No One Heard Her Scream (6 page)

Get over it. You asked for this gig.

On the last leg of the trip, vast ranchlands stretched across the interstate, bordered by mesquite trees, sagebrush, and miles of barbed wire. Cattle lolled by flowing creeks, with abandoned hay bales weathering in the sun—the hill country of Texas in all its glory. But as a hawk made lazy swirls in a cloudless sky, held aloft by an updraft, Diego found himself envious of the bird's freedom. It reminded him of the police detective who'd seen through his subterfuge.

He knew by his outward appearance, most people would see affluence and success. The carefully orchestrated facade, conjured up by Cavanaugh, reflected more on him than Diego. Yet the colorful plumage of the rooster hadn't fooled Detective Rebecca Montgomery. Although he'd been pleased by her intellect, her honest insight had been an embarrassment. And he was to blame for that.

"Very perceptive, Rebecca." Saying her name aloud summoned a memory of her face—spirited eyes, flawless skin, and lips that aroused his blood even now.

Don't go there, Galvan. The woman deserves better.

Jaw tight and eyes glued on the road ahead, Diego gripped the steering wheel of the Mercedes. He had taken the long way home, needing time to think. Rebecca's words stung like tequila poured into a gaping wound with a lime-and-salt chaser. If she hadn't been dead-on with her assessment, he might have laughed it off.

"Looks like he's made a hefty down payment on his investment,"
she had said.

The attractive detective sized him up as a man who could be bought. Diego couldn't argue the point. Her sentiments reflected the dread in his
own
gut. The wealth surrounding him had taken some time to get used to. But now, the attached strings weighed heavy—an anchor around his neck. Somewhere along the way, he had turned a blind eye to his conscience, in complete denial of how much he'd changed over the years. Every day, a darker side of him emerged—and he had yet to draw the line. He'd convinced himself he couldn't afford to. So much had changed, Diego wasn't sure he could find his way back from the precipice. His only way out might involve a treacherous leap.

He turned onto Citadel Drive, minutes from the elaborate front gates of the Cavanaugh estate. A mantle of oak trees gave an air of timelessness to the shaded driveway dappled by the sun. His cell phone rang as he picked up speed. Diego reached into the pocket of his suit and glanced at the display.

With a grimace, he answered. "Galvan."

"I expected a report before now." Low and intimate, the voice of Hunter Cavanaugh raised the hair on the back of his neck. "Where are you?"

He thought for a moment and said what came to mind.

"I get paid to be thorough . . . not to report to you every five minutes like some mindless sycophant." One day, Diego knew his sarcasm would get him killed. And it would probably be at the hands of the man on the other end of the line. With reluctance, he responded to the question. "I'll be there in five minutes."

Dead silence. Finally, a raspy whisper came through the cell phone.

"Why do you continually try my patience? One of these days, I might surprise you and grant your death wish, Diego."

"If you put me out of my misery, people might think you've grown soft."

The breathing on the other end of the line changed. A low, menacing noise turned into full-blown laughter, devoid of any real humor. Diego pictured the older man's face, aristocratic features tainted by fierce eyes of ice blue.

"You still amuse me, but don't take that for granted." The contempt was hard to miss. "I want a full report when you get here."

The line went dead.

"What the hell are you thinking, Galvan?" he muttered, dropping the cell phone onto the passenger seat.

A death wish?
An astute observation. For him to deal with Cavanaugh, a death wish made the job interesting, like playing catch using a live grenade. Yet, at some point, his insane game would come to an abrupt end. Diego could accept the consequences with only
his
life on the line. But Detective Rebecca Montgomery posed a problem.

She'd confront Cavanaugh on the arson fire, no wiser than dangling a red bandanna in front of a deranged bull. The man would fix his sights and not let go, toying with her for mere sport. No matter how gutsy and smart she might be, the detective would have her hands full trying to outwit him. His vast resources and unrivaled cruelty would give Cavanaugh the advantage. Diego had seen him in action too many times.

With the growing demands of his job, Diego found his life tough enough, but Rebecca could bring down his makeshift house of cards. At first glance, the woman didn't have the savvy to play on Cavanaugh's turf. But what she lacked in expertise, she more than made up for with nerve and determination. Gut instinct told him Rebecca wouldn't back off. He'd seen the conviction in her eyes.

