No One Heard Her Scream (26 page)

"Oh, believe me. He remembers how we met, and the bastard knows who I am."

"How can you be sure?"

Sonja took her time answering. She lit another cigarette, gathering up the courage for one last push of her story. Becca witnessed the toll it took. The young woman swallowed hard, her breathing coming in short gasps like she was hyperventilating. Sonja ran a hand through her hair and cleared her throat.

"The party ended, but not for me. Matt Brogan kept me for himself and some of his . . . men. The things he made me do . . . and without the drugs? I remembered everything." She wiped her face with a sleeve, her mascara smeared. "He threatened to kill me if I ever told."

Sonja looked like she wanted to throw up. Even in the shadows, her face looked ghostly white, and her lips trembled. When she lifted the cigarette for another drag, she stopped and spoke in a shaky voice.

"I learned the hard way. Matt Brogan is a sadist, as vicious and cruel as they come. And he may be the one who killed Isabel."

Fusion on the River Restaurant
10:50 P.M.

Once more, Brogan excused himself from dinner with a phone call. This time, he never returned. Diego pretended not to notice his absence, but it weighed heavy on his mind. And he felt certain Cavanaugh recognized his discreet signs of anxiety, despite his efforts to hide them.

Diego picked at his meal, forcing himself to eat, smile, and carry on a conversation. In sharp contrast, his host looked very much at ease. He challenged Diego's intellect with discussions of local politics and the business climate both domestic and abroad. And the man even speculated about the long-term impacts of the energy crisis on the travel industry. Normally, Cavanaugh had no patience with idle chitchat, but tonight, he reveled in it, with a shrewd smirk on his face.

By the time coffee was served, Diego's neck was knotted with tension. His eyes darted for the door or out the window, his concentration long gone. They were practically the only customers in the place, but with Cavanaugh's connections to the owner, the man took advantage of his pull.

Could he trust Draper to watch over Rebecca? Remembrances of his afternoon with her haunted him, along with the distinct feeling it may have been for the last time. A premonition or the product of an overactive imagination, he had no idea. Either way, his wariness betrayed him to the man who latched onto another's weakness with a stranglehold.

"You look distracted, Diego." Cavanaugh's pale blue eyes looked glacial. "Anything I can do to help?"

Smug didn't begin to describe Cavanaugh's face. He beamed with a mix of contempt and self-importance, setting Diego's temper on edge. He had grown tired of playing by the man's rules. Up until now, biding his time had allowed him to operate under Cavanaugh's nose without notice. And over the last couple of years, he had a sense Cavanaugh had grown accustomed to his being around, the closest he might get to trust from the man.

But during the last week, something had changed. Cavanaugh scrutinized him with the same interest he had in the beginning. A lab rat before the start of a grand experiment. But once the rat served its purpose, it got tossed out belly-up and stiff as a board. Diego glanced down at remnants of their cheese course and understood where the rat analogy came from, but it didn't make him feel any more in control. He ventured a change in direction.

"If this dinner was a game of football, I'd have to penalize Brogan for delay of game," Diego observed. "Do you have any idea where he slithered off to?"

"I'm not a fan of sports metaphors, but I do commend your rather late offensive maneuvering. Mr. Brogan has duties to attend to. Orders of mine, to be precise. Why?"

Cavanaugh stressed the words "orders of mine" and dared him to ask his meaning. But a frontal assault would only feed the man's ego. Diego needed a different approach.

"No reason. I thought he might like a doggy bag." Diego smiled at Cavanaugh's surprised reaction when he didn't rise to the baited question. "On paper, the merger with Global Enterprises has been mutually beneficial, wouldn't you agree?" he asked, watching Cavanaugh cock his head in question.

"Yes. I believe you know how I feel about your generous employer. I would like to think we have a rather lucrative future together. And I certainly enjoy the infusion of cash into my international travel enterprise. Why do you ask?"

"You should know I did the original financial analysis of the merger and brokered the deal to Mr. Rivera. But in the end, I recommended against it. I was overruled and assigned to direct the transition period. Mr. Rivera wanted his resident skeptic to be satisfied."

"And are you?" the man asked.

