Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  “Christ,” Colston muttered under his breath. He raked a hand through his dark hair, unconsciously mussing it. “If Maribel was killed by someone who had a grudge against me, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “It’s just a theory.” Paulo paused. “How well did you know Maribel?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did she ever confide in you? Talk to you about personal stuff?”

  Colston frowned. “She was my secretary.”

  “So you took no interest in her personal life? A woman you’d worked with for three years?” There was just enough censure in Paulo’s voice to put the other man on the defensive.

  “Of course I took an interest in her life. And, yes, she did share some personal things with me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, she told me about her family, about growing up dirt poor in Brownsville. I knew she enjoyed dancing as a hobby. One night when we were working late, I caught her doing pirouettes in the copy room. She told me when she was a little girl, she wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up. But her parents talked her out of it, told her she couldn’t make a living as a dancer. They wanted her to become a lawyer instead. But Maribel didn’t think she could make it through law school, so working as a legal secretary was a good compromise.”

  “Do you think she was unhappy?” Paulo asked.

  Again Colston frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t think she was. But then again, that’s not exactly something you admit to your supervisor when you’re working at the top law firm in Houston and making nearly eighty thousand dollars a year.”

  Paulo whistled softly through his teeth. Damn. Maybe he ought to consider joining the family business after all.

  “Do you know if anything unusual had happened to her lately?” he asked. “Strange phone calls or messages, someone she’d noticed turning up wherever she went, things like that?”

  “Not that I know of. She didn’t seem worried or distracted, and the quality of her work never suffered.”

  Paulo nodded. “What time did you arrive at the office yesterday morning?”

  “Around nine thirty. I had to take my car to the dealership for an oil change. When I got to the office, Kathleen Phillips told me Maribel had called in sick. I listened to the voice mail message she’d left, and sure enough, she sounded awful.”

  Paulo raised a brow. “Did you have any reason to think she was faking sickness?”

  “No, of course not. Maribel was very conscientious. She rarely ever missed work, so I knew she must have been terribly ill.” With a flick of his wrist, Colston glanced at the platinum Rolex peeking from beneath the starched white cuff of his shirt. “I don’t mean to rush you, Detective, but I have a meeting with a client in an hour, and I still need to figure out Maribel’s filing system before we get a temp on board.”

  “No problem. I understand.”

  Paulo stood and shook the attorney’s hand, giving him his card and the spiel about calling him if he thought of anything else that might help with the investigation.

  At the door he deliberately paused and glanced back across the room. “Oh, one more question.”

  Colston looked wary.

  Why? Paulo wondered, intrigued.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  Paulo hesitated, pretending he’d forgotten what he was going to say. “Never mind. Thanks again for your time.”

  He left the office and made his way toward the bank of elevators, walking past a labyrinth of mahogany-paneled cubicles occupied by paralegals and secretaries bent over keyboards and talking quietly into phones. More than a few employees were online, catching up on the latest news about Maribel Cruz’s brutal murder.

  As Paulo reached the elevators he was joined by Julius Donovan. In order to cover more ground that morning, he and his partner had decided to split up to question Maribel’s colleagues in the firm’s labor and employment law division.

  “How’d it go?” Paulo asked as they rode the elevator down to the underground parking garage. “Learn anything interesting?”

  “Not really,” Donovan said, his gaze trained on the electronic panel above the polished brass doors. “The consensus seems to be that Maribel Cruz was a model employee—smart, dependable, hardworking. A real team player. No one could think of a single person who would have wanted to hurt her. And everyone had an alibi for their whereabouts yesterday morning—they were here, hard at work.”

  Paulo nodded grimly. “My interviews went pretty much the same way.”

  “What about Colston?” Donovan asked as they stepped off the elevator and started across the parking garage. “What’d he have to say?”

  Paulo gave his partner a quick rundown of his conversation with Ted Colston, concluding, “He seemed pretty shaken up by the whole thing.”

  “Who can blame him? Based on what one paralegal told me, Maribel was Colston’s lifesaver. She did everything for the guy—picked up his dry cleaning, bought his anniversary gifts, scheduled his doctor’s appointments, even did his grocery shopping whenever his wife was out of town.”

  Paulo grunted noncommittally. He couldn’t help wondering what else Maribel Cruz had done for Colston while his wife was out of town. It was the oldest of clichés—the handsome, powerful boss having an affair with his hot young secretary, who looked up to him and fulfilled him in ways his wife hadn’t done in years. Yeah, it was a cliché. But that didn’t make it any less plausible.

  When they reached the Crown Vic, Paulo unlocked the doors and climbed behind the wheel. After breakfast he’d swung by Donovan’s house to pick him up so they could ride to the law firm together and compare notes afterward.

  As Donovan settled into the passenger seat, he said, “I stopped by human resources, asked the manager for a list of all custodial staff and employees that were terminated within the last six months. She said she’d have it for me by tomorrow morning. We can run the names through the system and see if we get any hits.”

  Paulo nodded, reversing out of the parking space. “As soon as we get back to the station I’m checking in with the cyber guys to see how far they’ve gotten with Maribel’s computer. Who knows? Maybe she sent an e-mail to a friend complaining about some loser following her around.”

