“Could be.”
“The one helpful thing Bentz supplied was the plates and reg on the mystery woman’s car. Silver Impala registered to Ramona Salazar.”
“I’d like to find that car,” Hayes said.
“I’d like to find the driver,” Bledsoe amended. “Since the owner’s dead. See how Bentz’s mystery woman shakes out. Bentz said Lorraine Newell called him last night, claiming she spotted the Jennifer imposter. We’re checking the phone records now, but he’s too smart to lie about that. So, how did the murderer anticipate that?”
“Maybe the killer was there. Maybe it was a ploy to set up Bentz.”
“Have Newell call him, then off her?”
“He claims someone’s playing head games with him.”
“Head games my ass. They’re fuckin’ with him big-time.”
Hayes couldn’t agree more. He loosened his tie and squinted at the passing traffic. “You know we’re having him followed.”
“A lotta good that’ll do. So he goes to the damned airport. Turns in his car.” Bledsoe shook his head. “Talk about a waste of department funds. Better call our guys back.” Bledsoe opened the door to his car and slid inside. “You know, Hayes, this is all off. Nothin’ seems to fit. I talked to Alan Gray, another name on Bentz’s list. He’s in Vegas this week, had a hard time even remembering Jennifer Nichols Bentz.” He glanced up Hayes. “But then, a guy like that, with all his money, probably has more women than he knows what to do with.”
“Maybe.”
“Can’t expect him to remember them all.”
“Sure you can.”
Bledsoe fired up the BMW’s engine. “I should be so lucky.”
“Sometimes more women means more trouble.”
But Bledsoe didn’t hear his words of wisdom. He was already backing up to head out of the parking lot.
Hayes unlocked his 4Runner remotely, then climbed inside. He folded the sun visor and tossed it into the back, started the engine and adjusted the temperature as he drove out of the lot. He’d already phoned Fortuna Esperanzo, gotten no answer, and left a message, then contacted Tally White. He had set up a meeting with her later this afternoon.
Afterward, if things went well, he would be back in Culver City at the cemetery.
All the paperwork had been filed, the red tape cut. Jennifer Bentz’s former dentist was sending her records over. It looked like Bentz was finally going to get his wish of having his ex-wife’s body exhumed.
God only knew what they’d find.
CHAPTER 27
Through the window, Olivia noticed a patrol car rolling slowly along the country road that ran past her home.
Out here. In the middle of no-damned-where. The road was quite a distance from the house, barely visible through the trees, yet she recognized that the cruiser belonged to the City of New Orleans.
Great. So Bentz was running a security patrol clear out here. While he was looking for his damned ex-wife in California.
After she’d told him she’d be fine. She grabbed the phone and placed a call, but, as expected, he didn’t pick up. Typical. Whenever he was on a case, he was hard to reach. That part she understood. His whole fascination with the ghostly Jennifer was the thing that bugged her.
Yet he’d obviously called in a few favors to have the police drive by the house. He was just such a control freak when it came to security. No doubt because of his line of work. He’d seen the worst of human nature and cruelty time and time again. Not to mention the times that danger had hit close to home, when she and Kristi each had been victims of madmen.
She sighed, releasing some of her indignation.
Maybe the security detail wasn’t such a bad idea.
After all, she had received some harassing calls.
She poured herself a cup of tea, walked into the den, and logged on to the computer. She’d already scouted out the best deals on flights to the West Coast and had found one that would be perfect. It left this afternoon, putting her in L.A. around 7 P.M. Just in time to take Bentz to dinner and give him the news that he was going to be a daddy again.
She clicked on the Web site and found the reservation that she’d placed on hold. With another click of the mouse, she purchased the ticket. One more click and the e-ticket was printed and in her hand. She had about four hours to pack and get herself to the airport, and then she was off to Los Angeles.
She’d already asked Tawilda, who knew where the spare key was hidden, to stay at the house for a couple of days and look after Hairy and Chia. The only loose end was letting her husband know she was coming, and that was proving difficult. She’d tried to reach Bentz this morning and had come up dry. He hadn’t answered his cell phone and when she’d called the motel, she’d been a little alarmed when the clerk told her that he’d checked out.
Why?
Was he switching to another motel?
Was he coming home?
Or flying off somewhere else?
She didn’t want to travel all the way to L.A. only to find out he’d flown to Seattle, or Boston, or Timbuktu. The fact that he’d checked out of his motel bothered her.
She tried him again and the call switched immediately to voice mail.
It was time they had a heart-to-heart. Before he got into too much trouble.
“Oh, Rick,” she sighed, carrying her cooling tea onto the veranda. The dog was on her heels, the smell of the bayou thick in the mist rising between the cottonwoods and cypress. A mockingbird was trilling softly, a heavy breeze fluttering the leaves and teasing at her hair.
She loved it here and, damn it, so did her husband.
So it was time he quit chasing after ghosts and come home where he belonged.
Before some other innocent woman was killed.
Montoya couldn’t believe his eyes. He stared at the computer screen on his desk and whispered, “Gotcha.”
“Got who?” Brinkman asked on his way to the kitchen with his empty coffee mug. He paused at Montoya’s desk, his interest piqued.
“Nothing.” Montoya wasn’t going to confide in the one detective he despised-Brinkman, with his thick glasses and a horseshoe of dark hair around his freckled pate. The guy did his job, but he was a pain in the butt know-it-all. One of those guys who had all the answers. Montoya couldn’t stand him. “It’s personal.”
“Yeah, right. Probably has to do with Bentz getting himself into trouble in L.A.” Brinkman’s eyebrows arched above the rims of his glasses. “Oh, you didn’t think I knew about it? It’s all over the department.” He snorted in his irritatingly supercilious way, then took the hint and strolled toward the kitchen. No doubt to bug the living shit out of the next person he ran into.
Montoya watched him leave, then cooled off slightly as he looked back at his monitor. There it was, the answer to the puzzle, or at least the start of the answer. Hopefully this was the tiny thread that, if tugged gently, would cause the whole carefully knotted mystery to unravel.
After days of fruitless research, following up on the information Bentz had gathered and looking for a lead, he had caught a break. Court records indicated that Ramona Salazar’s next of kin was her brother Carlos.
Carlos Salazar…now Montoya just had to find the guy. He checked Salazar’s address of record and, when that didn’t work, he started sifting through phone and address records. After five calls to people who told him he had the wrong number, he hit pay dirt.
“This is Carlos,” a man answered in a thick Spanish accent.
“Do you know a Ramona Maria Salazar?”
“Yes, I was the brother of Ramona, rest her soul,” Carlos said without a second’s hesitation. “Who wants to know?”