Would he stick his neck out for her? Taking on that kind of responsibility might tip the scales of his balancing game, force him to make a move off dead center. The risk might get him killed.

"Don't get stupid. Not now." Diego swore under his breath as he turned onto the cobblestone drive of Cavanaugh's stronghold—his gilded cage.

Becca spent the late afternoon behind her desk, dredging up the tragic past of two young women still missing. Their lives had taken a perverse detour—severed from their families by a faceless evil. She understood the enduring pain of their loved ones. Not knowing was the worst.

Taken from the archived evidence boxes, photographs of the victims provided by the families morphed into Dani's face. Her eyes. Her smile. An unfulfilled future. For an instant, Becca even thought she smelled her sister's perfume, lingering in the air, triggering a haunting and pervasive guilt. She shut her eyes tight, holding back the tears that were never far from the surface.

Keep digging.
Becca took a deep breath and plunged into the boxes for more. Her instincts told her the answer might be at the next turn of a page. A young woman, buried in a very dark place, had died alone with only a futile scream to break the silence that marked her passing from this life. Putting a name to the bones at the Medical Examiner's was step one to finding her killer.

Yet something in the photograph of Isabel Marquez drew her attention time and time again. And in the quiet of the late afternoon, she almost heard the girl whispering—
Look again, or you'll miss it.
She held up the high school class photo once more—a pretty young girl captured forever in a happier time, with a mischievous grin and eyes graced by innocence. Although her thoughts turned to Danielle, Becca wanted to remember the face of Isabel—as if it would be possible for her to forget.

"Wait a minute. I knew that name sounded familiar."

Finally, it clicked. The word "coincidence" raised a red flag. She'd seen the name of Marquez earlier in the day.

Becca remembered something from the list of license tags taken by a CSI tech outside the destroyed theater. Standing hunched over her desk, she rummaged through the accumulating piles of paper, searching for the report she received earlier. As she suspected, the name of Marquez was on the list—a red Ford F—150 truck registered to Rudy Marquez. After a quick look in the case file, she learned that Isabel's father had been deceased at the time she went missing, but her mother and two brothers filed the initial report. Rudy was one of Isabel's brothers.

To place a face with the name, she replayed the CSI video, hoping to get a fix on the owner of the truck. Of all the people gathered outside the Imperial Theatre, one set of eyes reflected a different level of interest than the rest of the rabble. And she knew, without confirmation, she'd found Rudy Marquez amidst the gawkers, standing by a red truck.

"That's gotta be you," she whispered. "What are you up to?"

Becca felt certain it wasn't idle curiosity that had drawn the man to the theater, but so much remained unexplained. Did Rudy Marquez know anything about the dead body found at the Imperial? And was there any connection to Hunter Cavanaugh, the onetime owner of the property—a man dangerous enough for the mysterious Diego Galvan to risk his own neck to warn her?

Questions flooded her mind. But when she picked up the school photo of Isabel again, she knew she had a solid lead. Her eye caught another reason to make the trip to see Marquez.

"Well, I'll be damned. Right under my nose all along." After a nibble on the corner of her mouth, she smiled. "Thanks, Isabel."

Becca headed west on General McMullen, a bustling six-lane thoroughfare. A place where men still stood on busy street corners hawking newspapers, taking their lives in their hands to peddle bad news. Businesses along the way were mostly converted houses painted in vivid reds, yellows, and electric blues. In the light of day, the paint colors could do some serious damage to perfectly good eyeballs if a person stared too long. Now, with the sun on a downward spiral, the boulevard would soon blaze in neon and the night shift rabble would scurry from their hiding places like cockroaches on party patrol.

Under the heading of surreal, churches wedged between bars, tattoo parlors, hooker hot spots, and tarot card readers—an eclectic hodgepodge of vice and redemption offered up in a single locale. Yet despite the rough nature of the neighborhood, a steady vitality pulsed through the district like blood coursing through an artery.

