Dirty Little Lies (7 page)

“He told me he was Craig Bennett’s best friend,” Frankie informed them. “If the guys all went out for a night in the woods, why wouldn’t he go along?”

Max nodded appreciatively. “Good question. Another avenue for us to pursue.”

Marisela pressed her hand to her forehead. She was starting to get a headache, though whether from excessive thinking, exhaustion, or a combination of both, she couldn’t be sure.

“Did that new task force dig up anything new?” Marisela asked.

“No,” Max replied. “My sources tell me the case is just as dead in the water, if you’ll pardon my pun, as it was fifteen years ago.”

“Any political influence to reopen the case?” Frankie asked.

Marisela and Max both eyed Frankie with surprise.

“What?”

Normally, Frankie was more muscle than brains, but Marisela should have learned a long time ago not to underestimate her ex.

Max cleared his throat. “I find it hard to believe that a congressman who is making serious waves in Washington, D.C., with his new prescription-plan initiatives isn’t ruffling feathers somewhere. The D.C. crowd doesn’t like upstarts. He’s in the news quite a bit with a new prescription-drug proposal. I’ll keep checking with my police sources, but in the meantime, we need to come up with a list of probable suspects and start checking them out.”

“We should start with Leo Devlin,” Marisela said.

Max typed the name into the computer. “He certainly has a reason to want the congressman out of the way. I’ll put a few agents on him. I want the two of you exclusively on the Manning murder.”

“What about Bennett’s friends? Aren’t they in danger, too?” Marisela asked.

“Good chance,” Max answered. “If the assassin can’t get at Bennett while we’re protecting him, she might move on to the others, if revenge is truly her motive and if the note is connected to her.”

“It is,” Marisela insisted.

She described the flower on the note and the possible resemblance to the tattoo the assassin had on her wrist.

Max nodded. “I’m sending a message to the office right now. I’ll put agents on scoping out the locations of the Hightower boys. In the meantime, let’s look at who we have right here in Boston.”

Marisela scanned the news article Max had transferred to their screens. “Parker Manning.”

“Victim’s father?” Frankie asked.

“Victim’s brother,” she replied. “Father’s dead. The brother lives here, in Boston. He’s a reporter. Declined to comment for this article about the case, though.”

Frankie flipped the lid closed on his computer and turned Marisela’s laptop toward him. “A reporter declining to comment?”

“That’s weird, I think,” Marisela decided.

Max’s grin implied that he agreed. “Seems like a good place to start. Frankie, take the other car and head back to the office. Find this Manning guy. Ian ordered both of you to get some rest, but tomorrow, you can pay Mr. Manning a visit, see if you can change his mind about the no-comment thing. Marisela, check in with Ian. I’ll be right behind you.”

Frankie and Marisela exited the car. She headed to the hospital door, but Frankie grabbed her hand. “Meet me at the office?”

“What office?” she said with a chortle. “I flew in, went shopping, got dressed, and then went to the party. The only place I’m going is to my hotel room.”

Frankie eased closer so the rough texture of his slim beard sparked against the skin on her cheek. “I’ll meet you there, then.”

Tempting as the offer was, Marisela wasn’t in the mood for sex. Her muscles protested every step she took and between jet lag and exhaustion and the beating she’d endured, all she wanted to do was sleep.

Well, it wasn’t all she wanted to do. But it was clearly priority one. However, she could be convinced. By the right guy.

“We’ll see,” she replied, then entered the hospital without looking back.

* * *

Perfect timing.

Yizenia stored the flip chart in the case outside a patient’s door and checked to make sure that the badge she’d created was clipped in plain view. She patted her auburn hair and blinked rapidly, ensuring that her hazel contact lenses were in place beneath her glasses. The sweatbands she’d used to cover her tattoo were snuggly in place beneath her long-sleeved scrubs, bubble-gum pink with cupids on the pants. Thankfully, American hospital workers reveled in the tacky. Patterns like this grabbed attention. If anyone needed to describe her later, they’d likely say the redhead in the Valentine’s Day pants. Which, of course, would no longer describe her once she left and ditched the disguise in the nearby trash bin.

But until then, she had information to gather—and the perfect source just a few steps away.

“Excuse me.”

