I’m still on an adrenaline high, one I plan to keep going.

Approaching the freeway overpass I toss the phone into the passenger seat and roll down my window. Yes, it’s a little smoggy, but it’s L.A. Of course there’s haze. It doesn’t stop the wind from rushing through my hair as I wind my way toward the ramp.

The prepaid cell phone is perfect.

No way to trace a call.

Poor Bentz. He won’t be able to find me; not until I want him to.

He fell right into the trap that I laid for him. Maybe he’s losing his edge.

Good.

He never knew that I watched him; followed him. I knew exactly when he was visiting Shana McIntyre and, today, that bitch Lorraine Newell. Jesus, she’s a miserable human being.

And as for Bentz?

Dear God, the man is predictable.

Always has been. These people never change.

I punch the throttle, then check my speed and ease up a bit. This wouldn’t be a good time for a ticket.

But my heart pounds wildly.

It’s time to ramp things up a bit.

I warm inside at the thought. My reflection winks at me. “Smart girl,” I say into the wind as I consider my next move.

Bentz will never know what hit him.

Hayes slapped the files shut and leaned back in his desk chair. It squeaked in protest, adding to the cacophony of sounds-computer keys clicking, phones ringing, conversations buzzing. And beneath it all was the ever-present rumble of the ancient air conditioning system.

Someone laughed as a printer clicked out pages a few desks over. Trinidad was taking a statement from a long-legged black woman, most likely a witness in one of the open cases. They had more than their share of homicides to solve, but the buzz in the department was about the Springer twins’ murders. This was a crime that had captured the attention of the media as well as the horrified public. Reporters had been calling, keeping the Public Information Officer as busy as the detectives solving the case.

And time was sliding by without any serious leads.

Hayes picked up the remainder of his iced tea, a drink that had been ignored, the ice melting since lunch. He took a long swallow and felt the paper cup getting weak.

He’d spent the day rereading the cold case file on the Caldwell twins’ homicides, trying to find some bit of evidence that had been overlooked twelve years earlier.

He’d come up dry.

After Bentz had bailed, Trinidad had been assigned another partner, a female detective named Bonita Unsel, who had since left the department. She and Trinidad, with Bledsoe’s help, had handled the case by the book, but the Twenty-one killer had literally gotten away with murder. Twice.

Absently, his mind on the case, Hayes finished the drink as he scrolled through the crime scene photos on the computer. A box of evidence had been pulled, and as he’d combed through it he’d noted that the ribbon used in the first killings appeared identical to the ribbons that had bound and gagged the Springer twins.

The son of a bitch had kept his killing kit intact, down to the heavy red ribbon with wire running through it, the kind used to wrap fancy, expensive Christmas presents. Years ago the department had hunted down the manufacturer of the ribbon, checked with distributors and local stores, only to come up with a big goose egg.

Nor had they been able to find any fingerprints or trace evidence to link the suspects. They’d spent hours interviewing friends and acquaintances of the victims. Boyfriends, girlfriends, family members, classmates. Lots of interviews leading nowhere.

The primary suspect had been a boy named Chad Emerson who had dated both girls at one time or another, but his alibi had been solid and he’d seem genuinely devastated by the Caldwell twins’ deaths. Same with the older brother, Donovan, whom Bledsoe had been certain was involved. Nothing concrete. So he’d been envious of the attention his sisters received; jealousy itself wasn’t a crime, and it wasn’t unusual. Nonetheless Hayes intended to check out both suspects and see if they had any connection whatsoever to the Springer twins.

“Hey!”

He looked up to see Dawn Rankin, one of the other detectives in the department, walking toward his desk. She dropped a report into his in basket. “I sent this to you via e-mail, but thought you’d like a hard copy. The shooting in West Hollywood. Witness statements.”

“Not an accident?”

She shook her head. “Looks like we’ll get an indictment. Weird, huh? Best friends and one ends up killing the other over a woman.”

“Stupidity has no bounds.”

“I guess.” She flashed him a wicked little grin. “Hey, I heard that Rick Bentz is back, digging into his wife’s death.”

“Ex-wife, but yeah.”

“What’s that all about?” Dawn’s eyebrows drew together. She was a pretty woman. Petite, smart, with a smooth complexion that required little or no makeup, she forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Not sure. Thinks he’s being gaslit, that someone’s manipulating him into thinking Jennifer is still alive.”

“He made the ID.”

“Yeah, he knows.” Hayes felt a twinge of a headache coming on. “He never struck me as the kind who would fall into this kind of trap. I mean if someone was messin’ with him, he’d blow them off.”

“Unless he wants to believe she’s still alive.” She threw up a hand. “Not that I could ever figure him out.”

Hayes remembered now: back in his younger days Bentz had hooked up with Dawn. Aside from a passing interest, she seemed long over him, though at the time of the breakup, according to rumors, it had been messy.

“Anyway, I spent the afternoon talking to people who knew the vics in the Springer case. I even tracked down the boyfriends of both the Springer girls. They both, conveniently, have alibis, but the one who dated Lucy, Kurt Jones, has a record. Nothing serious or violent, but drug charges. The word on the street is he’s a dealer.” She shook her head. “Small-time stuff. I don’t think he’s our guy.”

“Not likely to be linked to the Caldwell twins.”

“He’s old enough, just not the right kind of nut job.”

Bledsoe overheard the tail end of the conversation as he walked into the squad room. “Don’t tell me, you’re talking about my favorite ex-dick Bentz.” He pulled a face. “Wouldn’t you know he’d show up when the Twenty-one comes out of the woodwork? I’m thinking the killer came out because he knows Bentz is here, just to rub it in his face and piss him off.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s how serial killers work,” Dawn said, obviously irritated at the intrusion. Bledsoe had that way about him, an ability to aggravate without trying. “Next you’ll be saying Bentz killed the Springer girls.”

“Nah. He’s a bastard, but not a killer…but then again, there was the Valdez kid. Bentz nailed him.”

“Accident,” Dawn said. “That’s low, even for you.”

“I’m just not a big fan of coincidence,” Bledsoe said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “I’m just sayin’.” His phone rang, and he left, walking smartly away, cell jammed to his ear.

“Jerk,” Dawn said, watching the other detective leave while scrounging in her purse for her pack of Marlboro Lights.

“I didn’t know you were a Bentz fan.”

Her eyes slid back to Hayes. “A fan? No. He’s another son of a bitch. But Bledsoe?” She said, retrieving her new pack. “They have special spots in hell for his kind.”

An hour before dusk Bentz drove to Santa Monica, a place that kept coming up in conversation and had been a part of his life with Jennifer. A pretty damned important part, considering they’d first made love here, before they’d been married. Had that memory been Jennifer’s fascination with this quaint seaside town? Or was he kidding himself? He found a parking spot on the street and was about to lock up when he noticed his cane in the backseat. Since the nagging pain in his leg had intensified after chasing “Jennifer” through Saint Miguel’s Inn at San Juan Capistrano he grabbed the damn thing and headed toward the sea.