No One Heard Her Scream (17 page)

She glanced at her watch. After six. Within the half hour, it would be dark, given the added cloud cover. The day had passed, and she still hadn't heard from Diego.

After coming through her front door more than an hour ago, Becca half expected to see a white rose placed near her window by the fire escape. The move had become his signature in her mind. Despite her effort to quell the expectation, she found her heart racing at the thought of him waiting on her rooftop again. With his hair damp and his body slick with rain, Becca would envy the raindrops as they slid down his warm skin. But no roses heralded his presence. Her disappointment made her anxious and moody.

Despite the doubts she had about Diego's motives, having him around made her feel like she wasn't alone. A completely insane notion.

"I gotta get a grip on this thing."

Dressed in her SAPD navy sweats and a white T-shirt, she headed for her kitchen and poured a glass of Chardonnay. Before she brought the wineglass to her lips, the phone rang. Her cell phone. She grabbed it off her kitchen counter and flipped it open.

"Montgomery."

"Hey, Becca. Sam Hastings."

She recognized the voice of her CSI guy.

"You're working late. What's up?"

"I think I have a murder weapon on the Imperial Theatre case. Your hunch saved me some time. I got a match."

"To a mason's hammer?" she asked.

"Yep. The murder weapon was similar to other hammers, but it had a more angular head, a specific structure. The trauma to the skull is consistent with a twenty-ounce mason hammer. Now it's up to you to put the weapon into context."

"Yeah . . ." Her head spun with the implication that Rudy Marquez might have had something to do with his sister's death. "Thanks, Sam. Now go home and make your wife happy."

"Definitely, my pleasure." He hung up after a soft chuckle.

For a moment, she stood in the kitchen with motive scenarios gyrating through her head. Eventually, it came to her. She remembered the payroll records and the architectural billing the lieutenant had given her that morning. The white envelope. Earlier in the day, she'd tossed the faxed information onto her coffee table in the living room.

Becca rounded the corner of her kitchen and sat on her sofa. She spread the papers out to compare the two documents. As she expected to find, the name of Rudy Marquez had been on the payroll of the subcontractor, listed as a mason apprentice. Seven years ago, around the time Isabel went missing, Rudy would have been a teenager. No more than eighteen or nineteen tops. Becca drilled through the more detailed listing used to support the billings on the renovation charged to the architectural firm. She ran her finger down the list, not wanting to miss any detail. She found Rudy's name on page four, but another name stopped her cold.

"No way. There's got to be some kind of mistake."

She rummaged through the papers and compared the two faxes again. One name had been omitted off the subcontractor's payroll, but was clearly listed on the invoice to the architect.

"Well, I'll be damned."

Victor Marquez.
The priest had been in the seminary during that time, but had apparently worked the renovation at the Imperial Theatre on occasion.

"Why didn't you say anything about this, Victor? You kept your mouth shut and let Rudy take the spotlight."

Why did the subcontractor not list Victor as an outright worker on the payroll, yet bill his hours on the project to the architect? With his part-time status, had they paid him under the table?

But a bigger questioned loomed in her mind.

If the investigation turned up the heat on Rudy, his older brother Victor could divert attention and share the limelight. With both brothers appearing guilty, reasonable doubt might set them both free. Had the priest planned to protect his little brother in the only way possible? Would the priest let things go that far?

From what she had seen of Isabel's mother, the woman might not withstand such pain. Becca couldn't imagine Victor putting his mother through the turmoil. But it wasn't up to Becca to interpret the facts, only to follow the evidence to an irrefutable conclusion—not a long list of "what ifs." Finding a plausible and substantiated motive would be key.

Her list of suspects had grown by one more— a man wearing the white collar of the Catholic Church. Isabel Marquez might have died because of her involvement with prostitution, killed by person or persons unknown. Or maybe an overly protective brother, who disapproved of her choices, had murdered her. Pick a brother. Becca could make a case for either one doing the deed.

