“Not a country, a person. The person who wants to hire your services is Karen Sandoval, niece of Senator Joseph Sandoval from Texas.”
Cruz’s eyebrows shifted higher. Joseph Sandoval was a wealthy businessman and long-serving politician on The Hill. He was currently chairman of the Senate Committee on Appropriations, one of the most powerful committees in the Senate.
“You have my attention,” he said, taking a swig of beer.
“Ms. Sandoval believes her estranged husband was murdered, and she wants us to help her prove it.”
“Sounds like a job for law enforcement,” Cruz said.
“One of the higher ups offered your services because she wants the best, and that’s you. The murder took place in Houston, but they have a lead in Miami. You’re familiar with the city, so…”
“Who’s paying? I don’t work for free.” Cruz tipped the bottle to his lips and took another sip. Since this was a private deal, he needed to understand right away who was paying and when, particularly since the lines of this assignment seemed blurry at best.
“You’ll get your usual freelance fee, half upfront and the other half when the job is done.”
Cruz shrugged. “Fine. I’ll listen.”
“Good.” Miles pulled a phone from his jacket pocket and lifted it to his ear. “Send her in.”
Miles went to the door and came back with Karen Sandoval. She approached, looking poised and elegant and wearing a simple navy dress with a string of pearls around her neck. Her dark brown hair was going gray and was worn in a layered, textured style that spilled onto her shoulders.
“Hello, Mr…?”
“No need for names. How can I help you?”
“Okay.” She smiled faintly. “Thank you for seeing me and for taking this job.”
“I haven’t taken it yet.”
Miles glared at him.
“Oh.” Karen glanced at Miles, who nodded for her to proceed. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Please, have a seat.” Cruz motioned to one of the empty chairs at the round table. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Water would be nice.”
Karen sat down, and Cruz called out the order for a water. The bartender came over right away and set it down beside her. Seated across from her and Miles, Cruz relaxed and waited.
Karen took a sip of water and cleared her throat. “I’ll pay whatever you need me to, because I need to find out who killed my…estranged husband and why. My husband’s name is Dennis Ray. He was an investigative reporter for the Houston Times, an old and well-respected newspaper. He ended up in jail, accused of using drugs and stealing data in the course of his investigation. No one will tell me what this data was because they claim it’s a matter of national security. I was also told that he committed suicide. I’m not sure I believe that. I’m not sure I believe any of it. He’s not a thief and he wouldn’t kill himself.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t,” Cruz said.
“I’m convinced I’m right, on both counts,” she insisted, her voice firmer.
Cruz flicked his gaze to Miles, whose expression remained emotionless. Returning his attention to Karen, he said, “Forgive me for asking, but how did the two of you end up together?”
That faint smile again. “We met at a coffee shop. He accidentally picked up my order and we had a good laugh about it. The next thing I knew, I was giving him my phone number. My father passed away some years ago, and my uncle became a surrogate father to me. He didn’t approve of Dennis, and when I told him we were getting married, he said I was making a mistake. He didn’t think Dennis was good enough for me and because Dennis is—was—fifteen years younger than I am, thought he was after my money. He wanted me to marry someone in politics, someone with connections. But Dennis was charming and funny, and I didn’t care that he didn’t have money. I had enough for the two of us. I fell in love with him.
“But money became a big issue for us—more for Dennis than me, really. When I had our daughter, Emily, he became distant, withdrawn. He complained that he didn’t fit in at any of our social events, and…well, after a while, he stopped attending functions with me altogether, claiming that he had to work. We grew further apart. Money became a constant bone of contention between us, and I finally asked him for a divorce.”
Pain flickered across her face as she stared down at her hands and played with the wedding rings on her finger.
She lifted her gaze and continued. “After a while, Dennis started talking about a reconciliation, but I didn’t think it was a good idea. We were so different, and for six years we hadn’t been able to make our marriage work.” Her expression became earnest. “One day he told me that he was working on something big—an exposé that was lifechanging. He said he’d noticed a pattern in some data that he’d collected, but every time I asked him about the details, he dodged the questions. I didn’t believe him, but he was so insistent, I started to wonder. I hired a private investigator to follow him. That’s when I found out about…the other woman.” She swallowed.
Miles opened his briefcase and removed a mini-computer that looked like a silver portable DVD player. He pressed his thumb to the biometric panel on top and it snapped open. He shoved it across the table to Cruz.
The dark screen lit up and populated with a series of photos, and Cruz flipped through them. The first few were of buildings, but he stopped when he came to the photo of a woman. He was immediately captivated by one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
She had golden skin and laughing brown eyes and was thick bodied with a round face. In the photo, she wore an off-the-shoulder, loose-fitting dress covered in a gold and blue geometric design, and her pink lips were puckered toward the person holding the camera. In another photo, she was standing with a flower in her hand. The picture looked like it could have been pulled from her Instagram account, with its perfect lighting and the way the sun reflected off her curly black hair.
