Fortuna had known she shouldn’t confide in Bentz. Some secrets are better left unspoken. Fool! Fortuna’s arms moved more sluggishly. Her legs felt like lead, and blackness pulled at the corners of her subconscious.
Move! Fight! Don’t give in! her brain screamed at her, but her muscles refused to listen, her arms barely twitched. It was all she could do to keep her damned eyes open despite the terror that invaded her body and soul.
“Nighty-night, bitch,” her attacker whispered.
Fortuna felt the sting of a needle pierce her bare arm. Oh, God, please…no…
But it was too late.
Fortuna sensed her body sink into the mattress as her attacker sighed. A sigh of contentment. Fortuna imagined her assailant was smiling, though she couldn’t see anything, her eyelids were so heavy, so damned heavy.
Her languid mind swirled slowly with bits of thoughts, fragments of fear as she stared up in the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of this person pinning her to the mattress.
But it was too dark. Too hard to stay awake. She needed to sleep. Fortuna gave in to the overwhelming desire and let her eyelids ease shut as her assailant slid off the bed.
Fortuna tried to move.
Couldn’t.
Not even when she felt her skimpy nightgown being slid over her head. Oh God, I’m going to be raped, she thought, but found she really didn’t care. Her pulse was slowing…the drug oozing through her blood. The prayers of her youth came to her, prayers she hadn’t uttered in twenty years…
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed-
And then she felt herself being dressed. As if God had already responded.
From the red pain in her eyelids she knew there was light in the room now as the intruder slid a garment over her head, pulled her arms through sleeve holes.
Why?
This is crazy.
Or maybe she was hallucinating, feeling the effects of the drugs flowing through her bloodstream.
She felt a slim ray of hope pierce her heart. Perhaps there was a chance she wouldn’t die after all, she thought, fighting to stay awake. Her attacker might not want to do her ill. Surely this person who was lifting her off the bed and carrying her through the house was an angel of mercy.
Yes, that had to be it.
Surely she wasn’t going to be trussed like this if the intent was to kill her. If death were the objective, certainly she’d already be dead.
There are worse fates than a quick death, her mind warned, but the thought was fleeting.
In a heartbeat she slid completely under the welcoming blanket of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 26
Bentz woke up with a bitter taste in his mouth and a strong resolve to get home in his gut. What the hell was he doing in Los Angeles when Olivia was being threatened in New Orleans?
He’d only gotten a few hours’ sleep, but in the light of day the cheap motel room looked more alien and inhospitable than ever. Why was he still here, chasing some impersonator when his wife needed him back home, was possibly in jeopardy?
Still in bed, Bentz reached for his cell phone on the nightstand and called Jonas Hayes. The call switched to voice mail, and he left a message that he was out of here, headed home. Easing out of bed, Bentz knew it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do.
He dragged himself into the shower and stood in the hot stream of water, ignoring the razor. Then, feeling almost alive, he wrapped a towel around his waist and started slamming clothes into his bag. He knew leaving L.A. wasn’t a great idea. It would look suspicious if, after all his protests about being innocent, he took a jet out of California the day after Lorraine’s body had been discovered.
Too bad.
He’d spent most of the night and the early morning hours laying out his notes at Hayes’s office in the Center. So now LAPD was officially in charge of the investigation of Jennifer’s death. Jonas had made a copy of everything, including his photographs, his list of Jennifer’s acquaintances, plate numbers, addresses, and phone contacts. Bentz had given them a blow-by-blow of the events that had happened since he’d landed in Los Angeles less than a week earlier.
“You sure cut a big swath,” Bledsoe had observed, his smile twisted when he’d arrived for the morning shift. “Anyone who talks to you ends up dead.”
“Up yours, Bledsoe,” Bentz had said, his hackles up. “Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to kill Lorraine, then call the police?”
“I just think you bring a string of bad luck, that’s all.” Bledsoe had backed down a bit.
Dawn Rankin had showed up at the station just as Bentz had been leaving. She’d managed a cool smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. But that was expected. She and Bentz had been lovers and their breakup years before hadn’t gone well.
At all.
Their affair had been hot, stormy, and cut short because of Jennifer. Dawn had never forgiven him and made no bones about it. That she had smiled at all was something.
While at the station he’d also passed on the name of Jennifer’s dentist, in case Hayes could manage to get the body exhumed. Finally, some progress. Now, rubbing a towel over his wet hair, Bentz wondered if Jennifer’s X-rays would match the teeth of the remains buried in that coffin. One way or the other at least one question would finally be resolved…
Before crashing this morning Bentz had called Montoya and left a message asking his partner to check on Olivia until he returned. Then Bentz had put in a call to Melinda Jaskiel, his superior, asking for home surveillance. Though he and Olivia lived outside the city of New Orleans’ limits, he had enough friends in the department that someone would check on her.
Olivia would be mad, of course. She thought she could handle herself, but things were getting dangerous and he didn’t like the thought of her being alone, even if she was nearly two thousand miles away from the recent killings. Before falling asleep early this morning Bentz had thought that would cover things, take care of Olivia.
But no, after a few hours he realized he needed to get home, needed to make sure Olivia was safe. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t return to California, but for now he needed to physically reassure himself of her safety. Who knew what this psycho had in mind? The psycho who’d reached out to Olivia over the phone…
He wasn’t going to take any chances.
He would fly home and see his wife in the flesh. Make love to her. Reaffirm his life with her. He even thought fleetingly of her need to have a child and did the mental calculations all over again. Hell, he’d be over sixty when the kid graduated from college.
So what? You can retire in ten or fifteen years and enjoy watching the kid grow up. Would that be so bad?
No. But the truth was he couldn’t imagine retiring any more than he could wrap his mind around starting all over again with a baby.
He finished packing up his gear, placed his shoulder holster and pistol inside the bag with his clothes, then unhooked his computer and slid it into its case. The last thing, of course, was the damned cane. He wanted to throw it into the trash, but instead hauled it with him. With one last cursory glance around the shabby room, he closed the door.
After checking out of the motel, he drove to LAX through traffic that slowed and stalled while the Pacific sun battled through the smog to beat through the windshield. Time seemed to stand still and he was crawling out of his skin.
Now that he’d made the decision to return home, he found himself impatient, anxious to get there. Some of his irritability could be attributed to lack of sleep, he supposed, and the fear that two women had just died because he had come to Los Angeles. But truth to tell, his underlying sense of urgency was all about seeing that Olivia was safe.
The minutes dragged, but he finally saw the airport tower, then Encounters restaurant, the landmark for LAX. “It’s about time,” he muttered under his breath.