“Good. Then you’ll see that last night I was on the phone with my wife in New Orleans. The cell tower in the area should have caught the signal. Jesus, listen to me. I don’t have to explain myself to you or anyone else.”

Hayes held up a hand defensively. “I just thought you’d rather hear it from me first.”

Bentz bit back a comment, trying to restrain his anger. No need to shoot the messenger. “First and last. I wasn’t at Shana’s place last night. But you would know that if you checked her security system,” Bentz said. “The place is gated like she’s a celebrity. Anyone think to get into the system, see what those cameras all over her house picked up?”

“We’re looking into it.”

“Well, do, because I wasn’t there. And while you’re at it, you might check out some of the information I sent you about that silver car and the license plates. Someone’s fuckin’ with me, Jonas, and that person’s playing the LAPD for a fool. I didn’t kill Shana McIntyre, but someone wants to fuck me over. Someone orchestrated this whole thing. They’re probably watching us now.”

The waitress came by with more tea and her ever-present smile, but Hayes shook his head and she moved on as three middle-aged women were seated at a table not far from them.

“You’re paranoid,” Hayes said, his voice still low as the women scraped their chairs back, his accusations echoing Bentz’s own very private fears.

“That’s right, but I’ve got a good reason.”

“I’m here as your friend.”

“You know the old line about, ‘with friends like you, who needs enemies?’”

“Just watchin’ your back.” Hayes’s dark eyes flashed and his lips drew tight. “More than a few people in the PD would like to see you go down, Bentz.”

“So what else is new?”

“As I said, I’ve got your back.”

“Prove it. Get me that information. We’ve done here.” Bentz stood up, grabbed his cane, and shoved his plate toward Hayes. “You might want to put this in a ‘to go’ bag.”

Bentz had a point, Hayes thought grudgingly as the clock ticked toward five and he still a stack of paperwork looming on his desk. The air-conditioning system was working overtime, the cold office emptying as detectives signed out and the night shift dribbled in. For the third time Hayes scanned the statements collected from the neighbors and friends of Shana McIntyre, trying to make some sense of the events surrounding her death. An impossible task, he thought, clicking his pen nervously.

Although he didn’t see enough evidence to string together any kind of case, all factors did point to one thing: someone had lured Bentz here and, once he’d landed on West Coast soil, a homicidal rampage had begun.

Were the Springer girls part of it?