by Julie Leto
“Evan kept your secret all these years?”
She nodded. “And I kept his. I never told anyone what Evan had done because it was too late for Becca, and I didn’t want him to go to jail for something I did. I didn’t want to go to jail. We made a pact to keep quiet, and so far as know, he never broke it.”
“Did you ever speak to him after that?”
Tracy shook her head mournfully. “He was the one who convinced his school to donate a plot so Rebecca could be buried at Forest Hills. Every once in a while, he’d send a note, asking how I was. A card at Christmas. Flowers on my birthday. But the memories were so painful, I could never bring myself to respond. After a while, he stopped trying to contact me.”
Marisela ran her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots to waylay the threatening headache. “He must have kept your pact, even if you did ignore his attempts to contact you. Craig Bennett didn’t know what Evan had done, I’m sure of it. But then—how did the assassin find out?”
Tracy grabbed the dashboard in front of her. “I never told anyone, I swear. Except…”
“Your brother?”
Tracy squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes, but he was grateful to Evan for protecting me. That’s why he stopped pushing the prosecutors for indictments, why I know Parker would never dig all this up again. He kept blaming the guys for Rebecca’s death just to keep up appearances. He knew the truth.”
Marisela decided to look at the situation from another angle. “Okay, so maybe Parker didn’t tell your secret. Who else could have? You were on drugs for a long time. Maybe you told someone while strung out and you just don’t remember.”
Tracy’s shoulders sagged as she pressed her lips tightly together. She nodded and her crying renewed. “Evan didn’t have to die! None of them did. They didn’t do anything! I killed her, accident or not. If anyone deserves to die, it’s me!”
With gentle force, Marisela grabbed Tracy by the shoulders. “Stop it, okay? Stop it! You don’t deserve to die. It was an accident and you know it. Trouble is, the assassin doesn’t know it—and until I can find her, you might just be next.”
* * *
After an emotional debriefing at the Titan office, Marisela rode along as Max deposited Tracy in a safe house tucked into a well-guarded Boston neighborhood and posted four guards—two inside the house and two outside—to watch out for her night and day. They’d taken a circuitous route, doubled back three times and worked in conjunction with at least four separate vehicles who’d acted as both decoys and lookouts. By the time they’d tucked Tracy away, Marisela was relatively sure that Tracy was safe. Ninety-nine percent. But it was that errant one percent that could get her killed.
She rendezvoused with Frankie, and after he recounted his findings from his interrogation with the barn patrol, they decided that interviewing Parker Manning was their next move. Frantic telephone calls from his sister had yet to yield any response—the guards were monitoring Tracy’s cell phone—so they decided it was time to return to the guy’s pigsty apartment.
The minute they exited the stairs onto Parker Manning’s floor, the hair on Marisela’s neck stood on end. Frankie must have experienced the same sensation because his arm immediately shot out, stopping her before she could take another step.
It was the music.
It was loud, too loud to be contained behind a closed door.
Which was why she wasn’t surprised to see Parker’s door gaping open.
They pulled their weapons, but kept them partially hidden beneath their jackets. Behind them, the elevator slid open and someone exited. Marisela dashed behind a tall potted plant and Frankie turned, gun returned to his holster, his smile friendly.
The guy, a twenty-something in jogging shorts with an iPod strung from his ears, started at Frankie’s presence. He recovered quickly, pulling himself up to his full height, which wasn’t that impressive.
“May I help you?” he asked, popping out his ear buds.
“Nah, man,” Frankie said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m a friend of Manning’s. Thought it might be him riding up.”
The guy eyed the elevator doors. “How’d you get up here?”
“Stairs.”
The young guy sniffed haughtily. “Well, tell your pal to turn down that…music.” He disappeared into his apartment without so much as a backward glance.
Marisela came out from her hiding place. “Not exactly the curious sort, is he?”
“No, but we’d better be. Clearly, Manning cut out without our guy’s noticing. He runs with a dangerous crowd. He wouldn’t leave his door open.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning maybe he didn’t go by choice.”
