too hot to touch. But the temperature inside his 4Runner was nothing compared to the heat churning in his gut. Jesus, he was mad. Who the hell did Delilah think she was, pulling out of the marriage because she couldn’t hack being married to a cop any longer? She’d known he was a career man with the LAPD when she’d married him twelve years ago.
But then she’d been pregnant.
And they’d both wanted the kid.
That part, he thought, considering his daughter, they’d gotten right. The rest had been up and down, a roller-coaster ride exacerbated by his career and Delilah’s mood swings.
So now they were divorced. Shit. Making him a two-time loser. He’d already been married once before to Alonda, his college sweetheart. That had ended when he’d found her in bed with her best friend and she’d admitted to him that she was gay. Had been all along. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him, but…
Great.
He’d stormed out and filed papers the next day. At least there were no kids from that first doomed union.
Two years later he’d met Delilah and fallen head over heels. But he’d been careful. He hadn’t wanted to make the same mistake twice. He hazarded another glance at the apartment building, a four-story pink-tinged stucco building with arched windows and tile roof, a nod to old California. She was on the top floor, two bedrooms and a thousand square feet of vaulted ceilings and new carpeting. There, she asserted, she could “start over” and “find what she really wanted in life,” whatever the hell that meant.
With a flick of the ignition his Toyota fired up. He pulled out of his parking spot, a rare commodity here in Santa Monica, twenty-six blocks from the beach. High rent, in Hayes’s estimation, but Delilah had money. She owned half of a modeling school, where runway moms sent their daughters to learn the tricks of the trade. Delilah, once a print-ad model herself and a natural salesperson, had helped make the school a raging success.
What did she need with a workaholic cop for a husband? Their divorce, had been finalized six months earlier. Now if they could just straighten out the custody schedule.
To be truthful, Jonas had already started dating. This time he’d taken up with Corrine O’Donnell, a fellow cop, a woman who understood the rigors and demands of the job. She’d been a detective, but since her injury she’d been assigned to a desk job in missing persons. She claimed she didn’t mind. He wondered.
He slid his SUV into traffic, attempted to rein in his fury over Delilah’s latest custody demand, and angled the 4Runner toward the Santa Monica Freeway. He wanted to do a little more checking on Bentz before he met with him tomorrow.
Rick Bentz hadn’t just shown up out of the blue.
The few quick calls Hayes had made earlier had confirmed what Hayes suspected: Bentz was on leave from the New Orleans Police Department and there was talk that he wouldn’t be returning. He’d been injured, spent a couple of weeks in a coma and a few months in physical therapy. If he ever got back to work, he’d probably be stuck behind a desk and the Rick Bentz Hayes had known, back in the day, would have shriveled up and died if he hadn’t been in the field.
Hayes surmised that hadn’t changed.
But he’d do some checking. The way he remembered it Bentz had fallen apart after his ex-wife’s death and the shooting of the Valdez kid. Bentz had been cleared of any charges; the boy had been taking aim at Bentz’s partner, Russ Trinidad, but the weapon had turned out to be a very authentic-appearing toy. Though exonerated of any crime, guilt had eaten away at the detective and it looked as if his ex-wife’s suicide had pushed him over the edge. He’d lost interest in anything except his kid and had left the department with a couple of black eyes—the Valdez kid’s death and a double-murder investigation that had gone too cold too fast.
Bentz had given up his badge in L.A., and though no one could really pin the blame for either event on him, people took their shots. Even some of those closest to him had thought he’d lost his edge when he’d taken his ex-wife back. After the fact, people had blamed the Valdez kid’s death on Bentz’s lack of good judgment, his lack of focus, but, bottom line, it was just a tragedy.
Hayes didn’t know what to think as he cut toward the Ten. He saw his entrance and passed an old Volkswagen bus belching blue smoke before gunning it onto the freeway.
His cell phone rang and he snagged it. “Hayes.”
“Hey, how’d it go?” Corrine asked. She was one of the few people who knew he was still hammering out a change in the custody arrangements.
“It went,” he said and smiled a bit. Corrine, another cop who knew the ropes, had become his rock.
“You okay?”
Never, when dealing with Delilah. He hated to think it, but his shrink seemed to think he was still hung up on her. “I will be.”
“So, you’re coming over later? I’ve got First Blood on DVD. Thought it might help get out some of your aggressions.”
He actually laughed. “I’ll bring the raw meat.”
“I think you need to come up with something…uh, what’s the quote…about what Rambo ate?”
“I think it’s something that would make a billy goat puke.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” She chuckled. “We can barbecue whatever it is…roadkill maybe.”
“I’ll work on it.” He felt a little better as he glanced at the dashboard clock. “Look, I have a couple of things I’ve gotta do. I’ll be there in little over an hour.”
“Why do I have the feeling that this is because Rick Bentz is in town?”
He probably shouldn’t have told her that Bentz had called, especially because she and Bentz had “a history.” But the truth would have gotten out sooner or later, and Bentz had dated several women in the department before he met and married Jennifer. Hayes decided it was best if Corrine heard it from him first. If he’d learned anything from his two failed marriages, he now knew it was better to stick to the truth. It was also a whole lot better to be the bearer of bad news than let the woman in his life be blindsided from some other source.
“You figured out the Bentz connection,” he teased. “Proof that you’re a crack detective.”
“Yeah, right. Missing Persons wouldn’t be the same without me.” She played along. “Don’t think that kind of sweet talk will make up for the fact that you’ll be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I’ll fire up the DVD player. At least I can count on Rambo showing up.”
“Ouch! I’ll be there. Soon.”
“Just as long as you know I’m not the kind of woman who sits around and waits forever.”
“What’s wrong with ya?” he joked and she chuckled.
“Jerk!”
“Yeah, but you love me.”
“And that’s the problem. I’ll see you soon.”
He
