by Jordan Dane
Diego had hit a dead end. Another failure.
"You act like you don't care what I got to say?" Sonja Garza filched one of Brogan's cigarettes and glared at him as he got dressed. She lay naked on the bed, propped up by pillows.
"Maybe I don't." He smirked, all full of himself. "I got what I came for, all I've ever wanted from you. You ain't much to look at, but you always were a great piece of ass. I'll give you that. Nobody makes me hard like you. But I ain't steppin' back onto your lunatic merry-go-round. No way."
"You used to like it." She blew smoke out her lungs and through her nose. "But I tell ya, I never thought lovin' you could hurt so bad, baby."
He never looked up to see the tears welling in her eyes.
"Get over it. It's not like we never done it that way before. Or are you forgettin' how we met?" Brogan grimaced at the buttons missing from his shirt, then chuckled under his breath. Real smug. "And I'm damned sure not the only one to blaze that trail. You ain't no virgin, honey."
She clenched her jaw and watched him dress. Nice threads, she thought. Real uptown. Life hadn't dumped on the bastard like it did her after their split. But inside where it counted, Brogan hadn't changed one bit. Every time he opened his pie hole, she remembered his nasty streak. And to prove her point, Brogan kept up his abuse.
"Hey, Sonja, anyone ever say you ride like a bad-tempered mustang with a burr under its saddle? You got a mean buck, girl." He laughed and zipped his pants, barely looking at her. "I could've used some leather rigging to stay on top."
"I see you're spending quality time with the livestock . . . and it shows. Too bad you couldn't last the eight-second count, cowboy. I might have enjoyed it." She dished back his rodeo talk, not giving an inch.
"You are one mean bitch, Sonja." Brogan buckled his belt and glared at her, venom in his eyes. She remembered the look.
"That's why we get along, you and me. Bein' mean is foreplay, remember?"
Sonja talked tough, not letting him know how much she hurt. Her skin rubbed raw, she ached all over. But inside, her blood churned for more. Brogan always did drive her crazy. He never understood why, and maybe she didn't either. In the old days, she used to fantasize about him, day and night. She would have done anything for him . . . and she had. Matt reminded her so much of—
Images of Matt Brogan jumbled with the shadows of her stepdad, coming to her room in the middle of the night. An eight-year-old kid forced to keep secrets. And she never told. Not ever. Since then, older men drew her. She sought them out, especially the mean ones. The cycle repeated for a girl who didn't deserve better. She brought it on herself, like her stepdad used to say.
Lewd flashes of her old man's body were never far from the surface—his smell, his nasty fingers, the things he made her do, and the way he grunted when he finished. It all came back in a rush, along with her pathetic need for his approval. The images of every man she had screwed ran together and dominated her brain, her best dreams and her worst nightmares. Sonja could never separate the two.
Until she experienced a glimmer of hope years ago. She always thought if she fixed Brogan, made him love her, the cycle would break. But that dream died. Matt booted her out when she needed him most. Afterward, she let depression and self-hatred run roughshod over the rest of her life.
Now Sonja stood and walked toward the man who could have saved her. As she got closer, a chill of fear and desire ran along her skin, her nipples hardened.
"I don't want to make you mad, honey." She trailed her fingers down his chest. He watched her move with interest and stood his ground. Slowly, she made her way around him. "Sure you hurt me . . . didn't listen when I wanted you to stop, but I still would rather be with you than anyone else, Matt."
His ego needed stroking. A chronic condition. But she knew how to work him. Sonja massaged his back through his shirt and moved her hands down to his slim waist. Her arms embraced him from behind. She brushed a hand across his crotch. He was aroused again. Brogan was predictable . . . and so easy to manipulate. If she wanted to engage the only brain he had, all she had to do was unzip it and Free Willy.
"We got a history. And I can't stop thinking about you, even now." Sonja stepped around and hugged him, hearing his heart beat in his muscled chest. She used to love the sound. His hard body always turned her on. But Brogan pulled away, his hands on her shoulders, keeping her at a distance. All for show. The hunger in his eyes betrayed him. The big jerk wanted her for another round. And it wouldn't take much to put Brogan over the edge.