Yizenia affected her best Southern accent, one of her favorites to emulate, with the twangs and elongated vowels oddly similar to a British accent, but with more rhythm.

From her perch leaning against a stark white wall, arms crossed, Marisela Morales stood out like a splash of color. Her dark hair, eyes, and skin contrasted against the purple of her dress, now torn and bloodied, but still caressing curves that Yizenia couldn’t help but admire. That shapely body had provided quite the challenge. If she didn’t have this role to play, Yizenia guessed she’d be back in her apartment with ice packs and painkillers.

“Excuse me?” she asked again.

This time, Marisela skewered her with a suspicious, wary glare. “I’m waiting for someone.”

Marisela stood up straighter and dropped her crossed arms to her side. Always ready for a fight, this one. Perpetually prepared to defend herself. Could she do the same for others, especially those who no longer had the capacity to defend themselves?

“You look pretty beat up,” Yizenia commented. She’d taught this young one a valuable, painful lesson about underestimating an opponent. Could she teach her more?

Marisela returned to her defensive stance—arms crossed, scowl steady, eyes trained on the door across from her, one foot braced on the wall behind her in case she needed to launch herself into the line of fire. “I’m fine.”

Yizenia pointed to a slash of blood marring the girl’s face.

Marisela slapped her hand aside.

Taking on the persona of a strong-willed nurse, Yizenia fisted her hands on her hips. “Your lip is bleeding.”

Marisela gracelessly swiped at the blood coagulating at the corner of her mouth. “It’s just blood.”

Yizenia glanced at the door Marisela seemed so intent on watching. The congressman had been moved there not twenty minutes ago, and through the slit of a window, she could see a large man blocking the only way in and out of the windowless room. One guard inside. And clearly, one guard outside.

“A little ointment could keep away an infection,” Yizenia said brightly, returning her attention to Marisela. “Why don’t I take you down to emergency…”

The wild, trapped look in Marisela’s deep brown eyes caught Yizenia off guard. Interesting. The young woman was brazen and bold, but she had the good sense to experience fear. Fear of medical treatment wasn’t exactly on the top of Yizenia’s list of acceptable phobias, but she figured the kid had her reasons.

“Look, I’m going to be fine. I just gotta wait for my boss and then I’m out of here. Two minutes with a first aid kit and I’ll be good to go.”

Ah, her boss. Yizenia had experienced an odd little thrill when she’d seen Ian Blake standing guard outside Congressman Bennett’s operating room. The man had been a more than adequate lover even when drunk beyond reason. She could only imagine the sensual skill he’d display when stone-cold sober. Too bad she’d likely never have a chance to find out.

She doubted he’d recognize her again, even without her disguise. He likely wanted to forget the entire incident. In the throes of bourbon-induced delirium, he’d called out Marisela Morales’s name, and the knowledge that Ian wanted his new agent had nurtured an idea.

An idea sparked by Ian’s sister, Brynn, who had also mentioned the Cuban-American agent in passing, during Yizenia’s biannual rendezvous with Titan’s chief executive in Barcelona for
tapas
at the little bar overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

It was fate. A young woman half a world away, a young woman who was strikingly familiar. Marisela and Yizenia shared similar tattoos, both imprinted on the inside of their wrists. They both possessed the will and skill to fight hand-to-hand, a talent usually reserved for men. And both of them had blood spawned in Yizenia’s native Spain. Who was she to ignore what higher powers were forcing her to see?

The torch could be passed.

She’d once considered tapping Brynn to take her place, but Brynn was well past thirty, set in her ways, already seduced by the power of running Titan. Yizenia needed someone fresh. Someone she could mold into a crusader.

Someone like Marisela Morales.

Pretending to bow to Marisela’s desire to be left alone, Yizenia wandered over to the nurse’s station. She’d timed her appearance to coincide with hospital rounds so she was able to slip in and retrieve a basic first-aid kit unchallenged.

She made a big show of looking superior when she presented the cocky agent with the kit.

Marisela sneered and kept her arms tightly crossed. “I said I could wait.”

“I’m a nurse. Sue me.”

Funny, that expression. Wouldn’t work in any other country in the world except the
Estados Unidos
.

