Yes, sooner better than later.

So that everyone understands that the latest spate of killings are not coincidence, that they are directly tied to Rick Bentz.

I already know who will be the next traitor to be sacrificed, and this one will be child’s play. It could happen as quickly as tonight.

That’s an appealing thought, and it could work. After all, I’ve planned it for so long. Another long sip of the cool martini. But I’ll just have one. For now. Later, I can have another for my next celebration.

I’m tingling inside, anticipation sliding through my body. How long I’ve waited, but oh, it was worth it. That old quote about revenge being best served up cold was right on the money.

So, so true.

I finish my drink, savoring the last drop. Bottoms up! Lowering the glass, I get to work. I’ll need to make a phone call before I leave and then…oh, yeah, and then…

The fun is just beginning.

Ramona Salazar.

The name rang no bells for Bentz, none whatsoever.

Using his damned cane and feeling his knee twinge, he walked the short distance from the sandwich shop to his motel in the new shoes he’d picked up at a store in Marina del Rey. Like everything else in this part of the world, the loafers were outrageously expensive. He could easily go broke trying to find out if his ex-wife was dead or alive.

At least he had a name to start with, a lead, if a very shaky one. He had spent the afternoon staked out in his motel room between the television and his laptop, taking notes as information about Shana McIntyre was released. Old footage of her wealthy husband had flashed across the screen, and Bentz had taken note, knowing that the husband was always at the top of a suspect list.

But real detective work entailed more than watching news reports on KMOL or Googling Leland McIntyre, and frustration was beginning to burn in his gut. He hated having his hands tied like this. When Montoya had called, he’d been relieved to have another venue to investigate.

Ramona Salazar.

It was already twilight, the sun setting in the west, the noise of the San Diego Freeway resounding off the hills as he reached the parking lot of the So-Cal. Closer he heard the sound of water splashing. He guessed more than a couple kids were in the interior pool judging from the cacophony of the whoops, hollers, and laughter reaching him.

Vaguely he registered that the car belonging to the old man who owned Spike was missing. He hitched his way along the porch, unlocked the door to his room, and walked inside. It was just as uninviting as ever.