by Julie Leto
“Any word?” Frankie asked.
Max shook his head. Frankie wandered back to Cole.
“You know Craig Bennett long?” Frankie asked. Might as well do his job for a little while. He was, after all, still enjoying that ripe Titan paycheck in his bank account every week. For now.
Evan Cole eyed him suspiciously. “I didn’t try to have him killed if that’s what you’re asking.”
Frankie took a step back and raised a hand in surrender. “No, man, that wasn’t what I was asking, but thanks for clearing that up. I’m sure the police will appreciate crossing you off the list.”
“I don’t abide sarcasm,” Evan snapped.
Frankie leaned in close. “I live off it.”
“Think you can at least save it for when my best friend isn’t dying in the adjacent room?”
Frankie smirked. Yeah, he guessed he could make this one exception. “So, how long have you known him?”
“Since prep school, not that it is any of your business.”
“Oh, it’s my business,” Frankie assured him. “Mrs. Bennett hired us to find out who tried to kill her husband. I’m just doing my job, man. If you’re really his best friend, then you’ll help me out.”
Cole eyed Frankie from head to toe, clearly assessing whether the agent had the right stuff. He gave Max a brief glance, then nodded, his frown belying the approval flashing in his eyes.
“I’ll help in any way I can, of course.”
Evan wandered back to the door beside Max, and then stared through the window for a long while. Frankie hung back, waited. He didn’t like the idea of Marisela being alone with Ian in the chapel, but not for the reasons she’d probably expect. On Marisela’s first case, Ian had misled Marisela about the client and her motives. Frankie didn’t figure Denise Bennett had the same twisted intentions, but he preferred to stick close. Keep Marisela out of trouble.
As if that were possible.
Seconds later, Evan Cole stalked toward Frankie, his eyes wild with barely checked fury. His gaze alternated between Frankie and Max, as if he wanted to ask a question but wasn’t sure which operative he should address.
Max broke eye contact, leaving only Frankie.
“You guys really any good?”
“Word on the street is we’re the best,” Frankie assured him.
Cole dug into his pocket and extracted a gold money clip straining from the layers of hundreds folded inside. He took the entire stash and pressed the Ben Franklins into Frankie’s palm. “When you find who did this, I want to know first, got it? Before Denise. Before the police.”
There had been a time not too long ago when the smell of easy money would have tempted Frankie into a deal with the devil without a second thought. It wasn’t as if he’d grown ethics in prison or anything, but if Titan had taken money from Denise Bennett, he couldn’t jeopardize the case by indulging Evan Cole’s thirst for…what? Revenge?
Besides, Max had seen everything. Cool as the guy was, he was still Blake’s right hand.
“Keep your money, Mr. Cole,” Frankie said, slipping him back the bills. “You cooperate with us and we’ll find out who tried to kill your compadre. Stay in the loop, and you’ll know what you need to know.”
Max gave Frankie an approving nod, but Frankie only shook his head and wandered a few feet down the hall. Life had been so fine when lining his pockets had been his only motivation.
Well, that was how he liked to remember it. Thinking about Marisela down the hall with Ian Blake probably drooling over her canceled out the nostalgia. With his decision ten years ago to hang with his boys and embrace the Toros’ quest for stolen wealth, he’d lost Marisela for a decade. Now thanks to his own big mouth, they were working together again. Since their reunion, she’d slipped under his skin like a splinter, except the pain she brought was as cruel as it was intoxicating. She’d screw around with him like she did on the balcony tonight, and they’d likely engage in some hot sex real soon, but she’d erected a wall between them—a wall he knew would take a lot more than sex to break down.
Not that sex wasn’t a great way to start the process.
Cole paced around the waiting area for a few more minutes, then headed back toward the chapel. Frankie followed, giving the man a few feet of distance. Watching a friend nearly die was a life-changing experience—and one that gave Frankie a few ideas on how to deal with Marisela when the time came.
And it would come. Very, very soon.
