“Bentz.”

“You were right,” Montoya said. “I pulled up some records on Yolanda Valdez in Los Angeles County, dug a little deeper, and it seems that she was married to an Erik Judd for a short period of time. Erik was a roofer and he had an accident; fell four stories and died before the divorce was final.”

“They were getting a divorce?”

“Had filed the papers.”

“How do you know this?” Bentz said, looking outside to the night. No county offices would be open.

“You just have to know what you’re doing, who to call, and how to work the Internet. Public records can be located.”

“If you say so.”

“I do, and the kicker is this: He had a five hundred thousand dollar insurance policy on him. Half a million. The beneficiary, none other than his soon to be ex-wife.”

“Anything fishy about the accident?”

“The insurance company didn’t balk. According to bank records, Yolanda owns her house in Encino outright and still has eighty thou sand in the bank.” Montoya sounded pleased with himself. “No student loans for this girl.”

“Thanks,” Bentz said. “Now, do me a favor. Find out what you can about the brother. Fernando Valdez. He’s been using the car that Jennifer was driving. I think he lives with his sister and brother-in law, but right now he’s MIA.”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thanks.”

“You owe me a beer… No, wait, I think the debt is more than that. You’re up to half a case already.”

“I’m good for it,” Bentz said. “You haven’t heard from Olivia, have you?”

“No. Why? Didn’t she show up?”

“Nope. She landed at LAX. We talked on the phone. She was meeting Officer Petrocelli and I haven’t heard from her since.”

“You’re sure she was on the plane? If she was on her cell, she could have been anywhere.”

“Yeah. I checked with the airline.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Bentz admitted, refusing to be defeated. “But I’ll find her.”

“Of course you will, man,” Montoya said but there was an undercurrent of worry in his voice, one that was echoed in Bentz’s own fears.

I have to work quickly, and I’m getting a little rattled. I feel it and I don’t like it. It’s not that I’m not fast on my feet; it’s that I prefer to have everything worked out to the finest little detail. That’s why it’s taken twelve years to execute this plan. Twelve, long, torturous years.

I can’t blow it now, I think, stripping off my clothes in a cabin on the boat and seeing my reflection in the slim mirror. I’m in good shape, better than anyone would guess or know, and I give myself credit. It’s taken years to hone my muscles, to look just how I want.

Like so many things in my life, my strength and appearance took patience, timing, and determination. I didn’t give up cigarettes for nothing.

Sometimes, unfortunately, it’s necessary to take chances, to react to the moment. It’s nerve-racking, I admit as I stuff my hair into a baseball cap. So after those risky moments, I just have to gain my equilibrium again, retain my focus, remember my ultimate goal.

I pull on my running pants and zip up my jacket, then sneak off the craft. No one’s around at this hour, so I slip into the car unnoticed.

In the backseat, Sherry is all ready to go. Her clothes, badge, and purse sit beside her. “It’s very quiet back there,” I tell her.

Checking the rearview mirror, breathing slowly, I drive to a dead-end street about a mile from the restaurant where I met Sherry earlier. She and I go way back and it was a shame she had to be sacrificed, but the truth of the matter is that she always bothered me, a cop without any grit.

I park in a back alley and wipe off the areas where I might have left prints when I drove her away from the restaurant. I drop the latex gloves onto the backseat, douse it all generously with gasoline, and strike a match.

Hisssss!

The little flame glows bright for a second and I toss it through the open window onto the gloves. Combustion! The backseat ignites, burning quickly, setting the entire vehicle aflame.

Perfect, I think, starting to run when I see him. A guy on a motorcycle, cutting down the street behind me.

Oh, hell. My pulse skyrockets. Sweat beads on my forehead and hands. What if he saw me at the car? What if he can describe me? What if…

Calm down! He didn’t see you. He might find the burning car, but that’s what you want, remember? Just keep running.

Spurred by my own pep talk, I head out, cutting down back alleys, jogging at my regular pace, fast enough, considering everything I’ve been through.

I’m almost at the restaurant when I hear the sirens screaming. Fire trucks. Police cars. Probably a rescue vehicle. “Have at it,” I say as I spy my own car parked in an alley several blocks from the restaurant, as it has been for hours, patiently waiting.

I drive home without a hitch. After stripping off my running clothes and tossing them into the washer, I take a long warm shower, giving myself a little time to think about Bentz and how he’s suffering now. He’s sick with worry about his precious little wife. He’s all messed up about his dead one.

“Having fun yet, RJ?” I laugh while the steam rolls through the bathroom. As I shampoo my hair, then wash my body, my mind seizes on my next move, tomorrow’s plan. Bentz is in for a few more heart attacks before I’m done. Olivia is going to die…oh, yes, I think, running the loofah over my back and down my arms, inhaling the scented soap. But before she bites it, I want Bentz to twist in the wind until he nearly breaks.

I scrub my feet, then let the warm water cascade over me, washing away all traces of dirt, grime, and sweat. Finally, I step out of the shower and towel off, thinking of Olivia rotting in the bowels of the boat, scared to death, probably screaming her lungs out to no avail.

Didn’t I tell her not to waste her time? After grabbing my robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, I throw it on and cinch the waist.

Now, time for the news. I walk to the living area with a quick pause at the refrigerator where I find a chilled pitcher of martinis waiting for me. I drop two olives in my stemmed glass, pour the cool concoction over them, and settle in the living area where I click on the television. There should be a lead in with “breaking news” about a car fire at Marina del Rey. I cross my legs and wait and see a familiar face on the screen.

Donovan Caldwell, that whiner, is being interviewed about the most recent double homicide-the Springer twins. He and the reporter are seated in a studio, backdropped by a huge screen upon which pictures of the two sets of twins are displayed. Four girls, their eyes wide as puppies’.

An obvious tug at the viewers’ heartstrings.

The reporter, a young woman with dark hair, huge eyes, and a concerned expression asks, “Do you think the killer who murdered your sisters is also responsible for the latest double homicide?”

“That’s exactly my contention,” he says fervently, an irate brother jabbing the air passionately. He’s a small, fit man in an Izod golf shirt and khaki pants. A perfect little goatee covers his chin and a faux-hawk of dirty blond hair keeps him “hip.” But he’s not out to impress anyone with his looks. No, he’s upset and flushed, all bristly anger. “I’m saying that if the LAPD had done its job right the first time and arrested the killer who murdered my sisters, two other lives wouldn’t have been lost.”

The camera zooms in on the victims, pretty girls with smiles so full of life.

“Oh, wah, wah, waah.” I take another cool, calming sip and search for another channel with my remote. Of course I realize that the dead twins are news, but they’re old news. Especially those Caldwell girls. They’ve been dead for over a decade…ancient history. And the little prick on the screen bugs the hell out of me. The nerve-grabbing my headlines. And that crack about the police department. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.