No One Heard Her Scream (33 page)

To the cop behind the wheel, he said, "Get him out of my sight." Draper slammed the door on Cava-naugh, his heart hammering and stoked by red-hot anger as the patrol cars drove away.

He pictured Diego dead, and Draper's gut snarled. He couldn't catch his breath, his frustration and anxiety mounting. When he turned around, Santiago opened his mouth to say something, but Draper didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to be consoled. And he sure as hell didn't want to be reminded of his decision to delay the rescue mission.

He walked back toward the old building . . . and waited. With a renewed fixation, Mike Draper searched the faces of everyone coming and going out of the warehouse.

But a man with a familiar gait caught his eye. He carried a teenage girl in his arms. And a woman walked alongside him. Draper couldn't confirm their identities for sure—something blurred his eyes—but he knew enough to call Santiago over.

"Hey, Arturo. Now
I've
got something you ought to see."

The lieutenant rushed over, his eyes following where Draper pointed. The man squinted into the distance until he recognized his detective, Rebecca Montgomery. Then his face lit up like a friggin' Christmas tree.

When he looked back at Draper, the lieutenant did a double take and nudged him with a shoulder. "Allergies. My eyes water this time of year, too. Mainly when I go all gooey inside like a marshmal-low. And with my skin color ... I look like damned S'mores."

Draper rolled his eyes and wiped a hand over his face, glaring at the man. "You say anything about this, and I swear . . ."

"Noooo. These lips are sealed." With a raised eyebrow, Santiago added, "Who would believe me anyway?"

"Damned straight."

Becca squinted into the floodlights, holding up a hand to shield her eyes. With cops and med techs rushing everywhere, she zeroed in on the ambulance units and headed for them.

When she stepped out of the darkness and into the light, reality hit hard. She was a changed woman. Nothing would be the same again. And even though her body was racked with pain, her heart soared as she walked beside Diego, who held Danielle in his arms. Second chances had that kind of effect on a woman. She drew in a deep breath, remembering how she had felt hours before—convinced none of them would make it out alive. She'd also learned a thing or two about hope.

Becca followed Diego to an ambulance. He carried her sister as if she were made of glass. And he kept whispering reassurances in Dani's ear. Becca only caught a few. His Hispanic accent sounded like a lovely melody that lingered in your heart long after it stopped playing.

"It's over. And you're safe, honey. Such a brave girl," he murmured. "Rebecca never gave up on you, Danielle. She never lost hope of finding you."

"Momma?" she whimpered, a tiny voice meant only for him. Dani clung to his neck, burrowing into his chest to hide her face from all the noise and commotion. He lowered his head to hers and held her close.

"Momma will see you at the hospital," he promised. "Your sister and I will pick her up on our way over, sweet girl."

When they got to the ambulance, Diego lowered Danielle onto a gurney and covered her with warm blankets head to toe. EMTs wanted to step in right away, but he waved them off to give Becca a moment with her sister.

Diego managed a smile when he looked over his shoulder at her, his face battered and bruised under the lights. Becca mouthed the words, 'Thank you', knowing it would never be enough. She cradled Dani's face in her hands and kissed her forehead, drinking in the feel and smell of her skin.

"I'm gonna take care of you for a while, little sister. For as long as you let me," she whispered. Danielle nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek as she clutched her hand.

Becca turned to the lieutenant, squeezing his arm in gratitude. And as tears filled her eyes, she held her chin high and looked at Mike Draper.

"Mr. Draper? I'd like you to meet a survivor. Danielle Montgomery. My sister."

Santa Rosa Hospital
The Next Morning, 6:30 a.m.

Becca jolted awake—her heart pumping adrenaline through her system—the crudest of wake-up calls. Danielle's hospital room came into focus, along with the cramped chair she had fallen asleep in, but little else. Caught in the twilight between dreams and rational thought, her brain replayed what happened, when she had killed for the first time. She shut her eyes tight and steadied her breathing, but the hospital room faded from her senses. And Becca couldn't stop her mind from summoning the dark account of last night.

Drifting through murky shadows, she was alone again in the dark. Only the steady thud of her heart kept her company. Her memory of the stale oppressive air in the garage overpowered the medicinal hospital odor, merging time and place as if she were back there . . . facing Brogan.