Only hearsay pointed a finger to Hunter Cavanaugh, the desperate accusations of a brother who might have killed his own sister. Sonja had denied Rudy's story about the Mercedes and the trip out to the Cavanaugh estate. But even though Becca's gut told her the wealthy entrepreneur might still be involved, could she trust her instincts where Cavanaugh was concerned?

Becca heard a soft knock. She rose from her couch and went to the door, peering through the peephole.

"Oh, boy. Not sure I can deal with this right now," she whispered. Slowly, she undid the dead bolt and chain and opened the door.

Diego Galvan leaned against the doorframe, a long-stemmed white rose in his hand. Looking good enough to feast on with a shrimp fork and lemon—scratch the lemon—the man wore a brown all-weather coat with boots, jeans, and a cream cable-knit sweater. At that moment, a phrase from the Sci-Fi Channel popped into her head.
Resistance is futile.

Their eyes met, and his lazy smile greeted her, his dimples embellishing an already perfect moment. Infused with a lyric Hispanic accent, his low, seductive voice titillated her ear.

"Did you miss me, Rebecca?"

"You better be here with good news," she threatened. "I don't have time for mental sparring with you. Gloves or no gloves."

Diego handed Rebecca the rose and stepped inside her place. With a show of reluctance, she took his offering. He wanted to smile, but couldn't.

"You and I working together? Not sure
that
should be considered good news."

He meant it. They were about to play a very dangerous game, one that might get them both killed.

"So you've decided to accept my offer?"

"You act like you proposed some kind of legitimate merger. You blackmailed me. Let's at least start off with some kind of reality check." He yanked off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. "What now?"

"You have to fill me in on everything you know so far."

He rolled his eyes and turned toward the window, looking down on the river. Diego jammed his hands into his pockets.

"Look," she persisted. "You gotta give me a reason to trust you. The way I look at it, you're square in the enemy camp. Show me you're willing to cross sides."

In the reflection of the glass, he saw her posture, defiant, with hands on her hips. Diego knew it would come to this, but Rebecca had no sense of foreplay.

"Can I have a drink first? I'm not a cheap date. I've got my reputation to think about, you know."

He turned in time to catch her surprise at the shift in topic and her faint smile.

"This doesn't have to be an interrogation, does it?" He shrugged. "Besides, I'm hungry."

She pointed a finger. "This is not a date, mister."

"Fine. I'll cook. What do you have in the fridge?" He trudged past her into the kitchen.

Diego did a quick inventory of her pantry and refrigerator, hampered by a steady barrage of objections from Rebecca.

"Look, this is business, not a social occasion. Get out of my stuff."

When he turned, she hit him square in the chest with a pot holder. It flopped to the floor. Diego stared at it, then looked up. "I hope you have a license for a concealed pot holder. If not, I may have to report you to the authorities ... or the Food Network."

"Go ahead. There's never a cop around when you need one." She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, any amusement well disguised.

In truth, all she had to do to stop him cold was look into his eyes. She stood in front of him now. The smell of her skin and the fire in her eyes made him forget what he wanted to say. Eventually, it came back to him.

"Eggs . . . omelet. A basic to the single guy's play-book." He swallowed and cleared his throat. "You feel like breakfast, Rebecca?"

"You don't have to . . ."

He never let her finish. Diego stepped closer and touched the side of her cheek with a finger.

"I know I don't have to. I want to." He smiled. "Now make yourself useful. Pour us some wine... and find some music to inspire my culinary skills."

"Something from
Sesame Street?
Or would that be too challenging for you?" she sniped. "Not exactly my taste in music, but I can humor you."

He pointed a finger. "Hey, you can take a cheap shot at me, but lay off Big Bird."

Sesame Street
and Big Bird broke the ice. As Diego worked, they talked about the rain, the Riverwalk, and the understated perfection of the eggshell. The subject matter wasn't important. He marveled at how it made him feel to speak of such mundane things, to feel so . . . normal. Diego wanted to remember every second of their time together. He hadn't felt this carefree in years.