“The few days my investigator followed him, Dennis spent a lot of time with the woman in the photos. One night he slept over at her apartment.”
“What’s her name?” Cruz asked.
“Shanice Lawrence. She left Texas three days after he died, and we lost track of her for a while but found her in Miami a few days ago. If anyone knows why he was killed, I believe she does, and if she had anything to do with it, I want her punished to the fullest extent of the law.”
Cruz tore his gaze from the beguiling woman in the photos. “They officially ruled his death a suicide?”
Miles spoke up. “The official conclusion was suicide by hanging.”
“What’s the unofficial conclusion?” Cruz asked.
Miles glanced at Karen from the corner of his eye before answering in a grave voice, “We believe he was tortured to death.”
Karen winced and closed her eyes.
Cruz shook his head in disgust. Torture should always be a last resort. For one, it didn’t always yield the answers people wanted, and then there were results like this, where the torturer went too far and the interrogation ended in a mess.
There were better ways to get information out of people. Fear and intimidation worked in a pinch because a prisoner in a bad situation did not want the situation to get worse. Cruz’s favorite method was to get the mark to trust him. It was a delicate dance and took time, but if done right, yielded the best results.
“Any idea what he was investigating?”
Miles nodded at Karen to continue.
“No, but for every major assignment he worked on, he kept a separate notebook. There must be a notebook somewhere that contains the data he had collected, which might help us understand why he was killed. From the little bit of information he gave me, I believe he uncovered something that could get someone in a lot of trouble, and they were desperate to get their hands on that evidence. After Dennis died, my house and car were broken into and ransacked, and I believe they were searching for that information. After what happened to him, and with a
child to protect, I moved to my uncle’s ranch in south Texas. I feel safer now, but I need to find that information because I believe it’s the key to understanding why Dennis was killed. Will you help me?”
Cruz tapped his finger on the table. “I need to speak to Miles privately,” he said.
Karen appeared flustered. As the niece of a powerful and prominent senator, she was probably used to people doing as she asked and had expected an answer.
“All right.” She stood and looked at him with pleading eyes. “You know who I am, but I haven’t told my uncle that I was meeting with you. I will pay your fee, whatever that is.”
Cruz waited while Miles walked her out.
When he returned and sat down, Miles said, “Well? What’s your answer?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you think anyone else knows about the mistress?”
“Maybe, maybe not. She’s still alive, which means she knows nothing, or they haven’t found her yet. A few things I did learn, she never visited Dennis in jail, and she has a unique setup where she works in Miami. She works at a bookstore named The Bookish Attic, and the owner pays her under the table and rented her a room in her house. They live about ten minutes from the shop. Everything you need is in the file. We need you to get close to her and find out what she knows, and if she has that notebook. If she has it, we need you to get it.”
“A notebook? Are you shitting me?”
Miles shrugged. “I’m not judging anyone’s method of record-keeping.”
Cruz grunted and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Cruz, this is a simple job and easy money.”
“Nothing is ever simple.”
“This one should be. All you have to do is get the data. Whatever information Dennis gathered or stole, the mistress probably knows about it. Why else would she leave town so quickly?”
Cruz’s gaze was drawn to the screen again—the woman’s eyes, her smile. He scrolled through some more photos, admiring the way Shanice’s ample curves filled out her outfits, showing off a full bosom, generous hips, and thick thighs. He didn’t condone cheating, but he understood why Dennis had strayed. This was a sexy woman with a great ass.
“What about the national security angle? You believe that?” he asked.
Miles shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Cruz tapped his thumb on the surface of the table. Finally, he asked, “When do I start?”
Miles let out a sigh of relief. “Tomorrow. Your ID, a wardrobe, et cetera—everything you need for your cover—are waiting at the apartment we’re getting ready for you. Your name is Vicente Diaz, and you’re an accountant.”
“An accountant?” Cruz dragged his eyes from the screen and one of the surveillance photos showing Shanice at the grocery store examining a container of eggs.
“The investigator found an old profile for Shanice on one of those dating sites. She likes poetry and history. I think something low-key would be appropriate in this case.”
Interesting. Cruz enjoyed history and poetry, as well. He believed history was the key to understanding societal norms and firmly agreed with philosopher George Santayana’s famous quote: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Though he didn’t read a lot of poetry anymore, he appreciated the art form. His grandmother used to read poems to him as a kid. Her favorite poets included Cuban greats José Martí and Nicolás Guillén.
“What do I do if there are any…problems?”
“Do whatever you need to do,” Miles said gravely.
No one enjoyed killing, but sometimes it had to be done. Cruz had become immune to the emotional toll that would affect someone less seasoned in his line of work. In his profession, emotions were more than a nuisance. They could derail a mission and get him killed.
“And the woman, Shanice?” he asked, his stomach tightening unexpectedly.
“Whatever you need to do,” Miles repeated, his expression not wavering.
Cruz nodded. “Have Ms. Sandoval deposit that first payment in my account, and I’ll be in touch when it’s done.”