Before she hit the intersection of Castroville Road, Becca turned her Crown Vic down a side street near Taqueria Vallarta, one of her favorite places to grab a bite. The restaurant served killer barbacoa in fresh corn tortillas, a traditional weekend treat. And if Jose Cuervo took unfair advantage of her the night before, a mega bowl of menudo would do the trick. The breakfast of champions. In "the hood," you couldn't beat the aromas. The dinner hour and her stomach growled in response. But as hungry as she was, Becca had too much on her mind to stop.

After turning onto San Bernardo Street, she spotted the red F—150 of Rudy Marquez and pulled in behind the vehicle. Glittering in the waning sun, rosary beads hung from the rearview mirror of the truck, a common display in town, but the man was nowhere in sight. Before she got out, Becca scanned the neighborhood and confirmed the street address. House numbers reflected off a rusted white mailbox that listed to one side, its concrete base uprooted. She'd found the place.

The Marquez family lived in a dingy white clapboard house with window frames and front door painted in a bright blue, the paint peeling in spots. A dismal pit the size of a matchbox. Even though wrought iron covered every window and door of the house—no doubt meant as a deterrent to crime—the run-down condition of the property should have been enough to discourage a criminal looking for a quick score. What could these people possess that would be worth stealing? But she knew better. Criminals preyed on the poor, who lacked the resources to do anything about it. So much went unreported.

Becca heaved a sigh and got out of her car, shifting her thoughts to how she would conduct her interview with Marquez. Until she got a sense of Rudy's part in all this, she had to play her cards right.

A chain-link fence bordered patches of green in front of the Marquez place. Weeds and dandelions had locked horns with what remained of the St. Augustine grass. Yard work and house repairs were low on the family's list of priorities. They had enough on their minds. With casebook and pen in hand, Becca stepped inside the cyclone fence and clanked the gate shut behind her.

Yellow ribbons made of plastic fluttered in the breeze, tied to a scrawny mesquite tree. A reminder of the family's loss. A stone shrine stood near the cement front stoop with a ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary gazing down, arms outstretched. Placed under rocks to hold them in place, laminated photos of Isabel had weathered and were lying at the foot of the sculpture—a sad memorial.

For a long moment, Becca stared at the grotto, wanting to pray. But the words wouldn't come.

"Can I help you?" A thick Hispanic accent.

As she turned, the glare of sunset hit her sight line, blaze orange on a last-ditch assault. Becca squinted and raised a hand to block the light. From what she saw, the silhouette of a man stood inside the screen door, his face in shadow. She reached for her badge and held it up.

"My name is Detective Rebecca Montgomery. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Is this about Isabel?" The man's face came out from the dark.

Becca stopped, taken back by the sight. He had an uncanny resemblance to the missing girl. Yet the white collar had been a complete surprise. Standing in the threshold of the Marquez house stood a priest.

"Are you a family member, Father?"

Intense dark eyes framed by a full head of black hair, dark skin, medium height and build. Although she saw the family resemblance, this man's stern expression hardened the Marquez likeness, gave it an edge.

"Yes, I'm Victor Marquez. Isabel is . . . my sister."

The priest struggled with whether to use the present tense. She knew the feeling. He didn't open the screen door, only stared out the mesh, using it as a fragile barrier against what would come next.

Becca knew the look, had seen it many times before as a detective delivering bad news. Now after what happened to her own sister, she knew firsthand how dread mixed with the strange sensation of relief for it to be over. A gut-wrenching contradiction. Even though the priest set his jaw and steeled himself for what she would say, his eyes couldn't hide the pain. Becca raised her chin and took a deep breath as she walked up the steps to the front door. She had to be the cop now, not the victim.
Don't read too much into this, Beck. He's not your personal mirror. Stay objective.
Easier said than done.

"Do you mind if I come in?"

For a moment, she didn't know if he would allow it. Eventually, he did.

Sparse furnishings, but the place looked clean. A faint hint of pine cleaner played second fiddle to the pungent aroma of roasted jalapenos and bell pepper, someone making salsa. Scented candles burned near the entry. Another shrine for Isabel dominated the tiny living room. Keepsakes and photos of the missing Marquez girl were cast in the pale glow of flickering red votive candles. Isabel had been elevated to sainthood by her family. Becca understood the sentiment. In death, the imperfections of the victim were forgotten. The priest noticed her attention to the memorial. "My mother tells me the constant reminder helps her cope." His words were punctuated with a sigh. "But you don't think so."