Dirty Little Lies (30 page)

“Who is the target?” she asked aloud.

Frankie looked at her sidelong. “What do you mean?”

“Initially, we thought all four men were targets because of their involvement with Rebecca’s death. We now know that no one who was there that night or who was affected by the aftermath had motive to want those men dead.”

Frankie stopped fiddling with his computer, but Max continued.

“You think the ‘Remember Rebecca Manning’ deal was a smokescreen?”

Marisela bit hard on her lip before answering. She was putting herself out on a limb here, but so far, acting on her instincts had been fairly successful. “What else could it be? Yizenia’s client could have used the old scandal to throw any investigations off. Hiring Yizenia, because of her reputation, implied that the murders were to settle an old score. But what if it’s a new score that he’s trying to settle?”

Frankie eyed Max, who was still typing away, even as he plugged in to his team back at the office, making requests and giving them instructions all while listening to Marisela’s supposition.

“Raymond Hightower did nothing with his life but make and spend money,” Frankie said, pulling up the reports transferred from the Stockholm office. “Our contacts said he was incredibly well liked and stayed away from pissing people off.”

“Scratch him, then,” Marisela said. “What about Evan Cole?”

Frankie didn’t have to look at the computer this time. He’d done all the checking on Cole himself. “Lived mostly off his trust fund and investments. He has a couple of angry husbands in his wake, but I can’t see any of them making such a show of killing him. He wasn’t worth Yizenia’s expensive fee.”

“He’s a possibility, I guess,” Marisela commented, though she doubted that was the case.

“Then we’re back to either Bennett or Bradley Hightower.”

“Wait,” Max said, finally joining their conversation. His colorless eyes flashed with what Marisela could best describe as fire.

“I think we’ve got something here.”

He turned the screen toward them. Marisela squinted at the tiny type on the screen featuring a scanned copy of an old government document.

“What is that?”

“The board minutes to a foundation established five years ago by a consortium of political lobbyists looking to ramp up their moral stature,” Max answered.

Marisela exchanged glances with Frankie. “In English,
por favor
?”

“A group of men who played politics by donating money to charitable causes,” he clarified.

“Gotcha.”

Max used a stylus to tap to a small name on the corner of the screen.

Her eyes widened. Wow. Maybe she was cut out for this shit after all. With a smile, she turned to Frankie. “See? Not so dumb.”

“I never said you were dumb,
vidita
. Just gullible.”

She sneered. Okay, maybe she could be easily snowed every once in a while. ‘Cause when she’d met Leo Devlin, she’d thought him a cool guy, not a cold-blooded killer.

Eighteen

MARISELA AND FRANKIE
marched into Ian’s office together. Max had already informed him of the information they’d discovered, and he was staring at his computer screen and talking on the phone simultaneously.

“And so Mr. Devlin is very hands-on at the clinic?”

He listened to the response, waving Frankie and Marisela closer.

“Really? That’s fascinating. Sounds as if he truly goes above and beyond for the patients there. Yes, yes. Sounds exactly like the kind of information we need for this Man of the Year award. Would you mind putting it all in writing? A glowing letter of recommendation? That would be fabulous. Yes. I’ll send the email address to you immediately. Thank you. Your testimonial has been invaluable.”

He hung up the phone, grinning slyly.

“The director of Windchaser Farm. Leo Devlin might have tried to hide his association with the clinic behind several foundations, but apparently, he’s well-known by the staff. Likes to hang around, volunteer with the patients. All while remaining anonymous, of course.”

“Of course,” Marisela said, sliding into her usual chair. “Wouldn’t want patients like Tracy Manning to know he was trolling for information he could use on his political enemy.”

Frankie stood behind her, his hands on the backrest.

“Exactly,” Ian confirmed. “We’re dealing in speculation, but I’d say that while digging into Congressman Craig Bennett’s past to find dirt he could use to get him to back off on his prescription drug plan, Leo Devlin found out about the scandal and that Tracy Manning had once been a patient at the clinic.”

“How’d they get her back there?” Frankie asked.