"In short, no. I get the sense you don't trust me as the business liaison between our two... organizations. You appear to keep certain aspects of your affairs to yourself. Unexplained trips and undisclosed meetings with certain clients. If we are building a relationship for future endeavors, I believe a more solid base of trust should be mandatory."

"I agree, but I had no idea how strongly you felt on the subject. Interesting." Cavanaugh sipped his coffee and peered over the cup.

"If you don't have faith in me, I fail to see how this business opportunity with Mr. Rivera can be optimized to the fullest. I intend to discuss the matter with him, in fact."

"Bravo, Diego." Cavanaugh sat back in his chair, a broad grin on his face. Soulless eyes flickered with a touch of humor. "Get a man's attention by trying to snatch his wallet. I suppose dinner should be on you."

"Is that all you've got to say?"

"Can you be discreet, Diego?" The man leaned over the table. Before he replied, Cavanaugh waved his hand, and added, "Forget I asked that. Of course you can. After all, you are a loyal man. You would never do anything to harm Mr. Rivera or myself. Isn't that right?"

Diego narrowed his eyes and kept his silence. His jaw tensed.

Cavanaugh smiled. "Before you bring anything to Mr. Rivera's attention, I have something you must see firsthand. A business opportunity I have savored for a long time. Low overhead, bountiful yet expendable inventory, and exceedingly profitable. I feel certain your employer would have a keen interest in my endeavors, but on a more global scale. I had only waited to present this opportunity when the time was . . . right. I hope you forgive me for my timing. As I've said on many occasions, I value trust and loyalty as much as your Mr. Rivera."

"I appreciate your candor, Mr. Cavanaugh . . . and the opportunity for my employer." Diego raised his chin, unsure how to proceed. Maybe the man had arranged the dinner for a real purpose. For the sake of the missing girls, he had to play this out. "Please forgive me if I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I'm interested in seeing your new business venture. Care to share any details in advance?"

"No, I'd prefer to wait. Your honest first impression might help me gauge your employer's reaction. But before we go, I'd like a snifter of cognac. Waiter?" Cavanaugh waved his hand for service. "Anything for you, Diego?"

"No, nothing." He couldn't hide the edge in his voice. A headache brewed at the base of his skull. The man was stalling. Yet with Brogan gone, Diego had no choice but to stick with Cavanaugh, his lifeline to the night's event. Otherwise, he'd be stranded without the price of admission.

"You may as well order a drink. I'm waiting on a call from Mr. Brogan. He left to make sure everything is set for your visit and that the inventory is secure and in good working order." Cavanaugh smiled. "As soon as he contacts me, I intend to show you the extent of my trust in you. A show of good faith. And I'm sure Mr. Rivera will be very pleased with the outcome of our dinner engagement. Nothing like a little unfinished business for dessert, savoring the best for last. Wouldn't you agree?" Diego had nothing to say . . . and everything to lose.

The Riverwalk
10:45 P.M.

Becca walked through her front door and flipped on lights, still rapt in Sonja's story. Matt Brogan had known Isabel and Sonja when the girls were in high school. He had a history with them. But if that were the case, why didn't he show any sign of recognition when she handed over Isabel's school photo the day she first interviewed Cavanaugh? Granted, the bastard would have been a moron to raise his hand and admit he knew Isabel. After all, in Sonja's latest version of the truth, Brogan had a direct tie to Isabel— prostitution and the rape of a young girl, maybe even murder.

"I'll take Sleazeball Perverts for $200, Alex." She sighed, too drained to deal with Sonja's mind games any longer. "And why don't you throw in what's behind door number three while you're at it."

She felt an ache in her shoulders as she set her gun, keys, and cell phone on the kitchen counter. Isabel's past was murky with innuendo and supposition. She wanted to see the girl as her brothers Rudy and Victor saw her. In her gut, she imagined Isabel to be more like Danielle, innocent of the seedy underbelly of this world and in need of saving. But with every step in her investigation, Becca unraveled a new side to the girl, each darker than the last. And still, none of them fit in her mind, not completely anyway.

She poured herself a glass of scotch and glanced toward her window out of habit. Before the glass touched her lips, she put it down. The drapes were drawn. If Diego left the gift of a white rose, she had to take a peek outside to see it. Becca walked to her window and peered out. A white rose lay on her outside windowsill. Her heart pinged off her rib cage. A thrill of expectation mixed with a sudden tingle radiating over her skin. The ticklish sensation made her smile.