3
“There he is.”
Shanice tried not to look up when Ava made her comment in a hushed voice, but it was impossible not to.
She glanced up and saw him, walking toward the back of the bookstore. For the past week, he’d come in almost every night around the same time, an hour before the store closed at seven. He took his time browsing the shelves before coming to the front with his selections.
He was a mountain of a man. At five-nine, she often wore flats so she wouldn’t be taller than her dates, but she wouldn’t have to worry about that with this guy. She could wear heels and he’d still be taller by almost six inches. He had to be at least six foot five with a powerful build and wore glasses perched on a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. Long sleeves hid obviously muscular arms, and he was handsome in a rough, textured kind of way, exuding a quiet strength that intrigued her.
“Phew, he’s fine,” Ava whispered, fanning herself with a magazine that caused her wispy blonde hair to blow back from her face.
Although Shanice hadn’t worked at The Bookish Attic for long, Ava had been there for three years. Once Shanice started, they became friends. Ava had a good sense of humor and a great personality that meshed perfectly with Shanice’s. Both women were always glad when they were scheduled at the same time because they got along extremely well.
Despite liking Ava, Shanice didn’t share everything with her. She never told her about Dennis’s death and why she’d moved to Florida from Texas. Guilt still ravaged her when she imagined Dennis hanging in that cell, though she’d never actually seen him in that condition. Could she have done more to help him?
“I can’t argue with your assessment,” Shanice said, eyes following their customer as he browsed the poetry shelves. Pleated pants fit snug on his tight behind, and the dress shirt pulled a little across his broad back.
“I would wear him out if he ever gave me the chance,” Ava murmured.
Shanice used her ample hips to bump her skinny friend. “Stop. He’ll hear you,” she whispered.
“Wouldn’t that be nice.” Ava leaned closer. “Why don’t you make a move on him and stop drooling in silence? Do it, or I will, and I won’t hesitate to tell you all about it.”
Both women snickered and went back to taking care of the end-of-evening tasks. Shanice straightened the area behind the cash register and prepped for when their eye-catching guest came to the front to check out. Right now, he was one of only three customers in the store, and it was quiet, making this the perfect time to start closing up shop.
Fifteen minutes before closing, the last two customers were gone and Ava went onto the sales floor to straighten up and re-shelve stray books. Like clockwork, five minutes before they locked the doors, their favorite patron came forward with a thick hardcover book in hand. Shanice smiled, meeting his gaze head-on, heart racing way too fast over a man she barely knew, except for the fact that he seemed to like history and had a sexy, crooked smile. He also made her panties wet. She’d had way too many fantasies about loosening his tie and straddling his lap while she took full advantage of those succulent-looking lips.
“Found everything you’re looking for?” she asked.
“I think so.” He shoved the horn-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “You’ve really expanded your poetry selection.”
His voice carried the accented sound of Spanish pronunciation, and she wondered about his background.
“You noticed,” she said, ridiculously pleased by his observation. “Our buyer tries to have a good selection for our customers.”
“Well, I can assure you, it’s greatly appreciated.” He set a history tome of about six hundred pages on the counter and pulled a wallet from his back pocket. “I ordered a copy of The Federalist Papers the first time I came in, and I received a call that it has arrived.”
“Okay. What was your last name again? Diaz, right?”
<
br /> As if she needed to ask. She had memorized his name and phone number from that very day when he placed the order. By the second time he’d come in and purchased a book, she’d memorized his credit card digits.
“That’s right.”
Shanice rubbed sweaty hands down her hips.
His eyes, the color of a deep, dark umber, flicked over the movement before coming back to her face. Air trapped in her throat and tension tightened in the space between them.
“One moment,” she whispered, because just like that, she’d lost her voice. She turned away and briefly closed her eyes.
Pretending to search the shelves though she knew exactly where his book was located, she allowed herself a few seconds to regroup.
“Here we go,” she said, holding up the book.
She handed it to him and he turned it over in his hand, as if admiring a piece of fine art. He had large hands with long, thick fingers. “Bueno.”
She lived for the sound of his voice, with its Spanish lilt, but delighted even more when he said a word or two in his native tongue.
Shanice rang up the two purchases and swiped the card.
She handed over the receipt, and after he’d signed his name, she bagged the books in one of their plastic sacks.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Diaz.”
“Please, call me Vicente.”
She blushed. “Vicente.”
“You work a lot. Every time I come in, you’re behind this counter.”
“I don’t mind. It’s not really work when you love what you do,” Shanice said. Feeling a surge of boldness, she added, “Where are you from?”
“Ah, the accent, eh? I haven’t been able to shake it, no matter how hard I try.” He shook his head as if disappointed.
“You shouldn’t try to lose it. It’s….nice.”
“Thank you. I’m from Cuba—Havana, to be exact.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“About fourteen years now. How about you—have you lived in Miami long?”
Until Now (Plan B Book 1) Page 2