“How’d our guys miss a kidnapping?”
“Didn’t say they did. But they were watching the exits, not the apartment. Someone experienced could have snuck him out.”
“Experienced? Like the mob?”
Frankie shrugged.
They looked inside, but didn’t enter. The apartment was a bigger mess than before—completely and totally ransacked. Drawers and file cabinets were upturned and broken. What was left of his laptop computer lay in a puddle of components on the floor. The stereo blasted on a hard rock station, making Marisela flinch as the guitars screeched and drums pounded with grueling, bass explosions.
“Stay here and watch the hall,” Frankie said. He pulled surgical gloves out of his back pocket and snapped the booties plumbers use over his black athletic shoes before drawing his weapon and slipping inside.
Wow, look at him. Mr. Prepared.
Marisela volleyed her gaze between following Frankie as he slipped through the apartment and monitoring the hallway for any unusual activity. If someone called the cops to complain about the noise, then she and Frankie might be suspected of causing the chaos. Once Frankie turned off the blaring radio, Marisela knocked on the nearest neighbor’s door.
“No answer,” Marisela reported, holstering her gun. Frankie brought her gloves and booties, explaining that with the precautions, they wouldn’t leave any evidence of their presence if the cops showed up. She entered Parker’s apartment cautiously, noting that the lock bore no signs of a break-in. Frankie came out of the back bedroom. “No sign of Manning.”
She pointed to the papers strewn around the room. “That his book?”
Frankie winced. “Now it’s confetti.”
“Think someone took him?”
“Yo no sé,” Frankie replied. “But it doesn’t look good.”
Marisela strolled around, looking for anything a second set of eyes might pick out, trying to ignore the fact that if Tracy Manning had followed her advice earlier that afternoon, she might have stumbled into her brother’s apartment just when the damage was being done. She also thought about the promises she’d made to Tracy to retrieve her errant brother—the last remaining member of her family. What kind of damage would his sister sustain if Parker Manning couldn’t be found?
To distract herself from that line of thinking, Marisela pushed the play button on Manning’s answering machine. The light hadn’t been blinking, but she wanted to see if Manning had gotten his messages earlier that day. A mechanical recording announced the date and time and played the last message received. Today. Four hours ago.
Then, the message. The voice, female and distinctly Hispanic, rattled Marisela’s soul.
“Senor Manning, it’s time we meet face-to-face. The mood has changed and there is more I want. Go to the Alhambra, tonight, at ten-thirty P.M. Don’t be late.”
Frankie pushed the stop button, then rewind, and played the message again. Marisela locked her gaze with his as the words replayed. The sound, the intonation, the accent. All familiar.
All Yizenia.
“¡Coño! He did hire her, that son of a bitch,” she said.
Frankie held his hand up, palm out. “Don’t jump to conclusions. This could he a setup.”
Good point. “For us?”
He pocketed the tape. “Pr
etty clever way to manipulate us, verdad? Make us think we’re close to catching the killer when she’s the one catching us?”
“To kill us?”
Frankie shrugged and continued looking around.
Great. Marisela was the first to admit she preferred being the hunter rather than the hunted. And yet, she knew this was an opportunity they couldn’t ignore. “The new message light wasn’t blinking,” Marisela pointed out. “Parker has heard this message.”
“Or someone else has.”
Who’d heard the tape didn’t matter. The chance that the message was left as bait didn’t matter. Not to Marisela. At ten-thirty tonight, she would be at the Alhambra. At ten-thirty tonight, she’d finally stop Yizenia Santiago one way or another.
* * *
Prepping to intercept Yizenia at the restaurant took about two hours, giving Marisela and Frankie time to return to the hotel and change before heading to the Jamaica Plain restaurant called Alhambra. Frankie entered first, but was still waiting to be seated when Marisela strolled inside.
