Montoya scratched at his chin and pushed his chair back, the diamond stud in his earlobe catching the light.
Bentz saw a flicker of doubt in his partner’s dark eyes. “You don’t believe me.”
“Me? A doubter? No way. Not my style.” He offered a quick, hard-edged Montoya grin. “But as you said earlier, it’s strange. I’m like you. I don’t know what to believe.”
CHAPTER 4
The postmark from Southern California really bothered Bentz. Burned in his brain as he drove away from Bourbon Street. He’d found a Quickie Print and taken several copies of the photographs and death certificate, even using the enhance and enlarge options to get more definition. Then he’d handed the originals to Montoya.
He was convinced that someone from his past, or Jennifer’s past, was tracking him down. But who? Why? And why screw with his mind?
He slowed for a red light, brooding as the Jeep idled. Overhead, dark clouds scudded slowly across the sky and the smell of the Mississippi River reached his nostrils through the open window.
He remembered Jennifer’s image as she’d stood in the woods skirting his backyard. So close to his house—Olivia’s home. And now the photographs. He glanced to the passenger seat. The picture of Jennifer crossing the street met his eye. Either the woman in the photo was his ex-wife or a dead ringer.
Ghosts don’t show in photographs.
Crazy manifestations aren’t real images and therefore cannot be caught on film.
So she was real?
His gut tightened.
So who had been in the backyard of his home, the house that Olivia had brought into the marriage? All in all, this latest encounter was too close for comfort. Too close to Olivia.
He didn’t like the thought of his wife being dragged into this, whatever the hell it was. She lived here, too, and just the inkling of her safety being the least bit compromised didn’t set well. Olivia had always felt safe at this house. Though Hairy S was useless as a guard dog, they did have a security system Bentz had insisted she install years ago. They rarely used it, but that would have to change.
The light turned green and he waited for an elderly woman on a scooter who was still in the crosswalk. Once she’d eased out of the way, he took the corner fast, then stood on the brakes. A jaywalking teenage boy in a baggy T-shirt and shorts loped across the pavement while plugged into his iPod. The kid never noticed that Bentz had nearly mowed him over.
Bentz cruised past the station and noted that Brinkman had parked in the spot Bentz usually claimed. No big surprise there; Brinkman, though a good cop, was always a pain in the ass. And who could blame the prick? It’s not as if Bentz could use it anyway. “Have at,” he said, then drove to a coffee shop with Internet access. He linked up as he sipped iced coffee. Crunching ice cubes, he searched for any information he could find on his first wife, even Googled himself in the process. For the most part, he was considered a hero, having solved more than one serial murder case since being hired by the New Orleans PD.
But there was some bad press, too. From L.A., stories surrounding a cop with a tarnished badge, who had left the department with a high-profile case still unsolved.
Then there was the shooting when he’d mistaken a twelve-year-old boy with a toy gun for a killer intending to take down his partner. Bentz had warned the kid, then fired.
The boy, Mario Valdez, had been pronounced DOA at the hospital.
Bentz had poured himself into a bottle and, his badge blackened, had left the department. Thankfully Melinda Jaskiel here in New Orleans had seen fit to give him a second chance.
So he’d relocated.
The rest, as they said, was history.
And now someone was intentionally drawing him back to L.A. He didn’t doubt for a second that whoever was behind the photos and mutilated death certificate was intentionally luring him to Southern California.
But why? And why now?
He finished his coffee, then phoned Montoya’s cell and left a message on his voice mail asking Montoya to return the call. He scanned the small bistro where people clustered around tall café tables or sat in overstuffed chairs near the window. Two women in their forties were sharing a doughnut. Three teenagers, a boy and two girls, were slouched in the big chairs and sipping mocha-looking drinks piled high with whipped cream drizzled with chocolate. Without a break in their conversation they were all sending text messages at the speed of light.
Fortunately, his first wife—or her ghost—was nowhere to be seen.
Not that he’d be surprised when she showed up again.
However the answer to the enigma of Jennifer rested in California. He pulled out the photos again. Definitely L.A. There was a palm tree visible in the corner of the shot of her running across the street, and a California license plate on a parked car. In the photo of her in the coffee shop, there was a bit of a street sign visible and he saw the letters ado Aven. Some avenue, probably. It could be many places, he thought, but his mind raced, old memories surfacing. Mercado, or Loredo or…His stomach dropped as he thought of Colorado Avenue in Santa Monica.
If that was it, someone was really screwing with him.
He and Jennifer had spent a lot of Saturday afternoons at the Third Street Promenade just off Santa Monica Boulevard. About a block and one major shopping mall away from Colorado Avenue. If he remembered right, the mall was accessible from Colorado. He felt that little buzz, like a caffeine rush, at the thought that he was connecting the dots.
Too easily.
He wasn’t that smart.
But it was true that Santa Monica, with its outdoor shopping area, long beach, and trendy restaurants, had been one of Jennifer’s favorite cities, and significant to them as a couple.
“Crap.” He rubbed a hand around the back of his neck and knew that, like it or not, he had to return to Southern California.
Someone was luring him.
Someone wanted him back.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. He’d left a lot of turmoil in Southern California. A lot. Most of it unresolved. Few people in the LAPD were sorry to see him leave.
And now he was seeing ghosts and getting anonymous mail from the area near his former residence, a place he’d sworn never to set foot in again.
Something definitely smelled rotten in the Golden State.
And he needed to find out what it was, even if that meant he was playing right into some sicko’s hands. That bugged the shit out of him, but there was no way around it.
He clicked off the computer and realized Olivia was due to clock out at the shop in fifteen minutes. Which was perfect. Like it or not, it was time to tell her what the hell was going on.
Outside, the day had taken a turn for the worse, the clouds overhead thickening darkly. The air was dense and sultry, threatening a storm. He climbed into his car, rolled up the windows, and drove toward the French Quarter, where he managed to find a parking spot two blocks from Jackson Square.
Using his damned cane, he made his way to the shop, little more than a tourist trap, at least in his opinion. Olivia liked meeting people and working with Tawilda, a thin, elegant black woman who had been at the store forever, and Manda, a later addition to the staff at the Third Eye. So Livvie had decided to stay on while finishing school and setting up her practice.
The