The men waited behind her. She heard a car door open and close a minute later. Neither of them spoke.
Marisa didn't care. She just wanted to lie down on the cold grass and drift away. She ignored the moisture seeping through the denim. The soft blades of grass beneath her fingers seemed a perfectly good place to rest. Should she? How long would she be able to lie there before she froze to death? Was it cold enough at night to kill her?
If only she could run away from it all. Not face it. Like she'd run away eight years before. Except now... Now, the child of her heart, her love, would be the one to bear the burden. Marisa couldn't run. She could only go forward and face it. Ana was worth whatever price she had to pay.
Marisa would find her daughter, or she'd die trying. Right now... Right now, she just had to do the next thing, like Nate kept saying. Stand up. Wipe her tears. Breathe.
Keep going.
She returned to the truck, brushing slivers of grass off her hands and onto her wet jeans along the way.
"You okay?" Garrison asked.
It was a stupid question. She didn't answer.
He held out a stick of Trident and a bottle of water. She took the gum and popped it in her mouth.
"Why don't you sit down again?" Nate asked.
She would argue, but her knees were too weak to support her any longer. Nate and Garrison lifted her onto the tailgate. Garrison popped his trunk, found a fleece blanket, and slipped it over her shoulders. "I usually keep it with me, just in case."
She didn't know what to say.
Nate said, "You probably have all sorts of emergency preparedness supplies in your trunk, too, right?"
"Flashlight, first aid kit, auto-repair kit, jumper cables, and flares. And granola bars and bottles of water."
"I knew it."
"Hungry? Thirsty?"
Nate glanced at Marisa. "We're okay right now."
They were kind to make conversation while she regained her sanity. She feared they'd need to talk a lot longer, but sane or not, she had to go on. "I'm okay." She looked at Garrison. "When did she die?"
"Their first guess, sometime last night."
Nate touched her hand tentatively. She gripped his back like it might keep her from slipping away. She felt a modicum of comfort.
Nate squeezed her hand. "Let's give her time to process—"
"No." She shook her head and nodded to Garrison.
Garrison continued. "They found her body in an alley in Chelsea, but that's not the murder scene."
"How did...?" Marisa's voice was weak. She cleared her throat and continued. "How did she die?"
"Again, it's just a guess right now, but based on...it looks like she bled to death."
She tried to process that. Bled to death. "From a wound, or...?"
"You don't need the details, Marisa."
Garrison was probably right. Still. "Was she shot?"
He shook his head and looked at Nate, who sighed. "Why don't we just—?"
"Please just tell me."
"She was beaten and stabbed," Garrison said. "A couple of times."
An image of her sister's body, bloody and broken, filled her mind. Garrison had been right. She hadn't needed that information. Nausea rose again, but she swallowed it back.
Garrison turned to Nate. "I thought you could identify the body."
"Of course. How did your partner find out about it?"
"Her fingerprints gave the cops her identity."
Nate considered that. "Why would they have her fingerprints?"
"She had a Certificate of Conduct for herself and all her employees. It's like a background check for NYC employees. I assume so clients would know they could be trusted."
"Ironic," Marisa said.
Nate glanced at her, and she looked away.
Garrison said, "My partner wants you two to come in and tell him everything."
Marisa shook her head. "This guy..." She swallowed hard. "We know now that this guy's a killer. No way I'm taking that chance."
Garrison looked at Nate. "Okay. You'll want to wait to ID the body, because they'll hold you up, and you don't want to lie to them."
"Do they know I'm involved?"
"My old partner, Simon, does, but he hasn't told the NYPD anything about the kidnapping. He's staying involved. If the police can figure out who killed her—"
"We'll have our kidnapper," Nate said.
"At that point, Simon will get involved."
Nate tilted his head. "Why isn't your partner handling the investigation?"
"He can't unless he tells them about the kidnapping, which I asked him not to do. He's pretty irritated with me for tying his hands like this."
"I bet."
"He understands the stakes. He expects me to contact him if we get any more information."
"Will you?" Marisa asked.
"The FBI is good at finding people. They might be your best bet."
"But this kidnapper just became a murderer," Nate said. "He'll do whatever he has to do to keep from getting caught."
"Yeah." Garrison turned to Marisa. "I know you don't want the feds involved, but I can't hold out much longer. If we don't get some information soon, Simon's making it official."
She kept her voice even, rational. "Then he'll kill Ana."
"Not if we find him first."
"But—"
"I know," Garrison said. "It still might be our best bet to catch this guy."
"I don't care about catching him." Marisa wiped a single tear. "He can escape to the outer rings of Saturn for all I care. I just want Ana back."
Nate was studying her, probably waiting for her to lose it. She sniffed and sat taller. Maybe she was in shock. Maybe she didn't care.
Nate sat on the tailgate beside her, and she cringed with the truck's movement. Tentatively, he scooted nearer and wrapped his arm around her. Part of her wanted to tell him to back off. Mostly, she needed his nearness.
Garrison said, "You okay?"
She stared beyond him. "We should go."
"Go—?" Nate asked.
"To Pamela Gray's house."
