And gone where? He already checked out of the So-Cal Inn, right? You probably would have met him at the station anyway. Just be thankful that he’s still in L.A. You’ll see him soon. Less than an hour, probably.

Good!

Her cell phone rang and she saw it was Bentz’s number. Thank God! “Hi.”

“God, it’s good to hear your voice. I was worried.”

Her heart squeezed. “Yeah, I know.” She felt tears against the back of her eyes and ridiculously her throat thickened. “The, uh, the flight was delayed, a mechanical problem that took a couple of hours to fix. But I finally made it.”

“Good.”

She could barely hear him with the sounds of the airport filling her ears, announcements for flights over the loudspeakers, the squeak of wheels on roller bags, and the excited hum of conversation as throngs of people moved through the wide concourse.

“Why are we meeting at the station house? I thought you would pick me up.”

“Yeah, I wish, but I’ve got to make a statement. Some loose ends to tie up.”

“Oh, God, someone else died,” she said, knowing it was true. She stopped dead in her tracks and a woman pushing a stroller nearly ran into her.

“Sorry,” the woman said, diverting around Olivia, who moved to the side of the wide hallway to stop by a T-shirt shop. “Am I right?” she asked, her heart drumming with dread. “Was someone else killed?”

“I think so. It’s the person who impersonated Jennifer.” He sounded weary and distracted. “It’s a long story, but I saw her jump from an observation platform into the ocean, a good thirty or forty feet below.”

“She jumped?”

“She was running away from me.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, the cacophony of the airport turning into the rush of the sea, the people fading as, in her mind’s eye, she witnessed a woman leaping to her death in the water below.

“A few hours later, the Coast Guard found a body.”

Olivia leaned against the wall and closed her eyes for a second. “So she’s dead? The person who’s been gaslighting you?” Olivia couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah. I think so. I’m going to have to ID the body in the morgue, which is kind of a joke. I mean, I only met her up close once. I don’t even know her real name.”

“You spoke with her. Had a conversation?”

“Yeah.”

“Face-to-face, not one of those midnight prank calls.”

“I was with her earlier today,” he said. “I caught up with her and she was going to tell me the truth, or so she claimed, but…oh, hell…listen, I’ve got to go.”

“No, wait! You met with this ‘Jennifer?’”

“Yes. Look, Livvie, I’ll tell you everything soon. Once I ID the body, I’ll probably have to answer some more questions, but that will be at RHD, at Parker Center, so we’ll hook up there. It’s not far from the morgue. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”

Someone was calling her, a number she didn’t recognize, trying to cut in. She ignored the interruption and watched as two parents shepherded their bags and stair-step children wearing Mickey Mouse ears toward the main terminal.

“A police officer is picking you up,” Bentz was saying. “Name’s Sherry Petrocelli. She’s a friend of Hayes’s. She’ll drive you to Parker Center. That’s where the LAPD has their Robbery-Homicide Division.”

“I know that.”

“Good. I’ll meet you. Hayes gave Petrocelli your cell number, so she’ll be calling.”

“I think she just did,” Olivia said.

“Good. I’ll see you soon.”

“I can’t wait. Love you.”

“If you only knew.”

Those damned hot tears touched her eyes again. Her throat was thick, choked with emotion. She whispered, “Maybe it’ll be over now.”

There was a pause on the other end of the connection. “I don’t know if it will ever be over.” And he hung up.

“Rick-” But it was too late. She stood there with the phone in her hand, feeling like an idiot. On the verge of a crying jag again.

That just wouldn’t do. Her emotions and hormones be damned. She couldn’t function in such an overwrought emotional state, near tears. She was a grown woman, soon to be a mother. Setting her jaw, she started walking again.

For the first time since touching down on California soil, she felt a measure of renewed determination to see this through. She told her self she was up for the challenge, whatever it was.

Bring it on, she thought, slipping her phone into her purse and sliding a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose. I’m ready.

Come on, come on, answer the damned phone.

I watch the passengers as they stream into the baggage claim area, hustling, herding, searching for their luggage. Loud and oblivious to me, they corral the children and guard their laptops as they wait for the carousel to spin, delivering their bags to them.

Where is she?

For a second I panic. Maybe she didn’t make the flight. Perhaps I got the information wrong.

Or worse yet, I’m a suspect and they’re waiting for me. Because Sherry Petrocelli didn’t call the office to check in. My heart races at the thought that I could be caught before I’m finished, before I complete my task of utterly destroying Rick Bentz.

But a quick scan of the area assures me no cops are loitering on the chairs or hiding behind an open newspaper. These business travelers and families are not undercover detectives.

No, the baggage claim area looks clean.

I take a deep breath. I have to remain calm. Appear sincere. Make certain she believes that I’m Petrocelli. With that in mind, I force a smile that feels as false as plastic. But it will have to do.

It’s essential that Olivia Bentz trust me, buy into the fact that I’m chauffeuring her to her beloved husband.

God, that thought makes me want to puke.

I study the entrance to the baggage claim area, eyeing the faces of the travelers, hunting for the one that is forever burned into my brain.

For the love of God, where is she? I start to pace, then stop. I don’t want to attract attention; as it is I’ve been carefully avoiding the security cameras, keeping my back to them and my face covered. The wig and glasses help, but I can’t take too many chances.

My palms are beginning to sweat.

Where the hell is she?

Damn it, could the bitch just show up?

I called her, left a message from Petrocelli’s phone…

The cell phone jangles.

Finally!

I answer quickly, forcing the name off my lips. “Officer Petrocelli.”

“Hi, this is Olivia Bentz. I think you tried to call me. My husband said you were going to pick me up at the airport, somewhere in Baggage Claim?” She sounds harried and tired.

Perfect.

My own tight nerves relax a bit. “That’s right,” I say.

“I’m here near the United carousel.” Then I spy her approaching the area. Wearing sunglasses, her hair pulled away from her face, she’s carrying a purse and pulling a single overnight bag.

She packed light.

Smart girl.

We both smile and hang up our respective phones.

“Olivia Bentz?” I call out as I flag her down. “How was your flight?”

She shrugs. “Delayed.”

“I’m Sherry, a friend of Jonas Hayes. He asked me to pick you up.”

“So I heard.”

She eyes my uniform and I say, “You know I’m with the LAPD. Right?” She nods politely when I flip open Petrocelli’s wallet with her badge. With my wig, I look enough like Sherry to satisfy her.

“I appreciate the lift, Officer Petrocelli,” she says. So well-mannered and polite.

“Call me Sherry. The car’s right outside,” I tell her, and we walk through the doors to the parking area where the police cruiser awaits. I open the back door.

“You can put your things back here,” I say, and she does, even her purse, which, I assume holds her phone. While she moves toward the front seat I spy her phone in a pocket of her purse. I remove my hat, and while I’m stowing it on the backseat I pick up her cell phone, click it to off, then tuck it back into the purse as I straighten. She’s already slipping into the passenger seat.