Malice

Book 6: Bentz/Montoya Novel

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

The scent is unmistakable - gardenias, sweet and delicate, the same perfume that his beautiful first wife, Jennifer, always wore. Opening his eyes in the hospital room where he's recovering from an accident, New Orleans detective Rick Bentz sees her standing in the doorway. Then Jennifer blows him a kiss and disappears. But it couldn't have been Jennifer. She died twelve years ago...

Once out of the hospital, Bentz begins to see Jennifer everywhere. Could she still be alive? But it was Bentz who identified Jennifer's body after her horrible car wreck, and there had been no question in his mind that it was her crumpled form behind the wheel, her clothes, her wedding ring. He's never doubted it - until now. He can't tell his new wife, Olivia, about the sightings or his secret fear that he's losing his mind. But Olivia is also hiding a secret...

When a copy of Jennifer's death certificate arrives in the mail, emblazoned with a red question mark, Bentz follows the postmark trail to Los Angeles, returning to the painful memories he's tried so hard to forget, and straight into a killer's web.

Someone's been waiting patiently, silently. Someone who knows exactly what happened that night twelve years ago and has been anticipating Bentz's every move. Soon it will be Bentz's turn to suffer for his sins. But he won't be the only one made to pay the ultimate price. For a diabolical killer has now made Olivia the prime target...

Release date: February 9, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 512

Sample

Culver City, a Suburb of Los Angeles Twelve Years Earlier

“So you’re not coming home tonight, is that what you’re getting at?” Jennifer Bentz sat on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to her ear, as she tried to ignore that all-too-familiar guilty noose of monogamy that was strangling her even as it frayed.

“Probably not.”

Ever the great communicator, her ex wasn’t about to commit.

Not that she really blamed him. Theirs was a tenuous, if sometimes passionate, relationship. And she was forever “the bad one,” as she thought of herself, “the adulteress.” Even now, the scent of recent sex teased her nostrils in the too-warm bedroom, reminding her of her sins. Two half-full martini glasses stood next to a sweating shaker on the bedside table, evidence that she hadn’t been alone. “When, then?” she asked. “When will you show up?”

“Tomorrow. Maybe.” Rick was on his cell in a squad car. She heard the sounds of traffic in the background, knew he was being evasive and tight-lipped because his partner was driving and could overhear at least one side of the stilted conversation.

Great.

She tried again. Lowered her voice. “Would it help if I said I miss you?”

No response. Of course. God, she hated this. Being the pathetic, whining woman, begging for him to see her. It just wasn’t her style. Not her style at all. Men were the ones who usually begged, and she got off on it.

Somewhere in the back of her consciousness she heard a soft click.

“RJ?”

“I heard you.”

Her cheeks burned and she glanced at the bedsheets twisted and turned, falling into a pool of pastel, wrinkled cotton at the foot of the bed.

Oh, God. He knows. The metallic taste of betrayal was on her lips, but she had to play the game, feign innocence. Surely he wouldn’t suspect that she’d been with another man, not so close on the heels of the last time. Jeez, she’d even surprised herself.

There was a chance he was bluffing.

And yet…

She shuddered as she imagined his rage. She played her trump card. “Kristi will wonder why you’re not home. She’s already asking questions.”

“And what do you tell her? The truth?” That her mother can’t keep her legs closed? He didn’t say it, but the condemnation was there, hanging between them. Hell, she hated this. If it weren’t for her daughter, their daughter…

“I’m not sure how long the stakeout will be.”

A convenient lie. Her blood began a slow, steady boil. “You and I both know that the department doesn’t work its detectives around the clock.”

“You and I both know a lot of things.”

In her mind’s eye she saw him as he had been in the bedroom doorway, his face twisted in silent accusation as she lay in their bed. Sweaty, naked, she was in the arms of another man, the same man with whom she’d had an affair earlier. Kristi’s biological father. Rick had reached for his gun, the pistol strapped in his shoulder holster, and for a second Jennifer had known real fear. Icy, cold terror.

“Get out,” he’d ordered, staring with deadly calm at the two of them. “Jesus H. Christ, get the hell out of my house and don’t come back. Both of you.”

He’d turned then, walked down the stairs, and left without so much as slamming the door. But his rage had been real. Palpable. Jennifer had escaped with her life, but she hadn’t gone. She couldn’t.

Rick hadn’t returned. They hadn’t even fought about it again. He’d just left.

Refused to answer her calls.

Until today.

By then it had been too late.

She’d already met her lover again. As much out of retribution as desire. Fuck it. No one was going to run her life, not even Rick-effin’-Bentz, superhero cop. So she’d met the man who was forever in her blood.