"Diego," she whispered.

In the quiet of her living room, she loved the way his name sounded like a melody she would hear years from now and always associate with this feeling. Saying his name would trigger the way she felt right now. And a silly grin would not be far behind.

"Ah, girl." Becca looked down at her clothes and shrugged in a fleeting display of frustration with the timing of it all.

Jeans, sneaks, and a white cotton shirt under a sweater vest with a wool sport coat. Urban and trendy, yes. Sexy and alluring, no. Not exactly the attire she had in mind for their evening together, but it couldn't be helped. Being practical and impatient, Becca wouldn't make Diego wait so she could change clothes. She prided herself on being a low-maintenance woman.

Becca opened her window and stepped outside, the first rose in her hand. But as she looked up to the rooftop, where she expected to see her garden lights burning kilowatts, it was dark. And no other roses trailed up the steps.

"What the hell—?" She turned and looked the other way. His path of white roses went down the stairs of the fire escape instead. With a crooked grin, she shook her head. "What are you up to, Diego?"

One by one, she picked up the flowers as she made her way down the steps. When the path became obscure, with the roses near a hedge line, Becca raised an eyebrow. They led to the Riverwalk level and down a walkway toward a nearby pub.

"Silly, boy. You could have quaffed your thirst at my place for free." She grinned and shook her head.

With her mind set on picking up the next rose, Becca never saw it coming. As she crossed a narrow alleyway between her condo and the next building, an arm grabbed her around the middle and yanked her into the dark passageway. A crushing grip over her mouth.

She jerked her body—hard—and screamed through the hand. Raking her nails across skin, she tried to pry the fingers from her mouth. Her feet kicked the air, flailing for a way to strike. A man. He raised her off the ground, not giving her a chance to gain a foothold. It all happened too fast.

Deeper and deeper he dragged her into the dark alley. Becca needed time. She needed someone to notice her desperate moves, hear her strangled call for help. She dug in her heels and kicked, straining against his grip. But the man had no trouble carrying her. A second man emerged from the dark and lifted her legs.
Why wasn't the alley security light on?
Becca remembered the light. It should have been burning. When she heard the crunch of shattered glass underfoot, she realized the overhead bulb had been broken. She'd been set up, roses and all.
Who knew about Diego's roses?
Her heart sank, along with her remaining hope. Swallowed up by shadows, Becca had no chance of being noticed now.

The sound of her screams still raged in her head. But she was losing her fight.

Suddenly, she felt the jab of a needle in the soft flesh of her neck. It burned as it seethed under her skin. Becca had no time left. Struggling for air, she lost her ability to scream. Her lungs were on fire. Her body fell limp and heavy. To orient herself, Becca tried to focus on the lights of the River walk or cypress branches under the night sky, but she couldn't see details anymore. They blurred together, like the voices. People laughing and talking came in and out of her awareness. More of a dream. Eventually, the muffled voices dwindled to nothing more than white noise.

Fading in and out of consciousness, Becca remembered hands on her body and being wrapped in heavy, smothering material. A moldy smell nearly suffocated her. They lifted her body, but Becca's arms and legs were deadweight, leaden and unable to move.

Sounds and flashes of light swirled around her, flickering in and out like a candle in the wind. Her mind wavered in the twilight between awareness and dreams, captive to the drugs in her system. A cruel and torturous state of limbo. Was she truly awake or only hallucinating?

Becca fought to hold her own ... to stay on the right side of reality. But now, she had no idea where that might be. Before the blackness won, her mind drifted to a distant time. She welcomed the soft light and the soothing quiet of it.

She pictured Danielle's sweet face and imagined the fragrance of her warm skin. Sisters sharing a bed and napping together on a hot afternoon when they were kids so long ago. A fan whirred quietly in the background and blew cool air across their skin, back and forth. Danielle never woke up. Strands of her hair wafted in the breeze off the fan. Her eyelids flicked and fluttered with a dream, in contrast to the steady rhythm of her breaths. And Becca watched her sleep from two sets of eyes—as a young girl lying at her sister's side and as the woman she had become.