"Yeah, we got us a history, all right. I remember holding a knife to your throat and tellin' you to lose my number, but did you listen? No. Your version of our history is whacked, like you."
Brogan never remembered their history like she did. He had his own slant. She did, too.
"Well, maybe I can help you remember the good parts." She shoved him onto the mattress, clothes and all, and straddled his taut belly. He raised himself onto his elbows and made a lame show of protest before she stopped him. "Don't worry, baby. I won't hurt you. You just gotta listen to me. What I got to say is important."
"But I don't trust you, Sonja. Can't get around that."
"Oh, yeah? Well, not too long ago, you trusted my mouth with your prize possession. I think you should reconsider."
He laughed, this time with humor in his eyes. "Guess you got a point. So what is it that's so important?"
"You still runnin' girls, Matt?" Before he answered, she touched a finger to his lips and added, "You don't have to tell me. I know you. Just hear what I got to say." When she had his attention, she kissed his neck and gyrated in his lap, a slow, steady move. "I heard something you ought to know if you're still connected. A cop came to see me the other day, asking about some chick I knew in high school. Isabel Marquez."
"Oh, yeah?" He narrowed his eyes. "Did you get the name of that cop?"
"Detective Rebecca Montgomery." She nibbled on his ear and tugged at his open shirt, whispering, "The cop told me she had a witness linking me and Isabel to a man in a Mercedes. Sound familiar? You still working for that rich guy?"
"What did you say, Sonja?" His voice stern.
"I denied everything. You know I wouldn't rat you out, baby." Sonja sat back and smiled. "I covered for you, Matt. My coming here tonight proves how much I still love you." After unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly, she stopped. "I would do anything for you."
"Jury is out on that one. She ask about anything else?"
"Yeah, this detective had a sister Danielle who got herself kidnapped and killed by some nasty sons of bitches. I heard about it myself, on the news a while back. Does the name Danielle Montgomery ring a bell?"
With his brow furrowed, he stared through her for a long minute, his eyes glazed over. When he finally fixed on her again, he grinned.
"You know? I think I've missed you after all." Nudging her up, Brogan shoved his pants down his thighs, a part of his anatomy standing at full attention. After looking down at himself, he grinned up at her and handed over a condom. "Take all you want of this. I'm feeling real generous. And if you do me good, I got plenty more."
He lay back on the mattress and let her take charge—the way it had been . . . the way it would be again. Sonja had to free herself from the past. And unknowingly, Matt would play his part. He owed her that much. She crooked her lips into a faint smile and gazed down at him.
Sonja had special plans for Matt Brogan. And step one had gone off without a hitch.
CHAPTER11
It took most of the morning for Becca to track down Rudy Marquez. She knew he'd be at work and wanted one-on-one time with him, without having to dodge interference from his brother, Father Victor. All she had was the name of a subcontractor he had worked for years ago. After countless phone calls, she found his current employer and the job site he would be at today. The timing worked. Nearly the lunch hour, the odds were good she might catch him on break.
As she drove, Becca's mind pondered what she remembered
about Isabel's brother.
Many questions nagged her, leftovers from her session with him downtown at Central Station. His insinuations directed at Cavanaugh were top of her list. Becca would push him, to see if his finger pointing at Cavanaugh had any merit. Yet she couldn't ignore the murder weapon being consistent with a mason's hammer, a tool of Rudy's trade. And the fact he had an arguable motive to kill his own sister and had worked the renovation project at the Imperial Theatre didn't bode well either. No doubt, Becca had to keep an open mind about Rudy being a viable suspect, but would Cavanaugh make the cut on her "persons of interest" list?
When Becca pulled up to the construction site, a small professional building off Loop 1604, she stayed in her car and scanned the workers for a familiar face. Most sat near the open tailgate of an old blue truck with a worn camper shell, eating their lunches and chatting it up. But Rudy wasn't among them. When she wondered if her trip had been wasted, she spotted a man off by himself, sitting under the shade of an oak tree. She recognized Rudy Marquez and headed his way.
