Dirty Little Lies (25 page)

“But she never came home.”

Tracy shook her head violently. “No, but Bradley was so furious! And Raymond, too! I thought maybe she’d gone back to goad them some more and that they were so furious, they killed her. It wasn’t so hard to imagine. I hated her so much for what she did.”

Marisela bit her bottom lip. No wonder the woman had tripped on the drugs. She’d been dealing with several layers of serious guilt.

“When did you figure out what really happened?” Marisela asked.

“On the night after the funeral, when Evan came to my room. He didn’t realize that I didn’t know. He didn’t realize how out of it I’d been. I swear, I hardly remembered anything, it was all like a nightmare. He started talking about how he’d never tell, about how he hid her so that no one would find her. I didn’t know what he was talking about at first, but then I realized. When I pushed her, she hit her head on a rock or something and died. She was dead when he found her.”

Marisela sat back in her seat, absorbing all that she’d been told. Tracy covered her face with her hands and cried and damn it if Marisela could blame her. She wasn’t close to her own sister and she’d pretty much made Belinda’s childhood a living hell most of the time, but if anything had ever happened to her sister because of Marisela, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.

She banged the steering wheel with the heels of her hand. Craig Bennett hadn’t been lying when he said that Rebecca Manning had been alive when she left their campsite, and she completely understood why neither he nor the Hightowers had been forthcoming about their activities on the island. No way would a now-married congressman want the public to know what he’d experimented with in his youth.

“Evan kept your secret all these years?”

She nodded. “And I kept his. I never told anyone what Evan had done because it was too late for Becca, and I didn’t want him to go to jail for something I did. I didn’t want to go to jail. We made a pact to keep quiet, and so far as know, he never broke it.”

“Did you ever speak to him after that?”

Tracy shook her head mournfully. “He was the one who convinced his school to donate a plot so Rebecca could be buried at Forest Hills. Every once in a while, he’d send a note, asking how I was. A card at Christmas. Flowers on my birthday. But the memories were so painful, I could never bring myself to respond. After a while, he stopped trying to contact me.”

Marisela ran her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots to waylay the threatening headache. “He must have kept your pact, even if you did ignore his attempts to contact you. Craig Bennett didn’t know what Evan had done, I’m sure of it. But then—how did the assassin find out?”

Tracy grabbed the dashboard in front of her. “I never told anyone, I swear. Except…”

“Your brother?”

Tracy squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes, but he was grateful to Evan for protecting me. That’s why he stopped pushing the prosecutors for indictments, why I know Parker would never dig all this up again. He kept blaming the guys for Rebecca’s death just to keep up appearances. He knew the truth.”

Marisela decided to look at the situation from another angle. “Okay, so maybe Parker didn’t tell your secret. Who else could have? You were on drugs for a long time. Maybe you told someone while strung out and you just don’t remember.”

Tracy’s shoulders sagged as she pressed her lips tightly together. She nodded and her crying renewed. “Evan didn’t have to die! None of them did. They didn’t do anything! I killed her, accident or not. If anyone deserves to die, it’s me!”

With gentle force, Marisela grabbed Tracy by the shoulders. “Stop it, okay? Stop it! You
don’t
deserve to die. It was an accident and you know it. Trouble is, the assassin doesn’t know it—and until I can find her, you might just be next.”

* * *

After an emotional debriefing at the Titan office, Marisela rode along as Max deposited Tracy in a safe house tucked into a well-guarded Boston neighborhood and posted four guards—two inside the house and two outside—to watch out for her night and day. They’d taken a circuitous route, doubled back three times and worked in conjunction with at least four separate vehicles who’d acted as both decoys and lookouts. By the time they’d tucked Tracy away, Marisela was relatively sure that Tracy was safe. Ninety-nine percent. But it was that errant one percent that could get her killed.

She rendezvoused with Frankie, and after he recounted his findings from his interrogation with the barn patrol, they decided that interviewing Parker Manning was their next move. Frantic telephone calls from his sister had yet to yield any response—the guards were monitoring Tracy’s cell phone—so they decided it was time to return to the guy’s pigsty apartment.

