Marisela Morales 03 - Dirty Little Christmas - Julie Leto (16 page)

“Don’t come any closer,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to watch the ambulance whip around an outbuilding on their way to the exit. When they came out of the other side and gained speed toward the exit, she dropped her gun and held up the key fob.

Sato stopped his forward motion. “What is that?”

“My ticket out of here,” she answered. “I don’t give a shit about your son or his kid or even the doctor I paid to help me get on board your plane. I only want my sister.”

Sato laughed. “I don’t care about your sister. Give me back my grandchild and you’re free to go.”

“No way,” Marisela said, finally hearing the drone of DEA sirens she’d been waiting for. “As long as that baby is alive, as long as your son wants her back, you’ll never leave my sister alone. That doesn’t work for me, got it?”

With her claim hanging like a bomb in the air, Marisela pushed the button on the fob. A heartbeat later, an explosion lit up the airport like the star on the top of a Christmas tree. The ground shook. Belinda crumbled to the ground. The bodyguards—and even Sato—dove onto the tarmac and the only noise that broke through the thrumming in Marisela’s ears was Rick, screaming as if he’d been inside the ambulance she’d just blown up.

Nineteen

Marisela had never been in a war zone, but she figured she’d never come closer than this. Everything happened in a rush of motion, sound and light, but seemed like it took forever. Fire trucks rolled onto the scene. Vehicles from every law enforcement agency she’d ever heard of—and a couple that she hadn’t—descended like locusts. Belinda had been rolled onto the gurney of an emergency vehicle and spirited away. But this time, no amount of fake fainting was going to get her a pass from the cops.

The minute she arrived, Detective Anita Flores parked herself beside Marisela, watching with an unrelenting stare while paramedics checked her over. Once she was declared fit, the detective gestured her to the backseat of her standard-issue sedan.

But instead of locking Marisela in and driving her to the station for an interview, she went around to the other side and got in beside her.

“Interesting way to spend my Christmas Eve,” the tall, dark-haired woman said. Her voice was silky in person, but just as efficient as it had been on the phone.

“Tell me about it,” Marisela said.

“No, I think you should tell me. You blew up an ambulance.”

Marisela didn’t reply. Yes, there were several witnesses who saw her press the button on the fob, but all of them, except her sister, were either criminals wanted by the Drug Enforcement Agency or a hysterical spurned lover who’d kidnapped her sister and blown up her car. She was still wearing her latex gloves, so her fingerprints wouldn’t incriminate her, either.

“All those men think you sacrificed a baby, not to mention a doctor and a paramedic, in order to ensure that they never bothered your sister again.”

Marisela chanced a grin. “I’m a heartless, cold-hearted bitch. It’s something I would do, right? Only I didn’t, and you know it. Dr. McClarren, the baby and my friend Frankie got out of the ambulance before they sent it speeding toward the exit. They’re fine. Right?”

Flores seemed to weigh the wisdom of imparting truth or lie. After a long minute where Marisela replayed the sound of Frankie’s desperation as he reported the baby not breathing correctly, the detective smiled.

“Dr. McClarren treated the baby for a mild obstruction. She’s probably at the NICU right now, being checked over, but I’m sure she’s fine. You went to a lot of trouble to make sure she’d be fine, didn’t you?”

“Someone had to,” Marisela replied.

“We could have helped.”

Marisela laughed, her shoulders aching as they shook. “I’m not accustomed to going to the cops for help, detective. You all have a really nasty habit of throwing me in the back seat of patrol cars, or worse.”

“And yet, your record is surprisingly clean. As if someone scrubbed it.”

“Imagine that,” Marisela countered. “What’s going to happen to Rick Suzuki?”

“The man you shot?”

“He blew up my car. It was self-defense.”

“Yes, he confessed to all that. He confessed to a lot before he passed out. If we find any physical evidence linking him to the explosive device under your car—”

“You won’t,” she said. “His cousin, Hiro, placed the bomb. He’s dead, by the way, murdered by his brother, Makoto, who I’m pretty sure you have in custody.”

