIntyre hadn’t just hit her head on the side of the pool, though there was blood on the tile near the stairs. The bruising at her throat and other evidence suggested that she’d been attacked.
Later, while searching the place, they’d found his-and-hers laptop computers in the den. The pink Mac had been logged onto Shana’s calendar, where Bentz’s name had appeared in capital letters.
“Interesting,” Bledsoe had remarked. “The guy’s in town less than a week and three people are dead. Two vics of the Twenty-one and now this woman has him on her calendar. Bentz is batting a thousand.”
Hayes hadn’t been so quick to judge. “You don’t think he had anything to do with the Springer twins’ murders.”
Bledsoe had glowered at Shana McIntyre’s monitor. “Didn’t think so. But this one…” He’d scratched at his chin and looked up over the rims of his reading glasses. “I don’t know. Look, I’ve never pegged Bentz as a killer. But something’s off, Hayes. You and I both know it, and somehow it’s connected to the fact that good ol’ Ricky Boy is back in L.A.”
On that point, Hayes didn’t disagree.
The husband, Leland McIntyre, who drove back from Palm Springs, had seemed genuinely upset. He had an alibi, but then murder-for-hire wasn’t an impossibility. An insurance broker, Leland McIntyre had taken out a whopper of a policy on his wife, over two million dollars. Then there was the list of her ex-husbands and the previous Mrs. McIntyre, Isabella, who, if you could believe the neighbors, had held a grudge against Shana for stealing her husband. It was hard to tell. There were so many ex-wives and husbands in the mix, it nearly took a flowchart to keep them all straight.
And all the suspects from dysfunctional relationships didn’t change the fact that Rick Bentz had visited Shana only days before her death. He’s in town less than a week, and she ends up dead.
The last person to see Shana alive was the gardener, earlier in the afternoon. The final call on her cell phone had been to her husband in Palm Springs. The phone records for her cell, the husband’s cell, and the home phone were already being checked.
No signs of forced entry at the house, but the killer had probably climbed the gate and walked around the house. Of course there were four security cameras in and around the house, but they had been inoperable for years.
No break there.
The McIntyre homicide was a tough one, Hayes thought, even if you pulled Bentz from the pool of suspects.
Damned Bentz. He was proving to be a real pain in the ass. Still, Hayes would give Bentz the benefit of the doubt and track down some of the information Bentz wanted. There was a chance it might even help with the case.
Just as soon as he fought his way through the statements and evidence of this latest crime.
He glanced at the clock again and figured it would be a long one. If he was lucky, he’d be home at midnight. Great. He glanced down and a note on his calendar caught his eye: Recital. Oh, hell, Maren was singing tonight at some church near Griffith Park in Hollywood. Hayes had promised his daughter he would attend and he couldn’t stand facing her disappointment or Delilah’s scowl of disgust. He had to show up. Somehow he’d take off an hour for the kid.
It was, as Delilah was always delighted to remind him, his responsibility.
Montoya was sweating, his muscles aching from running on the indoor track for half an hour, then working out on the weight machines-a new exercise regimen his wife had initiated by giving him a membership to a gym for his birthday. Yeah, it was a great stress reliever, and yeah, he was more toned, but this new “healthy” lifestyle was about to kill him. After all, what was wrong with a smoke and a beer?
On the way to the locker room he waved to a couple of guys he knew, then showered, letting the hot water run over his body before he toweled off. He dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, then slipped his arms through his leather jacket and headed out.
Into the warm Louisiana rain.
Fat drops pounded the parking lot as he dashed to his Mustang, unlocking it with his keyless remote on the fly. Nearly soaked again, he considered driving straight home, where Abby was waiting, but decided to detour to the office to check on the information he’d requested for Bentz. Having seen the press release about the latest L.A. murder, he didn’t want to delay.
“Damn,” he said, flipping on his wipers. Bentz was in trouble. Montoya could feel it. People were dying. People somehow connected to his partner.
Streetlights glowed, casting shimmering blue pools of illumination on the pavement as he nosed his car into the street and pushed the speed limit, running amber lights, thinking about Bentz in California.
The guy was stirring up trouble.
But then, that wasn’t exactly a news flash.
Though Montoya had thought Bentz was out of his mind, the events of the last few days had proved him wrong. Bentz might be stirring the pot, but something was hiding just beneath the surface, something murky and decidedly evil. It was all Montoya could do not to buy an airline ticket and fly out. He had some vacation time he could use. Abby would understand. She always did. But he hadn’t been invited. This mess in California was Bentz’s private deal. He was figuring out his own past, exorcising his own damned demons. If he wanted his partner’s help, Bentz wouldn’t be shy about asking.
And yet, what if Bentz needed help and didn’t realize it? What if he were getting in over his head. Jesus, the man was an idiot where women were concerned.
Taking a corner fast enough to make his tires squeal, Montoya slowed a bit to call Abby.
“How’s my favorite detective?” she asked.
“Fine as ever,” he lied.
“Still have a tiny ego, I see.”
“It just needs a little stroking.”
“Your ego? That’s what you’re talking about?”
“Naughty woman.”
“And you love it.”
She was right. They both knew it. “Look, I’m gonna be running a little late,” he said as he drove past the Superdome and had to stop for a red light. People with umbrellas dashed across the crosswalk and splashed through puddles.
“Let me guess, Hotshot. You’re officially off the clock, so now you’re going to work for nothing for Bentz.”
“Something like that.”
“Should I wait up?” she’d said with a trace of sarcasm.
“Might be a good idea.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.” The light turned green. He hung up chuckling. She was the first woman who’d been able to give as well as she got, and he loved that about her. As the police band crackled and the wipers slapped the rain from the windshield, he drove through the city to the station. Easing into an available parking slot, he cut the engine. Turning his collar against the downpour, he raced into the building and up the stairs.
The squad room was quiet, only a few detectives were still working, most having already called it a day. Montoya sat at his desk, fired up his computer, and searched his e-mail for the documents he’d requested.
Sure enough, a few answers had come in, answers he hoped would help Bentz. He checked the wall clock: 8:47, not even 7 P.M. on the West Coast. He dialed quickly and Bentz picked up on the third ring.