“I’m tellin’ ya,” Bledsoe reiterated when Hayes ran into him in the men’s room. “If Bentz hadn’t shown up, five people that we know of would be alive today.” He zipped up, then made a pass at the sink. “Ask the family members of McIntyre, Newell, Esperanzo, and the Springer twins what they think.”
“They’re not cops.”
“Oh, and add Donovan Caldwell, Alan Gray, and even Bonita Unsel to the mix. I’ve talked to them all; they think Bentz is our doer.”
Hayes shook his head. “Again, not cops.”
“Unsel was.”
“With a major grudge. She and Bentz had a thing.”
“Big deal. Bentz was quite a swordsman in his day. Cut a pretty wide swath through the department.” Then with a smarmy grin Bledsoe added, “Even your girlfriend hooked up with him a few times.”
Hayes had expected the zinger; it was just Bledsoe’s style. “You talked to Alan Gray?” Hayes asked.
Bledsoe nodded. “He’s back in town. Well, back in Marina del Rey, where he’s got his yacht moored. Hates Bentz.”
“Then maybe he’s setting him up,” Hayes suggested.
“Gray has too much money and power to be bothered with a pissant nobody like Bentz.”
“Didn’t he steal Jennifer from Gray?”
“You think he cares?” Bledsoe scowled. “Alan Gray has enough girls to make Hugh Hefner jealous.”
“Don’t tell Hef,” Hayes said. “And Gray’s a competitive guy. My guess is he doesn’t like to lose. Nobody does.”
“But to wait so long? What is it…like twelve or thirteen years?”
“Longer,” Hayes said. “Jennifer was with Gray before she and Bentz were married. More like twenty-five or thirty.”
“Alan Gray has better things to do than harbor a thirty-year-old grudge. Christ, Hayes, get real.”
Hayes couldn’t help the irritation that crawled into his voice. “You and I both know that Bentz is innocent. You’re just pissed at him.” Hayes took a position in front of another urinal. “Let it go, Bledsoe. You’re a better cop than that.”
“And you’re not looking at this clearly. You’ve got blinders on, man. We’re searching the wrong direction; we should be looking at Bentz with a freakin’ electron microscope.” Bledsoe pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway as a toilet flushed.
Trinidad, newspaper tucked under his arm, emerged from the stall and glanced at the doorway. “Bledsoe’s a prick,” he said, moving to the sink to wash his hands.
“Old news, Russ.”
“But he’s a good cop. His instincts are usually right on.”
“He’s tryin’ to make a case against Bentz.”
“No, he’s not.” Trinidad reached for a towel. “He’s sayin’ look at the man more closely.” He wiped his fingers and wadded the towel, tossing it into the wastebasket with the skill of a high-school jock. “Wouldn’t hurt.” He paused. “Bentz thought he was saving my life and killed a kid. An honest mistake, but it doesn’t make me think Bentz is a saint. He’s made his share of mistakes just like the rest of us. Personally, I think some sick son of a bitch is setting him up. That’s who we should be trying to find.”
Hayes finished peeing and shook off as Trinidad left the room. Maybe Bledsoe and Trinidad were right. There was a chance that, in his efforts to defend Bentz, Hayes hadn’t really looked at him, seen his flaws, put together a complete history of the man. He believed that someone was setting him up, he believed that it had to do with his ex-wife, and therefore it was personal.
Someone had a razor-sharp ax to grind.
It was just a matter of finding out who.
Bentz squeezed the steering wheel, trying to reaffirm the line between reality and delusion.
Had he seen Jennifer?
Was that crazy woman who dived into the ocean really still alive and taunting him, or had her vision been a figment of his tired but overactive imagination? He didn’t have an answer as he drove directly to Encino. All he knew for certain was that his last hope, that of locating Olivia through her cell phone’s G.P.S., had been destroyed.
Crushed.
He’d staked so much on the possibility of being able to locate her through her cell phone.
But he’d been wrong.
Again.
So here he was back in Encino, chasing another ancillary lead. He was tired to his bones, lack of sleep and worry eating at his guts, but he couldn’t stop. Not until he found Olivia.
The junior college that Yolanda Salazar and her brother Fernando Valdez attended was only five miles from their house in Encino. And the Blue Burro where Fernando worked stood smack-dab in the middle between home and school. It wasn’t too much of a leap to think that Fernando could walk, bike, or run to the JC, work, and home. He could also take the bus that stopped four blocks from the Salazar home, passed directly by the restaurant, and stopped at the main entrance to the college. Or, if everyone at the Salazar house was lying or hiding information, he could have easily borrowed one of the other vehicles or caught a ride with Sebastian or Yolanda.
The question was, as it had been from the moment Bentz had awakened from the coma at the hospitaclass="underline" who was the woman he’d seen driving Fernando’s car? Today, come hell or high water, he meant to find out. He figured he didn’t have a whole lot to lose. He was already persona non grata at the LAPD, and back in New Orleans, his job was still in question.
Besides, he didn’t give a flying fig about either; all that mattered was his wife’s safety.
He parked in the visitor lot, found the registrar’s office, and by flashing his badge and wearing his dead-serious cop face, convinced a frightened-looking girl of about twenty to give up Fernando and Yolanda’s class schedules.
With the help of the free campus maps on the counter, he was able to determine where and when both of Mario Valdez’s siblings were scheduled to be during the day. As luck would have it, he had missed the early class in Fernando’s schedule but the kid was supposed to be in Sydney Hall for an evening lecture.
Good.
Bentz planned to return before that class started.
He couldn’t wait to have a chat with the kid.
I don’t have a lot of time. It’s broad daylight, the damned fog is lifting, but I have to take the risk.
So I leave work and drive straight home, download my picture of Olivia, and print it out. I’m wearing thin gloves…no reason to get sloppy now. The result is superb. I captured the horrified expression on Olivia’s face perfectly and cropped out anything that would give a hint of where she is being held captive. All you can see are the bars of a cage and a pathetic, broken, frightened woman looking desperately at the camera.
“Phase one,” I say, pleased with myself. Then, before too much time slips by, I erase the image from my hard drive and slip the photo into a manila envelope. Rather than using up a day by mailing the picture to him, I decide it’s time to ramp things up. Push him hard. Let him know what it’s like to feel the hollowness, the despair, of losing someone he loves.
Oh, yes. Rick Bentz will soon learn what it’s like to be truly and horridly alone.
I put on my sweat pants and jacket, tuck my hair into a baseball cap, then find my running shoes and a pair of oversized sunglasses. Not the best disguise, but it will have to do. Even though the sweats will look out of place on this warm day, they help alter my shape, along with a sports bra that’s two sizes too tight. Satisfied, I scribble Rick Bentz’s name across the envelope, then drive quickly to that horrible dive of a motel where he stays in Culver City.
One sweep past the So-Cal Inn assures me he’s not in; his new rental car is not in the lot.
I park several blocks away, then, with the envelope tucked into my jacket, take off at an easy lope. Hiding my face from any traffic camera, I time the lights just right so that I barely have to slow to cross a street. When I reach the corner near the motel, I cut across the parking lot and drop the envelope at the door of the office. From the corner of my eye I see a kid at the desk, but he’s not paying any attention to what goes on beyond the television screen mounted in the corner.