Slut!

Whore!

The words were her own. She closed her eyes and hung her head, feeling lost. Confused. Never had she planned to cheat on Rick. Never. But she’d been weak, temptation strong. She shook her head and felt black to the bottom of her soul. Who was she so intent on punishing? Him? Or herself? Hadn’t one of her shrinks told her she didn’t think she deserved him? That she was self-destructive?

What a load of crap. “I just don’t know what you want,” she whispered weakly.

“Neither do I. Not anymore.”

She saw an inch of liquid remaining in one martini glass and drank it down. The noose tightened a notch, even as it unraveled. God, why couldn’t it be easy with him? Why couldn’t she remain faithful? “I’m trying, Rick,” she whispered, gritting her teeth. It wasn’t a lie. The problem was that she was trying and failing.

She thought she heard a muffled footstep from downstairs and she went on alert, then decided the noise might have been the echo in the phone. Or from outside. Wasn’t there a window open?

“You’re trying?” Rick snorted. “At what?”

So there it was. He did know. Probably was having someone tail her, having the house under surveillance. Or worse yet, he had been parked up the street in a car she didn’t recognize and had been watching the house himself. She glanced up at the ceiling to the light fixture, smoke alarm, and slow-moving paddle fan as it pushed the hot air around. Were there tiny cameras hidden inside? Had he filmed her recent tryst? Witnessed her as she’d writhed and moaned on the bed she shared with him? Observed her as she’d taken command and run her tongue down her lover’s abdomen, and lower? Seen her laughing? Teasing? Seducing?

Jesus, how twisted was he?

She closed her eyes. Mortified. “You sick son of a bitch.”

“That’s me.”

“I hate you.” Her temper was rising.

“I know. I just wasn’t sure you could admit it. Leave, Jennifer. It’s over.”

“Maybe if you didn’t get off bustin’ perps and playing the superhero ace detective, maybe if you paid a little attention to your wife and kid, this wouldn’t happen.”

“You’re not my wife.”

Click.

He hung up.

“Bastard!” She threw the phone onto the bed as her head began to pound. You did this, Jennifer. You yourself. You knew you’d get caught, but you pushed away everything you wanted and loved, including Kristi and a chance with your ex-husband, because you’re a freak. You just can’t help yourself. She felt a tear slither down her cheek and slapped it away. This was no time for tears or self-pity.

Hadn’t she told herself that reconciliation with Rick was impossible? And yet she’d returned to this house, this home they’d shared together, knowing full well it was a mistake of monumental proportions. Just as it had been when she’d first said “I do,” years before.

“Fool!” She swore under her breath on her way to the bathroom, where she saw her reflection in the mirror over the sink.

“Not pretty,” she said, splashing water over her face. But that really wasn’t the truth. She wasn’t too far into her thirties and her dark hair was still thick and wavy as it fell below her shoulders. Her skin was still smooth, her lips full, her eyes a shade of blue-green men seemed to find fascinating. All the wrong men, she reminded herself. Men who were forbidden and taboo. And she loved their attention. Craved it.

She opened the medicine cabinet, found her bottle of Valium, and popped a couple, just to take the edge off and push the threatening migraine away. Kristi was going to a friend’s house after swim practice; Rick wasn’t coming home until God knew when, so Jennifer had the house and the rest of the evening to herself. She wasn’t leaving. Yet.

Swoosh.

An unlikely noise traveled up the staircase from the floor below.

The sound of air moving? A door opening? A window ajar?

What the hell was going on? She paused, listening, her senses on alert, the hairs on the back of her arms lifting.

What if Rick were nearby?

What if he’d been lying on the phone and was really on his way home again, just like the other day? The son of a bitch might just have been playing her for a fool.

The “stakeout” could well be fake, or if he really was going to spend all night watching someone, it was probably her, his own wife.

Ex-wife. Jennifer Bentz stared at her reflection in the mirror and frowned at the tiny little lines visible between her eyebrows. When had those wrinkles first appeared? Last year? Earlier? Or just in the last week?

It was hard to say.

But there they were, reminding her all too vividly that she wasn’t getting any younger.

With so many men who had wanted her, how had she ended up marrying, divorcing, and then living with a cop in his all-too-middle-class little house? Their attempt to get back together was just a trial. It hadn’t been going on long and now…well, she was pretty damned sure it was over for good.

Because she just couldn’t be faithful to any one man. Even one she loved.

Dear God, what was she going to do? She’d thought about taking her own life. More than once. And she’d already written her daughter a letter to be delivered upon her death:

Dear Kristi,

I’m so sorry, honey. Believe me when I tell you that I love you more than life itself. But I’ve been involved with the man who is your biological father again, and I’m afraid it’s going to break Rick’s heart.

