Each girl had lived exactly twenty-one years.

Just like the Caldwell twins, the last homicide Rick Bentz had worked here in L.A. That case had gone ice cold when he’d turned in his resignation.

Hayes hated to admit it, but this time Bledsoe had a point.

Why were these victims chosen to be killed now, only days after Rick Bentz had returned to Los Angeles?

“Stupid!” Olivia glared at her cell phone. It was in her hand, but she hadn’t punched in Bentz’s number because she felt nervous about phoning him. Which was ridiculous! She’d never been one of those women who was timid or shy or the least bit lacking in confidence. Yet here she was seated in her living room, feet curled beneath her, a cup of tea long forgotten and cold on the coffee table, and she wasn’t sure what to do. Hairy S perched on the other end of the cozy couch while one of Bentz’s old Springsteen CDs played in the background, but the homey atmosphere was little comfort.

She was paralyzed.

Didn’t know whether to call Rick or not.

Even though she’d seen that he’d called earlier but hadn’t left a message.

“Oh, to hell with it,” she said and hit the speed dial number that would connect him to her.

He picked up before it rang twice. “Hey,” he said, and he did sound glad-or was it relieved?-to hear from her.

“Hey back at you.”

“What’s up?”

“Just checkin’ in,” she said. Tell him. Tell him now. You don’t have to wait until he returns. Let him know that you’re going to have a baby. Insist that no matter what his reaction is, you’re thrilled with the pregnancy, that you’ve already started looking at baby clothes and thinking of where to put a bassinette. “What’re you doing?”

“Driving down to San Juan Capistrano.”

“The mission? Why? Searching for swallows?” she teased, reminding him of the phenomenon of the swallows returning to Capistrano each year. “Didn’t know you were a bird-watcher.”

“Too late for the swallows, I think. They come in the spring.”

“Then?” she asked.

“I needed to get out of that fleabag of a motel.”

“To find Jennifer?”

A pause. “Maybe.”

“Seen her lately?” She couldn’t hide the sarcasm in her voice. Who was he kidding?

“I don’t know.”

She wanted to tell him he was being foolish. Instead she bit back a sharp reply and moved to safer territory. “How’re you feeling? Your leg.”

“It’s still attached.”

“Doing your exercises?”

“Every day.”

“Liar.” She laughed and she heard him chuckle.

“What’s new with you?”

She gathered her strength, told herself she was just going to blurt it out and let the chips fall where they may, when Harry S, hearing something outside, started barking like crazy. “Hey, you, hush!” she said and heard her husband laugh again.

“Great. You call me just to shut me up.”

“I think I’ve told you, I’m one fabulous wife.”

“I…know…Livvie…maybe a million times…” His voice was faint and spotty; she couldn’t catch all the words.

“Hey, I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up.” But she was too late with her message. The call was already lost and she said to the dead connection, “By the way, Hotshot, you’re going to be a father again.” But, of course, he wouldn’t be able to hear her and she decided, once again, giving Bentz that kind of news over a spotty wireless connection was a bad idea.

Lately it seemed she didn’t have any good ones. She carried her cup into the kitchen and left it in the sink while a quarter moon rose over the cypress and pine trees rimming the backyard. A few stars winked and when she cranked open the window she heard a chorus of bullfrogs loud enough to give the Boss a run for his money.

She fed Chia, talked to the bird, and then, still feeling antsy, decided to take a turn on the treadmill. She’d wait until Rick came back to Louisiana, or, if this wild goose chase of his took too long, she’d fly out there and give him the good word about her pregnancy face-to-face.

“Five days, Bentz,” she said, tapping a finger against her chin. “Five days. That’s all you’ve got. Then, California, here I come.”

“Who found the bodies?” Hayes asked. Glad to be out of the tiny claustrophobic closet of a storage unit, he breathed the fresher air of the freeway system during rush hour. So what if their gas and diesel exhaust collected under the overpass? At least the smell of death wasn’t filling his lungs.

“A college student.” Riva Martinez pointed to a cruiser where a young girl stared out the window of the backseat. Her eyes were round with fear, her face pale behind the glass. “Felicia Katz. Goes to USC, but keeps some of her stuff here. She came down here this afternoon intending to take something out of her unit-an old chair, I think. Her unit is number seven.” Martinez indicated the unit next to the one with the bodies. “She noticed the door of eight wasn’t latched, saw the lock was broken. She thought someone had probably broken into it and stolen whatever was inside, so she took a peek.”

“And got an eyeful,” Bledsoe cut in.

Hayes’s stomach twisted as he thought of the victims who were now being preliminarily examined before being hauled away in body bags to the morgue for autopsies. And twenty-four hours ago they were innocent young women, probably getting ready to celebrate their birthdays.

Martinez continued, “Anyway, Katz saw the vics, texted her boyfriend, then called 9-1- 1.”

Hayes glanced back at the car holding the witness. “Why the boyfriend first?”

“She claims she freaked.”

“I’ll bet,” Bledsoe interjected.

“Who’s the boyfriend?”

“Robert Finley. Goes by Robbie. Coffee barista by day, grunge band drummer by night. He showed up just after the first officer-that would be Rohrs-got here. We’ve got Finley in another squad car. Trying to keep him and Katz separate until we get each of their stories and compare them.”

“You think they had anything to do with it?”

“Nah. You?”

“Probably not.” Hayes shook his head.

“It’s the Twenty-one killer,” Bledsoe interrupted. He’d stuck around and was eyeing the scene.

“Who?” Riva asked. She was relatively new to the department and hadn’t heard some of the old stories.

“That’s what we called him. He killed another set of twins, Delta and Diana Caldwell, on their twenty-first birthday. They were reported missing two days earlier, so we figured he nabbed ’em, held ’em, and then killed ’em at the exact minute they turned twenty-one.”

“So he knew them?” Riva guessed, her eyes narrowing.

“Or of them. But he was never caught.” Bledsoe’s expression turned hard. “The Caldwell parents called us every week for nearly six years. After that, I heard they split up.”

“And no other cases like the Caldwell killings until now?” Riva asked, glancing back at the storage unit. “So this could be a copycat?”

Bledsoe shook his head. “Some of the details were never released to the press or the public. The red ribbon, the pink marker. The fact that their clothing was neatly folded, as if Mommy or the maid had taken care of them.” Bledsoe glanced over Hayes’s shoulder. “Speaking of the press.”

Hayes turned to find Joanna Quince, the determined news reporter he’d seen earlier, talking with one of the uniforms guarding the barricade. He grimaced and turned away, but not before Quince caught sight of the detectives and recognized Bledsoe.

“Detective,” she shouted. “Could I ask you a few questions? Is it true this is a double homicide? That two girls were found in one of the storage units?”

“I’ll handle this,” Bledsoe said. Bledsoe liked the press, that much was true, but he wouldn’t give too much away. He would refer Joanna Quince to the public information officer, who would issue a statement and field questions once the next of kin were notified.