Ian shook his head. “Dumb luck? Outreach? Any number of ways, I assume. Devlin’s foundation owns a stake in hundreds of clinics across the U.S., apparently as a way to push addiction-fighting drugs. He could easily have gotten to Tracy at any number of facilities. And he has the power to coerce the doctor into doing the hypnotherapy to allow Tracy’s full disclosure of the night’s events. That’s likely how he knew about Evan Cole.”

Marisela shifted in her seat, the speculation making her uncomfortable. They had no proof, but the facts were piling up.

“Why not use the gay stuff?” Frankie asked. “I mean, couldn’t he have ruined Craig Bennett’s credibility by outing him?”

“Even the press needs proof,” Ian replied. “Without Bradley Hightower to verify or deny the accusation, especially against a high-profile married man, the mud wouldn’t stick. Massachusetts isn’t a red state. Bennett’s constituents likely wouldn’t give a damn if he pitched for both teams so long as he got them cheaper prescription drugs. Besides, Devlin clearly wanted Bennett out of the way permanently. As Marisela hypothesized, Devlin may have used the entire sordid tale as a smokescreen, as a way to lure Yizenia Santiago to take on the case. The other men’s deaths were nothing more than collateral damage, meant to send anyone off the trail of a political hit, plain and simple.”

“How did he find out about Yizenia?”

Ian tapped more on his computer. “We’ll likely never know unless she tells us. Brynn is upstairs, speaking with her. With any luck, she’ll convince her to—”

Alarms blared. Marisela jumped, covering her ears. Ian and Frankie beat her out of her office, where Ian’s assistant consulted a flashing grid of lights on her computer screen.

“Where?” Ian asked.

“The penthouse,” she informed.

They dashed toward the stairs.

“What is that?” Marisela yelled.

Ian answered as he swung around to the landing on the top floor. “Panic alarm. Brynn’s in—”

The door was wide open. Brynn sat on the floor, her hand pressed against the back of her head. Frankie slid onto the ground beside her.

Ian stopped up-short. “What happened?”

“She clocked me,” Brynn rasped, pointing weak fingers at a shattered crystal vase in the middle of the room. “Got my purse.”

Which meant Yizenia had Brynn’s gun.

Marisela vaulted across the room, to the window she saw was wide open. The fire escape below was rickety, but would have held the weight of a woman as lithe and quick as Yizenia. Marisela made sure her Ladysmith was still firmly in her waistband, then slid out the window.

“Marisela!”

She turned quickly. “Go around front,” she yelled to Frankie. “We’ll cut her off.”

Back in her bounty hunter days, Marisela had shimmied up more than her fair share of fire escapes to catch bail jumpers, but she couldn’t remember ever going down one.

She took a deep breath and traversed the shaky metal ladders and landings as quickly as she could. Once she jumped the last eight feet to the bottom, she looked around. The alley below was sandy and barely used. Yizenia’s footprints were easy to spot.

Moving quickly, Yizenia hadn’t spent time covering her tracks. Didn’t take Marisela more than half a minute to figure out that the wily assassin had jimmied a window to break back inside the building. Titan agents were likely swarming the neighborhood by now and Yizenia was simply waiting for the perfect time to make a break for it.

The window, ground level into the basement, was still open, so Marisela slid to the dirt and then lowered herself inside, feet first.

The room she landed in was nothing more than a storage closet, filled with stained coveralls, stacks of motor oil and various filters, belts, and plugs. The door, which she guessed led into the underground garage, was slightly ajar. Marisela walked quietly to the opening and gazed into the parking area. She wasn’t entirely surprised when she heard Brynn’s Jaguar purr to life.

Yizenia had her purse, which meant she had the keys.

A garage door at the far end of the bay—the one that emptied into a narrow side alley—began its silent scroll upward. Guessing Yizenia’s gaze would be trained outside, Marisela dashed out of the closet and headed for the driver’s side door. With her right hand, she leveled her weapon at Yizenia. With her left, she pulled at the door handle.

Locked.

Yizenia grinned and punched the gas.

Marisela cursed and ran alongside the car as Yizenia maneuvered out of the garage. Leaping onto the top of the car, Marisela spread her arms and legs wide for traction. She dug in her fingers and toes as best she could, yelping when Yizenia bounced up the drive, then closed her eyes and held on when the car spun onto the cobblestone street. Yizenia sped quickly to the end of the road, ran the stop sign, and continued on until she slammed on the brakes a few blocks later, sending Marisela rolling onto the slate sidewalk. She grunted as the air whooshed out of her lungs and her shoulder smacked hard against the rock.