Sitting apart from the others, he wore faded jeans, a white T-shirt under an oversized blue chambray shirt, all of it covered in dust and sweat. His dark hair was mussed and hung over his eyes. Rudy looked lost. A real loner.
She knew how it felt to live in a vacuum—a self-imposed prison. Despite how her heart went out to him, she had to set aside her personal feelings. Becca had made the mistake before, superimposing her own grief onto a young man who might be guilty of murder. She had a job to do. And Isabel deserved justice, even if it came at the expense of her brother.
"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Rudy said, as she walked up.
Sitting on the ground, his back against the tree, he stared at the horizon, barely acknowledging her presence. Although he hadn't greeted her with open arms, at least he hadn't waved an attorney in her face. She took this as a good sign.
"Why not? I'm only trying to find out what happened to Isabel." She knelt beside him, her eyes fixed on Rudy. "Don't you want to know what happened to your sister?"
Becca picked up a clump of caliche and worked it in her fingers while she watched him. The chunk of soil, made white by its lime content, gave the ground a cement quality. With the construction, her jeans and hiking boots would be covered in a layer of its white dust before she left the site. In his own way, Rudy reminded her of caliche. Hard on the outside, but soft and pliable underneath when pressed. At least, in theory. Becca tossed the chunk and wiped her hands, poetic analogies shoved aside.
As she expected, Rudy kept his silence, his eyes dead ahead. His only reaction was the tightening of his jaw. A sign she'd gotten a rise out of him.
"It's just you and me here, talking about Isabel." Becca lowered her voice, made it personal. "Ever since I've taken on this case, Isabel has haunted my thoughts. I can't imagine what you must be going through."
She told Rudy the truth, hoping it would draw him out, make him confide in her. But it all stemmed from raw emotion. After a long moment, Rudy looked into her eyes, a sad, damaged expression on his face. A wounded kid with too much on his shoulders.
"Maybe you do know." Rudy squinted into the sun at her back. "Victor told me about your sister."
When the conversation turned toward her, Becca stopped, unsure how to proceed. Eventually, she decided to take a risk. "Yeah. I bottle it up inside, but that's not the answer. Sometimes . . . sometimes I can't even breathe. The guilt chokes me. You understand what I'm saying. I know you do."
"Guilt?" he asked, turning in her direction. "What guilt do you have?"
"You name it. Guilt I couldn't stop it from happening. Guilt I never found her killer. Guilt I didn't get a chance to tell her how much I loved her. Sound familiar?" She fought the lump wedged in her throat. Becca didn't want to cry. She had to stay focused on the case. "So tell me. Did you ever confront Isabel about her trip out to the estate off I-10? I mean, you were the man of the house, with Victor gone. Did she ever tell you what happened?"
Rudy's lips quivered, and he shut his eyes tight. When he opened them again, he began, "She hated how I pushed her. I only wanted what was best for her, you know? But she didn't see it that way. Isabel wanted to be grown-up, make her own decisions. Me questioning her came off like—" He stopped.
"Like a parent?" she guessed.
"No, like Victor. We never knew our father, but who needed one with Father Bro around. When he left home and went off to Houston for seminary school, Isabel and I thought things would be different."
Rudy crossed his legs and fiddled with his lunch sack, one of his knees rocking up and down. Nervous energy with a mind of its own or fidgety guilt, Becca had no idea. Although he sat near her, only a shell of him remained in the present.
"Isabel started to change, spent more time away from home. I saw her that day, getting into a Mercedes, and I lost it. We had a fight, one of many. So when I asked her about the fancy ride, she shut me out. Hard."
"You said Hunter Cavanaugh had been behind the wheel of the car. You admitted it was dark, remember?" Becca pressed, making sure he understood. "The truth, Rudy. If you and I are going to find out what happened to Isabel, you have to tell me the truth, not what you think happened. Did you actually see him driving the Mercedes?"
Rudy's eyes flared in anger, but he held his tongue. His face twisted as he struggled to recall what had really happened. Finally, he answered, "No. I never actually saw him behind the wheel." His shoulders slumped, and he dropped his chin to his chest. "I only recognized the car, nothing else."
