“No.” He looked away. “Not yet.”

“Afraid she might have you committed?” One of Montoya’s dark eyebrows raised as he finished his coffee.

“Nah, just that she wouldn’t understand.”

“Hell, I don’t understand.”

“Exactly.”

Pushing his empty cup aside and resting his elbow on the table, Montoya asked, “So what do you want me to do?”

“Keep it quiet. For now. But I might need some favors.”

“Such as?”

“A few things. Since I’m on leave, I can’t get information as easily as before. I might need you to do some digging.”

“In finding this woman?”

“Maybe,” Bentz said. “For starters, I’ll need someone to have this letter fingerprinted and checked for DNA—lift the stamp and the envelope flap. Can you get me a copy of everything?”

“Sure.” Montoya looked at the document.

“And have the lab check, see if the photographs have been altered. They should be able to tell, right?”

“Probably.” He eyed the pictures. “At least I’ll give the lab guys a run at it. There’s one tech—Ralph Lee—specializes in all kinds of photography.”

“Good. After I take copies, have him look at the originals. Blow them up, sharpen the focus if possible, find details that might help me pinpoint the locations and time they were taken. See if there are street names, license plate numbers, clocks on the buildings, or the position of the sun, anything that confirms the time and date of the original pictures.”

Montoya frowned. “What’re you gonna do with the copies?”

“Not sure. I’m still working on it.”

Bentz returned the eight-by-tens and the death certificate to the manila envelope. He wasn’t even certain himself what he needed, not yet, but he was sick of jumping at shadows, of feeling that his brain was fraying, bit by bit. He just couldn’t sit back and let whoever was behind this run with it. “So, for now, don’t say anything. If Jaskiel or anyone else at the department thinks I’ve been seeing things, it’ll take a whole lotta convincing for me to get back to work.”

Montoya scratched at his chin and pushed his chair back, the diamond stud in his earlobe catching the light.

Bentz saw a flicker of doubt in his partner’s dark eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

“Me? A doubter? No way. Not my style.” He offered a quick, hard-edged Montoya grin. “But as you said earlier, it’s strange. I’m like you. I don’t know what to believe.”

CHAPTER 4

The postmark from Southern California really bothered Bentz. Burned in his brain as he drove away from Bourbon Street. He’d found a Quickie Print and taken several copies of the photographs and death certificate, even using the enhance and enlarge options to get more definition. Then he’d handed the originals to Montoya.