“Because I’m not sure your mother committed suicide. I think she might have been murdered.”
There was a beat, a pause. Kristi, who was usually quick to rush in, even finish his sentences for him, was uncharacteristically silent. “And why do you think that?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Five minutes long or five hours long?” she asked as the television flickered noiselessly. “Come on, Dad, give.”
“Okay, I guess you deserve to know.”
“Duh.”
“The truth is, I’m not even sure it’s your mom in her grave.”
“What! Are you serious?” There was an edge of panic to her voice. “Now you’re freaking me out.”
No surprise there. It was the reason he hadn’t wanted to confide in his daughter in the first place.
“Holy God, not in her grave? What the hell is going on?”
He told her. Starting with the death certificate and the photos he’d received, including the “sightings” of Jennifer or her impersonator, ending up with his jump off the pier and Shana McIntyre’s murder. “So that’s what I’m doing in Southern California.”
“I can’t believe this,” she said, obviously upset. “I mean, Mom’s not alive. You know that, right? We went through all this. I thought you were just tripping on the meds. Come on! If she were alive, she would have contacted us, or at least me. And if you think you’re seeing her ghost…I guess I can get that,” she grudgingly admitted. “It’s not like you, but I’ve seen things I can’t explain. I still see images of people in black-and-white and then they die. That’s pretty damned eerie. And Olivia, she saw through the eyes of a killer, so…just because you saw Mom or thought you saw her, doesn’t mean she’s alive.” She took in a deep breath and he imagined her pushing the hair from her eyes. “I can’t believe this.”
“I’m just sorting it out. Obviously someone wants me here in L.A. Whoever it is lured me in.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to unravel.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
He snorted. “That makes two of us.”
“You’re not like the Lone Ranger, are you? Tell me there are people helping you.”
He’d never felt so alone in his life, but he wouldn’t admit that. He’d already burdened her with enough difficult information. To worry her further wasn’t necessary. “Yep. Montoya in New Orleans and I’ve still got a few friends in LAPD.” He sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring the television and the fact that he was beginning to hate this place. The four walls of the little motel room were closing in on him and he missed his daughter. Missed his wife.
“Who? Who are your friends there?” she demanded, because she’d been old enough to remember when they’d lived in Los Angeles. She knew her father did not leave on good terms by any stretch of the imagination.
“Jonas Hayes, to start with. You remember him?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s got my back.”
“I don’t know if I believe you. I assume Olivia knows all this.”
He squeezed the back of his neck. “Uh-huh.”
“So the daughter is the last to know.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I would,” she said, steamed.
She was really pissed off. Nothing Bentz could do about it now.
“Is that why you called?” Kristi demanded. “Something about this case?”
He felt the anger radiating through the connection. “I thought you might remember if your mom ever mentioned a woman by the name of Ramona Salazar?”
“Ramona who? Salazar?” she repeated. “No. No Ramonas.”
“What about Phyllis?”
“Just the astrologer.”
“You knew about her?” Bentz’s muscles stiffened.
“Sure. I even called her once for a reading, but Mom hit the roof, thought you wouldn’t approve, so I never got the reading and Mom told me to keep it on the down low, that it was ‘just our little secret’ or some other melodramatic phrase. You know how she was.”
Apparently not.
“Jeez, I’d nearly forgotten all about her.”
Bentz mentally kicked himself. Of course Kristi would know things about Jennifer that he didn’t. Montoya had already mentioned a woman named Phyllis Terrapin. “So, how into this astrologer was she?”
“Oh, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Just something Mom did. Like her hair and her nails. I only saw her a couple of times when Mom had picked me up.” Kristi laughed. “I called her ‘the Turtle’ behind her back because of her name and she kinda looked like one, short neck, big glasses. Mom didn’t think it was funny, which I thought was weird. She usually had a pretty wicked sense of humor, but not when I teased her about the whole astrology thing.”
“Of course she didn’t,” he said. How many other secrets had mother and daughter shared, secrets he’d been totally oblivious to?
They talked for a while longer, but Kristi had nothing more to add about Phyllis “the Turtle” or anything else he’d been investigating out here. “I’ll call you in a few days,” he promised, and they hung up. “Phyllis the Turtle,” he muttered under his breath. Probably nothing, but he’d check her out.
He stood, stretched out his back, and noticed the remains of his Californian wrap drying out on the desk. He scooped the wilting lettuce and soggy tomatoes into the white sack, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it into the trash. Then he settled into his desk chair again, placing the laptop on his thighs and turning so that his heels were propped on the bed. This way he could catch the latest TV news and scores as he did his thousandth Internet search.
He’d just typed in Phyllis’s name when his cell phone rang again.
Caller ID showed that the phone was registered to L. Newell. Lorraine? Jennifer’s stepsister?
He answered before the damned thing rang twice. “Bentz.”
“Oh. Hi. It’s Lorraine.” She sounded tense. Breathless. What was this all about? “I…thought you should know…Oh, God…”
“What?” he asked, his senses on alert, an eerie feeling crawling along his skin.
“I saw her. I saw Jennifer.”
Bentz’s feet dropped to the floor. He slid his laptop onto the desk. “What?”
“I said I saw-”
“I know, but where? When?” He couldn’t believe it. His heart was thudding, adrenaline spurting through his veins, his hands clutching the phone as if it were a lifeline.
“Just a few minutes ago. Here. On my street. In Torrance,” she said, her voice quavering. She sounded scared as hell. “In…in a gray car.”
Really? Bentz was already grabbing his keys and wallet with his free hand.
“I don’t think she expected me to be looking out the window.”
“Did she see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Wait a minute. You saw a woman who looked like Jennifer in a gray car?” Again, he glanced through the blinds to the dark parking lot illuminated by the motel sign. Something felt wrong about this.
“Yes!”
“How could you see her?”
“Uh…the streetlight. The car stopped under the streetlight and she looked right at the house. Right at me.”
“Is she there now?”
“I don’t know. She drove past slowly, around the cul-de-sac, only three or four minutes ago. I’m frightened. She’s dead, Rick. She’s supposed to be dead.” Lorraine’s voice was hoarse with panic. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought I should call you.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour. Sit tight.”
He hung up and threw on his shoulder holster, new jacket, and shoes. His cell phone was just about out of juice, but he pocketed it along with his badge. Ignoring the ache in his leg Bentz flew out of the room and into the parking lot. Inside his car, he snapped on the ignition and drove out of the lot, squealing onto the street.
Someone else had seen Jennifer, or the woman who looked like her. Finally.
Once he was on the side street heading toward the 405, he phoned Jonas Hayes.