"I think you need—"
She pulled away from him. "I need to find Ana." She jumped off the tailgate, and Garrison stepped back just in time to avoid a collision. "Let's go."
"I don't know if..."
Her look silenced Garrison. "I don't have time to grieve my sister. My daughter is in the hands of a murderer. We have to find her. Now."
She walked to the passenger side of the truck and waited for Nate to unlock the door.
Nate stepped closer to Garrison and whispered something.
Garrison angled his body so his voice wouldn't carry to her ears. They spoke quietly for a few moments.
Marisa stalked back to where they stood. "What?"
"Nothing," Nate said.
She could call him on his lie, but she didn't have the energy. "Are we going?"
Nate glanced at her. "Just making sure we have all the information."
She looked at Garrison, eyebrows raised.
"Pamela Gray's as cold as they come. She won't give you anything if she doesn't see an angle in it for her."
"Even if she knows Marisa's daughter's been kidnapped?"
"She didn't care about Vinnie's murder. Maybe the years have softened her."
"Not according to her maid," Marisa said. "But it doesn't matter. We have to do the next thing. Right?"
Nate thanked Garrison and turned to her. "Let's go."
Chapter 19
NATE PARKED ACROSS the street from a brick brownstone in Carnegie Hill on the Upper East Side and glanced at Marisa for a reaction. She didn't seem impressed.
In Nate's days covering the financial world for the Times, he had been to some swanky areas. This neighborhood ranked among the nicest. Just a couple of blocks from Central Park, the five-story house had to be worth close to ten million. A drop in the bucket for too many Wall Street types.
Back in the day, Gray'd had another hous
e in the Hamptons, an apartment in Manhattan, and a vacation home in Colorado. During Nate's investigation of the mortgage scandal, he'd learned that the federal government had seized all of those properties. Pamela had managed to hang onto this brownstone because she'd brought it into the marriage, and because the house had been owned by a trust. Her wealthy grandfather had fixed it so that Charles had never had access to it. Maybe the old man had known something the rest of them had missed.
Marisa opened her door and stepped out before Nate could stop her.
He jumped out of the truck and called over its bed. "If she were here, the maid would have called."
She glanced at the house. "Maybe she forgot."
"It's not even eleven yet. She was flying in today. Let's not spook Rosa."
Reluctantly, Marisa slid back into the truck. "Can you at least call?"
He slid in, closed his door, and unlocked his phone. He found the woman's number in his notebook and dialed. When the Hispanic housekeeper answered, he took the phone off Bluetooth and handed it to Marisa.
While she conversed with the woman in Spanish, Nate's mind drifted to the events of the morning. Leslie was dead. Nate tried to wrap his mind around it. A week ago, Leslie had shown up in his house, battered from the purse thief and desperate for help. Or so he'd thought. And now, she was gone. Just like that.
Life was fragile, even for a tough woman like Leslie. What had happened? Had the kidnapper simply grown tired of her? Had they fought? Had Leslie been trying to protect Ana?
Nate glanced at Marisa and wondered if she'd had the same idea. He hoped not. She was right to keep moving forward. Her forward motion was probably the only thing keeping her sane.
A few tears dripped down her cheeks. What was she telling this housekeeper? Could the woman be trusted?
Could anybody? Leslie had trusted the man who'd pulled her into this charade. Was the kidnapper the same man Leslie had said was her fiancé? That was the theory they'd been working under—assuming the fiancé was real. If he was, Nate had a strong suspicion he was the kidnapper. Otherwise, why hide his identity? Not a single photograph of him had been displayed at Leslie's house. Leslie must've believed he'd loved her, believed it enough to be convinced to betray her own sister. In those moments before the life seeped from her body, what had she felt? Fear? Shock? Regret?
Resignation?
Nate understood all of those. The memories came before he could stop them. His torturer's sudden, powerful blows. The realization that Nate's life was no longer in his control. That he would die in that crappy hotel room, in a pool of his own bodily fluids. He'd imagined the police finding him tied to the chair, imagined his father's face when he identified Nate's body. The hopelessness poured over him like thick tar.
Nate forced himself to look beyond the truck's dashboard to the street. A young woman with a child holding each hand skipped down the steps from a brownstone a few doors away. Probably a nanny. Folks in this neighborhood could certainly afford them. The little girl on her right was pointing at something, and Nate turned to see an old man walking a dog. The man stopped, and both the children fawned over the creature. One of those yappy little lapdogs with a bow on its head. A shih tzu, he thought.
Cars lined the street on both sides. Lots of luxury vehicles. A taxi idled in front of a house down the block.
Nate took a deep breath and blew out the memories of his own personal trauma, picturing the hopelessness dripping off of him and settling in a pool on the bottom of Brady's truck. A stupid visualization exercise his counselor had suggested. He'd never been willing to admit it worked. He rolled down his window, heard the birds singing and Marisa's rapid Spanish. He breathed in the air, safe for now. And Marisa was safe. They just had to get Ana home. Then he could get back to his real life and finish his move to New Hampshire.
And do what? Live alone, hide from the world? That had seemed a really good plan at one point, but now... He glanced at Marisa beside him. The thought of leaving her behind, of never seeing her again, was a whole different kind of torture.