And blah, blah, blah…

What a bunch of melodramatic crap.

Again she thought she heard something…the sound of a footstep on the floor downstairs.

She started to call out, then held her tongue. Padding quietly to the top of the stairs, she held on to the railing and listened. Over the smooth rotation of the fan in her bedroom she heard another noise, something faint and clicking.

Her skin crawled.

She barely dared breathe. Her heart pounded in her ears.

Just your imagination—the guilt that’s eating at you.

Or the neighbor’s cat. That’s it, the scraggly thing that’s always rooting around in the garbage cans or searching for mice in the garage.

On stealthy footsteps she hurried to the bedroom window and peered through the glass, seeing nothing out of the ordinary on this gray day in Southern California, where the air was foggy, dusty, and thick. Even the sun, a reddish disc hanging low in the sky over miles and miles of rooftops, appeared distorted by the smog.

Not the breath of a breeze from the ocean today, nothing stirring to make any kind of noise. No cat slinking beneath the dry bushes, no bicyclist on the street. Not even a car passing.

It’s nothing.

Just a case of nerves.

Calm down.

She poured the remains of the shaker into her glass and took a sip on her way to the bathroom. But in the doorway she caught sight of her reflection and felt another stab of guilt.

“Bottoms up,” she whispered and then, seeing her own reflection and the glass lifted to her lips, she cringed. This wasn’t what she wanted for her life. For her daughter. “Stupid, stupid bitch!” The woman in the mirror seemed to laugh at her. Taunt her. Without thinking, Jennifer hurled her drink at her smirking reflection. The glass slammed into the mirror, shattering.

Crraaack!

Slowly, the mirror split, a spider web of flaws crawling over the slivered glass. Shards slipped into the sink.

“Jesus!”

What the hell have you done?

She tried to pick up one of the larger pieces and sliced the tip of her finger, blood dripping from her hand, drizzling into the sink. Quickly she found a single, loose Band-Aid on the shelf in the cabinet. She had trouble as her fingers weren’t working as they should, but she managed to pull off the backing and wrap her index finger. Yet she couldn’t quite stanch the flow. Blood swelled beneath the tiny scrap of plastic and gauze. “Damn it all to hell,” she muttered and caught a glimpse of her face in one of the remaining jagged bits of mirror.

“Seven years of bad luck,” she whispered, just as Nana Nichols had foretold when she’d broken her grandmother’s favorite looking glass at the age of three. “You’ll be cursed until you’re ten, Jenny, and who knows how much longer after that!” Nana, usually kind, had looked like a monster, all yellow teeth and bloodless lips twisted in disgust.

But how right the old woman had been. Bad luck seemed to follow her around, even to this day.

Spying her face, now distorted and cleaved in the shards of glass that remained, Jennifer saw herself as an old woman—a lonely old woman.

God, what a day, she thought thickly.

Heading for the broom and dustpan, she started downstairs, nearly stumbling on the landing. She caught herself, made her way to the first floor, and stepped into the laundry room.

Where the door stood ajar.

What?

She hadn’t left it open; she was sure of it. And when her lover had left, he’d gone through the garage. So…? Had Kristi, on her way to school, not pulled it shut? The damned thing was hard to latch, but…

She felt a frisson of fear skitter down her spine. Hadn’t she heard someone down here earlier? Or was that just the gin talking? She was a little confused, her head thick, but…

Steadying herself on the counter, she paused, straining to hear, trying to remember. Good God, she was more than a little out of it. She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and noticed the hint of cigarette smoke in the air. No doubt from her ex-husband. How many times did she have to tell him to take his foul habit and smoke outside? Way outside. Not just out on the back porch, where the damned tobacco odor wafted through the screen door.

But Rick hasn’t been here in two days…

She froze, her gaze traveling upward to the ceiling. Nothing…and then…a floorboard creaked overhead. The crunch of glass.

Oh, God, no.

This time it wasn’t a guess.

This time she was certain.

Someone was in the house.

Someone who didn’t want her to know he was there.

Someone who wanted to do her harm.

The smell of cigarette smoke teased at her nostrils again.

Oh, Jesus. This wasn’t Rick.

She slid on silent footsteps toward the counter where the knives were kept and slowly slid a long-bladed weapon from its slot. As she did, she thought of all the cases Rick had solved, of all the criminals who had channeled their wrath toward him and his family when they’d been arrested or sentenced. Many of them had vowed to get back at Detective Bentz in the most painful ways possible.