It had all happened so fast at the time. But now, it replayed over and over in gut-wrenching slow motion. Every detail etched into her brain and branded her memory with crippling permanence. Becca saw his face again. She even smelled him.

The nine-millimeter Glock kicked in her hands, twice. Two rounds, center mass. Even now, she felt it. Her fingers tingled, and numbness radiated through her arms. Shots rang out, and the eerie echo punished her eardrums with a nasty piercing ring.

After the bullets hit his chest, Brogan staggered back and dropped to his knees, his chin sagging to his chest. In a last-ditch effort, he raised his head and glared at her, the old fire of contempt still burning in his eyes. She held her breath, waiting for him to take his last gasp. Fear gripped her heart like an icy fist, as if he'd get up one more time and finish the job he had started.

But eventually, his face went slack, and the flicker of life died in his eyes. And so had Matt Brogan. He slumped to the floor, his skull cracking on the cement with a sickening thud. For a long time, she couldn't move, couldn't speak. Her eyes burned. She couldn't close them. Rooted in place, Becca watched the blood spread across his chest and seep onto the cement in a dark thick pool. Diego rushed to her side, and she had been vaguely aware of his arms around her, but she couldn't take her eyes off . . .
him.

Now, Becca held back tears and forced the nightmare from her mind. She pressed cold, trembling hands to her face as if she could wipe it all away. The trauma of her close call with death had been the culmination of an exhausting siege to her psyche that had started with Danielle's abduction. She understood the consequences of the ordeal, but living through it was another story.

A faint sound poked at the edges of her awareness. And a light pierced the dark. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The hospital room came back into focus. And she heard it again.

"Are you okay?" A whisper.

She turned toward the hospital bed and saw her sister.

"Becca. You okay?" Dani asked again.

She got up from her chair and stretched her back, walking toward the bed with a show of nonchalance she didn't feel. Becca still couldn't believe it. Dani was really here.

Bruises mottled her sister's body, and the dark circles beneath her eyes made her pale skin look gray and pasty under the dimmed hospital lights. Yet the most startling change was in her eyes. The natural twinkle of youthful innocence had been stripped away. Haunted eyes stared back, made old before their time. The stark change in Danielle broke her heart.

But Becca had another chance to do something about it and redeem herself with her family. Near the window, Momma lay curled up on a cot, fast asleep, the most content she'd seen her face in a very long time. Seeing her family together again, Becca wanted to pinch herself, to make sure she was really awake.

"Go back to sleep. It's still early." She smiled and stroked her sister's hair, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

"You've been crying." Dani reached a hand to her cheek.

Becca hadn't realized her tears showed on the outside. She wiped her face and took a deep breath. The cobwebs of her nightmare had crumbled but lurked under her skin.

"I'm okay, really. Nothing for you to worry about, Dani." Becca reassured her in a hushed tone, but a rush of emotion brought the tears back with a vengeance. "I can't believe . . . you're really here."

Dani's blue eyes pooled and her lips trembled. "Me too."

She knew her sister. Dani couldn't talk about it. Not yet.

"Excuse me. Detective Montgomery?"

Becca turned to see a nurse standing at the doorway. "Yes."

"I have a call for you at the nurse's station," she whispered. "Detective Paul Murphy. He didn't want to disturb your family by ringing the room directly. Would you like the call forwarded here or . . ."

"No, I'll take it out there. I'll be right behind you. Thanks."

Becca turned back to Dani and shrugged. "I've got to take this. I may be gone for a while, but I'll be back real soon, honey. You get some sleep, okay?" With drowsy eyes, Dani lifted a corner of her mouth, a fleeting smile. Becca kissed her sister's cheek and walked out the door.

She knew why Murphy had called so early. Last night, she asked for his help to close the Marquez case. Since it had been reassigned to him, Becca proposed they team up. But the paperwork would show it was all Murphy. A fair trade. In her mind, it didn't matter who got credit for the collar. Finding Isabel's killer had always been her greatest priority.

And with the morning papers no doubt carrying the story of the warehouse siege, time would be critical. She didn't want her suspect to
rabbit
out of town. When she got to the station, the nurse gestured for her to take the white phone on the counter.

"Murphy? It's Becca."