But what if they weren't able to rescue Ana? Garrison had been right earlier. The FBI would have more resources and better instincts than he did. What did Nate know about chasing a killer? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Maybe he should insist they step back and let the FBI handle it.
He imagined how that conversation would go. Not well, he knew. But maybe the FBI could rescue Ana.
Maybe not. There were a thousand ways Nate could fail. The myriad options were overwhelming.
If they got the FBI involved, and Ana still died, could Nate live with having talked her into that decision? Would Marisa ever forgive him?
If they continued going Marisa's way and they failed, she wouldn't blame Nate. He could be with her, help put the pieces back together. Otherwise, she'd be all alone in the world.
Nate wanted desperately to find Ana, but Marisa was right. With Leslie dead, the situation looked bleaker than it had that morning. Chances were good Ana wouldn't survive.
Once again, Nate would have failed to protect someone he loved. How could he live with himself after that? What accusations would the image in the mirror hurl at him then?
And what difference would that make? He couldn't imagine that sweet, precious child hurt, killed. Ana was so full of life, so energetic and joyful. If she didn't make it through this, Marisa would never be the same, and neither would Nate.
Marisa hung up the phone and handed it back to him.
Nate pulled in a deep breath and turned to her. "You told her everything, didn't you?"
"Not everything, but about Ana, yeah."
"And?"
"Pamela Gray's flight landed a half hour ago, and she's on her way. I tried to get Rosa to let us in, but she said she couldn't risk her job." Marisa shook her head. "She said Pamela Gray considers the help expendable. She said Mrs. Gray would fire her on the spot and not think a thing about it. The woman's a fool. Maids, cleaning people—they know everything about their clients' lives. They see what's in the trash, they overhear conversations. Mrs. Gray's just lucky she hasn't been ripped off or worse if she treats her employees like that."
A spark of passion lit Marisa's eyes. Despite everything, she still cared about people. He loved that about her.
The thought had him swallowing and leaning toward his door. Until he got his head screwed on straight—as if that would ever happen—he'd better put the L-word away. And with Ana still missing, there was no time for such foolishness.
If only he could dictate to his heart how to feel. Just one more thing he was powerless over.
"Will she call us when she arrives?" he asked.
"Rosa said we wouldn't be able to miss her."
They settled in to wait. Nate hoped Pamela Gray had answers, because if she didn't, they were out of options. He didn't know how, but one way or another, he had to get Marisa's daughter back to her, safe and sound. If he didn't...
He couldn't fail to be a hero twice and survive the fallout.
Chapter 20
TWO SECONDS LATER. Two friggin' seconds, and his plans, his life, would have all been over.
He'd shifted Leslie's Impala into park and had almost climbed out when he saw the woman step from a pickup truck parked a few car lengths in front of him. He'd stared. Surely, it wasn't her.
But when she turned to talk to the man who climbed from the driver's side, he got a good look at her. He hadn't met Marisa Vega, but he'd seen enough of Leslie's photographs to last him a lifetime. She'd removed all the pictures of her sister and her mom from the house, but she'd kept plenty in that giant purse of hers. Snapshots and portraits in that little photo album she'd carried with her everywhere. Who knew what she'd been thinking when she stared at her sister's face. He should have asked. Not that it mattered now.
If he'd had any doubt, one look at the man with Marisa brushed them away. He recognized Walter Boyle from the million times he'd considered punching the man square in the face. Maybe pummeling him until he
died. Not that he'd ever had it in him.
But there was Leslie. So, he was capable of almost anything. Who knew?
Walter Boyle's newspaper articles had ruined Charles Gray's life. Pamela Gray's, too, and his own. And Walter—Nate, as Leslie had said he preferred to be called—had gone on to get a job with the Times and have a great career as an investigative journalist. No punishment for what he'd done.
Marisa and Nate got back in the truck, but the truck didn't pull away. Good thing. Now that he had them in his sights, he wasn't about to lose them. Maybe he could turn the tables. He'd been convinced that snatching the kid would get Marisa to give up the money, but apparently she didn't care about the little Mexican brat as much as she'd claimed to, because she still insisted she didn't have the cash.
But Leslie had known differently, and he did, too. Never mind that Leslie had changed her mind. Stupid, sentimental sister stuff.
The thought of her made his hands shake, and he clasped them together and forced the memory of the previous night from his mind.
He'd come to this house on a whim, not sure what to do with the Mexican brat he'd stuffed in the trunk. At least the sedative seemed to be working. She hadn't made a peep. He'd given her a pillow and blanket, and he'd cracked the space between the trunk and the backseat to get fresh air in there. The kid should survive.
He'd thought maybe Rosa or one of the other maids might help him with her. But now...
And what in the world were Marisa and Nate doing here?
He had no idea, but they'd made it impossible for him to go inside, even after they left. Too risky. Much too risky.
How to use this chance encounter to his advantage?
He could follow them. Leslie's car was much more ordinary than his, so they'd probably not notice the tail. Who remembered a silver sedan? And even if somebody did, it would trace back to Leslie, not him. As long as he wiped it down carefully, he should be fine.
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