He’d never told her of the threats, but she’d learned from other cops on the force who had gladly repeated various criminals’ promises to seek revenge.

And now someone was in the house.

The back of her throat turned desert dry.

Holding her breath, she eased into the garage and nearly tripped on the single step when she realized that the garage door was wide open to the driveway, a blatant invitation. One the intruder had accepted.

She didn’t think twice and slid behind the wheel, where the keys were already in the ignition.

She twisted on the keys.

The engine sparked.

She threw the gear into reverse and gunned it, tearing out of the driveway, nearly hitting the neighbor’s miserable cat and just missing the mailbox.

She glanced up to the master bedroom window as she crammed the van into drive.

Her heart froze.

A dark figure stood behind the panes, a shadow with a cruel, twisted smile.

“Shit!”

The light shifted on the blinds and the image was gone—maybe just a figment of her imagination.

Or was it?

She didn’t wait to find out, just hit the gas pedal, racing down the street as old Mr. Van Pelt decided to back his ancient tank of a Buick into the street. Jennifer hit the brakes, her tires screeched, and then once past the startled neighbor she floored it.

“There was no one in the window. You know that,” she tried to convince herself. “No one was there.”

Driving with one hand, she searched the passenger seat for her purse and cell, which, she now remembered, sat in the bedroom where she’d seen the dark figure.

“Just your imagination,” she said over and over as she drove out of the subdivision and onto the main highway, melding into the thick traffic. Her heart pounded and her head throbbed. Blood from her hand smeared the steering wheel. She checked her rearview often, searching for a vehicle following her, looking through the sea of cars for one that seemed intent on chasing her down. Metal glinted in the sunlight and she cursed herself for not having her sunglasses with her.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Tons of cars heading east: silver, white, black sedans and sports cars, trucks, and SUVs…at least she thought that was the direction she was going. She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t paid a lot of attention and she was starting to relax, starting to think she’d eluded whoever had been after her. If anyone really had.

Just another Southern California day. She spied a dark blue SUV coming up fast and her heart jumped, but it sped by, along with a white BMW on its tail.

She flipped on the radio, tried to steady her nerves, but she was sweating, her finger still bleeding. The miles passed, nothing happened, and she began to breathe easier…really relax. She drifted a bit, nearly sideswiping a guy who hit the horn and flipped her off.

“Yeah, right, whatever,” she said, but realized she shouldn’t be driving, not in all this traffic in her altered state. At the next exit, she turned off…dear Lord, where was she?…in the country? She didn’t recognize the area, the sparseness of the homes, the stretches of brush and farmland. She was inland somewhere and the Valium had kicked in big-time. Blinking against the sunlight, she looked in her side-view mirror and saw another big blue SUV bearing down on her.

The same one as before?

No!

Couldn’t be.

She yawned and the Explorer behind her stayed back, following her at a distance on the two-lane road that led into the hills.

It was time to turn around.

She was so damned tired.

The road before her seemed to shift and she blinked. Her eyelids were so heavy. She’d have to slow down and rest, try to clear her head, maybe drink some coffee…

There was a chance no one had been in the house. Jeez—God, the way she was imagining things, the way her nerves were strung tight these days, the way guilt was eating at her, she was probably letting her mind play tricks on her. Her thoughts swirled and gnawed at her.

She saw the curve in the road and she braked. As she did, she noticed the dark Explorer riding her ass.

“So pass, you idiot,” she said, distracted, her eyes on the rearview mirror. The rig’s windows were tinted and dark, but she caught a glimpse of the driver.

Oh, God.

Her heart nearly stopped.

The driver stared straight at her. She bit back a scream. It was the same intruder she’d seen in the upstairs window of her house.

Scared out of her wits, she tromped on the accelerator.

Who the hell was it?

Why was whoever it was following her?

She saw the corner and cut it, hoping to lose the SUV, but her judgment was off and one of the van’s tires caught on the shoulder, hitting gravel. She yanked on the wheel, trying to wrestle the car onto the road, but the van began to spin.

Wildly.

Crazily.

Totally out of control.

The van shuddered. Skidded.

And then began to roll.

In slow-motion certainty, Jennifer knew she was going to die.

More than that, she knew she was being murdered.

Probably set up by her damned ex-husband, Rick Bentz.

“Talk to me in six weeks.” Melinda Jaskiel’s voice was firm. Clear. Propped on his good leg on the back veranda, his cell phone nearly stuck to his ear in the sweltering bayou heat, Rick Bentz realized his boss wasn’t going to budge. Sweat dripping off his nose, he balanced on one crutch, the thick rubber tip wedged between two flagstones. His back ached and walking was a strain, but he wouldn’t admit it to a soul—especially not to Jaskiel. As head of the homicide division in the New Orleans Police Department, she had the authority to put him back on active duty. Or not. It was her call.

