Dirty Little Lies (13 page)

“Let me guess,” Ian said, “ ‘Remember Rebecca Manning’?”

She flashed the paper at him, her thumb below the warning he’d just dictated word for word. Just to the left of the sinister advice was a drawing of the pomegranate flower, just like the one now crushed in her hand. “I thought he said he wasn’t there that night.”

“Clearly,” Ian replied, his tone cold and emotionless, “he lied?”

Eight

MARISELA SHARED A
seat with a trio of stone cherubs, carvings on a bench that she hoped like hell wasn’t some funky headstone. The longer she stayed in the cemetery, the more she was certain that when her time came, she wanted to be cremated and scattered. She’d instruct her best friend, Lia, to spread her ashes at Clearwater Beach. She didn’t think Theresa, the owner of their favorite bar, would appreciate having burned pieces of Marisela smearing her dance floor. But Lia could have the memorial there. Preferably on salsa night.

Ian was in deep confab with the cops, who’d arrived minutes after Ian phoned them, along with paramedics and now the coroner’s van. Marisela had already done a walk around the perimeter and saw no sign of Yizenia Santiago. Fact was, she could have shot from anywhere. Hills, embankments, tall trees, and buildings marked the landscape all around them. She could still be there, sitting pretty, watching as the bloodied body of her latest victim was dragged from the wrecked car and zipped into a body bag.

But how did she know Evan was heading here? Had she bugged his phone? Had she been following him? And why kill Evan Cole anyway? Even Parker Manning had insisted the man hadn’t been at the campsite the night Rebecca died. Marisela could understand his friends protecting him, but Manning? Why?

“Hell of a mess,” muttered a wizened old woman in overalls, flannel shirt, and work boots who tramped across the gravesites as if they were stepping-stones.

Marisela fisted her hands, fighting the urge to make multiple signs of the cross to ward off the bad luck the woman was invoking all around her.

“You work here?” Marisela asked.

The woman’s gray ponytail flicked across her shoulders when she turned. “Who’s asking?”

Her accent was thick and Bostonian in the way Marisela had expected everyone to talk here, though so far, nobody had.

“I was visiting Rebecca Manning’s grave when that car came crashing toward us,” Marisela told her.

“You okay?”

Marisela shrugged.

“Damned shock, huh, paying your respects? Nearly getting mowed down?”

Marisela sighed with an exaggerated shiver. “I’m already spooked just being here.”

The woman grinned, revealing teeth that likely needed professional attention, but the twinkle in her eyes was warm and genuine. “Dead people can’t hurt you, honey.”

“Tell that to the stiff who nearly ran me down with his car.”

“He was dead before the crash?”

Marisela nodded.

“That’s freakish,” the woman said. “You know him?”

“Met him once,” Marisela answered.

“Figured, since you said you were visiting the Manning girl. Died tragic fifteen years ago, that one.”

Marisela scooted forward on the bench and the woman strolled over. “You remember her?”

“Oh, yeah. Didn’t know her myself, though. But someone pulled big strings to get her buried here.”

“Do you remember who?”

The woman shook her head. “Nah. My husband was a caretaker back then, but we didn’t get involved in that. Just did our jobs. He died ten years back, my Will, but I’ve kept on here. I’m used to the place. It can be downright peaceful sometimes. You’d be surprised how many people come here right regular. Like that guy who nearly ran you down. Saw him here all the time. Recognized the car.”

Marisela stood, slid her hands casually into the pockets of her jacket. “Really? How often?”

The woman rubbed her chin vigorously. “Don’t quite know. Started coming after my husband was already dead, that much I remember. Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for months. Sometimes two, three times a week. Always dressed nice. Driving a nice car.”

“Did he bring flowers?”

“Every once in a while. Never stayed long. Always seemed to be looking over his shoulder. I just figured he was one of those rich boys everybody thought had done her in, but it weren’t my business if his guilty conscience was getting to him.”

“He won’t have to worry about that anymore,” Marisela said.

“Nah,” the woman agreed. “Guessing he won’t.”

Marisela asked the woman’s name, and after she thanked her, she programmed the name into her cell phone for future reference. She then dialed Frankie’s number.