Flores made a noise somewhat like a frustrated growl, then scanned through her notes, making notations with the information Marisela provided. Though it was against her instincts to cooperate with the police, Marisela knew the ways of the court system well enough to know that Rick Suzuki would get off a lot easier if the only crime he was tied to was harassing her sister. Not that he deserved it, but if Belinda didn’t press charges—and Marisela would make sure she didn’t—he’d testify against his cousins and then be deported back to England and more than likely barred from entering the United States ever again for his cursory involvement with crime lords.

“You’ve been surprisingly helpful,” Detective Flores said. “I
will
have more questions for you as we sort this all out.”

“But for now, since it is Christmas Eve and my sister is in the hospital, I’m free to go?”

Flores peered at her as if she’d never come across anything like her before—which Marisela would bet the cost of a new car that she hadn’t.

“You’re a complex woman, Ms. Morales. I have a feeling you and I would like each other, under different circumstances.”

Marisela tested the door handle. Shockingly, it was unlocked. “I have no idea why you’d think that, detective, but you have yourself a happy holiday. Maybe we’ll test your crazy theory sometime in next year.”

It was the detective’s turn to chuckle. “Maybe we will, Ms. Morales. Maybe we will.”

Marisela found Frankie leaning against Max’s car, parked on the edge of the crime scene. He was dressed again in his standard dark t-shirt and jeans. When she approached, he wrapped a pilfered DEA jacket around her shoulders. Together, they watched the police van cart away the last of the yakuza goons.

“What happened to the paramedics you hijacked?” she asked, marveling at how the rotating blue, red and gold lights on top of the law enforcement vehicles resembled Christmas decorations, something she’s sure she wouldn’t have noticed at any other time of year.

“Max made it worth it for them to say they didn’t get a good look at anyone involved,” he said, tugging an envelope out of his pocket. “Which reminds me. He wanted me to give you this.”

“Max?” she asked, taking the paper out from the unsealed flap. “He left?”

“Said he was still on holiday and he didn’t want to hear from you again until after the the first of January. Or maybe Valentine’s Day. He wasn’t sure.”

Marisela laughed as she looked at the paper. It was hand-written on the back of a torn aviation form, but the message was clear:

You owe me one ambulance and two pay-offs. —Max.

“How much do you think an ambulance costs?” she asked.

“
Qué
?”

She crumbled up the paper and shoved it in her pocket. “Never mind. I’ll worry about it later. Where’s Belinda?”

“St. Joe’s Women’s. Baby, too. The doctor went with them. He texted that they’re both fine. She going to probably sleep through the night and will need serious rest for a couple of days, but she can go home by tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Marisela said. “I can pawn off bringing her home for Christmas as a last-minute gift and my parents will never know.”

“What are you going to do with the baby?” he asked.

Marisela climbed onto the hood of the car. Frankie joined her. They leaned against the windshield and stared up at the night sky as if they were waiting for planes to fly over the way they used to when they were teenagers and they’d sneak onto airport property behind the wheel of a stolen car.

“It’s not my decision. Belinda doesn’t want it,” Marisela replied.

“Does it matter what she wants? The baby is here. She’s gotta deal with it.”

Marisela turned her head, the glass cold against her cheek. “Do you think babies should be a consequence or a gift?”

“
Dios mio
, Marisela. What do I look like? A philosopher?”

“You look like a friend,” she replied. “Maybe my only friend since I nearly got Lia blown up and blinded.”

He chuckled, wrapped his arm around her shoulder and tugged her close. “She’ll forgive you. She always does. And for the record, I think babies should be wanted.”

Marisela nodded. “Yeah, me, too. Luckily, I happen to know a Cuban-Japanese family that already has a bunch of kids. Maybe they won’t mind one more.”

Frankie shook his head, grinning the way he always did when Marisela said something so ridiculously outrageous, it wasn’t worth him attempting to respond. But whether or not he thought she was serious, Marisela intended to call the Tanaka family first thing in the morning. If Belinda agreed, and she had no reason to believe she wouldn’t, they could drop the infant off on the way home.

Marisela had a good job now. She could easily compensate the Tanakas for raising her little niece in their big, loving family. And the baby would be close enough that she could keep an eye on her, maybe have a small hand in making sure she stayed out of trouble—a skill, admittedly, that neither her birth mother nor her aunt had yet mastered.

“Do you think Belinda really believed I’d kill her baby?”

