Dirty Little Lies (12 page)

He cut her off. “I know.”

She nodded. Of course he knew. Anyone with a heart would feel for what Ian had gone through. And Brynn. And their father. Over the past few decades, they’d likely heard others offer their sympathy one time too often.

“The kidnappers were able to escape the United States and prosecution for their crime, even though my father did gather enough evidence to prove their guilt. He was a very strong man. Ingenious, really. Top of his field. But he had children at home and a business to save and from what my sister explained to me just a few hours ago, he opted to pay for his revenge rather than mete it out himself.”

“So he hired Yizenia?”

Ian gave a curt nod. “She was younger then, clearly, but just as expert. Brynn discovered this information when she read one of our father’s journals a few years ago.”

“And she didn’t tell you?”

Ian’s jaw clenched. “My sister was born a few minutes before I was. She seems to think that in addition to the fact that our father chose to give her majority stock in the company, her birth order gives her the right to provide family information to me on a need-to-know basis. Since I’d slept with the woman who not only avenged our mother’s death, but who also attempted to murder the husband of our client, she finally decided I needed to know.”

Marisela whistled again. “So where do we go from here?”

“We find her.”

Marisela twisted so she could look Ian in the eye. “What are you going to do, start hanging out in the bar and hope she’ll pick you up again?”

“It’s not unreasonable to think she’d enjoy a second go-around with me,” he intoned, “but no, that doesn’t seem like a wise course of action. By
we
, I mean Titan. Chances are she’ll avoid any further interaction with me or Brynn, although apparently, she and my sister are friendly. Brynn and I need to step back from any dealings with Yizenia, at least on the front line. She’ll see us coming a mile away. It’ll be up to you and Frankie to smoke her out.”

Marisela nodded, the idea growing more appealing as she considered the implications. Yizenia Santiago had been more than a worthy opponent. And now Marisela realized that the assassin’s actions that night and even before had been calculated and working toward some greater end. But what? Was revenge for Rebecca Manning’s death all she wanted? Why sleep with Ian, then? Why get to know Brynn? And who had paid her fee?

“Have you warned the other men involved in Rebecca Manning’s death?”

“
Allegedly
involved,” he clarified. “Or did you learn anything from Parker Manning that proves our client’s husband was guilty in Rebecca Manning’s death?”

Marisela shook her head. “The only thing Parker Manning can prove is that Craig Bennett and his friends could be assholes. They fucked around with some poor girls with stars in their eyes. Nothing new or original there. Manning verified that the Hightower brothers left Boston years ago and he claims to have no idea where they went. But he’s superprotective of the sister he has left. Frankie wants to look her up.”

Ian pulled out his cell phone and started writing a text message. “We’ll try and get a lock on her. In the meantime, you and Frank are going to spend some time casing this neighborhood. If we find Yizenia, we might be able to use our family history to convince her to reveal who paid her to take a shot at Craig Bennett.”

“What makes you think she’s still around here?”

“The building manager saw her last week, or else he thinks he saw her, hanging out on the main strip, Centre Street. This neighborhood is called Jamaica Plain. It’s been primarily Hispanic for decades. Makes sense that she’d stick around since she can blend in. My sister informs me that Yizenia enjoys culture, arts, and food. If she wants a taste of home, this is where she’d be most likely to get it.”

“What else do we know about her?”

“She’s deadly. She has to be stopped.”

“What does she look like?” Marisela asked.

Ian suddenly looked at her deeply, as if seeing her for the first time. She couldn’t help looking down at her chest to make sure a boob wasn’t popping out of her T-shirt.

“What?”

With a sniff, Ian turned away. “She’s a master of disguise.”

His answer came too quick.

“Okay, then what did she look like the night she picked you up in the bar?”

He shoved his phone in his pocket and stood up straighter. “She looked like you.”

Ian gestured toward the door, but when Marisela didn’t immediately follow, he left alone. She stood there, stunned for a second, and then figured he was just fucking around with her. Ian may have come on to her once in a vulnerable moment during her first case, and even now, they enjoyed a weird flirtation based on the fact that he was hot and she was hot, and well, there wasn’t much more to it.

