“The guy’s a prick and I wish he’d never shown up. But that was before he was connected to all these homicides. Now, I think he should stick around.” They reached the ground level of the station house and Hayes pushed open the door, the warmth of the afternoon a change from the air-conditioned interior of Parker Center. Outside, Bledsoe adjusted the waistband of his pants, hiking them up. Then he shook out a cigarette and offered the pack to Hayes, who declined.

“I quit, remember? When I married Delilah.”

“She’s history, isn’t she? Corrine won’t mind.”

He let that pass. For some reason Bledsoe seemed jealous of his relationship with Corrine. Why, Hayes couldn’t fathom, but Bledsoe’s enigmatic motives were usually best left unexplored.

Bledsoe lit up as they walked to the parking lot. “I just don’t get Bentz. He flies in here all whacked out about seeing ghosts, hangs out and stirs up trouble, and people start dying. Then, after he’s found at a murder scene, he decides to take off. Make sense to you?” he asked, drawing hard on his cigarette. “Or is it just a tad suspicious?”

“It’s not like he’s skipping the country.”

“Nah. Just L.A. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I can’t.” Hayes called over to Bledsoe, who had reached his convertible. Older BMW. The top was down, black leather interior baking in the sun. “You go over any of his notes?” Hayes asked.

“Yeah,” Bledsoe said grudgingly. “Saw what he got out of McIntyre and Newell. Looks like they didn’t think much of him, either. Our boy Bentz isn’t winning many popularity contests, but then he does seem to have more than one screw loose, if you know what I mean.”

“Anything else?”

“Just the same info he gave us before. The photographs, doctored death certificate, notes about a silver Chevy with an old parking tag for St. Augustine’s, and questions about Ramona Salazar, another dead woman.” He took another drag and let out a stream of smoke. “A whole lotta nothing, if you ask me. Unfortunately there wasn’t anything linking his being in town to the Springer twins’ homicides. At least nothing I’ve found so far.” Bledsoe crushed out the rest of his Marlboro on the pavement, then found a pair of sunglasses in his jacket pocket. He slid them onto his nose. “What I want to know is, if Bentz isn’t our killer, then who the hell is? This chick running around the city, chasing after him?”

“Could be.”

“The one helpful thing Bentz supplied was the plates and reg on the mystery woman’s car. Silver Impala registered to Ramona Salazar.”

“I’d like to find that car,” Hayes said.