No One Heard Her Scream no-1

by Jordan Dane

  Dead silence. Finally, a raspy whisper came through the cell phone.

  "Why do you continually try my patience? One of these days, I might surprise you and grant your death wish, Diego."

  "If you put me out of my misery, people might think you've grown soft."

  The breathing on the other end of the line changed. A low, menacing noise turned into full-blown laughter, devoid of any real humor. Diego pictured the older man's face, aristocratic features tainted by fierce eyes of ice blue.

  "You still amuse me, but don't take that for granted." The contempt was hard to miss. "I want a full report when you get here."

  The line went dead.

  "What the hell are you thinking, Galvan?" he muttered, dropping the cell phone onto the passenger seat.

  A death wish? An astute observation. For him to deal with Cavanaugh, a death wish made the job interesting, like playing catch using a live grenade. Yet, at some point, his insane game would come to an abrupt end. Diego could accept the consequences with only his life on the line. But Detective Rebecca Montgomery posed a problem.

  She'd confront Cavanaugh on the arson fire, no wiser than dangling a red bandanna in front of a deranged bull. The man would fix his sights and not let go, toying with her for mere sport. No matter how gutsy and smart she might be, the detective would have her hands full trying to outwit him. His vast resources and unrivaled cruelty would give Cavanaugh the advantage. Diego had seen him in action too many times.

  With the growing demands of his job, Diego found his life tough enough, but Rebecca could bring down his makeshift house of cards. At first glance, the woman didn't have the savvy to play on Cavanaugh's turf. But what she lacked in expertise, she more than made up for with nerve and determination. Gut instinct told him Rebecca wouldn't back off. He'd seen the conviction in her eyes.

  Would he stick his neck out for her? Taking on that kind of responsibility might tip the scales of his balancing game, force him to make a move off dead center. The risk might get him killed.

  "Don't get stupid. Not now." Diego swore under his breath as he turned onto the cobblestone drive of Cavanaugh's stronghold—his gilded cage.

  Becca spent the late afternoon behind her desk, dredging up the tragic past of two young women still missing. Their lives had taken a perverse detour—severed from their families by a faceless evil. She understood the enduring pain of their loved ones. Not knowing was the worst.

  Taken from the archived evidence boxes, photographs of the victims provided by the families morphed into Dani's face. Her eyes. Her smile. An unfulfilled future. For an instant, Becca even thought she smelled her sister's perfume, lingering in the air, triggering a haunting and pervasive guilt. She shut her eyes tight, holding back the tears that were never far from the surface.

  Keep digging. Becca took a deep breath and plunged into the boxes for more. Her instincts told her the answer might be at the next turn of a page. A young woman, buried in a very dark place, had died alone with only a futile scream to break the silence that marked her passing from this life. Putting a name to the bones at the Medical Examiner's was step one to finding her killer.

  Yet something in the photograph of Isabel Marquez drew her attention time and time again. And in the quiet of the late afternoon, she almost heard the girl whispering—Look again, or you'll miss it. She held up the high school class photo once more—a pretty young girl captured forever in a happier time, with a mischievous grin and eyes graced by innocence. Although her thoughts turned to Danielle, Becca wanted to remember the face of Isabel—as if it would be possible for her to forget.

  "Wait a minute. I knew that name sounded familiar."

  Finally, it clicked. The word "coincidence" raised a red flag. She'd seen the name of Marquez earlier in the day.

  Becca remembered something from the list of license tags taken by a CSI tech outside the destroyed theater. Standing hunched over her desk, she rummaged through the accumulating piles of paper, searching for the report she received earlier. As she suspected, the name of Marquez was on the list—a red Ford F—150 truck registered to Rudy Marquez. After a quick look in the case file, she learned that Isabel's father had been deceased at the time she went missing, but her mother and two brothers filed the initial report. Rudy was one of Isabel's brothers.

  To place a face with the name, she replayed the CSI video, hoping to get a fix on the owner of the truck. Of all the people gathered outside the Imperial Theatre, one set of eyes reflected a different level of interest than the rest of the rabble. And she knew, without confirmation, she'd found Rudy Marquez amidst the gawkers, standing by a red truck.

