The Thief

by J. R. Ward

  It required a complete immersion. A never-go-back.

  And he wasn't prepared to ask that of her--because her grandmother, her most important responsibility, who happened to be a devout, God-fearing Catholic, would either have to be jettisoned at the proverbial side of the road...or Mrs. Carvalho would have to come with.

  And that was not going to happen. Even if Marisol could evolve into the reality, her grandmother with her traditions and her strict codes and her God was never going to get there.

  Assail was not about to ruin that wonderful old woman's life.

  "You have one more minute," Marisol announced, "and then I am getting my car keys--"

  "I have been addicted to cocaine for a good year now." Assail took a deep breath. "And by addicted, I mean...vials and vials of it up my nose every night. I was a raging coke addict, Marisol. I am not proud of this, and yes, I was doing it hardcore when I was with you."

  Her brows lifted. "I never saw you do drugs."

  "Why would I ever have snorted a line in front of you? I wanted you--I still want you--to find me suitable as a mate. That is not the kind of behavior that creates such an impression."

  "Were you...did you do anything intravenously?"

  "No, I never used needles."

  She seemed visibly relieved. "I, ah, I knew you were dealing it."

  "But you didn't know I was my own customer." He focused on her socks because he was afraid of what he would see in her eyes. "When one is in a fancy suit, living in a house like this, drug addiction is far easier to hide than if one is a junkie in a cardboard box in an alley. But the reality is, both the homeless man and I are exactly the same when it comes to being crippled."

  "You detoxed," she murmured.

  "I did, yes. Three months ago, I went to the clinic to be medically supervised while I got off the cocaine. Unfortunately, my"--he touched his head--"my brain did not do well. I had a period of psychosis."

  "Why didn't your cousins just say this?"

  "Would you have come if you'd been told I was dying of insanity?" He wanted to reach out to her, but he stayed where he was because he didn't want to pen her in. "I am very sorry that you were deceived, and I do believe that you, and you alone, are the reason that I am here instead of still at that clinic. But you shouldn't have been lied to. That was wrong."

  Marisol opened her mouth, but didn't speak right away. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

  "I haven't been thinking correctly. And more than that...I was ashamed. Addiction is an ugly, nasty disease, and I didn't want you to know I was so weak as to get lost in it."

  She looked up at the ceiling. Refocused on him. "So you are not dying."

  "No, I am not. Not more than any other living, mortal entity." He shook his head. "And please know I am sorry. I truly am."

  It was a long while before she moved toward him, and at first, he assumed she was leaving the room to go gather her things and her grandmother. But then she stopped in front of him.

  Tilting his chin up with her forefinger, she stared into his eyes, and he prayed that she found whatever she was looking for.

  "I'm glad you're going to be okay," she said after a long moment.

  Will you stay, he thought as he put his hands lightly on her hips. Will you still stay with me?

  He kept those questions to himself. He was too afraid of the answers.

  * * *

  --

  God was so odd.

  As Sola stood in front of Assail, she thought she probably needed to rephrase that, even though it rhymed. After all, she had prayed at that mass for just this kind of break in the bad news, had hoped for this unbelievable outcome, this reprieve.

  But instead of jumping for joy, she was left off-kilter and feeling betrayed. Part of her told her to get off her high horse and understand Assail's and his cousins' point of view. The other half, though, was feeling manipulated.

  "I hate that you've put me in this position."

  He nodded. "Myself as well."

  "So I guess I should just go home."

  "Your home is not Miami and you know it."

  "It's not Caldwell, either," she countered. "I've been here for ten years, and you know something--they've all sucked. Which is a helluva commentary considering how bad the decade before this was."

  "Your grandmother is your home. Wherever she is, you are at your place of residence."

  Damn you, she thought. For knowing me.

  "Marisol, I am out of the life. I am as free as you are. I would like to start a new chapter--anywhere. Miami, Caldwell, overseas. Like you, my home is where another is, not specific to any particular zip code."

