Like No One Else (9 page)

This time Tommie
did
kick him under the table. Hard.

“Ouch!” he howled.

Tommie just glared at him, unrepentant.

“Your wings and waffles are making my mouth water, Tommie,” Daniela said, her hazel eyes still twinkling with laughter. “I'd better go order my own before I dive face-first into your plate.”

“Why don't you and Paulo join us?” Zhane offered, all but daring Tommie to kick him in the shin again. “I know how hard it is to get a table in here. Makes no sense for y'all to wait around when we've got plenty of room to spare.”

“That's very sweet of you, Zhane. Do you mind?” Daniela asked, dividing a glance between Tommie and Paulo, who looked distinctly amused as he held Tommie's gaze.

“I don't mind,” he drawled. “Miss Purnell?”

“Of course I don't mind. You're both welcome to join us.” Really, what else could she say?

Daniela smiled. “Great! I'll go order our food. No, stay,” she insisted when Paulo offered to take care of it. “I got it. You always mess up the order, anyway.”

“I'll go with you,” Zhane said, already on his feet. As he and Daniela started away together, he said to her, “Say, you wouldn't happen to be a member of
the
Santiago family, would you?”

“Guilty as charged.”

Zhane let out a delighted squeal. “Go on, girl! You're like Houston royalty!”

Daniela's laughing response was drowned out by the noisy din of the restaurant as they moved off. Tommie and Paulo stared after them for a moment, then looked at each other, chuckling quietly.

“Your friend's quite a character,” Paulo commented.

“Yeah. He reminds me of the friends I had back in New York.” Tommie sighed contentedly. “It's great to have soul mates.”

Paulo cocked an amused brow at her, but said nothing. When he slid into the booth beside her and his knee accidentally brushed hers, heat shot through her veins. She opened her mouth to ask him what the hell he was doing, then changed her mind. She knew he'd sat down next to her, purposely ignoring the other side of the booth, just to unnerve her. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd succeeded.

“You come here often?” he asked.

“Every Tuesday. What about you?”

“Haven't been here in months. It's one of Daniela's favorite restaurants.”

“Mine, too.” Tommie chuckled. “Zhane thinks it's a greasy spoon.”

“Yet he comes here every week. Just for you.”

“That's what friends are for.” Tommie gave him a whimsical smile. “Daniela's beautiful. She looks a lot like her brother, Rafe.”

“That's what everyone always says.”

“Is she a lawyer like the rest of the family?”

“Yep. Best civil litigation attorney in the state. If you ever need legal representation, she's your woman.”

“I probably couldn't afford her,” Tommie said wryly.

Paulo chuckled. “That makes two of us.”

They grinned at each other.

Without thinking Tommie reached out, touching the smooth, angular curve of his cheek. “You shaved.”

“Yeah.”

“Nice.”

“Thanks,” Paulo murmured. “Every now and then I try to look civilized.”

Tommie smiled softly.

As they gazed at each other, she was acutely aware of the heat from his body, the teasing scent of his aftershave, the melting intensity of his dark eyes. Light caught in his black hair, which hung over the collar of his turtleneck. Tommie had an overwhelming urge to run her fingers through the soft, thick strands. In her mind's eye she saw herself gently pulling his head toward hers, bringing their hungry mouths together. She saw him touching her, his lips and hands caressing her body.

Paulo's gaze darkened, as if he'd intercepted her thoughts. He shifted closer on the seat, making her breath catch in the back of her throat. Her pulse drummed.

She wanted him. God, she wanted him. If he'd taken her hand at that very moment and led her out of the restaurant, she wouldn't have resisted, as long as their next destination had a bed.

“If you keep looking at me like that,
querida
,” Paulo murmured huskily, “we're both gonna be in a world of trouble.”

Abruptly Tommie dropped her hand from his face and averted her gaze, her insides quivering. Damn it. What was it about Paulo Sanchez that made her lose her mind every time he was near?

Sex appeal. He's got too damned much for his own good.

Frowning at the thought, Tommie glanced across the room, hoping to see Zhane and Daniela Santiago returning to the table. No such luck. They were still waiting in line to place an order. They seemed to be getting along quite well, their faces animated as they laughed and conversed with each other.

Tommie heaved a long, wistful sigh. “I think your cousin's trying to steal my best friend.”

Paulo chuckled, following the direction of her gaze. “Appears that way.”

“Oh my God. Did he just compliment her Christian Louboutin shoes?”

Paulo grinned at her outraged tone. “Knowing Daniela, she's probably inviting Zhane to go shopping with her even as we speak.”

Tommie gasped. “She wouldn't dare!”

But as she watched in disbelief, Daniela Santiago reached inside her red Hermès handbag and pulled out a BlackBerry.

