“Bentz.”
“Yeah, I know.” They both had caller ID. “How’s it going?”
“Not good. Shana McIntyre was murdered.”
“I heard.”
“Yeah, well, the LAPD isn’t happy.” Bentz’s voice was tense.
“No one is. Look, I might have some information for you. I’ll send it via e-mail, but thought you might want to hear it directly.”
“Shoot.”
“The long and the short of it is that Elliot, our resident computer whiz, went to town with the information you gave me on the parking pass, partial license plate numbers, and car description.”
“Did he get any hits?”
“Bingo. The god of all things technical just sent me the information. Says he sifted through federal, state, and private records to find it.”
“Lay it on me.”
Montoya scanned the monitor. “So the silver Chevy that’s been dogging you could be a vehicle once owned by an employee of Saint Augustine’s Hospital. Her name was Ramona Salazar.”
“Was?”
“Yeah, that’s the kicker. She died about a year ago.”
A beat. Then Bentz asked, “What happened to the car?”
“Still registered to her.”
“Got an address?”
“Yeah, but it’s the old one where she lived when she was still alive. The car could have been sold, but whoever bought it never bothered registering it.”
“I wonder why.”
“Me too. Someone might be using her ID, or some family member could be driving the vehicle even though it’s still in her name.”
“I’ll find out.”
“Good. And I’ve got some info on a few astrologers named Phyllis, nothing concrete. There’s a Phyllis Mandabi who reads tarot cards in Long Beach,” Montoya said, checking his notes. “And there was an astrologer who practiced in Hollywood about fifteen years ago-Phyllis Terrapin. She left there for Tucson, got married, and doesn’t have her shingle, if that’s what you want to call it, out any longer.”
“Got it.”
“And you shouldn’t have any problem finding Alan Gray. He’s still a big shot in the Los Angeles area. Got a new firm though, named ACG Investments. He’s the CEO.”
“Thanks.” Bentz said. “I already tracked him to ACG, but haven’t figured out what he’s into.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Great. You did good.”
“I know,” Montoya said, and with a few clicks of his mouse, forwarded all of the information to Bentz’s personal e-mail address. He was about to hang up, but said, “Hey, Bentz?”
“Yeah?”
“Watch your ass.”
CHAPTER 23
She’s dead!
As I shake a fresh pitcher of martinis, I give myself a pat on the back for how neatly the killing went off. Without a goddamned hitch. Despite those miserable yapping little dogs.
That bitch Shana never knew what hit her.
Her reaction, a look of surprise melding into a mask of sheer horror, was priceless. Our eyes met for a heartbeat, then I sent her reeling and fumbling and splashing into the water.
Perfect!
I hum to myself as I add a little vermouth, very dry, just a whiff, then pour myself a drink.
Bentz is sweating now, I know. He’s wondering about the trap he’s fallen into, searching for a way out. What a joke. His little stunt at the pier followed up by Shana’s unexpected, and oh, so unfortunate, death.
“Boo-hoo,” I whisper aloud.
Smiling to myself, I dig in the refrigerator, find a jar of olives, and drop two into my glass. Drab green, stuffed with pimento, they dance in the clear liquid and slide to the side. Like little eyeballs staring at me.
“Proud of me?” I ask the drink, then take a sip. “Ummm. De-lish!”
I pluck one olive from the glass and suck the pimento from it, savoring the taste and smell of gin as I walk into the living room and drop into my favorite chair.
I taped the news coverage of Shana McIntyre’s death and I play it over and over, listening to that imbecilic reporter, Joanna Quince from KMOL, trying to stutter her way through the story.
“Idiot,” I say to the TV, dangling the other olive over my mouth as Joanna tries to pronounce McIntyre. “It’s Mac-En-Tire,” I say, irritated. I’ve watched it three times before, waiting for the on-camera flub and it grates on my nerves. “Shana would be soooo upset if she heard you screwing up,” I say to Joanna, and that’s the truth. Shana was so proud of stealing Leland away from his first wife. It seemed that getting him down the aisle was payback for the same thing happening to her.
“What goes around, comes around,” I say, then click off the moronic reporter and think about the next one who will have to suffer a similar fate to Shana’s.
It should happen soon, I think, to make my point.
Yes, sooner better than later.
So that everyone understands that the latest spate of killings are not coincidence, that they are directly tied to Rick Bentz.
I already know who will be the next traitor to be sacrificed, and this one will be child’s play. It could happen as quickly as tonight.
That’s an appealing thought, and it could work. After all, I’ve planned it for so long. Another long sip of the cool martini. But I’ll just have one. For now. Later, I can have another for my next celebration.
I’m tingling inside, anticipation sliding through my body. How long I’ve waited, but oh, it was worth it. That old quote about revenge being best served up cold was right on the money.
So, so true.
I finish my drink, savoring the last drop. Bottoms up! Lowering the glass, I get to work. I’ll need to make a phone call before I leave and then…oh, yeah, and then…
The fun is just beginning.
Ramona Salazar.
The name rang no bells for Bentz, none whatsoever.
Using his damned cane and feeling his knee twinge, he walked the short distance from the sandwich shop to his motel in the new shoes he’d picked up at a store in Marina del Rey. Like everything else in this part of the world, the loafers were outrageously expensive. He could easily go broke trying to find out if his ex-wife was dead or alive.
At least he had a name to start with, a lead, if a very shaky one. He had spent the afternoon staked out in his motel room between the television and his laptop, taking notes as information about Shana McIntyre was released. Old footage of her wealthy husband had flashed across the screen, and Bentz had taken note, knowing that the husband was always at the top of a suspect list.
But real detective work entailed more than watching news reports on KMOL or Googling Leland McIntyre, and frustration was beginning to burn in his gut. He hated having his hands tied like this. When Montoya had called, he’d been relieved to have another venue to investigate.
Ramona Salazar.
It was already twilight, the sun setting in the west, the noise of the San Diego Freeway resounding off the hills as he reached the parking lot of the So-Cal. Closer he heard the sound of water splashing. He guessed more than a couple kids were in the interior pool judging from the cacophony of the whoops, hollers, and laughter reaching him.
Vaguely he registered that the car belonging to the old man who owned Spike was missing. He hitched his way along the porch, unlocked the door to his room, and walked inside. It was just as uninviting as ever.
“Home,” he said sarcastically as he placed his cane near the door and dropped his food onto the desk. According to Montoya, Ramona Salazar had died about a year earlier. Bentz powered up his laptop and opened up some kind of wrap sandwich he’d picked up just before Montoya called. The “Californian,” as it was so imaginatively named-a green tortilla slathered in some kind of lemon/Dijon sauce and filled with free-range smoked turkey, whatever the hell that really meant, a slice of pepper-jack cheese, avocados, tomatoes, and sprouts. It was all pretty damned bland, but he barely noticed as he clicked onto his e-mail and found the information Montoya had forwarded.