  As he stared up at her, his moonlight eyes were steady and sad.

  "So you're at home with your cousins." She took a step away from him. "Wherever they are you--"

  "Don't be daft. This is naught to do with them."

  "Watch your tone. You are not in a position to get pushy."

  "I can protect you. My cousins and I are a safer bet for the two of you, and well you know it."

  Sola narrowed her stare on him. "I've been doing a pretty good goddamn job on my own."

  "Are you willing to gamble your life on that? Your grandmother's? There is safety in numbers."

  "Do you really want me to stay with you only through self-interest?"

  "Whatever it takes."

  She shook her head. "You have no pride."

  "Nope. None. Not when it comes to you."

  Sola went back over to the drapes that he wouldn't let her open. Jesus, it was like living with a bunch of vampires in this house, everything buttoned up during the daylight hours. Then again, that was the way of drug dealers. Night owls, the lot of them.

  Staring at the opaque fabric, because there was no looking through it, she tried on for size the idea of them moving around together as a pack, Assail, her grandmother, the two cousins, Markcus, herself.

  Turning back to him, she looked at him for the longest time, weighing everything. He was right, there was strength in numbers. And he was still so weak, his body frail under the button-down that he'd tucked into those too-loose twill slacks.

  In her mind, she heard him say that he was ashamed. Then she recalled when he had first opened his eyes to her and she had seen that the whites were all red...

  Such suffering.

  "Are you going to stay clean?" she demanded, even as she wondered how in the world she could trust any answer he gave to that.

  "Yes. On my life, Marisol. I will never do any drug again--I have learned too well where that takes me."

  Shit, she thought.

  After what felt like a lifetime, she shrugged. "I catch you lying to me or doing coke, and I'm leaving. I have no interest in enabling you, making excuses for you, or pretending I will spare you any kind of a backward glance. You have one chance and that is it. Are we clear?"

  Pushing himself upright, he nodded immediately. "I understand and I accept this."

  "And she's going to make you convert. My grandmother does not play--and you're going to have to learn Spanish and/or Portuguese. She'll teach you it whether you like it or not."

  "Marisol..."

  When Assail's voice cracked, she went over to him and embraced his thin body. He had been through hell, and the medical staff had certainly assumed they were going to lose him--and as much as Sola would have preferred the truth right from the beginning, he was correct. She probably wouldn't have come up here if it had been just a he-isn'tcoming-out-of-his-addiction or he's-lost-his-mind thing.

  And that was kind of ugly to admit. Like cancer was a noble disease, but if your biochemistry had conspired with a drug to your mortal detriment then you were undeserving of sympathy, support, understanding.

  "I am sorry," he said into her hair.

  "Me, too. And I love you."

  The shudder that went through him made her feel as though she was doing the right thing: He was relieved like that because he didn't want to lose her as badly as sh
e didn't want to lose him.

  "I will take good care of you and your grandmother," he said roughly.

  Leaning back, Sola pegged him with a hard eye. "That's a two-way street. I'm not a damsel in distress who needs to be saved, I'm a partner who will help you to survive, too. If there is a price on my head, then the Benloise family has one on yours, too. You need me as well."

  "Yes," he murmured. "I most certainly do."

  Sola had to smile. "Guess I told you, huh."

  "You certainly did. And it's a huge turn-on. You want to go upstairs and order me around some more?"

  She narrowed her eyes again. "Say please."

  "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease..."

  THIRTY-SIX

  It was at about four in the afternoon the following day that Vitoria arrived at the gallery and learned she'd made a mistake. And unfortunately, she discovered her lapse of judgment in front of the police.

  Striding through the rear of the building, she nodded at staff who were clustered together in stressed, chatty groups. Not much work was getting done, but she let that slide, given what was going on.

  As she came out into the gallery space proper, she immediately identified the man standing in front of a balloon sculpture of a woman giving birth.