“Uh-oh,” Paulo intoned, his grin widening. “Daniela's checking her calendar. That's never a good sign.” After another moment he shook his head, announcing gravely to Tommie, “I'm sorry. It looks like they've set a date.”

Tommie scowled in disgust. “Men are so unfaithful. Even the gay ones.”

Paulo threw back his head and laughed, drawing several admiring female glances.

Resisting the urge to glare at the other women, Tommie picked up her fork and resumed eating. “So, what's on your agenda today, Detective?” she asked conversationally. “Where are you headed after breakfast?”

“To the office with Daniela,” Paulo said.

Tommie arched an amused brow. “Why? Is it Take Your Cousin to Work Day?”

He smiled briefly. “Not quite.”

When he didn't elaborate, she prodded, “You're going there on official business?”

He nodded. “I'm investigating a homicide. One of the firm's employees was found murdered yesterday.”

“Oh no. That's terrible. Did you know the employee?”

“Not really. I met her once at a function.” He paused. “Actually, you met her, too.”

“I did?” Tommie asked in surprise.

Paulo nodded. “The crime-scene unit found one of your dance programs in her nightstand. You had autographed it for her when you performed in Houston in February. Actually, I have her photo—” He glanced down at himself, then grimaced. “Never mind. I left my jacket in the car.”

“What was her name?”

“Maribel Cruz.”

Tommie pursed her lips, searching her memory. After several moments she shook her head, saying apologetically, “The name doesn't ring a bell. I've met hundreds of people after performances, autographed more programs than I can count.”

“That's what I figured,” Paulo said.

“What did I write?”

“In the program?” At Tommie's nod, he said, “You told her, ‘Don't ever give up on your dreams.'”

Tommie ate a forkful of waffle and chewed thoughtfully. “She must have been an aspiring dancer,” she mused.

“Why do you say that?” Paulo asked.

“I meet a lot of aspiring dancers, women who approach me after a performance and tell me how much they've always wanted to dance professionally but never had the opportunity. They tell me how much they hate their job because it keeps them from pursuing their dreams. I always encourage them to follow their heart, even though I know better than anyone how hard it is to break into the world of professional dancing.”

“Was it hard for you?”

Tommie snorted. “Hell, yeah. I've been dancing and performing ever since I was four years old, but I didn't get my big break until I was almost thirty. Before I moved to New York to tackle Broadway, I worked as a legal secretary. The pay was phenomenal, and the firm I worked for was top-notch. But busting my ass as someone's secretary was
not
what I wanted to be doing for the rest of my life. So I definitely know where these women are coming from when they tell me…” She trailed off, staring quizzically at Paulo, who had the oddest expression on his face. “What?”

“I didn't know you were a legal secretary. What was the name of the law firm you worked for?”

“Thorne and Associates. Why?”

He stared at her, his gaze hard and piercing. After a prolonged moment he shook his head, as if to dismiss an absurd thought. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Forget it.”

But Tommie's curiosity had been piqued, and something in his demeanor had sent a whisper of unease sifting through her. “Come on, Paulo. What gives?”

He hesitated, looking grim. “You may have had more in common with Maribel Cruz than you thought.”

Tommie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She was a legal secretary at my family's law firm.” Paulo paused. “Before that, she worked at Thorne and Associates.”

Two hours later, as he waited in Ted Colston's plush, dark-paneled office suite, Paulo was still mulling over the connection between Tommie Purnell and Maribel Cruz. He didn't know what to make of the fact that the two women had worked for the same law firm at the same time, and now one of them was dead. It could mean anything. Or it could be nothing more than a disturbing coincidence.

Except Paulo didn't believe in coincidence.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting, Detective.”

Paulo glanced toward the doorway as Ted Colston strode purposefully into the room. He was in his mid-forties, tall and broad-shouldered with a lean, athletic build that suggested he took full advantage of the firm's state-of-the-art fitness facilities. His dark brown hair was neatly trimmed, not a strand out of place, and he wore an impeccably tailored navy blue suit that reminded Paulo of the story Daniela had shared with him earlier.

“No problem.” Paulo rose from the visitor chair and shook the other man's hand, noticing upon closer examination that Colston's face was haggard, the skin around his blue eyes creased with tension and fatigue.

“Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk to me,” Paulo said.

“Of course. Anything I can do to help with the investigation.” Releasing Paulo's hand, Colston rounded the large mahogany desk to claim the leather swivel chair behind it. “As you might imagine, it's been a rough morning. Everyone is in shock over what happened to Maribel.”

“I'm sure,” Paulo said, sitting back down. “I heard that grief counselors are on hand to speak with employees.”

