The Third Secret

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  The receptionist who sat in the small lobby of Erin’s office building smiled at me without missing a beat in the phone call she was engaged in.

  I heard muted conversations from various offices along the hall as I walked toward Erin’s. The carpet looked freshly vacuumed. Lights were ablaze. I could smell coffee.

  I sure couldn’t tell the place had been broken into the day before.

  A uniformed deputy stood a few feet down the hall from Erin’s open door.

  “I might be a lawyer when I grow up.” Maggie’s voice stopped me in my tracks. My foster daughter sounded healthy. Strong. At ease with herself and the situation.

  I stood there a second, blinking away tears, and realized again how deeply I was committed to this child I’d only known a matter of months. I hoped to God that Maggie’s sudden penchant for lawyering didn’t have anything to do with David Abrams. Plastering a quick smile on my face, I spun into the room before Maggie could say more. I didn’t want to eavesdrop.

  I could tell the second I saw Erin’s face that something was wrong. Her lips were pinched and her smile didn’t seem natural at all.

  “Maggie, would you mind running to the supply room for more folders?” Erin asked as soon as I’d said hello. She looked every bit the professional in her gray skirt and jacket with the matching mauve and gray pumps. Her short dark hair, her makeup, were close to perfect.

  But I had a feeling she was on the verge of falling apart.

  “You want me to grab a soda and hang out in the break room for a few minutes?” Maggie asked, her expression serious as always. “You guys need to talk, right?”

  Shoulders relaxing visibly, Erin nodded. “Sorry,” she said.

  “No problem.” Maggie turned to go, but glanced my way. I smiled at her. She actually smiled back. A real smile, not the valiant attempts that had become our norm.

  I handed her a couple of dollars for the vending machine and, pocketing the money in her dark blue hoodie, she left us alone.

  Stepping over piles of papers still on the floor, Erin crossed to the door. Closing it. And then, hands behind her back, leaned against it.

  “He showed up,” I said. “For our meeting.”

  She nodded. “And?”

  “Nothing.” I told her what I’d already compiled for the report I would write. “The man was in complete control. He was neither happy to be there, nor put out by the visit. Regardless of what exercise I used, he answered all my questions in the same calm, unemotional tone.”

  “Which means what? That he’s lying to me?”

  “In my opinion it means he’s capable of shutting down all emotion. Completely. In a way most of us can’t. So, yes, he could be lying to you. He could just as easily be telling the truth.”

  The attorney seemed to sink into the door. “You said most people aren’t capable of behaving that way. Do you mean Rick’s not normal?”

  I shook my head. “No one’s really normal,” I told her, standing in the middle of her mess, wishing I could help her find the answers she needed as effortlessly as I could help pick up office debris. “Normal is an average we arrive at when we put together all the measurements on the spectrum. What Rick’s behavior and his responses say to me is that he was hurt beyond his ability to cope, probably at a very young age, which caused an emotional freeze. When something like that happens to a young child, and no one’s there to tend to him, to nurture him, the deep freeze becomes a way of life.”

  Erin’s dismay seemed more than professional and I started to worry. “Is this…this freeze…permanent?” she asked.

  “It can be.”

  Pushing away from the door, she nodded. And I had to add, “In most cases, though, if the individual is willing, he or she can learn to open up. Sometimes that happens even when the person isn’t willing. There are rare cases when a person lacks the proper wiring to feel or process emotion, but I don’t think that’s Rick. In most cases, probably in Rick’s, an entire range of emotions does exist.”

  “In other words, he’s not a psychopath.”

  “Not in my considered opinion, no.”

  Standing behind her desk, she fiddled with some folders and then glanced up at me. “You’re saying the feelings are there. It’s just a matter of whether or not he can access them.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you believe Rick can?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  Rick Thomas knew I’d been hired by Erin specifically to give her my impressions of him. He knew I’d be reporting to her.

  “First, because of Steve,” I said. “His loyalty to this friend of his, his patience, his desire to spend so much time with him—it all stems from an emotional base.”

  “He loves him, you mean?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe some other emotion drives him. I’d need a lot more time with him to be able to give you my opinion on that one.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “Because he was genuinely worried about you.”

  “About me?”

  Making a decision, I sank down in the high-backed leather chair in front of Erin’s desk borrowed from a vacant suite, and crossed my hands over my stomach. “Yes. There’s something going on between the two of you, isn’t there?” I asked bluntly.

  “No! Of course not. He’s my client and—” She met my gaze. And dropped into a chair. “I almost slept with him last night. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he’s my client, I would have.”

  Once again Erin Morgan proved what an honest person she was. Once again, she impressed the hell out of me.

  “Wanting the man isn’t a sin,” I said.

  “I haven’t so much as looked at another man…in that way…since Noah died.”

  “Then I’d say it’s long past time you did.”

  The pinched look didn’t leave her face. But she nodded.

  “So he was worried about me?” Erin’s voice was weak, reminding me a little of Maggie. And I commiserated. Didn’t seem to matter how old women got, they were still, somewhere deep inside, high school girls who worried whether or not they’d get, catch, keep the guy.