"Who taught you how to cook?" she asked, sipping wine as she sat on a chair near the breakfast bar and watched him work from a safe distance.

Diego sauteed vegetables while the eggs cooked in another pan. A fond memory crossed his mind.

"My mother." He grinned and gestured, holding a hand to his neck. "She had it up to here with men who suddenly became invalids in the kitchen. My mother wanted nothing to do with raising one. She used to say, 'You and I are going to redefine the word "machismo," Diego.'"

"I like her. Sounds like you two are close."

"We were. She's dead now. I loved her very much."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . ."

"It's okay. I brought it up."

Thinking about his mother, Diego felt sadness infuse his soul. Rebecca mirrored how he felt with her sympathetic expression. Given their family situations, they made a fine pair. Diego scooped vegetables into the omelet and topped it with a sprinkle of grated cheese, happy for the distraction. He folded over the eggs and placed the lid on top to allow the cheese to melt.

"Actually, my mother was the reason . . ." He stopped himself and set the spatula down. "It all started with her."

"Okay, now you've got me hooked, but what about Mike Draper? What role did he play?" She retrieved plates from a cabinet and helped set the table. Her eyes never strayed far from him. "I heard you were an informant for the FBI. Is that true?"

"Yes, unfortunately, but not by choice. Look, I don't want secrets between us, Rebecca. Not anymore. Let's eat, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

With only a sliver of moon, the heavy cloud cover made the night black as ink. Puddles on the street reflected the shift in light when the clouds parted, but darkness prevailed. Brogan liked the dark. After hitting his remote control, he drove his jet-black Mercedes S550 through the automated gate and headed for the bowels of the old warehouse. On the outside, the place looked abandoned, but Brogan knew better. The broken-down old building housed a very dark secret.

As a warehouse bay door lifted, its metal rattling and creaking, Brogan got a call on his cell. He recognized the number.

"Talk to me."

"Like you said, the Mex is at her place again. Pretty cozy setup."

Brogan recognized the voice of his boy Nickels, the man he'd assigned to handle the surveillance on the cop. He yanked off his tie and undid the top buttons of his shirt.

"You picking up anything on that parabolic mike of yours?" Brogan had insisted on the added surveillance equipment. If the Mex wasn't pounding the cop into her mattress—a move Brogan could understand—he wanted to know what they were talking about.

"So far, I haven't gotten much, boss. They talked about working together and some kind of blackmail, but once she put on the music, my party was over. I'm only picking up a garbled mess now."

"Well, stick with it. Keep track of how long the bastard stays, but no matter what happens, stay with her. I know
that's
tough duty." He grinned. "I'll check in with you later." Brogan disconnected.

Using the cop as bait made it easy to track Galvan's whereabouts, an added bonus. And stalking the sexy cop with the tight little body had side benefits, especially with a good set of binoculars. He hated handing over the assignment to someone else, but Cavanaugh had given him other duties, ones with their own advantages.

Brogan drove into the subterranean level of the building and parked. After he stepped from the car, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and retrieved a flashlight from the backseat. With a slam of the car doors, he flicked on the light and let the beam guide him.

The dank air smelled stale, and a chill lingered after the storm. With minimal electricity serving the building, the concrete vault closed in like a tomb. But the layout gave his men a fortified position to defend. Although from the outside it looked like the only way in, Brogan made sure he had an escape route, a recent addition before they moved in. Not even his men knew about it. He contracted it special. Like in all his other locales, he made sure both entrances were sealed and reinforced.

His cleverness made him smile as he swaggered toward the noise, flashlight in hand.

Only a few well-positioned lightbulbs and the faint sound of a radio marked where his men were in the underground maze of ramps. Without windows, their rathole remained steeped in shadows and never changed. Time meant nothing here.

As he approached, Brogan raised his voice.

"Shut that crap off. This is a no-rap zone. You know how much I hate that shit."

One of his men cut off the radio and emerged from the darkness, with the rest of them not far behind. A single overhead bulb cast a pale light where his man McPhee stood.