* * *
Marisela emerged from the chapel, followed by Ian, who led Denise Bennett out with his hand supporting her elbow. Once Evan Cole saw they were on the move, he jogged to meet them.
“What do you want to do now, sweetheart?” Evan asked Denise. He cast suspicious glares at all of them.
Oh, yeah, this guy had something to hide.
Denise looked up at him with weary, bloodshot eyes. “I just want to wait for Craig.”
Evan nodded sympathetically and led her down the hall. When they were out of sight, Ian turned to Marisela. “Well done, Ms. Morales.”
“Shouldn’t I be Aphrodite again?”
Ian quirked a grin. “No need for covert ops and code names just yet. Fill Frank in on the new information. I’m heading up to surgery to relieve Max. I want him to get his team started on investigating Rebecca Manning.”
Frankie leaned back on his heels. “You doing grunt work? This I’d like to see.”
Ian sneered. “You doing any work is something I’d like to see. Stick with Marisela. She’ll fill you in.”
Marisela looked down at her feet and tried not to laugh. Not that Ian’s quip had been particularly funny, but Frankie hated being bossed around, by Marisela more than anyone else. She started toward the end of the hall, but Frankie stopped her before she could open the door, grabbing her hand and swinging her around until her back was against the wall and he was looming over her with those hungry dark eyes of his.
Her ribs ached, but she wasn’t going to show her pain to anyone.
“Blake says you’ll fill me in, huh?”
“Someone has to bring you…up to speed,” she countered, easily twisting her words into a tease. Came so easy with Frankie. They could get each other hot reciting recipes.
“I was thinking we could get in the back of that limo and I could be the one doing the filling, if you know what I mean.”
She licked her lips, trying to ignore how her nipples pearled at the crude but enticing invitation. “I know exactly what you mean, cabrón, but we’re on the job. How about we put the client’s needs above our own?”
“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” he replied.
Marisela rolled her eyes, grabbed Frankie by the bolo tie he’d worn with his tux, and led him out the door. When they opened the back of the limo, they discovered that the decision to work rather than play had been taken out of their hands. Max sat in the center of the seat, a laptop engaged and operating, while two other units sat across from him, clearly waiting for their arrival.
Once they were both inside, the door was locked and Max typed in the codes to bring the information they needed to the screen.
The first image was of a newspaper headline, dated 1991.
BEACON HILL BOYS SUSPECTED IN MURDER.
“That about says it all,” Marisela said, her eyes wide.
She read the first few paragraphs quickly. Rebecca Manning, seventeen at the time, had indeed been killed fifteen years ago, her body found two months after her disappearance in a marsh on Peddock’s Island, a national park campsite just a few minutes by boat out of Boston Harbor. The Manning family, which included a younger sister, Tracy, claimed that Rebecca told them earlier in the evening that she was going to meet her boyfriend, high school football star, Bradley Hightower. Hightower, who’d been camping with his younger brother, Raymond, and best friend, Craig Bennett, son of a state senator, denied seeing Rebecca at any time during the cold winter evening.
The police found no hard evidence linki
ng the boys to the crime and no witnesses that placed Rebecca on the island or near the marina, though a stolen dinghy with Rebecca’s scarf caught on the railing was recovered a few days later in the harbor. But there was no evidence of any struggle and no fingerprints at all.
The next article revealed that despite public outcry that the rich Boston boys had exploited their money and influence to intimidate prosecutors, the boys were never charged, not even after the body was discovered not far from their campsite. The detectives assigned to the case had protested that the prep school students knew more than they were admitting, but had been unable to come up with hard proof. The Hightower boys, who’d been whisked away to Europe by their father, had never even been questioned by the police.
“Talk about getting away with murder,” Marisela said.
Frankie leaned back in the seat and sighed heavily. “If they’d come from our neighborhood, they’d still be in prison.”
“Nah,” Marisela contradicted. “Electric chair. Do you have the electric chair in Massachusetts?” she asked Max, curious.