Though she had to admit, if what he said was true, a whole new window had opened up into Ian’s inner workings. Was he saying he was still hot for her? Or was he simply messing with her mind?

Marisela jogged to catch up to him at the elevator. She had her finger on the call button when Ian’s phone trilled.

She’d already pushed the down arrow when Ian’s chitchat with the Titan receptionist shifted from polite to serious.

“Put him on and record the call,” he instructed. He pressed his thumb over the mouthpiece and spoke to Marisela. “Evan Cole wants to speak with me.”

“You? Why?” she asked.

Ian walked toward a window at the end of the hall for clearer reception. “We’ll soon find our.”

Marisela ignored the elevator as it opened and followed Ian down the hall. She hopped up on the sill and waited, kicking her heels against the paneling until Ian’s hand on her knee forced her to stop. As he waited for the receptionist to make the connection and engage the surveillance equipment, he paid no attention to how he was touching her. She tried not to pay attention to it. But the warmth of his skin pressed against her knee, so casually, so naturally, nearly made her squirm. Instead, she lifted one of his fingers and bent it backward to the near breaking point.

He stared daggers at her, but didn’t verbally protest. As if pain meant nothing, he slowly twisted out of her grip.

Her heart wasn’t in it, anyway. What was up with that?

“Mr. Cole? Yes, this is Ian Blake. Excuse me?” Marisela leaned forward, attempting to hear the tiny voice buzzing from next to Ian’s ear.

“Where?” Ian asked. “Yes, I know where it is. We’re just a few minutes away. Should we meet at the entrance?”

Whatever Evan Cole answered caused Ian’s eyebrows to shoot up high on his head. “Absolutely. We’ll find it.”

He clicked the phone shut, but didn’t say anything for a few very long seconds, even as he mindlessly rubbed the hand Marisela had assaulted.

“Barnett okay?” she asked.

“Max is at the hospital, so we’ll know of any changes to his condition likely before anyone else.”

“Then what did Cole want?”

Ian gave a casual but confused shrug. “Evan Cole wants to meet with us at Forest Hills Cemetery.”

Marisela scrunched up her nose and hopped off the sill. “A cemetery? That’s so sick. His friend isn’t even dead yet.”

Ian shook his head. “I don’t think he’s planning anyone’s funeral. I think were about to hear a confession. He wants to meet us at Rebecca Manning’s grave.”

* * *

As they passed through the stone-hewn archway at the entrance to Forest Hills Cemetery, Marisela wondered if they did everything different in Boston. In her Tampa neighborhood, tombstones, mostly square and gray, were set only a few feet apart. Rocks bleached white by the sun marked the patch of earth holding a dearly departed, while weeds battled with overgrown palmetto bushes and faded plastic flowers for the attention of mourners. From her own grandmother’s graveside, Marisela remembered being able to watch the cars go in and out of the gas station across the street, while the sounds of traffic battled with the scent from the
churro
man’s truck parked around the block. Three more Hail Marys and she’d get her treat for good behavior. Only the promise of fried dough dusted with sugar could tempt her into the decrepit cemetery.

This place, however, was like paradise. Acres of manicured lawns, winding roads, and gravestones that resembled museum-quality art dotted the landscape. She nearly gasped when she witnessed a flock of swans landing like seaplanes on the glossy black surface of a lily-free pond. Some of the mausoleums looked like minicathedrals, complete with stained glass and statues of saints guarding the entrances. Saints with all their appendages and stained glass not broken by teenagers with nothing to do on a Friday night.

“Are only rich people buried here?” she asked, wondering how Rebecca Manning made the cut.

Ian quirked a grin. “Rumor has it.”

“Any of your peeps?”

“A few.”

His face froze in a stoic stare and she winced.
Dios mio!
What if his mother was buried here? Good thing Marisela had a big mouth or she wouldn’t have room for her size-nine foot.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quickly. “Peaceful.”

Ian arched a brow. “Too bad the dead can’t appreciate the view.”

An amazing display of sculptures dotted the green landscape. Bronze angels perched on marble columns. Pine trees wrapped with willowy dresses that fluttered in the breeze like ghosts. A gold door suspended from the branch. Crypts that reminded her of Disney’s Haunted Mansion. She opened her mouth to ask Ian what was up with all the funky art when he stopped the car and pointed to a grave beside a mournful willow.