“Where are you?” she asked immediately after he answered.

“You missing me, baby? I’ll make it up to you tonight, I promise.”

She rolled her eyes. “Evan Cole is dead. Score one more for the shooter.”

“Cole? When? How?”

She explained what happened, right down to the pomegranate flower in the planter and the note in Evan Cole’s car. In the background, she could hear he was on the road. “Where are you headed?”

“Back to the office.”

“What happened with that Devlin guy?”

“He never showed,” Frankie informed. “Got tied up in a meeting or some shit. I think he was blowing us off. Brynn wanted to wait around, so we did, but after an hour, we took off.”

“Is Brynn suspicious?”

“She claims wealthy dudes like Devlin blow people off all the time. Doesn’t make them guilty of anything.”

“Or innocent.”

“Exactly,” Frankie agreed.

Ian walked up just as she was disconnecting the call.

“We need to find Tracy Manning,” she concluded. “Maybe she knows how Evan Cole was dragged into this.”

“Perhaps. We should have something on her today. But I believe the Hightower brothers are more likely to give us the information we need. And their lives are clearly in danger.”

“Any word on where to find them?”

He shook his head.

“What about Bennett?”

“According to Max, our client remains in stable but serious condition. He can’t talk.”

“Can he write?” she asked. Bennett had almost died. If revealing his part in Rebecca Mannings death increased his chances of living, then she thought he might be motivated to tell them the whole story.

Unfortunately, Ian shook his head again. “He’s too weak. He’s barely conscious with all the medication they’re pumping into him. We don’t even know if he has any brain damage. We can’t look to him for answers just yet.”

If ever.

Ian gestured toward the car. “Max’s team has a lead on Bradley Hightower, but nothing that’s panned out. Let’s rendezvous at the office and plan our next move. Cole’s body is going to the coroner’s for autopsy, but they found the bullet lodged in his dashboard. I’m betting it matches the one that downed Craig Bennett.”

“Doesn’t take a Harvard degree to figure that out,” she quipped as Ian gestured toward the car.

“Oxford, dear, Oxford.”

She snickered. She’d never put much stock in the value of a college degree, but two days in Boston had alerted her that the rest of the world, as usual, thought differently. “Is Oxford better?”

It was Ian’s turn to roll his eyes as he headed down the grassy hill toward the car. “Consider the difference between Cole Haan and Bruno Magli,” he replied, bringing the comparison down to something she could understand—expensive men’s shoes.

“You’re a fucking snob, you know that?” she commented, glancing down at Ian’s footwear. He probably had Magli’s entire new fall collection in his closet, as well as his latest thousand-dollar loafers on his feet.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he answered coolly.

Marisela smiled as she opened the passenger door and slid inside. “Okay,” she agreed once he was tucked in the driver’s seat. “Evan Cole visited Rebecca Manning’s grave on a regular basis.”

Ian arched a brow. “That is something I didn’t know.”

Her grin widened. “That’s why I’m the agent and you just sign the checks.”

“I should be insulted,” Ian replied, humor lacing his voice. “But right now, I’m just going to remember that I’m the brilliant one who hired you.”

“And fired me,” she reminded him.

“All men make mistakes once.”

Marisela chuckled. All the men she knew, with the possible exception of her father, usually made the same mistakes over and over and over again. It was up to the women in their lives to figure out how to stop the madness. Trouble was, in this Manning case, the people they were trying to protect were men and the killer after them was a woman.

If Marisela didn’t get a jump on her, those guys didn’t stand a chance.

* * *

Yizenia walked into the tiny boutique hotel where she was staying under the name Lourdes Concepción, a nod to Bernadette, one of Yizenia’s favorite saints. Not that she communed much with her faith since she’d become a gun for hire, but the lessons of childhood were hard to dismiss. The cemetery, so overwhelming with religious imagery, churned up the deep-seated dogma of her youth. Still, the woman who’d watched her family cut down by Franco’s death squad hadn’t had much choice in the direction of her future. She trusted that when she met
El Señor
someday, he’d understand. She may have denied the peaceful ways of his Son, but she’d embraced the old traditions. An eye for an eye.