Marisela glared at her, but the expression must have cost her because she winced, then snatched the kit, popped it open, and pulled out an individual dosage of antibiotic ointment.

“Don’t you have any real sick people to harass?” she asked.

Yizenia chuckled, her humor genuine. “I’m on my break.”

Marisela tore the small package open, smeared the cream on her fingertip and applied it gingerly to the cut on her mouth. From experience, Yizenia knew the injury would heal quickly, but it would hurt like hell until it did.

“Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Yizenia answered, glancing at the congressman’s door.

“Don’t let me keep you if you have work to do,” Marisela offered.

“They’re not letting any nurses inside the room,” Yizenia replied. “Just the nursing supervisor and the chief of surgery. I’ve been told they’re in a meeting to discuss added security right now.”

“Smart,” Marisela responded.

Yizenia decided to push this interview a little further. How did Marisela view her client? Did she even know he was a murderer?

“I suppose,” she said wearily. “Guy like that doesn’t deserve to live, if you ask me.”

Marisela shot her a disgusted glare. “I didn’t ask you, but remind me never to be admitted here.”

“Do you know who he is?” Yizenia asked, trying to sound scandalized.

“Congressman Craig Bennett?”

“Do you know what he did?”

“I don’t have a head for politics,” Marisela replied. “I’m not even sure what a president does?”

“Not his job! What he did to that girl.”

Perhaps she’d pushed too far. Marisela’s gaze sharpened. “How do you know what he did?”

“It was in all the papers.”

Marisela stepped forward, leaned in close, and turned on the full force of her silent intimidation tactics, which, admittedly, were impressive. Stiff jaw. Controlled tone. Eyes that could slice you open with a glance.

“What else do you know?”

Yizenia pasted on a nervous look. “Just that the police think he and his friends got away with murder.”

Marisela allowed the comment to hang in the air without responding, which impressed Yizenia. Clearly, Marisela Morales could control her emotions when the mood struck her. She’d obviously reserved judgment regarding her clients—clearly not entirely convinced they hadn’t committed a heinous crime all those years ago.

Yes, this was promising. She didn’t need Marisela to take her side against these
monstruos
who killed Rebecca Manning, but an ally never hurt. Never hurt at all.

Five

BY THE TIME
Marisela slipped into her hotel at about five o’clock in the morning, the only thing on her mind was sleep. She yawned widely as she trudged through the deserted lobby toward the elevator. Her instincts had shut off hours ago, so she wasn’t surprised when Frankie slid into the lift just as the doors closed.

“And where do you think you’re going?” she asked, her voice raspy with exhaustion as she punched the button to her floor.

“With you,” he said, sliding his hands around her waist and tugging her tight against him “We have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

Marisela’s muscles ached, her chest hurt from her bruised ribs, and her eyes felt like she’d applied sandpaper contacts, but she mustered enough of a second wind to send him flying against the opposite wall just as the elevator doors sliced open on her floor.

She’d caught him off guard, which wasn’t so hard to do when he was so full of his sexy self.

“I need sleep,” she said, pointing her finger at him.

“You need more than sleep,” he claimed, stepping through the doors before they closed again.

Her annoyance swelled as he licked his lips and raked his hand through his long, glossy black hair.

Man, it looked like silk. Next to crawling into bed alone and sleeping for the next three days, the thought of feeling the sleek strands against her bare skin taunted her to near madness. She’d never made love to a longhaired man before. But she’d made love with Frankie before and she knew that the experience wouldn’t be quick or easy.

Not anymore.

It was one thing to flirt with him on the dance floor or steal a few sensual moments on the balcony. But now that she’d spent the last hour watching a desperate wife pray over the broken body of her husband, she wasn’t in the mood to fool around. Hadn’t she prayed over his broken body just three months ago? Then, only a few weeks into his recovery, she’d left him to continue her training with Titan. She hadn’t realized until right now how little had changed while they’d been apart. She still cared about him.

Dammit.

He closed in on her until his scent, so spiced and male, invaded her senses. “You dealt with a lot of shit tonight,
vidita
. Blood. Fear. Death. All the crap we can’t control. But you and me,” he said, easing his fingers up the side of her dress, “we lose control in the good way,
verdad?
”