Once again, Melinda Jaskiel held the fate of his career in her hands.

Once again, he was begging. “I need to work.” Jesus, he hated the desperation in his voice.

“You need to be at a hundred percent, maybe a hundred and ten to be back on duty.”

His jaw tightened as the intense Louisiana sun beat down on the back of his neck and a fine mist rose from the swampland that backed up to the cottage nestled into the woods. Jaskiel had given him a job when no one else would touch him after the mess he’d left in L.A. And now she was shutting him down.

He heard her mutter something under her breath and thought for a split second she was reconsidering. “Look, Rick, I don’t see you pushing papers at a desk from eight to five.”

“I’ve been in P.T. for a couple of months now, strong as ever.”

“Strong enough to chase down a suspect? Wrestle him to the ground? Break down a door? Hit the deck, roll, draw your weapon, and cover your partner?”

“That’s all TV BS.”

“Is it?” Jaskiel’s voice was skeptical. “Seems to me you were doing just that kind of ‘TV BS’ when you ended up in the hospital.” She knew him too well. “You know the drill. Bring in a doctor’s release and we’ll discuss your reinstatement. Discuss. No promises. You know, retirement’s not a bad idea.”

He snorted. “Gee, Melinda, I’m getting the idea you’re trying to get rid of me.”

“You’re still in physical therapy and you’re wound too tight. End of subject. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up.

“Son of a bitch!” He flung his crutch across the flagstones of the veranda, where it skidded, clattering noisily and startling a mockingbird from a nearby magnolia tree into flight. “Son of a goddamned bitch.” His fingers clenched over his cell and he considered hurling it into the swamp, but didn’t. Hell, he didn’t want to explain that. So far, the department only questioned his physical ability. He didn’t want to give the powers that be an insight into his mental state.

No shrinks. No soul searching. No pouring out his heart. No thank you.

He stood with difficulty, his balance not what it had been before the accident, despite what he’d told Jaskiel. And sometimes his leg hurt like hell. He knew he wasn’t really ready for active duty, but he was going out of his freakin’ mind staying at home. Hell, even his relationship with his wife Olivia was beginning to wear thin. Her biological clock was ticking like crazy and she was pressuring him to have a kid. His own daughter, Kristi, was in her twenties. He wasn’t sure he wanted to start over.

No, what he needed was to get out of the house and back to work. It had been nearly three months since the accident and he couldn’t take sitting around another second.

“So do something about it,” he ordered himself.

Gritting his teeth, he took a step unaided.

First one foot, then the other.

None of the namby-pamby putting one foot forward with the walker and dragging the second one up to it. No way. He was going to walk across this damned patio one foot in front of the other if it killed him. He’d show them all. In a month he’d be running across these stupid stones. A crow sat on one of the roof’s gables and cried noisily, its raspy caw echoing through the scrub oak and pine.

Bentz barely noticed.

A third step.

Then four.

He was sweating now. Concentrating hard. The heat was oppressive, sun beating down, the dank smell of the swamp heavy in his nostrils. The crow kept up his incessant, mocking caw. Irritating bastard.

Another step and Bentz looked up, away from uneven stones and to the bench, his destination. He was crossing his patio on his own two feet.

Just as he would have if he hadn’t been injured.

Just as he would have if he hadn’t nearly lost his life.

Just as he would have if he hadn’t been forced to consider early retirement.

He moved forward again, more easily, more confidently.

And then he felt it.

That cold certainty that he was being watched.

His gut tightened as he looked over his shoulder. Dry, brittle leaves rustled on the windless day.

The crow had disappeared, its scolding cries silent.

A flicker of light between the branches. Something in the thicket, just on the other side of the veranda, moved. A shadow passed quickly, darting through the undergrowth.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Instinctively, Bentz reached for his sidearm.

His hand came up empty as he rounded to face the woods.

He wasn’t wearing his shoulder holster.

Not in his own house.

He squinted.

What the hell was it?

Sunlight played through the lacy canopy of needles and leaves. His heart thumped crazily. The spit dried in his mouth.

It was just his imagination.

Again.

Right?

But the goose bumps crawling over his flesh and the tightening of every muscle in his body told him otherwise.

Idiot! You’re in your own damned backyard.

He turned slightly, trying to make out if the intruder were an opossum, or a deer, or even an alligator crawling up from the swamp, but he knew deep in his soul that this was no wild creature wandering too close to his house.

Uh-uh.

