ID said it was Montoya’s personal cell.
“Hey,” he said into the phone.
“Back atcha. You got a minute?”
Bentz waited a beat. No doubt his once-upon-a-time partner was being a wiseass. “Just one,” he said dryly.
“Can you meet me in…say…an hour?” No joking now. Montoya was dead serious.
“At the station.”
“No. How about the Cat’s Meow?”
“I can be there in half an hour.”
“Good.” Montoya clicked off and Bentz was left with a gnawing in his gut. Something was up. Was there a rumor circulating that Bentz was going to be forced into retirement? “Shit,” he said and switched on the ignition.
The thought of turning in his badge soured his stomach. He wasn’t ready for retirement, damn it, and he didn’t see himself as a P.I. He threw his SUV into reverse, did a quick turn, and drove down the lane to the county road, where he stepped on it and headed to New Orleans and whatever bad news Montoya had to offer.
The Cat’s Meow was a bar off Bourbon Street that, after the hurricane, had been restored to its original lack of splendor. The brick walls, even newly scrubbed, looked as if they might crumble. Wood floors, though refinished, had the patina that comes with overuse and age. Surrealistic pictures of jazz singers hanging over the bar had been retouched to appear as if they’d collected decades’ worth of smoke. The end one, of Ella Fitzgerald, was still hung crookedly, as if the owner of the bar prided himself in all things in the world being imperfect.
The air conditioner wheezed loudly, ceiling fans slowly rotated, and smoke drifted upward from tables where groups of patrons huddled over their drinks.
Montoya was waiting for him in a booth with a cup of coffee sitting neglected in front of him. He gave Bentz the once-over as he tried not to wince while sliding in opposite the younger cop.
“What’s up?” Bentz asked without preamble, then ordered a sweet tea.
“Got some mail for you.”
“You did?” Bentz asked.
“Well, the department did.”
Montoya waited for the server to deposit Bentz’s drink before reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a manila envelope: Eight-by-ten with Bentz’s name written on it in block letters, the address listed as the Homicide Department of the New Orleans Police Department. Across each side was a stamp that pronounced the contents: PERSONAL.
The packet hadn’t been opened.
“This came today?”
“Mmm.” Montoya took a sip of his coffee.
“Scanned?” Meaning for explosives or foreign substances such as anthrax.
“Yeah.”
Bentz’s eyes narrowed. “By you?”
“That’s right. I spotted it in the mailroom, figured it was no one’s business but yours, so…” He raised a shoulder.
“You lifted it.”
Montoya wiggled a hand beside his head. Maybe yes. Maybe no. “It’s postmarked to you. Thought it would be best if you got it before Brinkman or some other jerk-off caught a glimpse.” He slid a glance at the envelope. “Probably nothin’.”
“If you thought that, you wouldn’t have bothered.”
Again a shrug of one leather-clad shoulder. “You gonna open it?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.” Another swallow of coffee.
“So that’s it, you’re curious.”
“Hey, I’m just covering your back.”
“Fine.” Bentz studied the postmark. It was smudged and the lighting in the bar was too dark to see much. But he had a penlight on his key chain, and as he shined its small beam over the postmark his gut tightened.
The name of the town was unreadable, but he recognized the zip code as the one in which he and Jennifer had lived before her death.
Using a house key, he slit the envelope open and gently tugged the contents within. A single piece of paper and three photographs.
He sucked in his breath.
His heart stilled.
The pictures, complete with dates, were of his first wife, Jennifer.
Dear God, what was this?
He heard his pulse pounding in his brain. First the “sightings” and now this?
“Is that—?”
“Yeah.” The photographs were clear and crisp. In color. Jennifer walking across a busy street. Jennifer sliding into a light-colored car, make and model undetermined. Jennifer sitting at a tall café table in a coffee shop. The last picture was taken from the street, her image captured through the window of the shop. In front of the window was a sidewalk with pedestrians passing by and portions of two newspaper boxes in the foreground. He recognized one as USA Today, and the other the L.A. Times.
Narrowing his eyes, Bentz looked for a reflection of the photographer in the large window, but saw none.
This was nuts.
“Old pictures?” Montoya asked.
“Not if the dates from the camera are right.”
“Those can be changed.”
“I know.”
“And with Photoshopping and image altering and airbrushing, pictures can be made to look like anything someone wants them to. Other people’s heads on someone else’s body.”
Bentz looked up from the disturbing photos. “But why?”
“Someone just fuckin’ with ya.”
“Maybe.” He turned his attention to the document and his jaw grew hard as granite. The single page was a copy of Jennifer’s death certificate. Scrawled across the neatly typed document was a bright red question mark.
“What the hell is this?” Montoya asked.
Bentz stared at the mutilated certificate. “A sick way of telling me that my first wife might not be dead.”
Montoya waited a beat, watching the expression on his partner’s face. “You’re kidding. Right?”
“Does this look like a joke to you?” Bentz asked, pointing at the death certificate and scattered pictures.
“You think this is Jennifer? Nah!” Then eyeing his ex-partner, “You’re messing with