  "That's gotta be you," she whispered. "What are you up to?"

  Becca felt certain it wasn't idle curiosity that had drawn the man to the theater, but so much remained unexplained. Did Rudy Marquez know anything about the dead body found at the Imperial? And was there any connection to Hunter Cavanaugh, the onetime owner of the property—a man dangerous enough for the mysterious Diego Galvan to risk his own neck to warn her?

  Questions flooded her mind. But when she picked up the school photo of Isabel again, she knew she had a solid lead. Her eye caught another reason to make the trip to see Marquez.

  "Well, I'll be damned. Right under my nose all along." After a nibble on the corner of her mouth, she smiled. "Thanks, Isabel."

  CHAPTER3

  Becca headed west on General McMullen, a bustling six-lane thoroughfare. A place where men still stood on busy street corners hawking newspapers, taking their lives in their hands to peddle bad news. Businesses along the way were mostly converted houses painted in vivid reds, yellows, and electric blues. In the light of day, the paint colors could do some serious damage to perfectly good eyeballs if a person stared too long. Now, with the sun on a downward spiral, the boulevard would soon blaze in neon and the night shift rabble would scurry from their hiding places like cockroaches on party patrol.

  Under the heading of surreal, churches wedged between bars, tattoo parlors, hooker hot spots, and tarot card readers—an eclectic hodgepodge of vice and redemption offered up in a single locale. Yet despite the rough nature of the neighborhood, a steady vitality pulsed through the district like blood coursing through an artery.

  Before she hit the intersection of Castroville Road, Becca turned her Crown Vic down a side street near Taqueria Vallarta, one of her favorite places to grab a bite. The restaurant served killer barbacoa in fresh corn tortillas, a traditional weekend treat. And if Jose Cuervo took unfair advantage of her the night before, a mega bowl of menudo would do the trick. The breakfast of champions. In "the hood," you couldn't beat the aromas. The dinner hour and her stomach growled in response. But as hungry as she was, Becca had too much on her mind to stop.

  After turning onto San Bernardo Street, she spotted the red F—150 of Rudy Marquez and pulled in behind the vehicle. Glittering in the waning sun, rosary beads hung from the rearview mirror of the truck, a common display in town, but the man was nowhere in sight. Before she got out, Becca scanned the neighborhood and confirmed the street address. House numbers reflected off a rusted white mailbox that listed to one side, its concrete base uprooted. She'd found the place.

  The Marquez family lived in a dingy white clapboard house with window frames and front door painted in a bright blue, the paint peeling in spots. A dismal pit the size of a matchbox. Even though wrought iron covered every window and door of the house—no doubt meant as a deterrent to crime—the run-down condition of the property should have been enough to discourage a criminal looking for a quick score. What could these people possess that would be worth stealing? But she knew better. Criminals preyed on the poor, who lacked the resources to do anything about it. So much went unreported.

  Becca heaved a sigh and got out of her car, shifting her thoughts to how she would conduct her interview with Marquez. Until she got a sense of Rudy's part in all this, she had to play her cards right.

  A chain-link fence bordered patches of green in f
ront of the Marquez place. Weeds and dandelions had locked horns with what remained of the St. Augustine grass. Yard work and house repairs were low on the family's list of priorities. They had enough on their minds. With casebook and pen in hand, Becca stepped inside the cyclone fence and clanked the gate shut behind her.

  Yellow ribbons made of plastic fluttered in the breeze, tied to a scrawny mesquite tree. A reminder of the family's loss. A stone shrine stood near the cement front stoop with a ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary gazing down, arms outstretched. Placed under rocks to hold them in place, laminated photos of Isabel had weathered and were lying at the foot of the sculpture—a sad memorial.

  For a long moment, Becca stared at the grotto, wanting to pray. But the words wouldn't come.

  "Can I help you?" A thick Hispanic accent.