The shivering leaves stilled on this hot, breathless day.

Bentz squinted into the forest. He had no doubt that he would see her.

Again.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Through the shimmering heat her image appeared. Dressed in that same sexy black dress, flashing him the barest of smiles, she stood between the bleached bark of two cypress trees.

Jennifer.

His first wife.

The woman he’d sworn to love through all his days.

The bitch who had betrayed him…And she was as sensual and gorgeous as she had been all those years ago. The fragrance of gardenias wafted through the air.

He swallowed.

Hard.

A ghost?

Or real flesh and blood?

The woman, a dead ringer for his first wife, stood deep in the woods, staring at him with wide, knowing eyes and that sexy little smile…God, that smile had turned him inside out.

His heart went still as death.

An eerie chill slid through his veins.

“Jennifer?” he said aloud, though he knew his first wife was long dead.

She arched a single eyebrow and his stomach dropped to his knees.

“Jen?” Bentz took a step forward, caught his toe on an uneven rock, and went down. Hard. His knees hit first. Bam! His chin bounced against the mortar and stone, rattling his jaw, scraping his skin.

Pain exploded through his brain. The crow cackled, as if laughing at him. His cell phone skittered across the flagstones.

“Shit!” he muttered under his breath as he lay still for a second, taking in a couple of breaths, telling himself he was a goddamned idiot, a freak who was seeing things that didn’t exist. He moved one leg, then the other, mentally assessing the damage to his already racked-up body.

Not that long ago he’d been paralyzed, the result of a freak accident in a lightning storm. His spinal cord had been bruised, not severed. Slowly he’d recovered to this point and he hoped to hell that he hadn’t reinjured his damned back or legs.

Painfully he rolled over and pushed himself onto his knees while staring over the edge of the veranda toward the spot where he’d seen her.

Jennifer, of course, had vanished.

Poof.

Like a ghost in an old cartoon.

Using a bench for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet and stood, solid and steady. Gingerly, ignoring the pain, he walked closer to the edge of the veranda. Squinting into the shadows, he looked for something, anything to indicate she’d been out there. Tempting him. Teasing him. Making him think he was going crazy.

But nothing moved in the forest.

No woman hid in the deep umbra.

No drop in the temperature indicated a ghost had trod upon his soul.

And, beyond all that, Jennifer was dead. Buried in a plot in California. He knew that as well as his own name. Hadn’t he identified her himself over twelve years ago? She’d been mangled horribly in the accident, nearly unrecognizable, but the woman behind the wheel in the single-car accident had been his beautiful and scheming first wife.

His stomach twisted a bit as a cloud passed over the sun. High in the sky jets streaked, leaving white plumes to slice the wide expanse of blue.

Why now had she returned—at least in his mind? Had it been the coma? He’d lain unconscious in the hospital for two weeks and he remembered nothing of those fourteen lost days.

When he’d finally awoken, staring through blurry eyes, he’d seen her image. A cold waft of air had whispered across his skin and he’d smelled the heady aroma of her perfume, a familiar scent laced with gardenias. Then he’d caught a glimpse of her in the doorway, backlit by the dimmed hall lights, blowing him a kiss and looking as real as if she were truly still alive.

Which of course she wasn’t.

And yet…

Now, as he stared into the shaded bayou where shadows lengthened and the steamy scent of slow-moving water filtered through the leaves of cypress and cottonwood, he second-guessed the truth. He doubted what he’d been certain was fact; he questioned his sanity.

Could it be the pain pills he’d been taking since his accident as his daughter—their daughter—had insisted?

Or was he just plain going nuts?

“Crap.” He glared at the woods.

No Jennifer.

Of course.

She was all a part of his imagination.

Something that had been triggered by nearly half a month of teetering on that razor-sharp edge between life and death.

“Get a grip,” he told himself.

Man, he could use a smoke right now. He’d given up the habit years before, but in times of stress nothing gave him a clear sense of what needed to be done like a hit of nicotine curling through his lungs.

Grimacing, he heard a series of sharp barks. The dog door opened with a click, followed by the scratch of tiny paws flying across the stones and a high-pitched yip. Hairy S, his wife Olivia’s terrier mutt, streaked across the veranda, sending a squirrel squawking loudly up the bole of a scraggly pine. Hairy, who had been named in honor of Harry S. Truman, Olivia’s grandmother’s favorite president, was going nuts. He leaped and barked at the trunk of the tree, his mottled hair bristling as the squirrel taunted and scolded from the safety of an upper limb.

“Hairy! Shh!” Bentz wasn’t in the mood. His head was beginning to pound and his pride had already suffered a beating with the fall.