The space was both intimate and exclusive. The cuisine was Hispanic fusion, a varied mixture of dishes from Spain, influenced by the native cultures she had conquered. From the Moorish archways to the paintings of Spanish conquistadors on the walls, Marisela found the decor rich and exotic. As if she’d stepped into another world.
“Bienvenidos a la Alhambra,” the hostess greeted, her accent shaky. “Do you have a reservation?”
Frankie shifted into the ruby light beaming over the hostess’s podium, giving Marisela a chance to admire how delicioso he looked. His black shirt, black pants, and black tie, paired with his still sinfully long hair and trimmed moustache, made him look every ounce a Hollywood-style hood. He spoke in hushed tones to the hostess, and it was no surprise to Marisela that in about ten seconds flat, he had the woman flushed, giggling, and rushing to find a table for him despite his lack of a reservation. It was just after ten fifteen. As per their plan, Frankie would take a position near the back of the restaurant. Marisela would linger near the front.
The hostess returned, fanning herself with the wine list.
Marisela turned her back toward the hostess stand and pretended to comb her hand through her hair. When her watchband was level with her mouth, she whispered into the communications device. “Any sign of Parker Manning?”
“No,” Frankie reported, his voice clear and crisp in her earpiece, hidden by her hair. “Yizenia?”
Marisela turned, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. She scanned the open dining area for any women sitting alone, catching sight of two. One was an older woman, in her seventies at least, who after a few minutes was joined by a younger girl who could have been a granddaughter. The second, with her back to Marisela, had long dark hair. She looked about the right height and build, but it was hard to tell since she was sitting.
Impatiently, she walked to the entrance where she looked out the window, as if she were waiting for her dining companion to arrive.
“Check out three o’clock,” she suggested to Frankie. “Black hair, burgundy dress.”
A pause. “Looks a little young, but you’ve seen her, not me. Wait for Parker, then we’ll make a move.”
Marisela acknowledged his plan, then continued to wander near the front entrance. A foursome came in. The hostess seated them. Marisela checked the time. Ten-twenty. She glanced outside. No sign of Parker.
The hostess finally approached. “May I seat you?”
Marisela turned on her friendliest smile. “No, thank you. I’m early. I told my date I’d meet him here. I guess I should have let him pick me up so I wouldn’t be so antsy right now.”
The act clearly worked. The hostess, who had wide blue eyes set off by her short, blond bob, grinned back and waved her hand knowingly. “Oh, first date. How about if I get you something from the bar?”
“No, thanks,” Marisela replied. “I need a clear head.”
“You sure? A little white wine might take the edge off.”
The woman’s accent was distinctly Bostonian. She didn’t sound like the Gordon’s Fisherman, but there was a slight widening of vowel sounds that made Marisela smile. “Actually, this is a blind date. I’ve got to be sober in case I need to make a quick getaway.”
Another couple walked in, forcing the hostess back to her job for a few more minutes and allowing Marisela a chance to glance out the door. From behind, she also watched the dark-haired woman still sitting alone at the table. The waiter had brought her a glass of red wine. When she lifted the goblet to her lips, Marisela could have sworn she saw a flash of red on her wrist, tucked beneath a gaudy, beaded bracelet.
It was her.
She moved to alert Frankie when the whoosh of the front door opening from the sidewalk forced her to spin out of the way. The man grumbled loudly as he fought to extract himself from his raincoat, and Marisela instantly looked for cover.
Parker Manning had arrived, cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Sir! Sir! I’m sorry, but we do not allow smoking in here,” the hostess said, charging forward and shaking her finger like a nun catching her students chewing gum on the playground.
The distraction gave Marisela a chance to disappear. She spied the half-door of the coat-check room and without hesitation slipped inside.
She listened as the friendly hostess soothed the man’s objections and escorted him to his seat.
“See Manning?” she said into the watchband.
“Yeah,” Frankie answered.
“Does he see you?”