Max looked up from his laptop, his gray eyes stoic. “Are we back to the case or are we still making jokes about your misspent childhoods?”
Marisela smirked. “Sorry, it’s just that after talking to Denise Bennett and reading all this, I can’t help but guess that these guys are guilty as sin.”
Frankie clucked his tongue. “Evidence is circumstantial.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re taking the side of the defense?”
Frankie tapped a few keys. “There was no defense. The guys were never charged. Besides, innocent or guilty makes no difference to me. I met both in prison, and under most circumstances, one wasn’t any better than the other.”
“We aren’t concerned at this point with their guilt or innocence,” Max said. “We need to piece together exactly what happened that night. Right now, the note is our only clue, so that’s where we start.”
“Why didn’t Bennett’s wife turn the note over to the police?” Frankie asked.
“She doesn’t trust the cops,” Marisela answered. “Claims they tried to railroad her husband all those years ago.”
“The cold case squad of the Boston police department recently started investigating the case again,” Max informed them. “The inquiries caused a public relations nightmare for the good congressman. Probably turned Denise Bennett’s life into a living hell.”
“She doesn’t know what happened back then?” Frankie asked.
Marisela pursed her lips. “Before we left the chapel, she claimed her husband told her exactly what he told the police at the time. He’d been camping with his buddies and none of them saw Rebecca that night.”
Frankie frowned. “What about Evan Cole?”
Marisela looked at Max.
He shook his head, “So far, there’s nothing in my initial research that links him to the incident at all. I don’t think he was there.”
“He told me he was Craig Bennett’s best friend,” Frankie informed them. “If the guys all went out for a night in the woods, why wouldn’t he go along?”
Max nodded appreciatively. “Good question. Another avenue for us to pursue.”
Marisela pressed her hand to her forehead. She was starting to get a headache, though whether from excessive thinking, exhaustion, or a combination of both, she couldn’t be sure.
“Did that new task force dig up anything new?” Marisela asked.
“No,” Max replied. “My sources tell me the case is just as dead in the water, if you’ll pardon my pun, as it was fifteen years ago.”
“Any political influence to reopen the case?” Frankie asked.
Marisela and Max both eyed Frankie with surprise.
“What?”
Normally, Frankie was more muscle than brains, but Marisela should have learned a long time ago not to underestimate her ex.
Max cleared his throat. “I find it hard to believe that a congressman who is making serious waves in Washington, D.C., with his new prescription-plan initiatives isn’t ruffling feathers somewhere. The D.C. crowd doesn’t like upstarts. He’s in the news quite a bit with a new prescription-drug proposal. I’ll keep checking with my police sources, but in the meantime, we need to come up with a list of probable suspects and start checking them out.”
“We should start with Leo Devlin,” Marisela said.
Max typed the name into the computer. “He certainly has a reason to want the congressman out of the way. I’ll put a few agents on him. I want the two of you exclusively on the Manning murder.”
“What about Bennett’s friends? Aren’t they in danger, too?” Marisela asked.
“Good chance,” Max answered. “If the assassin can’t get at Bennett while we’re protecting him, she might move on to the others, if revenge is truly her motive and if the note is connected to her.”
“It is,” Marisela insisted.
She described the flower on the note and the possible resemblance to the tattoo the assassin had on her wrist.
Max nodded. “I’m sending a message to the office right now. I’ll put agents on scoping out the locations of the Hightower boys. In the meantime, let’s look at who we have right here in Boston.”
Marisela scanned the news article Max had transferred to their screens. “Parker Manning.”
“Victim’s father?” Frankie asked.
“Victim’s brother,” she replied. “Father’s dead. The brother lives here, in Boston. He’s a reporter. Declined to comment for this article about the case, though.”
Frankie flipped the lid closed on his computer and turned Marisela’s laptop toward him. “A reporter declining to comment?”
“That’s weird, I think,” Marisela decided.