“What the hell are you doing?” Montoya’s voice boomed at him and he nearly tripped again.

“I’m walking without a damned cane or crutch. What’s it look like?”

“Like a face plant.”

Bentz turned to find his partner slipping through the side gate and striding across the flagstones with the irritating ease of a jungle cat. To add insult to injury, Olivia’s scrappy little dog diverted from the squirrel to run circles around Montoya’s feet, leaving Bentz to dust off his pride. He tried not to wince, but his knees stung where his skin had been scraped off. No doubt bruises were already forming. He sensed the ooze of warm, sticky blood run down his shins.

“I was watching from over the top of the gate. Looked to me like you were attempting a swan dive into the concrete.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.”

Bentz wasn’t in the mood to be ridiculed by his smart-assed partner. Make that his smart-assed younger partner. With hair that gleamed black in the afternoon light, reflective sunglasses covering eyes that were as sharp as they had ever been, Montoya was younger and more athletic than Bentz. And not afraid to remind his older partner of it.

When he walked, Montoya damned near swaggered and the diamond stud in his earlobe glittered. At least today he wasn’t wearing his signature black leather jacket, just a white T-shirt and jeans. Looking cool as all get-out.

It bugged the hell out of Bentz.

“Olivia at work?”

Bentz nodded. “Should be home in a couple of hours.” His wife still worked a couple of days a week at the Third Eye, a New Age gift shop near Jackson Square that had survived Hurricane Katrina. She’d completed her master’s in psychology a while back and was considering starting her own practice, but she hadn’t quite made the transition to full time. Bentz suspected she missed the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter.

Montoya found Bentz’s cell phone near a huge ceramic pot filled with cascading pink and white petunias. “Looking for this?” He dusted off the phone, then handed it to him.

Glowering, Bentz muttered, “Thanks,” then jammed the damned phone into his pocket.

“Bad news?” Montoya asked, suddenly sober.

“Jaskiel doesn’t think I’m fit for duty.”

“You’re not.”

Bentz bit back a hot retort as a dragonfly zipped past. Considering his current state, he couldn’t argue. “Is there a reason you came all the way out here, or did you just want to give me a bad time?”

“Little of both,” Montoya said. This time his teeth flashed white against his black goatee. “They’re reassigning me. Making Zaroster my”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“‘temporary’ partner.”

Lynn Zaroster was a junior detective who had been with the department a little over two years though she was barely twenty-six. Cute, smart, and athletic, Zaroster was filled with enthusiasm. She was as idealistic as Bentz was jaded.

“Change of pace for you.”

“Yeah.” Montoya’s smile faded. “Sometimes I feel like a goddamned babysitter.”

“You’re afraid this might be permanent.” Because Bentz was being pushed out of the department.

“Not if I have my say, but I thought I’d tell you myself. Rather than you hearing it from someone else.”

Bentz nodded, wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. From inside the house, through the open window, he heard the sound of Olivia’s parrot, which, like the dog and this little cottage, she had inherited from her grandmother. “Jaskiel’s been hinting that I should retire.” His lips twisted at the thought of it. “Enjoy what’s left of my life.”

Montoya snorted. “You’re not even fifty. That’s a whole lotta ‘left.’ Thirty—maybe forty—years of fishing, watching football, and sitting on your ass.”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.”

Reaching down for Bentz’s crutch, Montoya said, “Maybe you could retire, draw a pension, and then get your P.I.’s license.”

“Yeah…maybe. And you can keep babysitting.” Ignoring the preoffered crutch, Bentz started inside, the little dog hurrying ahead of him. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Have you gone off the wagon?” Montoya was right beside him, hauling the damned crutch.

“Not yet.” Bentz held the door open. “But then, the day’s not over.”

Bentz was slipping away from her.

Olivia could feel it.

And it pissed her off. Yes, she was sad, too, she thought as she tore down the road in her old Ford Ranger, a relic with nearly two hundred thousand miles that she would have to trade in soon.

She loved her husband and when she’d vowed to stick with him through good times and bad, she’d meant it. She’d thought he had, too, but ever since the accident…

She braked for a curve on the long country road winding through this part of bayou country on the way to her home, a small bungalow built near the swamp, one she’d shared with Grannie Gin before the old lady had passed on. She’d lived in it alone for a few years, but eventually, when she and Bentz had married, he’d moved from his apartment to the bungalow tucked deep into the woods.

His daughter had lived with them for a while, though that hadn’t worked out all that great. Kristi was a grown woman and had needed her own space. But they’d been happy here for the past few years.

Until the damned accident.

A freak occurrence.