"We've got your suspect Mirandized and in custody. Interrogation room number 3. No one in or out, like you said. We'll be ready when you are."

"No lawyer?"

"Not so far."

"Okay, I'm on my way."

A fine line. It would come down to how well she walked one. Becca had nothing more than circumstantial evidence in her bag of tricks for a seven-year-old murder investigation. A necklace of dubious ownership found with the bones, contradictory interviews between potential suspects, and a dead man's version of the truth. She needed an undeniable confession that would hold up in court. Everything by the book. And yet, she'd have to pull out all the stops to manipulate her suspect into admitting to murder. A tough sell.

She opened the door to a room adjacent to interrogation room number 3. In the dark stood Paul Murphy in a rumpled suit that looked like he'd slept in it. He probably had. The pale light coming through the two-way mirror in the next room outlined his silhouette. He glanced over as she entered, then shifted his focus back to the woman sitting at the interrogation table. Sonja Garza.

"Hey, Becca. We took her cigarettes and lighter, told her about the ban on smoking in the building. That pissed her off. She's been stewing for almost an hour. Apparently, she's not a morning person either."

"An early-morning house call from the SAPD would tend to ruin your day."

It looked like Sonja had thrown on whatever lay crumpled on her floor. Or maybe she'd slept in her wrinkled white T-shirt and threw on jeans and an unzipped hooded sweat jacket to get out the door with an impatient Murphy. Either way, the dingy T-shirt made her skin appear washed-out under the fluorescent lights. And without her usual dark-eyed makeup, she lost five years. Becca pictured the girl she'd been in high school.

But most of all, Sonja lacked her usual edge. She picked at the chipped nail polish on her hands, looking bored. A complete contradiction to the fidgety nervous behavior she tried to hide. Jaw flinching, anxious eyes unable to stay focused for long. And without her smokes, Becca imagined Sonja's skin crawled with the ants of her nicotine addiction.

"She looks pretty ripe. How do you wanna play this?"

"Sonja and I have a rapport from the times I've interviewed her. But she's lied to me, thinks she can do it again. I'm gonna nail her this time." Becca shifted her gaze to Murphy. "I need this interrogation to go off without a hitch, Paul. I've got less than zero on evidence, circumstantial at best. The DA will want more. I need a confession, and it's got to be solid."

"How are we gonna get it?"

She liked hearing Murphy use the word "we." Considering she had wanted to rearrange his face once, and he'd probably had similar sentiments, they had come a long way.

"Matt Brogan is going to help."

"The dead guy?" Murphy stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. Maybe she had.

"Yeah. I have no intention of resurrecting the bastard, but he's going to make a brief comeback. Brogan'll play his part in nailing Sonja one last time. And I suspect he'd appreciate the irony."

Becca explained her game plan. Armed with little more than a heaping mound of horse hockey and nerve to match, she walked into the interrogation room with Murphy.

"Well, it's about time. I've been waitin' over an hour." Sonja's eyes flared, her jaw tight.

"Yeah, sorry about that. But I'm sure we'll be able to wrap this up pretty quick with your cooperation." Becca sat across from Sonja and pointed a hand toward Murphy. "I'm sure you've met . . ."

"Yeah, yeah. Detective Muscle for Brains. Cooperation on what?"

Murphy glared at the woman and stood with hands in his pants pockets. He liked to move around the room, forcing her to watch him.

"We have a few questions for you, regarding Isabel Marquez. Detective Murphy has read you your rights. Do you want an attorney present during this interview?"

Sonja sagged into her chair, her eyes looking from Becca to Murphy. "I got nothin' to hide. No, I don't need no lawyer. Let's get this over with."

It always amazed Becca how frequently suspects waived their rights to an attorney to appear as if they had nothing to hide. Nothing like cop shows on TV. Becca had counted on Sonja's doing exactly that. And she didn't disappoint. In a show of apathy, the woman pulled at a strand of her hair and inspected it for split ends. No doubt a poor substitute for a cigarette.

All interrogation room interviews were videotaped and recorded to document the process and the treatment of the suspect. Special permission from the detainee was not required. Becca aimed to record irrefutable evidence to be used in court by the district attorney and avoid the pitfalls of making a contribution for the defense.