Dredging a cracker through one of the tiny plastic troughs of cheese, he noticed a blue Pontiac from the late sixties pull into one of the parking slots. The guy behind the wheel, wearing a plaid driver’s cap and a goatee, grabbed a couple of bags from the front seat and climbed out. Immediately a tiny spotted dog that looked like it had a little bit of Jack Russell terrier in it hopped onto the pavement and danced at its owner’s feet. With surprising agility, the man locked the car with his key, then, whistling and calling to “Spike,” hauled his two plastic bags and a small briefcase into the room adjoining Bentz’s.

Once the door closed Bentz turned his attention back to the laptop and the issue at hand—Jennifer’s acquaintances. He’d have to play it by ear with them. He didn’t plan to tell any of Jennifer’s friends that he’d thought he’d seen her, not unless they volunteered some sort of information about fake “hauntings” first.

But getting them to open up would be a trick.

Anyone who knew anything about Jennifer’s death would have maintained silence for twelve years, keeping the truth not just from him but from his daughter and the police. Bentz, ex-cop and ex-husband, would be hard-pressed to pry anything from those who had known her.

He’d already put together a short list of friends pared down from all her known acquaintances. These women had been the closest to Jennifer. They would most understand her, most likely to have been her confidantes.

Shana Wynn, whose last married name he knew of was McIntyre, had been one of Jennifer’s best friends and, as Bentz recalled, a real bitch. Beautiful. Smart. Out for number one. She and Jennifer had been college roommates and they’d had a lot in common. If anyone knew that Jennifer had faked her own death, it would be Shana.

Tally White also made the “must interview” list. Tally’s daughter Melody had been a friend of Kristi’s in elementary school. Jennifer and Tally had gotten close. Real close. Both women had been divorced.

Fortuna Esperanzo had become a friend of Jennifer’s when they’d both worked briefly at an art gallery in Venice.

Then there was Lorraine Newell, Jennifer’s stepsister, who hadn’t liked Bentz from the get-go. A dark-haired prima donna with a princess complex, Lorraine hadn’t been particularly close to Jennifer, either, and hadn’t bothered to keep in contact with Kristi since Jennifer’s death.