Rudy wadded up his lunch sack and threw it in anger. His eyes brimmed with tears. Becca admired him for his honesty, but she had to keep him focused and talking.
"About the necklace. You said Cavanaugh bought it for her. Was that a guess, too, or do you know something for sure?"
By the time he looked up, a tear drained down his cheek. Rudy searched her eyes for relief, but she had none to give. He had to go through this himself. Becca watched him face his demons and knew what it meant. To cut loose Cavanaugh as the culprit behind Isabel's disappearance meant Rudy had to acknowledge the role he'd played, a gut-wrenching realization.
"She wore it for a class photo once. Putting on airs. I tore into her about it, asking all sorts of questions like a damned cop." He stopped and shrugged. "No offense."
"None taken. Now please ... go ahead."
"She told me a friend gave it to her, but I didn't believe her. You don't give away something that expensive, I told her. So she changed her story. Someone loaned it to her. I didn't know what to believe." He wiped his face with a sleeve. "After a while, Isabel refused to talk about it. Said I wouldn't listen anyway. You gotta understand. In my neighborhood, good girls don't get gifts like that. Not unless strings are attached, you know?"
Becca didn't know how to reply. She understood his logic but felt his deep regret even more. She might have taken the same tack with Danielle. At least, the old Becca would have. Once Rudy found out about what really happened to Isabel, his worst fears would be vindicated, but that would mean nothing. He'd be empty. His last words with Isabel came from anger, and no amount of justification would heal the wound. He'd have to live with it.
"So as far as you know, Cavanaugh had nothing to do with the necklace. Is that right?"
She had to get him to admit it, own up to it. If Rudy couldn't tie the necklace to Cavanaugh, another part of the puzzle dropped away. She would have nothing substantial on the wealthy entrepreneur.
"Guess so. I never found out who gave her the necklace." Rudy turned away to wipe his face again, his version of reality crumbling. "She never said."
Hunter Cavanaugh looked squeaky clean on Isabel's unconfirmed ride in the Mercedes and the necklace. At least, according to Rudy. But Becca had to shift to a new tactic, and she wasn't looking forward to it. She had to retrace her steps in the investigation, confirming everything. It had to be done. She'd missed something.
"I got the billings for the renovation proje
ct on the Imperial Theatre. How often did Victor work the job? His name didn't show up as many times as yours."
Becca worded her question to sound as if she already knew about Victor working the job. Her training officer, Lieutenant Santiago, had taught her the trick. Maybe Rudy would answer without thinking.
"Victor only worked when he was in town, on breaks from seminary school. Our employer threw him a bone now and then. That's all."
"So it looked like they paid him under the table. Bet that helped your family. Pretty generous of your employer, I'd say."
"Yeah. They were good to Victor.. . and me. Guess they thought my brother would put in a good word for them upstairs." Rudy forced a smile. It didn't last long. "But if Victor is so plugged in to God, why did this happen to Isabel?"
Becca grabbed a few stones off the ground and rolled them in her hand, thinking of what to say. Nothing would give him comfort.
"I can't believe God had anything to do with what happened to my sister Danielle. If I did, the world would be a bleak place, without hope." She swallowed hard, searching her own heart. "And I don't want to believe that. I refuse to. You may be tempted to lash out at your big brother in frustration and anger at what happened. But I'm here to tell ya, don't make that mistake. Now's the time to hang on to each other. Believe me, I know. It's too hard to go it alone."
Her eyes welled in tears, but she didn't care.
"I know this is going to be tough, but can you tell me about the last time you saw Isabel, Rudy?" Becca saw his pain, felt it inside. "Believe me, I understand how hard this is. But you've got an open wound in your heart, just like me. It won't heal if you let it fester. Maybe talking about it will help."
As a cop, Becca knew her job and how to manipulate a guilty suspect into confessing. But if Rudy had nothing to do with Isabel's murder, she would use his grief to get what she wanted. Justice came with a price tag, one she'd been willing to pay until now . . . until Rudy Marquez. Using a broken young man to get at the truth challenged her moral barometer.