He was driving back through the quaint town when his cell phone rang and he picked up, barely registering that the screen read UNKNOWN CALLER. “Bentz.”

“Hi, Rick,” a woman said, her voice vaguely familiar and frosty as hell. “This is Lorraine. You called.”

Lorraine Newell. Jennifer’s stepsister.

“That’s right. I’m in L.A. and wondered if we could get together.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I have some questions about Jennifer’s death.”

“Oh, for the love of God. You have a helluva lot of nerve.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “I knew calling you back was a big mistake. What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet.”

“Come on, you’re not going to try and be coy now, are you? It’s so not you. Let’s not mince words. I’ve always thought you were a straight shooter. A miserable son of a bitch, but a straight shooter.”

“Can we meet tomorrow?”

“I’m busy most of the day. Work and appointments.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

She hesitated. “Why do I know I’m going to regret this?” She paused as if second-guessing herself, then said, “Okay. Fine! Can you be at my place around…four-thirty? I’ve got a dinner meeting, but I suppose I can give you a few minutes. For Jennifer.”

Big of you.

“I live in Torrance now.”

“I’ve got the address,” he admitted.

“Of course you do.” There was a bitter sneer in her voice.

“See you then,” he said, but she’d already hung up.

As he merged onto a highway, he let his mind sort through new information. He didn’t have much to go on. A Chevy Impala with some kind of parking permit, a vehicle that might or might not be a part of this Jennifer fraud. A few other vehicles as well.

And then there was Shana. She was the only one in L.A. who knew about Saint Miguel. Either that or she fed him that information to direct him there, so that “Jennifer” could show up. What part was Shana really playing?

True, he still didn’t have a lot to go on, but it was a little more than he’d had two hours earlier. Nothing might come of it, but then again, it was a start.

“You’re telling me this new double is like the Caldwell twins all over again?” Corrine asked as Hayes hung his jacket on a hook near the door of her apartment. With two small bedrooms and a killer view of the mountains, the unit was compact but breathtaking, clean and neat. Just like its owner.

“Identical. Down to the way the clothes were folded, the ribbons in their hair, the damned way their bodies were positioned.” He was tired and hungry and grouchy.

She shook her head. “You know the names?” she asked and her eyes had turned dark.

“Yeah, he left their ID. Elaine and Lucille Springer.”

“Damn!” She let out a breath. “I remember seeing the missing persons’ reports, from Glendale.”

“Yep.”

“Son of a bitch.” Shoving her hair from her eyes, she glared out the window. “Both dead. Like before.”

“Just like.”

“You tell the next of kin?”

“Yeah. I talked to the parents,” he said, remembering their denial, their worst fears confirmed, then the horror and grief. “Nice people. He’s some kind of insurance salesman. She’s a teacher.”

Corrine nodded slightly, her jaw tight, her eyes shadowed as if she felt the pain of these people she’d never met. “I remember,” she said softly.

“They came to the morgue, made the IDs, and you could see it killed them.” He shook his head, wiped a hand over his face. “Killed them.” He recalled the Springers: the father, Greg, dressed in khakis and an Izod golf shirt, his face pale beneath a tan. His wife, Cathy, the mother of the twins, had walked in quietly, like a zombie, face masked with an expression of denial. Oh, God, it had been bad.

Hayes slumped into the recliner positioned in front of the television. It sat near the high counter and stools that separated the compact kitchen from the living area. Corrine came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders.

“It’s never easy,” she said.

“Both kids. Gone.” One minute they’d been parents, happy and secure in life, the next they were totally bereft. Hayes had tried and failed to erase the vision of Cathy Springer’s face, the denial in her blue eyes giving way to horror, her knees buckling as she collapsed into her husband’s shaking arms.

“Nooooo!” Cathy had wailed over and over again, her grief-stricken cries echoing down the long corridor. Her fists had curled, pounded frantically against her husband’s chest as he’d tried to calm her.

And the father. Greg’s demeanor had been riddled with defeat and pain, his gaze accusing as he’d stared at the detective. Hayes had known what he was thinking. Why my girls? Why mine? Why not yours? Or anyone else’s? Why my sweet innocent babies?

It was exactly what Hayes would have thought if anything ever happened to his Maren.

“You’ll catch the bastard who did this,” Corrine reassured him.

“I hope so.”

“Have faith, if not in divine intervention, then in the skill of the department. Forensics and technology are a whole new ball game. Twelve years ago we didn’t have half the forensic tests that we have now. The perp is toast. And if he turns out to be the Twenty-one killer, then it’s a two-for-one. Cause for celebration.”

He wanted to believe it.

Corrine was massaging his shoulders, trying to ease out the knots of tension in his muscles. “How about a drink?” she suggested. “I’ve got pasta, those bowties-”

“Farfalle.”

“Yeah, I guess. With pesto and an Italian sausage or two.”

“This from the Irish girl?”

She laughed. “And I’m fresh out of corned beef and cabbage.” Her fingers were strong and comforting, but his head was on the case. Why had the killer struck now? Why the Springer twins? Who the hell was he? Would he kill again soon or wait another twelve years?

“Talk to me,” she said, still massaging him. It was a ritual they practiced when a particularly tough case was getting to either one of them. “You really believe the murders are connected.”

“Have to be.”

“Noooo. Don’t close your mind.”

“How would a copycat know the details of a twelve-year-old cold case that weren’t released to the press?”

“Cops talk.”

Hayes looked up at her. “To killers?”

“Unwittingly. Or maybe whoever was talking had one too many beers and was overheard.”

“Long shot.”

“Okay then, maybe conversation in prison. The Twenty-one is locked up for another crime but shoots his mouth off. Now his cellmate is on parole and thinking he’ll take up where the Twenty-one left off.”

“No.”

“I’m just suggesting you keep your mind open. It could be a copycat.” Still kneading the tension from his shoulders, Corrine leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Or you might be right. Maybe the Twenty-one is back, from who knows where, ready to rock and roll. Maybe you should check recent parolees.”

“Already doin’ it.”

“Of course you are.” He looked up and she was grinning.

“Bentz is back in town,” he said.

Corrine nodded. “I heard the news. It’s all over the department.” When Hayes lifted an eyebrow, she shrugged. “Trinidad put the word out, I think.”

“Some people aren’t thrilled.” He looked pointedly at her and she smiled.

“You mean Bledsoe?” she teased.

“I was wondering about you.”

“Well, I’m not exactly president of the Rick Bentz fan club, but I figure what happened is ancient history.” She winked. “Besides, I got myself a new guy and he’s lots cuter.”

“You haven’t seen Bentz.”

“Okay, okay, you’re right. The jury’s still out on that one.”

“He’s still recuperating from an accident. Sometimes uses a cane.”

“So now you want me to feel sorry for him since he and I both are gimps?”

“That’s not what I meant. And you’re no gimp. Not anymore!”

“Good.” Corrine sighed and shook her head. “It’s weird. Who would think it would matter? He’s been gone what, ten years?”