That job-telling the family-fell on Hayes’s shoulders, and as far as he was concerned, talking to overwrought loved ones was almost as difficult as discovering the bodies.

Bentz pushed the speed limit as he drove south on “the Five,” the interstate freeway that stretched from Canada to Mexico. The sun was low on the horizon and the traffic was thick and swift, a faster pace than he ever experienced in Louisiana. Bentz had expected to return to Los Angeles and feel at home, if not with the police, then with the area itself. He’d spent so many years of his life here.

But, no, he was a fish out of water now.

The phone call from Olivia had bothered him and he wondered, not for the first time, if he’d made a big mistake coming to L.A. Not only had he upset his wife, but if his boss in New Orleans found out that he was on the West Coast chasing after a dead woman, Jaskiel would have him back in psych evaluations in no time. Or she could put him out to pasture for good, thinking he’d gone round the bend. His career as a cop could be over.

So what? It’s not like the NOPD isn’t functioning without you. Who knows when or if you’ll be allowed back on active duty.

His fingers tightened over the wheel as he switched lanes and a moving van roared past his Ford Escape as if he were standing still. He looked at his speedometer. He was going seventy.

His cell phone rang. He clicked off the radio and glanced at the LED screen. Montoya’s number.

Good. Bentz had been brooding about Olivia ever since their last conversation. He needed a distraction.

He clicked on. “About time you called. You got something for me?”

“Not much. No fingerprints on the envelope or the death certificate, other than yours and mine.”

Bentz swore under his breath.

“You didn’t really expect any.”

“No, but I thought maybe we’d get lucky. That maybe the guy was sloppy.”

“Don’t think so. DNA’s not back, but I’ll bet a year’s salary that the perp didn’t lick the flap of the envelope. These days everyone knows that shit if they watch any truTV or CSI, or NCIS, or Law & Order, or you name it.”

“It was a long shot,” Bentz admitted, spotting his exit.

“I’ve got the lab analyzing the type of ink on the doc, but it probably won’t be something that will help.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.” Bentz eased up on the gas, flipped on his blinker, and slid into the exit lane.

“You know, this thing you’re doing, you should just give it up.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I know you’re going out of your mind not working, but hell, can’t you do something else?”

“You mean something a little less insane?”

“Yeah. Golf would be good. Or fishing. Hell, we’ve got great fishing down in the Gulf.”

“I’ll think about it. I could buy me a new fancy pole and set of clubs in between my calligraphy and yoga classes.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“Then you, too. Sign us both up. And add in ballroom dancing. You’d look fantastic in one of those sparkly gowns.”

Montoya didn’t so much as chuckle. “You think you’re funny?”

“I know I’m funny.”

Montoya wasn’t laughing. He asked, “You see your ex-wife again?” Bentz hesitated as he drove onto the ramp. “Maybe,” he admitted, slowing for a red light. “Not sure.”

“Really?”

“Really. She phoned, too. Called me by the pet name she’d given me.”

“Right.”

“I’m just telling ya.”

“So what’re you doing about it?”

Should he tell the skeptic? Hell, why not? “I talked with one of Jennifer’s friends. She said James and Jennifer met in San Juan Capistrano, so I thought I’d drive down.”

“Are you kidding me? What does that have to do with anything? You think your dead brother is involved?” Montoya muttered some oath in Spanish, before adding, “This is sounding crazier by the second. I’ve been to San Juan Capistrano. A couple of times. There’s a history to it, man. The whole town is supposed to be rife with ghosts.”

“Kinda like New Orleans.”

“I mean it. That so-called friend of Jennifer is messin’ with ya. San Juan Capistrano? Come on. You tell this friend you’ve been seeing ghosts and she sends you to Capistrano. Give me an effin’ break.”

“She’s not a ghost,” he said, though in truth he was feeling haunted. Exactly what whoever was behind this wanted.

“Look I gotta go.” Bentz’s ridicule capacity was on overflow.

“Great. Walk about the hallowed grounds, talk to the white lady or the faceless monk or the dead guy in his rocking chair. Or Jennifer, since you obviously think she’s hanging out with them. Listen, if you ever get close enough to talk to her, give her my love.”

“Screw you, Montoya,” he said as the light turned green and he eased ahead toward the mission.

“You should get so lucky.” His partner hung up and Bentz felt his lips twist upward a bit. He missed that cocky son of a bitch, just as he missed his job, but not quite as much as he missed Olivia.

“Check the cell phone records, include the texts and read what they say if anything,” Hayes said as he and Martinez left the crime scene and walked toward their cars. “They should give us a window of time when the girls were abducted. If this is like the Caldwell case, then we can assume the vics were killed somewhere else and brought here to be staged and discovered. We need to find out who owns the facility and who rents units here, not just Unit 8 but all of them. See if there’s any connection to the Springer twins. Or if anyone saw anything suspicious.”

“I’ll have all the traffic cameras checked as well, and some of the security cameras in nearby businesses.”

They would canvass the area using uniformed police and detectives to try and locate anyone who had seen anything. A convenience store and gas station were in clear sight of the underpass and storage units. Maybe someone, an employee or customer, saw something that would give them a lead. Anything to go on. If the times of death on the bodies were accurate, the victims had already been dead over twelve hours, and each minute that passed was critical to the investigation.

“And we should contact those groups dedicated to twins in the area. The killer knows they’re twins. He had to know when they were born to abduct them just before their birthday. That takes planning.”

“Online groups, too,” Martinez suggested, and the scope of the investigation just got a whole lot wider.

“Right.”

“Our doer is organized,” Martinez observed as she took in the scene. “Meticulous. Probably a neat freak.”

“Who only kills once every twelve years,” Hayes reminded her.

“We think. I’ll check with other agencies, in other states, the F.B.I. He might be spreading his love around. See if there are any murders of twins in the surrounding states. Hell, make it the entire United States.”

“And recent releases from the prisons. Maybe he’s been incarcerated for the last twelve years. I’ll run a check of prison records. We should look at the psychological profiles of anyone who’s been released for a violent crime in the last year.”

“Could be a long list.”

“Amen.” He hated to think how much time it would take.

They reached Martinez’s car and she opened the door, then asked, “So tell me, what was the meaning of that crack by Bledsoe? What the hell does Rick Bentz have to do with this?”

“Nothing. Probably coincidence.” Hayes reached into his pocket and slid his shades onto his face. “The connection is that Bledsoe worked with Bentz and Trinidad on the Caldwell twin case.”

She was nodding. Getting it.

“Bledsoe always needs someone to blame.”

“That’s it? Not because Bledsoe was shut down by Bentz’s wife?” she asked. “Detective Rankin said something about it when his name came up this morning.”

“Rankin has her own ax to grind,” Hayes said. He didn’t want to get dragged into department gossip, especially not twelve-or fifteen-year-old rumors.