“Yes, thank God. I know
I'm
having a helluva time trying to make sense of such a terrible, senseless tragedy.” Colston pushed out a ragged breath, passing a trembling hand over his face. His gold wedding band caught and reflected the morning sunlight slanting through the wall of windows. Paulo made a mental note of the fact that the attorney was left-handed.

“I understand Maribel had worked for you for three years,” Paulo said.

Colston nodded. “Best secretary I've ever had. Kept things running like a well-oiled machine. It's going to be damn near impossible to replace her.” He shook his head, his imploring gaze meeting Paulo's across the desk. “Do you have
any
idea who might have killed her, Detective Sanchez?”

“Not yet,” Paulo said evenly. “That's why I'm here. To get as many answers as possible.”

Colston held his intent gaze for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and stared vacantly out the window at the downtown skyline, at towering skyscrapers glinting brightly in the sun. “God, I can't believe she's gone,” he murmured. “If I had known when she walked out of this office on Friday night that it would be the last time I saw her alive, I wouldn't have been such a jackass to her.”

“What do you mean?” Paulo asked, even as Daniela's words echoed in his mind.
I never understood how Maribel could put up with him.

Colston looked pained. “I was having a bad day on Friday. I got a speeding ticket on my way to the office, I had to deal with a difficult client and put out a fire pertaining to one of my other cases, and then to top it all off, my wife called and we got into a big argument. I was angry and frustrated, and I took it out on Maribel, biting her head off every time she had the misfortune of crossing my path.”

“I'm sure she didn't take it personally,” Paulo murmured.

“No, she didn't. She never did. Which only makes me feel worse.” He grimaced, slowly shaking his head. “Hindsight is a bitch.”

Paulo said nothing for a moment. Then, “What did you and your wife argue about?”

Colston turned from the window to meet his probing gaze. “Nothing important. We were supposed to have dinner with friends that evening. When Abby called to remind me, I told her I might be late because I needed to tie up some loose ends at the office. She got angry, and we argued.” He smiled ruefully. “We've been married almost fifteen years, but she's never gotten used to my long hours.”

Paulo could sympathize. His ex-wife, Jacinta, had complained incessantly about his job and the long hours he'd worked. After two years she'd decided enough was enough, and she'd filed for divorce. There was no doubt in Paulo's mind that if he'd earned the kind of dough Ted Colston was making, Jacinta would have been more forgiving of his busy schedule.

Pushing the cynical thought aside, Paulo asked, “Got any kids?”

A shadow passed over Colston's face. “No. We don't.”

Paulo nodded, instinctively sensing that the couple's childlessness was another source of contention in their marriage. He glanced at the five-by-seven photo that sat on a corner of the desk, assuming that the perky blonde with big blue eyes and a bright smile was Abby Colston.

“You mentioned a difficult client,” Paulo said, switching gears. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to get back at you by harming Maribel? A disgruntled former client? An individual or business you'd successfully litigated against?”

Colston shook his head, frowning. “I've been practicing law for twenty years. In all that time I've never even received so much as a threat.”

“Congratulations,” Paulo said dryly. “Consider yourself lucky.”

“Why? Do you encounter a lot of dead lawyers in your line of work, Detective?”

Paulo smiled faintly. “Ever heard the joke ‘The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers'?” At Colston's tight nod, he drawled, “Let's just say I've met one or two nut jobs who took the joke literally.”

“Christ,” Colston muttered under his breath. He raked a hand through his dark hair, unconsciously mussing it. “If Maribel was killed by someone who had a grudge against me, I'll never forgive myself.”

“It's just a theory.” Paulo paused. “How well did you know Maribel?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she ever confide in you? Talk to you about personal stuff?”

Colston frowned. “She was my secretary.”

“So you took no interest in her personal life? A woman you'd worked with for three years?” There was just enough censure in Paulo's voice to put the other man on the defensive.

“Of course I took an interest in her life. And, yes, she did share some personal things with me.”

“Like what?”

“Well, she told me about her family, about growing up dirt poor in Brownsville. I knew she enjoyed dancing as a hobby. One night when we were working late, I caught her doing pirouettes in the copy room. She told me when she was a little girl, she wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up. But her parents talked her out of it, told her she couldn't make a living as a dancer. They wanted her to become a lawyer instead. But Maribel didn't think she could make it through law school, so working as a legal secretary was a good compromise.”

“Do you think she was unhappy?” Paulo asked.

Again Colston frowned. “I don't know. I don't think she was. But then again, that's not exactly something you admit to your supervisor when you're working at the top law firm in Houston and making nearly eighty thousand dollars a year.”

Paulo whistled softly through his teeth. Damn. Maybe he ought to consider joining the family business after all.

“Do you know if anything unusual had happened to her lately?” he asked. “Strange phone calls or messages, someone she'd noticed turning up wherever she went, things like that?”

