And Bentz knew he was the cause. The catalyst. “Jennifer” had shown herself to Lorraine, knowing full well that Lorraine would phone him. Then, after Lorraine had reported the sighting, “Jennifer” had killed her with flawless dispatch. Even now she could be watching, enjoying the show.
Twisted bitch.
Though he sensed that the house was empty, the murderer long gone, he couldn’t be certain. He hung up and checked the rest of the house. Moving carefully, trying not to touch anything or disturb any fingerprints or evidence the killer may have left behind, he searched closets and did a perfunctory check of the back deck, but the perp had fled the scene. Of course. Bentz put in another call to Hayes and left his third message within an hour, then returned to the living room. A loud, unworldly screech reverberated through the room.
Bentz ducked behind the hallway wall, then peered out in time to see a gray cat streak from the back of the couch and bolt behind a plaid upholstered chair. From behind the worn cushions it hissed, glaring at him with glittering gold eyes.
Bentz’s skyrocketing pulse slowed a bit. He’d forgotten Lorraine had always kept cats, having seen no evidence of the animal when he’d visited.
Shaking inside, craving a cigarette, he waited outside on the porch near a grapefruit tree. His leg throbbed and he tried to maintain calm by focusing on the sounds of the night. Over the buzz of insects and the barking of a dog a few streets over, the wails of sirens split the night air. Good. He shoved his hair away from his face, noticing a nervous neighbor peeking out at him through blinds.
The show’s about to begin, he thought while a jogger ran past the entrance to the cul-de-sac. His eyes followed the movement. The runner was a slim woman-or was it a man?-in a baseball cap and dark clothes. No reflective gear. She glanced toward him, but she was too far away to see her features.
Yet, there was something about her that seemed familiar.
What? The thought stopped him cold. Familiar? Are you out of your mind? You can’t even make out the runner’s gender. Get a grip, Bentz, and figure this thing out before another one of the people you interviewed winds up dead. Think, for God’s sake. You’re going to have to answer a lot of questions.
As he watched, she turned down a side street. Maybe she’d seen a silver car cruising the neighborhood. “Hey!” he called after her, but she was too far away. He’d never catch her on foot, and he couldn’t leave in the car. Not after calling the cops, who, by the sound of screaming sirens, would arrive within the next thirty seconds.
Forget the runner for now.
Bentz turned off the voice in his head and, still longing for a cigarette or a stiff drink or both, walked toward the curb.
Why had Lorraine phoned him?
Had she really seen Jennifer?
Or was it all a ruse?
He stared down the dark street where the runner had disappeared just as flashing lights strobed the night and a police cruiser screamed around the corner.
Who had killed Lorraine?
Jennifer?
Bentz knew in his gut that Lorraine’s murder had everything to do with the death of Shana McIntyre. Both women were dead because of their relationship to his ex-wife. Both women were dead because of him. Because they’d spoken to him. Guilt squeezed the breath from his lungs. If he hadn’t called them, hadn’t shown up on their doorsteps, would Shana and Lorraine be alive today?
Bentz rose as the police car screeched to a stop at the curb. Two Torrance police officers exploded from their vehicle and wheeled toward him.
“You Bentz?” the driver asked, a young buck with his weapon drawn. His lips were tight, his eyes narrowed, suspicion giving him an edgy appearance.
“Yeah. I’m a cop. New Orleans PD. My firearm is in my shoulder holster. Badge in my wallet.”
“What happened here?” the second cop asked, a woman as in tense as her partner, her gun pointed dead center at Bentz’s chest.
“Shooting. Looks like a homicide.” The words rolled off his tongue, business as usual. So cold and routine, Bentz thought. But you knew her. You knew this woman. “She called me…was scared by some thing she saw. I came right over, found her dead.”
“The vic inside?”
“Yeah. In the kitchen. Back of the house. It’s clear, aside from a cat.”
“I’m on it,” the woman cop said as the wail of another siren cut through the night. She took off for the house.
Across the cul-de-sac a neighbor, a fat man in a tight sweatsuit, drifted onto his front porch, to eye what was happening while the male cop still kept his weapon at ready.
“Don’t move,” the first cop ordered Bentz. The muzzle of his pistol didn’t waver. “’Til we sort this all out, I don’t want you to friggin’ breathe.”
Olivia clicked off the television, stretched on the parlor sofa, and whistled to the dog. She’d stayed up later than usual, watching the end of a sappy movie she’d seen twenty years earlier.
Upstairs she changed into her nightgown, noting in the bathroom mirror that her body showed no signs of pregnancy. She was just turning down the bed, wishing Bentz were home, when the phone rang. “Speak of the devil,” she said to Hairy S, who was poised to jump onto the mattress. “Only someone on the West Coast would call after midnight. Right?”
But caller ID told her it was a restricted call and her insides tensed a bit as she said, “Hello?”
For a second no one responded, and Olivia felt that same drip of fear that was always with her when Bentz was on a dangerous case. “Hello?”
“He’s getting himself into trouble,” a woman’s voice rasped in her ear.
Olivia’s scalp prickled. For a second she couldn’t speak.
“People are dying,” the voice informed her.
“Excuse me? What?” Her heart was suddenly racing, her palms damp. She knew this was the same crank caller who had phoned a few days earlier. The woman intent on rattling her.
“There’s been another murder.” The voice was little more than a hiss.
“No!” Her stomach hit the floor. Rick? Had something happened to Rick? For the love of God, what was this woman saying? No, no…of course the caller had to be talking about Shana McIntyre. Right? “Who is this?” Olivia demanded, some of her fear bleeding into anger.
“Take a wild guess,” the sandpapery voice suggested. “Or ask RJ. He’ll know.”
“Ask whom?”
She heard a hollow, sultry laugh.
Jennifer. Bentz’s first love.
“Why are you doing this?”
Click.
The phone went dead in her hand. Olivia felt herself shaking inside, not from fear, but from rage, white hot and seething. A fury so deep it nearly blinded her. To think that someone would dare mess with her husband, then try to intimidate her in her own home. “You sicko,” she hissed, wishing she could confront the bitch, then slammed down the receiver.
Incensed, she wanted to punch out Rick’s number, then thought better of it. Whoever had called her expected her to go crying to RJ, as Jennifer used to call him. The caller wanted Olivia to play the role of the frightened little female.
No way.
Olivia wasn’t going to give the bitch the satisfaction.
For now she’d sit tight. But in the morning she would dial her own phone company and see if they could give her any information about this pathetic call. Until then, if the coward called back, Olivia was ready to tear into her.
“Get over it,” she muttered, either to herself or her tormentor, she didn’t know which.
To cool off, she headed downstairs and double-checked all the locks on the doors and windows. A little obsessive, but it helped her feel safe. Reassured that everything was in order, she climbed the steep steps back to her room, the bedroom she shared with Rick.
She hated to do it, but for the first time in a long, long while, Olivia shut her bedroom window. Somehow it felt like giving in and that really pissed her off, but she flipped the latch, wanting to play it safe. No longer was there a cooling breeze off the bayou slipping into the room, no rustle of the cottonwood leaves, no scent of magnolia drifting inside. Nor could she hear the soothing sounds of chirping crickets and croaking frogs.