The minute they exited the stairs onto Parker Manning’s floor, the hair on Marisela’s neck stood on end. Frankie must have experienced the same sensation because his arm immediately shot out, stopping her before she could take another step.

It was the music.

It was loud, too loud to be contained behind a closed door.

Which was why she wasn’t surprised to see Parker’s door gaping open.

They pulled their weapons, but kept them partially hidden beneath their jackets. Behind them, the elevator slid open and someone exited. Marisela dashed behind a tall potted plant and Frankie turned, gun returned to his holster, his smile friendly.

The guy, a twenty-something in jogging shorts with an iPod strung from his ears, started at Frankie’s presence. He recovered quickly, pulling himself up to his full height, which wasn’t that impressive.

“May I help you?” he asked, popping out his ear buds.

“Nah, man,” Frankie said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m a friend of Manning’s. Thought it might be him riding up.”

The guy eyed the elevator doors. “How’d you get up here?”

“Stairs.”

The young guy sniffed haughtily. “Well, tell your pal to turn down that…music.” He disappeared into his apartment without so much as a backward glance.

Marisela came out from her hiding place. “Not exactly the curious sort, is he?”

“No, but we’d better be. Clearly, Manning cut out without our guy’s noticing. He runs with a dangerous crowd. He wouldn’t leave his door open.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning maybe he didn’t go by choice.”

“How’d our guys miss a kidnapping?”

“Didn’t say they did. But they were watching the exits, not the apartment. Someone experienced could have snuck him out.”

“Experienced? Like the mob?”

Frankie shrugged.

They looked inside, but didn’t enter. The apartment was a bigger mess than before—completely and totally ransacked. Drawers and file cabinets were upturned and broken. What was left of his laptop computer lay in a puddle of components on the floor. The stereo blasted on a hard rock station, making Marisela flinch as the guitars screeched and drums pounded with grueling, bass explosions.

“Stay here and watch the hall,” Frankie said. He pulled surgical gloves out of his back pocket and snapped the booties plumbers use over his black athletic shoes before drawing his weapon and slipping inside.

Wow, look at him. Mr. Prepared.

Marisela volleyed her gaze between following Frankie as he slipped through the apartment and monitoring the hallway for any unusual activity. If someone called the cops to complain about the noise, then she and Frankie might be suspected of causing the chaos. Once Frankie turned off the blaring radio, Marisela knocked on the nearest neighbor’s door.

“No answer,” Marisela reported, holstering her gun. Frankie brought her gloves and booties, explaining that with the precautions, they wouldn’t leave any evidence of their presence if the cops showed up. She entered Parker’s apartment cautiously, noting that the lock bore no signs of a break-in. Frankie came out of the back bedroom. “No sign of Manning.”

She pointed to the papers strewn around the room. “That his book?”

Frankie winced. “Now it’s confetti.”

“Think someone took him?”

“
Yo no sé
,” Frankie replied. “But it doesn’t look good.”

Marisela strolled around, looking for anything a second set of eyes might pick out, trying to ignore the fact that if Tracy Manning had followed her advice earlier that afternoon, she might have stumbled into her brother’s apartment just when the damage was being done. She also thought about the promises she’d made to Tracy to retrieve her errant brother—the last remaining member of her family. What kind of damage would his sister sustain if Parker Manning couldn’t be found?

To distract herself from that line of thinking, Marisela pushed the play button on Manning’s answering machine. The light hadn’t been blinking, but she wanted to see if Manning had gotten his messages earlier that day. A mechanical recording announced the date and time and played the last message received. Today. Four hours ago.

Then, the message. The voice, female and distinctly Hispanic, rattled Marisela’s soul.

“Senor Manning, it’s time we meet face-to-face. The mood has changed and there is more I want. Go to the Alhambra, tonight, at ten-thirty
P.M
. Don’t be late.”

Frankie pushed the stop button, then rewind, and played the message again. Marisela locked her gaze with his as the words replayed. The sound, the intonation, the accent. All familiar.

All Yizenia.

“¡Coño!
He did hire her, that son of a bitch,” she said.

Frankie held his hand up, palm out. “Don’t jump to conclusions. This could he a setup.”

Good point
. “For us?”