Marisela leaned out of the half-door and watched as the hostess attempted to hand Parker Manning a menu, which he waved away and immediately barked an order for a beer. He had his back to Frankie. Perfect. As soon as the hostess headed toward the bar, Parker leaned in close to his dinner companion—the brunette in burgundy. With his eyes narrowed and his lips strained into a line as he spoke, he was clearly trying to control both his volume and his temper. He might be meeting Yizenia Santiago, but he wasn’t happy about it.
Behind them, Marisela saw Frankie lean back in his seat, perusing what she assumed was the wine list, as if he had endless knowledge of vintages, when in truth, if it didn’t come with a twist top, Frankie wouldn’t drink it. When the waiter came out of the bar with Manning’s beer, Frankie waylaid him with a quick whistle. The waiter hurried over, and through her earpiece, she heard a riveting discussion of which wine went best with tonight’s special filet mignon.
The waiter set down his tray, giving Frankie the chance to slip a miniscule listening device onto the bottle of beer. Not fifteen seconds later, it was delivered to the table where Parker Manning and Yizenia chatted. The waiter poured the beer into a frosted glass, then, thankfully, left the bottle on the table.
“I’m going to drink this and then get the hell out of here. So you’d better talk fast.”
That from Manning.
“Having second thoughts?”
For an instant, Marisela thought the question came from Yizenia—until she spied the restaurant hostess looking at her in the coat-check room with about a dozen questions dancing in her eyes.
Marisela scooted out of the closet.
“You could say that,” she replied.
“Life is funny, isn’t it?” the hostess said, inviting Marisela closer to her station with a quick nod of her head. She shoved a silver bowl overflowing with rainbow-coated chocolate mints across the top of the podium. “You finally get the invitation to the big date, you go out once or twice and find the experience interesting. Exciting. But little by little, you want more. More thrills, more passion. More…purpose.”
Marisela nodded and popped a few mints in her mouth. Splitting her attention between the hostess and the conversation at Parker Manning’s table made her head spin.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Parker insisted.
“Of course you do,” Yizenia replied, though the sound of her voice rankled. There was an accent, ye
s. But a fake one. More Frito Bandito than Frida Kahlo.
It wasn’t her.
Marisela started into the restaurant, but the hostess stopped her. “Do you see your date? Don’t tell me your destiny has been waiting for you the whole time while you’ve been talking to me?”
Frankie locked eyes with Marisela. He stood and started toward the table. Slowly, casually. The whispered conversation between the fake Yizenia and Parker Manning never faltered. He either didn’t know he was talking to an imposter, or the whole deal was a setup as Frankie had believed.
Marisela grinned at the hostess. “No, but I see an old friend.”
The hostess grabbed her by the arm, her grip tight. Marisela opened her mouth to demand release, but the woman stopped her objection mid-syllable.
“Just don’t settle. There are so many choices in the world for women like us. Remember that.”
Who was she? Dear Abby? Marisela nodded and turned away, making slow progress through the restaurant, trying not to draw any undue attention. If Parker Manning saw them, he might run.
Her guess was right. In the seconds between Manning making eye contact with her and his leaping to his feet, Frankie had positioned himself directly behind the reporter. Frankie pressed gently down on Parker’s shoulders, and with a friendly slap on the back, confined the man to his seat.
The woman made no move to run. Marisela wanted to grab the imposter’s wrist and yank her out of her chair, but instead she dragged a chair over, sat down with a laugh, and complimented the woman on her gaudy bracelet.
“I’ve been looking for one like this for so long! It’s beautiful.”
With a twist, Marisela turned the woman’s wrist toward Frankie. Yeah, she had a tattoo, all right—one drawn on with Magic Marker. Perfect from a distance, but useless from close-up.
The woman looked downright terrified.
“Who are you?” Marisela asked.
The woman only stuttered.
“Who hired you?” This time, Marisela twisted her wrist for emphasis.
Parker Manning objected loudly. “Let her go! You’re interrupting a business dinner.”
“We’re interrupting a sting,” Frankie said.