  Donovan snorted. “We should be so lucky.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Are you gonna keep your family in the loop?”

  Paulo shook his head firmly. “I’m doing this by the book. If it turns out that the killer is one of their own employees, I don’t want some scumbag defense attorney crying foul because the lead investigator is related to his client’s employer.”

  “Good thinking.”

  As they emerged from the underground parking garage, Paulo slid on a pair of mirrored sunglasses to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight slanting through the windshield.

  Santiago & Associates was housed in an imposing granite and glass high-rise situated in the heart of downtown Houston, one of many skyscrapers that formed the glistening skyline. The suit-wearing, Starbucks-sipping crowd that populated downtown on weekday mornings had thinned after rush hour, replaced by holiday tourists who strolled along Travis Street snapping photos and enjoying the mild November day.

  “I met your cousin,” Donovan announced, stretching out his long legs in the car.

  “Yeah? Which one?”

  “Daniela.” Donovan let out a long, low whistle. “Damn, why didn’t you tell me how fine she is?”

  Paulo scowled, charging through a yellow traffic light. “’Cause I didn’t want you getting that look in your eyes.”

  “What look?”

  “The one you have right now. The look of a hungry wolf who’s just spotted his next meal.”

  Donovan laughed, his teeth flashing white in his dark face. “Come on, man. You know I’m not like that. I just think Daniela’s a beautiful woman, and I wouldn’t mind getting to know her a little better. Matter of fact, why don’t you put in a good word for me?”

  “Hell, no
,” Paulo said unequivocally.

  “Why not? I’d do it for you.”

  Paulo shot him a dubious look.

  Donovan flashed a boyish grin. “Okay, maybe not. But only because you’re a notorious womanizer. I don’t have that rep. So what’s the problem?”

  “You’re too young for Daniela.”

  “I’m twenty-eight,” Donovan protested. “She can’t be any more than two or three years older than me.”

  “Try six.”

  Donovan did the math. “She’s thirty-four?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “So what? My mom’s ten years older than my dad, and they’ve been happily married for thirty years. What else you got?”

  “I’m not hooking you up with Daniela,” Paulo growled.

  “Why not? Oh, I get it. You think she’s too good for me because I’m a lowly cop,” he said bitterly.

  Paulo scowled. “I don’t give a damn about that. Her ex-husband was a rich lawyer, and he was a worthless piece of shit.”

  “Daniela’s divorced?” Donovan asked in surprise.

  “Yeah.” Paulo cast his partner a sidelong glance. “They met in law school. Their marriage lasted less than half the time it took them to graduate. The guy was a real piece of work. He put her through hell and then some. I don’t want to see her hurt again, not if I can help it.”

  Donovan nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “I understand where you’re coming from.”

  “Good,” Paulo grumbled, switching lanes. “So back off.”

  Donovan chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t know what offends me more, Sanchez. The fact that you don’t want me to date your cousin, or the fact that you think I’d actually be stupid enough to hurt her when I know your crazy ass wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet between my eyes.”

  Paulo grinned narrowly. “If you think I’m overprotective, wait till you meet her brother, Rafe—who also happens to be an FBI agent.”

  Donovan groaned. “On second thought…”

  Paulo laughed. “Smart man.”

  As soon as Detective Sanchez left his office, Ted Colston carefully slipped his card into an empty folder, then picked up the phone and dialed Kathleen Phillips’s extension. When she answered, he said, “Could you come to my office for a minute?”

  There was a pregnant pause. “Be right there.”

  Ted hung up the phone, his hand trembling slightly. He blew out a long, deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, mentally replaying his conversation with Paulo Sanchez. There was something about the homicide detective that had put Ted on edge; something about the way those dark, hawklike eyes had observed Ted’s every reaction, as if he were waiting for him to contradict himself.

  Ted frowned, his stomach roiling at the thought that he might have given the detective a reason—any reason—to be suspicious of him.

  As Kathleen Phillips stepped into his office, he managed a gentle smile for the attractive, well-dressed black woman. “Hello there. How are you holding up?”

  Kathleen shrugged, murmuring, “As well as can be expected, I guess.”

  Ted’s smile faltered. Normally when he summoned the paralegal to his office, she strode briskly into the room, notepad in hand, and helped herself to one of the visitor chairs. Now she remained standing by the door, her face impassive, her posture rigid.

  Not a good sign.

  “I understand how difficult this day has been for you,” Ted said kindly. “I know how close you and Maribel were. I should have told you to take the day off.”

  Kathleen shook her head. “I can’t. I have too much work to do.”

  “One or two days off wouldn’t have made a difference.”

  At Kathleen’s surprised look, Ted grimaced. He knew what she was thinking. It was no secret that he was a demanding boss, a relentless taskmaster who’d been known to make his employees work late into the night to complete a project, even on birthdays and holidays. He’d never given a second thought to how they might feel about him, or his management style. Quite frankly he’d never given a rat’s ass.

  Until now.

  Because what Kathleen Phillips thought of him—knew about him—could be his downfall.