  "You must be Detective de la Cruz?" she said as she walked over to him.

  He turned to her and seemed relieved not be focusing on the "art." "That's right. Vitoria Benloise?"

  "That is I." Yes, she knew grammatically it was "me," but she'd always felt that was too common-sounding. "How may I help you?"

  He flipped opened a leather wallet, revealing a photo ID that read Detective Jose de la Cruz, Homicide, and a brass Caldwell Police badge. Then he put out a hand. "Do you have a few minutes to speak with me?"

  The man was forty-ish, and with a name like his, she liked him even though they were already on different sides of the table. Plus he had nice, dark eyes. His clothes were simple, the sport coat and open collar professional-looking, but not stuffy, and she was surprised, given how cold it was, that he didn't also have on some kind of an overcoat or parka: Even with the late-afternoon sun shining down, when she had gotten out of her brother's Bentley, she had been chilled to the bone during the short distance to the staff entrance of the gallery.

  "Absolutely, Detective." She shook his hand. "What's going on?"

  "I'm investigating a homicide committed last night."

  "Oh, dear. Is this about Margot? I've seen the news on TV. What a tragedy! How does something like that happen in what should be such a safe part of town?"

  "Actually, most homicide victims are killed by people they know."

  "So scary." Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that a couple of salespeople had come out from the back and were watching. "Tell me, how may I assist you?"

  "Well, I've spoken to some of the folks here already--about when Margot left work yesterday and who she might have been with. And they all told me that you've recently taken over the business?"

  "I am here looking after my brothers' interests, it is true."

  "You say that as if you expect them to return here. Yet it's my understanding they've been gone from Caldwell for a while?"

  "They have been."

  "Have you seen or had any sort of contact with either Ricardo or Eduardo lately?"

  She assumed a sad expression. "No, I have not. I have been worried about them."

  "When was the last time you had contact?"

  "It's been months."

  "And you didn't think to call the police?"

  "I did back in Colombia. When they didn't do anything, I came here. It has always been my intention to reach out to the authorities if I could not locate my brother."

  Abruptly, the image of Ricardo strung up and rotted in that cellar made her throat tight. But now was not the time for emotion. She was speaking to her enemy.

  "Right. Of course." The detective flipped open a little notebook. Scribbled something in it with a pen. "And you've been here since when? I mean, when did you arrive in Caldwell and from where?"

  "I came from Colombia four days ago. Or is it five? With jet lag, I am confused." She smiled at him. "Detective, would you mind talking to me upstairs? Privacy is best and I have clients here."

  To help him understand, she inclined her head toward two women across the way. The matched pair of avant-garde rich were inspecting a work of art that was made up of shredded bedsheets draped over a taxidermied cow standing with each hoof in a toilet.

  "Yeah, sure. Lead the way."

  Vitoria took him through the unmarked door off to the side and up the stairs to Ricardo's office. As she went along, she channeled her walk into her hips and her ass under the theory that all assets were to be brought to bear in this situation. However, it was hard to keep things smooth. Her thighs and her calves were screaming in pain from the trip up that mountain. The two Motrin she had taken four hours ago were losing their potency.

  "Here we are," she said as she opened the door at the top of the metal staircase.

  "Wow." The detective went in. "Fancy."

  "My brother likes things a certain way."

  "Clearly." De la Cruz wandered around, even though there was little to see. "Where were we--oh, yeah. So you do expect your brothers back or not?"

  She closed them in together. "I must confess I have begun to really worry. It is not like Ricardo especially to just up and leave for this long, but then again, they are men. They do what they want."

  Vitoria went across and turned the guest chair in front of the elevated desk around. Sitting in it, she crossed her legs such that the slit in her skirt fell open.

  "Are you okay?" the detective asked. "You grimaced there as you sat down."

  "It's nothing. Just a good workout." She smiled. "I'm quite stiff from the gym."