Lightning had cleaved an oak tree and a thick branch had come down on Rick, pinning him and nearly severing his spine. Even now she shuddered thinking of those dark days when she hadn’t been certain whether he would live or die.

He’d clung to life. Barely. And in that time she and her stepdaughter had finally bonded, clenching each other’s hands in the hospital when the doctors had given Bentz a dire prognosis.

She’d thought she’d lose him, expected him to die. And in those heart-rending days, she’d regretted not having a child with him, not having a part of him to carry on. Maybe it was selfish. But she didn’t care.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror. Worried amber-colored eyes stared back at her. She didn’t like what was happening.

“So do something about it,” she said. She’d never been one to hold back. Her temper had been described as “mercurial” on more than one occasion. By Bentz. The first time she’d met the man, she’d gone toe-to-toe with him, reporting a murder she’d witnessed through her visions. That had set him back a bit. He hadn’t believed her, at first. But she’d convinced him.

Somehow now, she had to convince him of this as well.

She put the truck through its paces and tried not to dwell on the fact that the warmth in their home had seemed to fade after he’d woken from the coma. He’d become a different man. Not entirely, of course, but somehow changed. At first, she’d passed off his lack of affection as worry. He’d had to concentrate on getting well. But things hadn’t gone as she’d expected. As the weeks had passed and he’d gained strength, she’d noticed a sense of disillusionment in him. She’d told herself his mood was sure to change the minute he was back to work, doing what he loved, solving homicides.

But as the weeks passed she became concerned. Though they had talked about having a baby together, he’d become less and less interested. Bentz had always been a passionate man; not as hot-tempered as his partner, Montoya, but steadfast, determined, and courageous.

In bed, he’d been an eager lover who had derived some of his own pleasure from hers.

But all of that had changed.

She didn’t doubt that he loved her; not for a second. But instead of mellowing with age, their relationship had grown…stale, for lack of a better word. And she didn’t like it.

She flipped down her visor. Sunlight dappled the warm ribbon of pavement meandering through this lowland and a jackrabbit hopped into the underbrush at the side of the road.

She barely noticed.

What her relationship with Bentz needed was a kick-start. Or maybe her husband just needed a well-timed kick in his cute behind.

She turned in to the drive, her tires splashing through a puddle from an early morning shower. She parked in the garage and walked inside where a Bryan Adams song from the eighties was blasting. Her husband, sweating in a T-shirt and shorts, was working out on a small weight machine tucked into the den. He glanced over as she walked to the doorway and leaned against the doorjamb. “Hey, Rocky,” she said, and he actually laughed.

A rarity these days.

“That’s me.” He finished a set of leg lifts, his face straining, the muscles bulging in his thighs. For the past three weeks, ever since his boss had suggested he might want to retire, Bentz had redoubled his efforts, throwing himself into regaining his strength with a vengeance. For the most part he’d ditched his crutch and was using a cane, though sometimes he walked unaided, just as he had when he was supposed to be using a crutch. He’d ignored his doctor’s warnings and pushed himself harder than he was supposed to. Big steps, but not big enough to satisfy him.

Olivia couldn’t help but worry about him, aware that exercise had become one of the few de-stressors in his life. His sleep was restless, his only connection to the department, Montoya, was busy with the job and his own family commitment. Even his daughter Kristi was wrapped up in her own life as she planned her wedding. “What do you say I take you out to dinner?” she asked.

“It’s Monday.”

“That’s why we’re celebrating.”

He snorted but smiled as he climbed off the machine and swabbed his face with the towel. “Life must be pretty boring if Monday is cause for a celebration.”

“I thought you might need to get out.”

He arched an inquisitive, thick brow. Yeah, he was in his forties, and yeah, he’d had more than one life-threatening scare in the years that she’d known him, but he was still a hunk. Big-time. Still turned her inside out when he made love to her, which, unfortunately had been spotty since the accident. She thought about trying to seduce him right here and now, but knew he’d suspect she had an ulterior motive of getting pregnant. Which wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

“How about Chez Michelle?” he suggested.

“Oooh, upscale. I was thinking more like a hole-in-the-wall kind of place where they serve curly fries and spicy Cajun shrimp in buckets.”

His dark eyes flickered with the memory of their first “date.” With a chuckle, he said, “That’s what I like about you, Livvie, you’re a true romantic. You’re on.” He snapped his towel at her as he passed and made his way to the bathroom.

Two hours later they were seated at a table in a brick courtyard where doves cooed and pecked at crumbs while the sun began to set. Shadows crept through the pots of herbs that bloomed and scented the air.

The restaurant itself was narrow and dark, its walls strung with fishi. . .