  “He asked me what I thought the chances were that you’d do as he asked.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “The truth.”

  “Which was?”

  “That I couldn’t say for sure.”

  “I’m guessing that went over well.”

  “The same as everything else. Whatever he was thinking, or possibly feeling, took place behind a steel wall.”

  Erin looked down at the folder corner she was bending back and forth. And I relented.

  “He made me promise that I’d urge you to continue accepting around-the-clock protection until they figure out who did this.” I motioned to the mess surrounding us.

  “He needn’t worry there,” Erin said. “I’ve got it whether I want it or not, thanks to Ron Fitzgerald, I’m sure. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining.”

  I knew she wasn’t. Erin was scared.

  I was afraid she had reason to be.

  Rick landed in Miami with three hours to spare. As planned. As soon as he got into the airport, he picked up a prepaid cell phone, registered the serial number with a carrier to activate it and caught a bus down to the beach. He had ninety minutes of talk time that was virtually untraceable to him. Only to a number in Miami.

  He had until tomorrow before Sarge expected to hear from him. That gave him a day to do what he had to do without raising his former leader’s attention.

  What he was doing was right. The only choice. Especially now that he knew Tom’s cover had been blown. Contact with Sarge at this point would do nothing but endanger the man—if he wasn’t already compromised. In any case, the rule had always been that if a cover was compromised the agent went dark.

  That was Rick. Dark.

  Truth be told, he couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t lived in darkness.

  Phone in hand as he blended with throng
s of locals and tourists, Rick thought about calling Erin. Just to make sure that she was following orders. Keeping herself safe.

  And knew he couldn’t. Now that he was on the lam, no contact was the only way.

  Instead, he found a corner wall outside a public restroom where he could see if anyone was coming toward him.

  And then he dialed the number he’d looked up on a public computer at the airport. When the man answered, identifying himself, Rick hung up, hopped on another bus and walked several blocks until he found the office building he was seeking. He went straight to suite 204.

  He opened the glass door with its gold printed letters. Calling the room a suite was a stretch. With the piles of folders and papers lining the walls around the scarred wooden desk that held court against the back wall, the room looked more like a private investigator’s office from an old movie than it did a lawyer’s place of business.

  “Can I help you?” The bald man behind the desk glanced at Rick over the top of a pair of wire-framed reading glasses. The suit and tie he wore seemed incongruous with the stale-smelling room.

  “Ralph Guardano?”

  “Yes.” Papers in both hands, the man waited.

  “I need to speak with you about Maria Valdez.”

  Lowering the pages slowly, Ralph didn’t stand. Didn’t break eye contact with Rick. He didn’t do much of anything. And yet Rick was in no doubt that the man had just gone on full alert.

  “I don’t know any Maria Valdez.”

  “Yes, sir, you do. She was a client of yours until she died in prison. Maria was a friend of mine.”

  The man said nothing.

  “I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to find out what you know about her death.”

  “All I know is what you just told me. She died in prison.”

  He didn’t want to hurt the man. Didn’t even have a gun yet. But there were other ways to get information. Based on Guardano’s clientele—including a dead prostitute who’d been arrested for drug trafficking—and his surroundings, the man probably had dealings he didn’t want exposed. If Rick had the time to investigate he could—

  “Who are you?” Guardano crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  “Name’s Tom.”

  The lawyer dropped his arms. “Tom who?”

  He should have acquired a weapon before paying this call. Chances were Guardano was armed. There was a six-drawer locked file cabinet to his right. Judging by the thickness of the sides and the size of the locks, it was steel. Bulletproof. And heavy. As soon as the other man appeared to reach for his gun, Rick would be behind that cabinet. And then he’d make a dive for the attorney.

  He stepped forward closer to the cabinet. “I’m Tom Watkins,” he said. That was the point of this trip down south. To out Tom. To track down whoever was after him.

  To get answers.

  “So you do exist.” The man’s words were the last thing Rick expected. “Pardon me?”

  “Please.” Guardano gestured to the threadbare upholstered and wooden chair by his desk. “Have a seat.”

  Rick studied the man. And then he sat.

  “I knew Maria.” Guardano settled back in his chair. “She was a…friend…before she was a client,” he said, adding, “You knew her, too.”

  As Tom Watkins, yes.

  “You and your friend, Jack Dunner enjoyed her…company,” Guardano continued, his expression serious. “On a boat.”

  The yacht again. The week with Brady. The matchbook. Why would Maria have found those days important enough to tell her lawyer about them? About him?

  And why had everything to do with that weekend—except for him and a matchbook—been destroyed?

  “Jack. Nice guy,” Guardano murmured.

  “What do you know about Jack?”

  “He saw Maria again, did he tell you that?”

  A slight turn of his head was Rick’s only reaction. But it seemed to be enough.

  “Dunner was different from the rest of her associates. Maria was more than a convenience to him, although she was that, too. But he treated her well.”