  As she turned, the glare of sunset hit her sight line, blaze orange on a last-ditch assault. Becca squinted and raised a hand to block the light. From what she saw, the silhouette of a man stood inside the screen door, his face in shadow. She reached for her badge and held it up.

  "My name is Detective Rebecca Montgomery. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

  "Is this about Isabel?" The man's face came out from the dark.

  Becca stopped, taken back by the sight. He had an uncanny resemblance to the missing girl. Yet the white collar had been a complete surprise. Standing in the threshold of the Marquez house stood a priest.

  "Are you a family member, Father?"

  Intense dark eyes framed by a full head of black hair, dark skin, medium height and build. Although she saw the family resemblance, this man's stern expression hardened the Marquez likeness, gave it an edge.

  "Yes, I'm Victor Marquez. Isabel is . . . my sister."

  The priest struggled with whether to use the present tense. She knew the feeling. He didn't open the screen door, only stared out the mesh, using it as a fragile barrier against what would come next.

  Becca knew the look, had seen it many times before as a detective delivering bad news. Now after what happened to her own sister, she knew firsthand how dread mixed with the strange sensation of relief for it to be over. A gut-wrenching contradiction. Even though the priest set his jaw and steeled himself for what she would say, his eyes couldn't hide the pain. Becca raised her chin and took a deep breath as she walked up the steps to the front door. She had to be the cop now, not the victim. Don't read too much into this, Beck. He's not your personal mirror. Stay objective. Easier said than done.

  "Do you mind if I come in?"

  For a moment, she didn't know if he would allow it. Eventually, he did.

  Sparse furnishings, but the place looked clean. A faint hint of pine cleaner played second fiddle to the pungent aroma of roasted jalapenos and bell pepper, someone making salsa. Scented candles burned near the entry. Another shrine for Isabel dominated the tiny living room. Keepsakes and photos of the missing Marquez girl were cast in the pale glow of flickering red votive candles. Isabel had been elevated to sainthood by her family. Becca understood the sentiment. In death, the imperfections of the victim were forgotten. The priest noticed her attention to the memorial. "My mother tells me the constant reminder helps her cope." His words were punctuated with a sigh. "But you don't think so."

  He shrugged. "Why are you here, Detective?" Before Becca answered, an older woman entered the room from the kitchen, wearing a blue house frock and a faded green apron, wiping her hands with a rag. Petite and rail thin, Hortense Marquez looked as if she'd been crying. Her eyes still brimmed with the sheen of tears. She wore a yellow bandanna wrapped around her head, and curly wisps of gray hair poked out from under it. Grief etched her face, making the woman appear older than her years. And despite the memorial of hope she'd set up in her living room, despair had found a home in this woman's eyes. Becca knew the look all too well.

  "This is my mother. Please excuse us." After a quiet exchange in Spanish with the priest, the woman forced a smile and nodded before she left the room. But not before she gave Becca one final look, one she'd seen from her own mother's eyes. Although Becca knew only enough Spanish to be dangerous, no words were necessary. For the things that really mattered in life, there were no language barriers.

  Once they were alone, the priest gestured for her to take a seat.

  "Was there some reason you didn't tell her I was with the SAPD?" she asked as she sat on a green floral love seat, armrests frayed on the corners.

  "Her English is not good. No sense in alarming her until I know . . . something for sure." Father Victor took a seat across from her, a wooden chair that had seen better days.

  "I'm investigating your sister's disappearance."

  Before she went on, the priest interrupted. "Investigating? It's been almost seven years. Why have the police taken an interest now?"

  Suspicion narrowed his eyes. Father Victor had set aside his religious affiliation to become brother to Isabel, the patience and generosity of his profession forgotten.

  "I know this must be difficult, but—"

  "Know? How could you know?" He lashed out, his face wracked with grief. But when he looked into Becca's eyes, he stopped himself. "I suppose you see a lot of families like this."

  "Unfortunately, that's true, but it's still not the same as going through it." Becca met his gaze. She wanted to stop, not go any further. Maybe it was his white collar. Or maybe she saw herself in him, like a mirror. "My baby sister, Danielle. She was taken . . . and killed. We never found her body."