“There’s Rebecca Manning.”

They exited the car in silence. Marisela shoved her hands into her pockets, but when that didn’t work to chase off the chill, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, fisting her hands to keep from making a telltale sign of the cross.

“Don’t like cemeteries?” Ian asked.

“Oh, no. I love hanging out with the dead,” she replied, careful not to tread on any ground that might, six feet under, contain a decaying body.

Ian chuckled. “Marisela Morales afraid of a bone yard? It is daylight, you know. The zombies don’t come out until at least sunset.”

She cursed at him in Spanish. “I don’t believe in that zombie shit.
Santería
is not my deal.”

He stopped, just a foot from Rebecca’s headstone. “Then what do you believe in?”

She glanced around, noting the cross-shaped headstone just a few yards away. “I believe this is consecrated ground, okay? Show some respect.”

Surprisingly, Ian glanced down at his shoes. Marisela arched a brow. Either he was acting all contrite for her benefit, or he was mocking her. Probably the second one. But he remained quiet as they examined Rebecca’s final resting place. It was small, but pretty, with a sailboat etched into the granite of her headstone and her name, followed by “loving daughter.”

Marisela knelt down and touched the petals of the roses curling out of the bronze vase permanently screwed into the ground.

“These look fresh,” she noted. “Maybe two days old.”

Ian squatted beside her. “Her brother probably pays his respects every so often. Maybe her benefactor. Someone had to exert influence to have her interred here.”

Marisela tried to imagine Parker Manning respecting anything. She couldn’t conjure an image. And flowers? They’d probably wilt in his hands. She moved to stand, then noticed a flash of red much bolder and brighter than the dark crimson of the roses. She dug down and found a different flower.

Bright red-orange. Shaped like a trumpet.

Marisela pulled it out so Ian could see. Instantly, he yanked out his cell phone. Yizenia had been here. This could be a trap.

After a few seconds, he shook his head and flipped the phone shut. “Cole doesn’t answer.”

The next few minutes moved like hours, until screeching tires alerted them to a dark blue sports car careening around the corner. They heard a crack, then the shattering of glass. The sports car swerved, then headed toward them, barely missing the back bumper of Ian’s sedan as it leapt off the road and onto the lawn. Ian grabbed Marisela’s arm and together they sprinted to the right, diving behind a tall marble crypt. The car smashed into a six-foot-high stone wall twenty feet to their left.

Marisela’s muscles constricted with the sound of crunching metal. Marisela dashed toward the wreck, the stench of gasoline and burning tires assaulting her from within a thick, black cloud of smoke. “Is it Evan?” Ian shouted.

Marisela tried to wave away the smoke as she attempted to peer through the shattered glass. Ian grabbed the driver’s side door handle and yanked, with no luck. Marisela ran around to the passenger side, which wasn’t as damaged, but that door wouldn’t yield, either. She kicked in the window, reached in and popped the lock.

She moved to slide in, but Ian pulled her back. “Don’t. He’s dead.”

He pointed to a bullet wound oozing from the back of the driver’s neck, blood slicking down the buttery leather seats. The driver’s face was turned away from them, but one glance at the passenger seat identified him instantly. An envelope sat undisturbed beneath a shower of glass, the name EVAN COLE printed in bold block letters—the same letters used to write the note delivered to Craig Bennett.

“Holy shit,” Marisela said, snatching the stationery. She pulled out the paper inside and read with a mixture of confusion and anger. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. She and Ian knew Evan Cole was on the brink of confessing something major to them. Now that fucking whore assassin had gotten to him before he had a chance to talk.

Ian led Marisela away from the wreck, his eyes scanning the horizon.

“She could still be out there.”

“She has no reason to kill us, remember?” Marisela spat, though the thought of choking the life out of the murderous bitch gave her comfort.

Behind them, the car creaked and hissed. Glass continued to pop from the frame. The airbags deflated and Evan Cole’s body, without a seat belt to hold him in place, slumped to the side. His sightless eyes stared upward through his sunroof into the cloudless sky.

Marisela looked at the letter again.