  “If you wake up tomorrow morning and decide you can’t make it in, don’t worry,” Ted said, his voice full of gentle concern. “If necessary, I’ll reassign some of your workload. The others will understand.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Ted. But I’ll be fine. It’s better for me to be here at work. Helps keep my mind off what happened to Maribel.”

  “Of course. That’s perfectly understandable.” Ted paused, then said very casually, “I assume you’ve already been questioned by Detective Sanchez.”

  Kathleen nodded. “I spoke to him yesterday. At Maribel’s house.”

  Instead of asking her what she’d revealed to the detective—as he very much wanted to do—Ted said, “I assured him that he has my full cooperation in this investigation. I want the police to find Maribel’s killer and bring him to justice.”

  “So do I,” Kathleen said.

  Ted wondered if he’d only imagined a note of accusation in her voice. He searched her face for a moment, but her neutral expression gave nothing away.

  A knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach.

  “Will there be anything else?” she asked civilly.

  Ted hesitated, then shook his head. “If you change your mind about coming in tomorrow, just call me.”

  Kathleen nodded. Without another word, she turned and walked out.

  Ted waited several moments, then stood and crossed to the door, closing it quickly. Returning to his desk, he pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to a private investigator he often used for business and personal matters.

  “I need a favor,” he began without preamble to the gravelly-voiced man who answered the phone.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I need a tail on someone, starting today.” Ted paused, glancing toward the closed door before adding, “Her name is Kathleen Phillips. She’s one of my employees.”

  “I see. Care to elaborate?”

  “Not at the moment.” Ted provided the pertinent information about Kathleen, including her physical description, work schedule, home address, and make and model of her car.

  “You have to be absolutely discreet,” he said emphatically.

  There was a low, mirthless chuckle on the other end. “I’ve been doing this for twenty damned years. You don’t have to tell me how to do my job.”

  Ted frowned, bristling at the harsh rebuke. “That’s not what I meant. The police may have put a tail on Phillips as well, so I just wanted to forewarn you.”

  “Thanks for looking out,” came the droll response. “Will that be all?”

  “No.” Ted stood and walked to the windows, gazing down at the bustling city street forty stories below. “I also need you to run a background check.”

  “On who?”

  “Detective Paulo Sanchez with the Houston Police Department, Central Patrol. I need to know what kind of skeletons he’s got rattling around in his closet.”

  “Assuming he has any.”

  “Oh, he does,” Ted said with quiet certainty. A cold, narrow smile twisted his mouth. “Everyone has skeletons.”

  Paulo and Donovan were nearing the police station on Riesner when the younger detective’s cell phone rang. He dug it out of the breast pocket of his sport coat, listened for a few moments, then said briskly, “We’ll be right there.”

  Paulo glanced at his partner as he ended the call. “What’s up?”

  Donovan’s eyes were gleaming with excitement. “One of Maribel Cruz’s neighbors just called the station. She says her mother-in-law may have seen someone arriving at Maribel’s house early yesterday morning.”

  Paulo was already making a hard U-turn and heading back toward downtown.

  They reached Maribel Cruz’s Uptown neighborhood in under ten minutes and parked in front of a two-story redbrick home situated
across the street from Maribel’s house, still cordoned off with crime-scene tape. The woman who answered the front door was pale and thin, with dirty blond hair that hung limply to her shoulders and gray eyes that regarded them tiredly.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, Detectives,” Kristin Ramirez said once they were all settled in the modestly furnished living room. She sat in a leather armchair while Paulo and Donovan claimed opposite ends of an overstuffed camel sofa. A carved wooden cross was mounted above the fireplace, and several family photographs were neatly arranged upon the mantel. Paulo took note of a good-looking Hispanic man in dress uniform and a small, dark-haired boy with an infectious smile. Kristin Ramirez’s husband and child.

  “Thanks for calling us,” Donovan said, pulling out his notepad. “Our officers must have missed you last night when they canvassed the neighborhood.”

  “I wasn’t home,” Kristin confirmed, tucking her wispy hair behind one ear. Noticing the tiny blue veins that showed through her translucent skin, Paulo wondered, half seriously, how anyone could remain so pale living in a hot, perpetually sunny city like Houston.

  “I’m a registered nurse,” Kristin continued. “I work nights, from seven to seven, while my mother-in-law stays home with my five-year-old son, Jayden.”

  “Does she live here with you?” Paulo asked.

  Kristin nodded. “She moved in with us a month ago to help me take care of Jayden until my husband returns from Iraq.”

  “When did he deploy?”

  “Just over five weeks ago. His mother has been a godsend. She walks Jayden to and from school every day, helps him with his homework, and makes dinner for us every night. I couldn’t have gotten through this time without her, especially since I’ve been working double shifts for the past week.”

  “It’s nice to have family,” Paulo murmured.

  Kristin gave him a small, grateful smile.

  “How well did you know Maribel Cruz?” Donovan asked her.

  “Not very well,” Kristin admitted. “We only spoke to each other in passing. By the time she came home from work in the evenings, I was usually leaving for the hospital. But she always seemed like such a nice, outgoing person. I can’t believe someone killed her. When my husband’s mother came to my room this morning and told me what she saw yesterday, I knew I had to call you guys.”