He pocketed the tape. “Pretty clever way to manipulate us,
verdad
? Make us think we’re close to catching the killer when she’s the one catching us?”

“To kill us?”

Frankie shrugged and continued looking around.

Great. Marisela was the first to admit she preferred being the hunter rather than the hunted. And yet, she knew this was an opportunity they couldn’t ignore. “The new message light wasn’t blinking,” Marisela pointed out. “Parker has heard this message.”

“Or someone else has.”

Who’d heard the tape didn’t matter. The chance that the message was left as bait didn’t matter. Not to Marisela. At ten-thirty tonight, she would be at the Alhambra. At ten-thirty tonight, she’d finally stop Yizenia Santiago one way or another.

* * *

Prepping to intercept Yizenia at the restaurant took about two hours, giving Marisela and Frankie time to return to the hotel and change before heading to the Jamaica Plain restaurant called Alhambra. Frankie entered first, but was still waiting to be seated when Marisela strolled inside.

The space was both intimate and exclusive. The cuisine was Hispanic fusion, a varied mixture of dishes from Spain, influenced by the native cultures she had conquered. From the Moorish archways to the paintings of Spanish conquistadors on the walls, Marisela found the decor rich and exotic. As if she’d stepped into another world.

“
Bienvenidos a la Alhambra
,” the hostess greeted, her accent shaky. “Do you have a reservation?”

Frankie shifted into the ruby light beaming over the hostess’s podium, giving Marisela a chance to admire how
delicioso
he looked. His black shirt, black pants, and black tie, paired with his still sinfully long hair and trimmed moustache, made him look every ounce a Hollywood-style hood. He spoke in hushed tones to the hostess, and it was no surprise to Marisela that in about ten seconds flat, he had the woman flushed, giggling, and rushing to find a table for him despite his lack of a reservation. It was just after ten fifteen. As per their plan, Frankie would take a position near the back of the restaurant. Marisela would linger near the front.

The hostess returned, fanning herself with the wine list.

Marisela turned her back toward the hostess stand and pretended to comb her hand through her hair. When her watchband was level with her mouth, she whispered into the communications device. “Any sign of Parker Manning?”

“No,” Frankie reported, his voice clear and crisp in her earpiece, hidden by her hair. “Yizenia?”

Marisela turned, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. She scanned the open dining area for any women sitting alone, catching sight of two. One was an older woman, in her seventies at least, who after a few minutes was joined by a younger girl who could have been a granddaughter. The second, with her back to Marisela, had long dark hair. She looked about the right height and build, but it was hard to tell since she was sitting.

Impatiently, she walked to the entrance where she looked out the window, as if she were waiting for her dining companion to arrive.

“Check out three o’clock,” she suggested to Frankie. “Black hair, burgundy dress.”

A pause. “Looks a little young, but you’ve seen her, not me. Wait for Parker, then we’ll make a move.”

Marisela acknowledged his plan, then continued to wander near the front entrance. A foursome came in. The hostess seated them. Marisela checked the time. Ten-twenty. She glanced outside. No sign of Parker.

The hostess finally approached. “May I seat you?”

Marisela turned on her friendliest smile. “No, thank you. I’m early. I told my date I’d meet him here. I guess I should have let him pick me up so I wouldn’t be so antsy right now.”

The act clearly worked. The hostess, who had wide blue eyes set off by her short, blond bob, grinned back and waved her hand knowingly. “Oh, first date. How about if I get you something from the bar?”

“No, thanks,” Marisela replied. “I need a clear head.”

“You sure? A little white wine might take the edge off.”

The woman’s accent was distinctly Bostonian. She didn’t sound like the Gordon’s Fisherman, but there was a slight widening of vowel sounds that made Marisela smile. “Actually, this is a blind date. I’ve got to be sober in case I need to make a quick getaway.”

Another couple walked in, forcing the hostess back to her job for a few more minutes and allowing Marisela a chance to glance out the door. From behind, she also watched the dark-haired woman still sitting alone at the table. The waiter had brought her a glass of red wine. When she lifted the goblet to her lips, Marisela could have sworn she saw a flash of red on her wrist, tucked beneath a gaudy, beaded bracelet.