“Not that I know of. She didn't seem worried or distracted, and the quality of her work never suffered.”

Paulo nodded. “What time did you arrive at the office yesterday morning?”

“Around nine thirty. I had to take my car to the dealership for an oil change. When I got to the office, Kathleen Phillips told me Maribel had called in sick. I listened to the voice mail message she'd left, and sure enough, she sounded awful.”

Paulo raised a brow. “Did you have any reason to think she was faking sickness?”

“No, of course not. Maribel was very conscientious. She rarely ever missed work, so I knew she must have been terribly ill.” With a flick of his wrist, Colston glanced at the platinum Rolex peeking from beneath the starched white cuff of his shirt. “I don't mean to rush you, Detective, but I have a meeting with a client in an hour, and I still need to figure out Maribel's filing system before we get a temp on board.”

“No problem. I understand.”

Paulo stood and shook the attorney's hand, giving him his card and the spiel about calling him if he thought of anything else that might help with the investigation.

At the door he deliberately paused and glanced back across the room. “Oh, one more question.”

Colston looked wary.

Why?
Paulo wondered, intrigued.

“Yes? What is it?”

Paulo hesitated, pretending he'd forgotten what he was going to say. “Never mind. Thanks again for your time.”

He left the office and made his way toward the bank of elevators, walking past a labyrinth of mahogany-paneled cubicles occupied by paralegals and secretaries bent over keyboards and talking quietly into phones. More than a few employees were online, catching up on the latest news about Maribel Cruz's brutal murder.

As Paulo reached the elevators he was joined by Julius Donovan. In order to cover more ground that morning, he and his partner had decided to split up to question Maribel's colleagues in the firm's labor and employment law division.

“How'd it go?” Paulo asked as they rode the elevator down to the underground parking garage. “Learn anything interesting?”

“Not really,” Donovan said, his gaze trained on the electronic panel above the polished brass doors. “The consensus seems to be that Maribel Cruz was a model employee—smart, dependable, hardworking. A real team player. No one could think of a single person who would have wanted to hurt her. And everyone had an alibi for their whereabouts yesterday morning—they were here, hard at work.”

Paulo nodded grimly. “My interviews went pretty much the same way.”

“What about Colston?” Donovan asked as they stepped off the elevator and started across the parking garage. “What'd he have to say?”

Paulo gave his partner a quick rundown of his conversation with Ted Colston, concluding, “He seemed pretty shaken up by the whole thing.”

“Who can blame him? Based on what one paralegal told me, Maribel was Colston's lifesaver. She did everything for the guy—picked up his dry cleaning, bought his anniversary gifts, scheduled his doctor's appointments, even did his grocery shopping whenever his wife was out of town.”

Paulo grunted noncommittally. He couldn't help wondering what else Maribel Cruz had done for Colston while his wife was out of town. It was the oldest of clichés—the handsome, powerful boss having an affair with his hot young secretary, who looked up to him and fulfilled him in ways his wife hadn't done in years. Yeah, it was a cliché. But that didn't make it any less plausible.

When they reached the Crown Vic, Paulo unlocked the doors and climbed behind the wheel. After breakfast he'd swung by Donovan's house to pick him up so they could ride to the law firm together and compare notes afterward.

As Donovan settled into the passenger seat, he said, “I stopped by human resources, asked the manager for a list of all custodial staff and employees that were terminated within the last six months. She said she'd have it for me by tomorrow morning. We can run the names through the system and see if we get any hits.”

Paulo nodded, reversing out of the parking space. “As soon as we get back to the station I'm checking in with the cyber guys to see how far they've gotten with Maribel's computer. Who knows? Maybe she sent an e-mail to a friend complaining about some loser following her around.”

Donovan snorted. “We should be so lucky.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Are you gonna keep your family in the loop?”

Paulo shook his head firmly. “I'm doing this by the book. If it turns out that the killer is one of their own employees, I don't want some scumbag defense attorney crying foul because the lead investigator is related to his client's employer.”

“Good thinking.”

As they emerged from the underground parking garage, Paulo slid on a pair of mirrored sunglasses to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight slanting through the windshield.

Santiago & Associates was housed in an imposing granite and glass high-rise situated in the heart of downtown Houston, one of many skyscrapers that formed the glistening skyline. The suit-wearing, Starbucks-sipping crowd that populated downtown on weekday mornings had thinned after rush hour, replaced by holiday tourists who strolled along Travis Street snapping photos and enjoying the mild November day.

“I met your cousin,” Donovan announced, stretching out his long legs in the car.

“Yeah? Which one?”

“Daniela.” Donovan let out a long, low whistle. “Damn, why didn't you tell me how fine she is?”