Mía es la venganza; yo pagaré, dice el Señor
.

She just made sure those who deserved vengeance got to the Lord a little quicker. She wondered if Marisela Morales could embrace her vocation with the same dedication.

Watching her potential protégée at the cemetery had been a gift Yizenia had not expected and what she’d seen concerned her. She’d watched Marisela through her scope, noting her unease among the dead. She’d watched her react to Evan Cole’s crashing car. She’d tried to rescue him. If Yizenia hadn’t done her own checking into the woman’s past and seen for herself the long list of crimes Marisela had committed prior to her employment with Titan, Yizenia might have thought she’d been mistaken about the girl entirely.

Perhaps she was.

Yizenia needed to find out for sure. If the seeds of retribution were buried in the young woman’s gut, with the right nurturing, they could take root. Grow. Blossom. Yizenia glanced at her tattoo, the symbol of her country, the symbol of her pain. Could Marisela share her devotion to her cause?

She should be moving on. Craig Bennett and Evan Cole were taken care of, relatively speaking. She’d watched both men for weeks. Marking their habits. Watching their pain. At least, Cole’s pain. His habit of visiting Rebecca Manning’s grave had touched her. Momentarily. Clearly, he lived with the knowledge of what he’d done every day.

Bennett, on the other hand, lived as if he’d never known Rebecca Manning, as if his actions had not contributed to her death. He smiled at the crowds, glad-handed his fellow politicians, took interviews with the press that dressed him up as a hero rather than a killer. He’d needed to be stopped and his death had been a challenge. And a triumph. A man surrounded by security almost every day, gunned down in a room full of elegant people who hadn’t a clue that the public servant they fawned over had been a coldhearted, gutless killer in his misspent youth.

As she jogged up the stairs to her third-floor room, Yizenia felt the rage building inside her.

“
Señora, señora
!”

Yizenia spun around, pasting on a smile as her landlord, a squat, doe-eyed man named Juan Ramos, chased up behind her. “
Sí, Señor Ramos
?”

“I thought you would like this,” he said, handing her a hot-pink sheet of paper.

She scanned the flyer. The Jamaica Plain neighborhood was hosting a festival celebrating their Hispanic heritage in just a few days.

“
Gracias, señor
. This looks like quite the party.”

“I could show you around,” he offered.

Maybe thirty years ago when she wasn’t so particular about who fulfilled her sexual needs. Now, she was entirely more selective.

“You’re sweet,” she purred to him in Spanish. “But I don’t think your wife would appreciate your hospitality.”

She turned and strutted her way up the stairs, knowing he was drooling over the swing of her ass and not caring one way or another. Reveling in her sensual power bored her now, though she didn’t take her natural assets for granted, either. She’d used her talents to lure Ian Blake into bed, to taste a bit of the son of the man who’d so impressed her with his loyalty to his wife.

She wondered…did Marisela Morales understand the spell she could cast over men? Did she know how she’d ensnared Ian Blake or did she think his aloof attitude was genuine? Yizenia knew the child treasured her physical prowess, but she’d need to value so much more if she was to move in the shadows and take up the mantle of revenge.

Yizenia unlocked her door, ignoring the rather shabby state of the room. Like the place she’d stayed before, it was clean and functional. It would do until her employer provided her with a location for the fourth and final target—and the payment that would ensure her next long holiday.

* * *

Frankie kicked his heels up onto Ian’s desk, drawing a glare from Brynn.

“Show some respect,” she snapped.

Frankie smirked. “Why?”

“He’s your boss.”

“And you’re his boss. Should I bow down and kiss your feet or something?”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she reminded him.

“I said kiss your feet, not suck your toes.”

After looking shocked for a split second, she broke into a peal of laughter. The sound reminded him of the woman he’d first met years ago, when running Titan and lording her power over her brother wasn’t as important to her as diving into a case, forcing their opponent into a corner, then swooping in for the kill. Frankie hadn’t been able to resist Brynn’s hunger for success, her devotion to grabbing what she could from every situation and milking it to fill her own needs. Their affair had been brief, but memorable. That they’d remained friends afterward still freaked him out. Things never worked that way for him.

Well, almost never.