Max’s grin implied that he agreed. “Seems like a good place to start. Frankie, take the other car and head back to the office. Find this Manning guy. Ian ordered both of you to get some rest, but tomorrow, you can pay Mr. Manning a visit, see if you can change his mind about the no-comment thing. Marisela, check in with Ian. I’ll be right behind you.”
Frankie and Marisela exited the car. She headed to the hospital door, but Frankie grabbed her hand. “Meet me at the office?”
“What office?” she said with a chortle. “I flew in, went shopping, got dressed, and then went to the party. The only place I’m going is to my hotel room.”
Frankie eased closer so the rough texture of his slim beard sparked against the skin on her cheek. “I’ll meet you there, then.”
Tempting as the offer was, Marisela wasn’t in the mood for sex. Her muscles protested every step she took and between jet lag and exhaustion and the beating she’d endured, all she wanted to do was sleep.
Well, it wasn’t all she wanted to do. But it was clearly priority one. However, she could be convinced. By the right guy.
“We’ll see,” she replied, then entered the hospital without looking back.
* * *
Perfect timing.
Yizenia stored the flip chart in the case outside a patient’s door and checked to make sure that the badge she’d created was clipped in plain view. She patted her auburn hair and blinked rapidly, ensuring that her hazel contact lenses were in place beneath her glasses. The sweatbands she’d used to cover her tattoo were snuggly in place beneath her long-sleeved scrubs, bubble-gum pink with cupids on the pants. Thankfully, American hospital workers reveled in the tacky. Patterns like this grabbed attention. If anyone needed to describe her later, they’d likely say the redhead in the Valentine’s Day pants. Which, of course, would no longer describe her once she left and ditched the disguise in the nearby trash bin.
But until then, she had information to gather—and the perfect source just a few steps away.
“Excuse me.”
Yizenia affected her best Southern accent, one of her favorites to emulate, with the twangs and elongated vowels oddly similar to a British accent, but with more rhythm.
From her perch leaning agai
nst a stark white wall, arms crossed, Marisela Morales stood out like a splash of color. Her dark hair, eyes, and skin contrasted against the purple of her dress, now torn and bloodied, but still caressing curves that Yizenia couldn’t help but admire. That shapely body had provided quite the challenge. If she didn’t have this role to play, Yizenia guessed she’d be back in her apartment with ice packs and painkillers.
“Excuse me?” she asked again.
This time, Marisela skewered her with a suspicious, wary glare. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Marisela stood up straighter and dropped her crossed arms to her side. Always ready for a fight, this one. Perpetually prepared to defend herself. Could she do the same for others, especially those who no longer had the capacity to defend themselves?
“You look pretty beat up,” Yizenia commented. She’d taught this young one a valuable, painful lesson about underestimating an opponent. Could she teach her more?
Marisela returned to her defensive stance—arms crossed, scowl steady, eyes trained on the door across from her, one foot braced on the wall behind her in case she needed to launch herself into the line of fire. “I’m fine.”
Yizenia pointed to a slash of blood marring the girl’s face.
Marisela slapped her hand aside.
Taking on the persona of a strong-willed nurse, Yizenia fisted her hands on her hips. “Your lip is bleeding.”
Marisela gracelessly swiped at the blood coagulating at the corner of her mouth. “It’s just blood.”
Yizenia glanced at the door Marisela seemed so intent on watching. The congressman had been moved there not twenty minutes ago, and through the slit of a window, she could see a large man blocking the only way in and out of the windowless room. One guard inside. And clearly, one guard outside.
“A little ointment could keep away an infection,” Yizenia said brightly, returning her attention to Marisela. “Why don’t I take you down to emergency…”
The wild, trapped look in Marisela’s deep brown eyes caught Yizenia off guard. Interesting. The young woman was brazen and bold, but she had the good sense to experience fear. Fear of medical treatment wasn’t exactly on the top of Yizenia’s list of acceptable phobias, but she figured the kid had her reasons.