  "I should work out more." De la Cruz approached on a casual stride. "That's quite a desk. Up on that platform."

  "My brother liked to make an impression."

  "Liked? Or likes."

  "Sorry, my English is not so good." She touched her forehead. "And where are my manners? I should have offered you coffee or tea."

  "It's okay. I hit the diner before I came over here." He cleared his throat. "So you live in Colombia?"

  "Yes, but we have homes in a number of places. Sao Paulo, Brazil, Santiago, Chile--oh, and Punta del Este, of course. My brother likes real estate, and I take care of his homes, overseeing his staffs and the estates."

  "Man, you left the equator to come to Caldwell, New York, in the middle of January. No offense, you must really be worried about Ricardo and Eduardo. My wife hates it here this time of year."

  "You should send her on a vacation."

  "She loves me, though." He smiled and glanced down at his little pad. "Can you give me a general idea of when was the last time you spoke to either of your brothers?"

  "As I said, it was months and months ago. Ricardo called me."

  "How did the conversation go?"

  She shrugged. "Much as usual."

  "So nothing seemed odd to you?"

  "Forgive me, but why are we talking about my brothers? I mean, I am happy to help the police in any way I am able, but I thought this was about the woman who was found dead?"

  "Just trying to get the whole picture. Your brother Ricardo is a prominent businessman in this town, and everyone here says they haven't seen him in about a year. Your other brother hasn't been around, either, and then someone who works in this gallery was found dead last night. There just seem to be a lot of people going missing." He looked at her pointedly. "You might want to be careful."

  "You are so right. I guess I never put all that together."

  "But about Margot Forest."

  "I'm sorry--I thought her name was Fortescue?"

  "Her legal name is Forest. Did you have any interactions with her during the last couple of days since you've been here?"

  Thank you, Streeter, she thought.

  "As a matt
er of fact," Vitoria murmured, "she came to my office last night--I mean, my brother Eduardo's office--before she left. She wanted to talk about a new artist she was bringing in."

  "Do you recall the name of that artist?"

  She pulled a random name out of the air, one that she had overheard in the gallery. "Daymar Locust--or Locasta?"

  "Oh, yeah. Someone mentioned him." Notation. Notation. "Anything else come up while you were talking with Ms. Fortescue?"

  "No." Vitoria smiled and played with the hem of her skirt. "I wish I could be more helpful."

  "What were you doing in your brother's office?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Why were you in there? If it was his office."

  Vitoria considered the various ways to play what was coming next. There were a number of different approaches she could take, and as she went over each in turn, it was rather like cards in a poker hand, she supposed.

  Eventually, she made a show of sighing. "May I be honest."

  "I think you'd better be, if you don't mind me saying. This is a homicide investigation."

  She moved her eyes off to the side, as if she were composing her thoughts. Then returned them to the detective. "I've been really worried about my brothers. As you must know, our culture is very different. As their sister, I am expected to wait patiently for news, rather than go find things out myself. But after a year...anyway, I went into Eduardo's office to see if I could find anything to explain where he and Ricardo might be. I am in an awkward position, you see. They would never approve of me interfering, and if they are alive? They will be furious at me."

  "So things are traditional in your family, huh."

  "Very." She deliberately hung her head, as if she were caught in a tangle. "It's part of the reason I am scared to call the authorities. If my brothers are all right, they will be furious at me for meddling in the man's world. And I truly don't want to believe anything bad has happened, but...what else can I think? It has always been just the three of us, since our mother died. I am not a worldly woman in the sense that I am adventurous or familiar with travel. I was terrified to make the trip here on my own, but as they are my only family, I felt compelled to come find them--I am babbling, aren't I. Listen to me."

  To ensure that the energy coming off of her was correct, she pictured once again Ricardo's body, seeing his lolling head, the neck wound, the gray ribbons of flesh--and instantly, she felt genuine sadness, regret, fear.