The tires squealed as Yizenia jammed on the gas. Marisela rolled, pulling out her gun as she dropped onto the street. She fired continuously, hoping to hit the tires. As Yizenia turned the corner, a bullet pinged off the shiny alloy rims.

The car disappeared. Marisela cursed, pounded her fist on the pavement, and reached for her watch. The communication mechanism was as busted as the digital face. She’d have to walk back to the office, and that was going to hurt. She rolled off to the side seconds before a car, one she didn’t recognize, came barreling toward her. The driver had the gall to roll down the window and yell at her after she barely made it out of his way.

He was kidding, right? Did he think she was lying in the street to be cute?

She pulled her bruised and aching body into a sitting position on the curb when she heard a gunshot and a crash from the next block over.

Cursing with pain, Marisela ran across the street, then cut through an alley to find the Jaguar smashed against a tall, iron lamppost on Boston’s famous Freedom Trail, marked by a thick red line on the sidewalk. The driver’s side window had been shot out and from what Marisela could see from a distance, there was blood spattered on the spiderweb of shattered glass.

People started to gather. Marisela figured they had moments until someone called 911. She dashed across the street, flashed her gun, and claimed, without a badge, of course, to be with the Boston police. She jumped the hood and slid to the passenger side door.

Still locked.

She banged on the glass with the butt of her gun. “Open it up, Yizenia. You can’t run.”

Yizenia was dazed, but very much alive. She pressed the door lock, then groaned in pain. Marisela reached across the passenger seat and turned Yizenia so she could examine her injury. Yizenia grunted, but bit back a full scream. Her arm was bloodied, the skin and muscle ripped, but it looked like a flesh wound. Marisela tore what was left of Yizenia’s long sleeve and knotted it around the gash to cut off the bleeding. This time, Yizenia’s eyes watered.

Marisela grabbed Yizenia under the arms and pulled her into the passenger seat, backing out to make room. “What happened?”

Yizenia stared at her with eyes that only focused for a few seconds at a time. “Ironic, isn’t it?” she rasped. “Shot in the car. Just like Evan Cole. Only he was innocent. I am not.”

Her breath carne in shallow pants, but Marisela knew that once the numbness set in, Yizenia would be lucid. Right now, the pain was driving her to focus on things that were not important.

Marisela slammed the door, ran around to the driver’s side and got in. She assured the burgeoning crowd that she had everything under control and that she was taking the injured woman to the hospital herself. If she could get the car to run.

“Who shot you?” she asked, fumbling for the ignition. The crowd that had gathered around took a few tentative steps backward as the engine purred to life.

Yizenia managed to arch a brow. “I’d guess Titan agents.”

Marisela glanced through the windshield. She couldn’t imagine a Titan operative aiming for the driver of a car on a street full of pedestrians. It was a wonder Yizenia hadn’t mown anyone down as it was.

“No way,” Marisela assured her. “Titan wants you alive to testify. Guess again.”

Yizenia’s eyes widened. “Bradley Hightower?”

Marisela smirked. “He and Tracy and Parker are all still in our protective custody. You have one more guess or you lose the prize,” she teased, hoping a little humor might offset Yizenia’s agony.

Yizenia’s sneer reflected her pain. “I never win anything,” Yizenia said breathlessly, her accent so innately American that Marisela nearly laughed.

Nearly.

“Then why not guess your former client? That’s where my money goes.”

“¿Qué dices?”

Yizenia slid into a full sitting position. The bleeding had ebbed and the color was starting to return to her cheeks.

“You know his identity,” Marisela said. “He doesn’t know that, so far, you haven’t shared that information. And even if you gave us his name, without your testimony, the police won’t have shit to build a case against him. Doesn’t seem much of a stretch to guess he’d order someone to kill you and shut you up. Hell, he hired you, didn’t he?”

Yizenia’s eyes narrowed.

Marisela put the car into reverse and backed up a few inches, convincing the crowd that she was serious about leaving. They dispersed and she was able to pull the car off the curb. She glanced at her watch and cursed, then twisted toward the back seat and yanked out Brynn’s stolen purse.