Frankie shrugged. He didn’t understand Belinda’s thought processes any more than she did, but in her heart, Marisela knew her sister had to have more faith in her than that. The ruse had been meant to ensure that the yakuza spent no more time hounding Belinda for their long-lost heir.

This turn of events also solidified Belinda’s plan to place the child in a loving home. Marisela couldn’t send her sister back to England with an infant that might still be wanted by the mob. By the time anyone figured out that Marisela had faked the whole thing, she’d have the child safely hidden and Titan, she was sure, would erase any trail. That was the advantage of working for them. That and the fact that her salary, if she kept shopping at consignment stores and living above the office, might give her enough to pay Max back for his out-of-pocket expenses.

After hanging out until they’d spotted a few planes and a string of helicopters overhead, Frankie and Marisela returned to the safe house, made quick work of cleaning up the mess they’d left behind, then dumped the car and retrieved Frankie’s GTO, which he used to drive her back to her parent’s house. She’d already called them and made a million excuses for being out of touch all day, including explaining that she’d been planning a huge surprise. As they’d already called Spain and discovered that Belinda had planned to return to the States for the holiday, they pretended not to know what Marisela had hidden up her sleeve, which, as a parenting skill, had always served them well.

The new Morales home was lit up as if they owned stock in Tampa Electric. They’d strung icicles of multi-colored lights across every peak and valley in the roof. They’d spiraled strands of bright gold around the trunks of the four palm trees and laced the fronds with green. An inflatable Santa Claus rode an electric train in a circle around a silver and gold manger, complete with a Virgin Mary, St. Joseph and baby Jesus fashioned out of tinsel and twine.

Despite the gaudiness of it all—or maybe because of it—the stress and fear of the past twenty-four hours sloughed off Marisela’s body like dead skin after a sea-scrub. When Frankie wrapped her in his arms on the porch, she was pretty sure she’d already had the best Christmas a girl could ever want. Amid murder and mayhem, she’d had a couple of rounds of great sex, rescued her sister and helped give birth to the next generation of Morales women.

Maybe it wasn’t a pair of Prada boots or a brand new car, but it wasn’t bad.

“I can’t believe your parents put that there,” Frankie said, looking up.

“Put what?”

“Mistletoe.”

She snuggled in closer to him, surprised by how far the temperature had dropped. Belinda had brought a chill with her, which was nice, since it made the weather perfect for snuggling or other heat-generating activities. “Maybe they knew you were bringing me home.”

He snorted. “If that was the case, your father would have ripped it down by now.”

“True,” she said. “I guess you’d better use it while you can.”

Frankie leaned forward. Her mouth watered, her eyes drifting half-shut, in keen anticipation of his lips on hers.

But he’d stopped. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her, caressing her cheeks with his thumbs, as if he’d never seen her before.

“What?” she asked.

“Merry Christmas,
vidita
.”

The huskiness in his voice and the depth in his gaze translated the standard holiday greeting into a more intimate confession—three words he hadn’t said to her, or vice-versa, for a really long time. But she spoke his language. She, like no one else, understood what he meant—what he felt. Why time and again, he laid his life on the line for her, without question, hesitation or regret.

And instead of indulging in the one and only fear she’d never been able to shake, she stretched up on her tip-toes, grabbed the sides of his face and pressed her lips on his, muttering, “Merry Christmas,
mi amor
. Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart.”

THE END

Or is it? As an added bonus, Marisela has a few words for you...please read on!

Marisela’s Dictionary of Dirty (and not-so-dirty) Spanish

¡Hola, chicas y chicos!
(That means, “Hello, girls and boys!”) Marisela, here. Hope you liked the story okay. I’ve been told by the lady who writes this shit down that some people don’t speak Spanglish on a daily basis the way I do. She thought it would be cool for me to clue you in on the more colorful phrases so that you’ll understand what I’m talking about when I slip into my native tongue.

And by “native,” I mean “natural.” I was born here, but my parents, who were also born here, taught me Spanish first. They didn’t teach me the cuss words, though. I may have picked up a few from my
papi
, but he’d never admit it. I learned most of this from the streets—the Tampa streets, where most of the
cabróns
are Cuban-American or Puerto Rican.