  Ah, Brady, what did you do? Get yourself into? Relationships were out. Too dangerous. You knew that.

  “Not like some of the others. One in particular. A regular. Guy liked to play it rough. Lots of bruises. Surface blade cuts. Dunner saw the results and got pissed off.”

  All of this was because of a woman? A whore? Because Brady couldn’t keep his dick in his pants?

  “He gets Maria to tell him who did it to her. Like I said, the guy was a regular and so were the games he played. But Dunner goes after him. Turns out the guy’s got connections. Money. And Maria ends up in jail.”

  And Brady ended up dead. Because he was going to expose some rich pig.

  But what did that have to do with Tom?

  Unless the guy was the owner of the yacht and Tom was guilty by association. A politician into sexual sadism? Someone who’d hide his secrets at any cost?

  If the guy was the yacht owner, he might have had access to top-secret information. He’d been a higher-up. He could’ve known about the special ops. About Tom Watkins. Would have the means to expose Tom. And could believe he had to obliterate the whole team to get rid of all the evidence.

  Which meant Sarge was in danger, too. Just as Rick had thought.

  Working over the information, mind spinning toward his next move, Rick stood.

  “I think you want to hear the rest.” Guardano’s gaze was direct.

  Rick sat back down. Brady’s liaison with Maria, his run-in with their mystery benefactor, didn’t explain Arizona.

  “Dunner didn’t give up. He visited Maria in prison a few times over the next year. She says he told her he was on to the guy. Said he’d stumbled on something big.”

  “Big?” Rick’s eyes narrowed. “Where? How?”

  “She didn’t know. Said he wouldn’t tell her. But he’d just returned from a trip to Arizona. She thought maybe it had to do with that.”

  “When was this?”

  “I’m not sure. She asked to speak with me six months ago. She hadn’t heard from Dunner in a long time—eight months or more, she said. But she’d just had a visit from the other guy. The abusive client. She was scared. And angry. I arranged a call and she told me what I’m telling you. When I realized what we were dealing with I told her it would be best if we spoke in person. I made an appointment with her for the following day. She was dead before I got there.”

  “You think someone knew she was speaking to you?”

  The man steepled his fingers on top of his desk. “Seems likely.”

  “This client of hers who roughed her up, you think he had use of the same yacht we were on?”

  “I’m sure of it. That’s where he usually took her.”

  So they were dealing with a man who had connections to the Department of Defense. But Rick was still no closer to knowing if it was someone like Segura—a criminal with connections—or someone on the inside.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Maria told me one other thing. When she begged Dunner to be careful, he said not to worry, that he had backup. He said he’d left something with a person he trusted to give to Tom Watkins, in the event that anything happened to him. That’s when she told me about the days she’d spent with the two of you.”

  Brady had left him a fucking matchbook. Was it supposed to have led him to Maria? Who was now dead?

  “Did Maria mention any details about the guy who roughed her up? The one Jack was after?”

  “No.”

  “And you have no idea who any of her clients were? Anything that could lead us to the man who beat her up?”

  “Maria called him Pop, but she knew it wasn’t his real name. She had a picture. Said Dunner gave it to her. He’d brought it to her for confirmation that the man he was on to was the same one who beat her up. She said it was. She was going to turn the picture over to me the next day.”

  “What happened to it?”


  “According to the warden, no such picture existed.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I believe that it wasn’t among the things they found in her cell.”

  “So this picture could’ve been what they were after. Could’ve been what got her killed.”

  “Maybe. I know she was scared. And talking to me got her killed. That, or the picture had. Or both.”

  And whoever had killed Maria and Brady, whoever had destroyed that yacht, was now after him. Because he had something of value to them. Or they thought he did.

  “Who else did she tell that Jack had left something for me?”

  Sarge had been right. Rick had something they wanted.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Is there any way this man knew?”

  “If he realized she’d spoken to me, realized Dunner had given her a picture, I’d say there’s every possibility he knew the rest.”

  Rick stood again. He had to meet Sophie. Get armed. “Thank you,” he said.

  The man nodded, but didn’t rise.

  “And get the hell out of town,” Rick said as he pulled open the door. He hoped to God no one had followed him, but either way, Ralph Guardano was a candidate for the casualty list.

  31

  Kelly took Maggie to explore Temple’s quaint downtown shops while Erin worked on a couple of cases. She was going to join them for a late lunch and was just getting ready to lock up her office—which now bore some resemblance to the space she’d left on Friday evening—when there was a knock at the door.

  Knowing that a deputy was on the other side—and that the building was filled with occupants—didn’t completely quell the nervousness in her stomach as she turned the knob.

  “Sheriff!” The older man was in uniform, as he generally was on business days. She certainly hadn’t expected to see him again so soon.

  Her first thought—that he’d found out that Rick was gone and that she knew about his plans to leave town—was quickly followed by another. Something had happened to Caylee. Or Kelly or Maggie.

  The lawman came into the room, his face grim, and shut the door. “I’ve got some bad news,” he said without preamble.