  The priest stared at her in disbelief. They sat in silence. The quiet gave Becca a strange comfort. She looked away to give him time to recover. Or maybe she needed the time. But when she looked up, the priest's eyes glistened with tears. The sudden display of sympathy caught Becca by surprise.

  He reached for her hand, his fingers clutching hers. Becca flinched at his gesture. She hadn't been touched in a very long time.

  "But if you never found her body, how could you know for sure?" he asked.

  How could you know? His words brought back a flood of doubts. Her acceptance of Dani's death had never felt real. She gave it lip service, but in the end, she didn't believe it herself. Not without a body. Becca felt an old familiar wall erecting. The tiny living room closed in on her. She gritted her teeth and pulled her hand away. Becca couldn't deal with his pity.

  "We ... I know, Father."

  She squeezed the casebook in her hand. Although closure for the Marquez family had its inescapable merits, she didn't want to be the one to rob this family of hope. Still, she had a job to do. Her usual mantra.

  But as the flickering red votive candles of Isabel's shrine taunted her, a disturbing thought took hold. Had she really given up on Dani so easily? An empty casket. The headstone. Becca believed she'd done the right thing to give her mother closure, but now it all felt like such a betrayal. She avoided the priest's stare and took a deep breath.

  "Are you all right, Detective?"

  "Yes, I'm fine." She cleared her throat to shake off the emotion. No sense in prolonging this. "We've found some remains that may be your sister's. I'll need a sample of the family's DNA to help with the identification."

  Father Victor shut his eyes and lowered his head, a quiet prayer. At least the man had his faith to give him strength. She gave him a moment, gazing around the room. Her eyes found a Marquez family photo hung on a nearby wall. In his priest garb, Victor stood behind his mother with Rudy and Isabel at her side, a picture taken at a happier time. It reminded Becca of another photograph. The one she'd brought with her from evidence.

  "I'm so sorry for what your family has gone through," she added in a quiet tone. "Father Victor, can you tell me anything about the necklace your sister is wearing here?"

  Becca showed him a photograph from her casebook, evidence from the archived box on the Marquez missing person case. Earlier, she had recognized the gold jewelry in the photo as being the same item recovered from the bones at the theater.

  "I remember this. The Is
abel I knew never could have afforded such a necklace." He clenched his jaw and held the picture in his hand, his eyes glazed over by the past. "She told me she bought it for herself, but I never believed that. At the time, I heard she was dating an older man, someone with money. But she would never talk about it. Not with me."

  "If she didn't talk to you about it, Father, who did she talk to? How could you know about the older man if she wasn't the one who told you?"

  "It's been so long ago. I forgot."

  By his expression, Becca could tell she'd surprised him by her question. And his answer had been too abrupt. Coupled with the shift in his eyes, he looked like a man concocting a story. After the priest handed back the school photo, he shifted in his chair, a guarded posture. Another sign of his reluctance. Becca tried a different approach.

  "The piece looks like a unique design. Can you tell me anything more about the heart charm?"

  "I'm afraid I can't help you with that." With a fingernail, Father Victor picked at a chip in the armrest of his chair, avoiding her eyes. Another stall and another dead end.

  "Well, who could help me?" When he didn't answer right away, she tried another avenue. Becca had to get him talking again. "Did you all grow up in this house, Father?"

  "Yes, we did." A faint smile. "My mother did the best she could raising us after my father died."

  "Tight quarters. And only one bathroom?" After he nodded, Becca smiled. "That could test the strength of a family, for sure."

  "It wasn't so bad after I moved out. St. Mary's Seminary in Houston. The archdiocese gave me a scholarship."

  "Good opportunity for you, but I bet Isabel and Rudy still fought over the bathroom even after you left. Typical brother-sister stuff, huh?"

  "Oh, no. It wasn't like that. Isabel and Rudy got along great. They were inseparable, really. They shared—" He stopped himself.