To make the exit, he was forced to slow down and drop behind the minivan. Once off the freeway, he had to stop for a red light that the Chevy slipped through on amber and red. While Bentz gripped his steering wheel in frustration, Minivan Mom sat gabbing into the mouthpiece of her phone.

Bentz looked down the road and saw the Impala speed under an other yellow light. He’d never catch her.

So close, but so far away…

California plates…He squinted. The last two numbers looked like 66, but he couldn’t make out the rest.

By the time the light changed and Bentz was able to pass the boxy minivan, the silver car was gone, out of sight.

Adrenaline racing, nerves stretched to the breaking point, Bentz prowled the area. As he waited at a red light, his cell phone rang.

“What the hell happened to you?” Montoya demanded and Bentz explained.

“You think you saw the same woman on the freeway? Come on. What’re the chances of that?”

“She knew I was at Lorraine Newell’s.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. She probably followed me. Second guessed what I would do.”

“L.A.’s a big city. Lots of dark-haired women. It wasn’t Jennifer or the woman who looks like her.”

“I’m telling you—”

“What? You’re telling me what? That in a city of millions of people you just ran across the one you were looking for on the freeway? You’re talking needle in a haystack.”

“It was the same car, damn it. And a dark-haired woman driving, but no, I didn’t see her face. I did catch a glimpse of that parking pass. It had a cross on it, like the hospital was affiliated with some Christian church.”

“If you say so.”

“The license plate ended in 66, but I didn’t catch any of the other letters or numbers.”

“You’re sure that wasn’t 666?”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“That’s the problem, Bentz. This whole thing is some lame-ass joke this woman is pulling on you. When are you going to wise up and get back here? Look, I got work to do here. Real work. Call me when you come to your senses.” Montoya hung up, leaving Bentz to cruise the side streets for nearly an hour.

He checked parking lots and streets and traffic, searching out the silver Chevy. There were lots of silver or gray cars, all catching light in the sunny, hazy day, but none of them were the Impala.

Giving up, he stayed off the freeway to wend his way back to Culver City through Westwood and Beverly Hills. He was nearly back at the inn when his phone rang again. This time no caller was listed.

“Bentz,” he said.

“Catch me if you can, RJ,” a breathy female voice whispered.

His heart leapt to his throat. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Who is this?” he demanded.