Dirty Little Lies (5 page)

“Like your predictable personality, perhaps?” Blake replied.

Marisela yanked her elbow free, rolled her eyes at both of them, and marched into the building. Nothing propelled her out of a situation faster than excess testosterone. Only after she’d walked a good ten paces down the hallway did she realize she was in a hospital. She spun around to retreat when Blake blocked her path, Frankie close behind.

“I don’t need a hospital,” she said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “I hate hospitals.”

Images flashed in her brain. She’d wanted out of the gang so bad, she’d opted to beat out. A roll of the dice had determined the number of homegirls she’d had to take on. She had to fight them and live in order to be allowed to leave
las Reinas
. She couldn’t remember now how many she’d rolled. Five? Six? Seven? All she knew was that she’d won.

She’d suffered cracked ribs, a punctured lung, a torn scalp, destroyed spleen, and permanent scars. But as the saying went, “you should have seen the other guy.”

Ian slid his hands coolly into his pockets. “Few people like hospitals, but our client is here, so you’ll have to make do. I won’t make you see a doctor. However, if you pass out, you’re on your own.”

She narrowed her gaze. She was sore and cut up, but hadn’t experienced anywhere near the damage it would take to force her to seek medical help. “We just left our client back at the museum.”

“The party at Houghton House is over and so is that assignment,” Ian informed them. “We have a new objective now. You and Frankie are now charged with finding out who tried to kill Congressman Craig Bennett.”

“You mean they didn’t succeed?” Marisela asked. She’d seen the man lying on the ballroom floor, though admittedly, she’d been high above him at the time and hadn’t stuck around long enough to see if he was moving.

“Thankfully, your intervention drew the bullet astray,” Ian confirmed, glancing back and forth between Marisela and Frankie. “But that’s not exactly common knowledge and it could be in our best interests to keep it that way for as long as possible.”

“You think she’ll try again?” Marisela asked.

Ian stared at her intently. “You spoke with the assassin. What do you think?”

Marisela turned and proceeded down the hall. This wasn’t over. Not for the congressman. And obviously, not for her.

* * *

After a short debriefing in an unoccupied hospital room, Ian shuttled Marisela and Frankie through hallways and up stairs until they stopped outside the chapel, or so Marisela guessed from the cross on the door. Frankie shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and offered it to her; she accepted appreciatively. The torn and tattered state of her dress hadn’t mattered much until she was inches from entering a house of God. Or at least, His tiny sublet apartment.

Ian leaned in close, his voice a whisper. “Craig Bennett’s wife is inside.”

“Where’s her husband?” Frankie asked.

Ian glanced at his watch. “More than likely, still in surgery. I posted Max at the operating room door. In case our assassin tries to finish the job.”

Marisela shifted her weight, her eyes locked on the cross on the door. It had no corpus, no body of Jesus, but the symbol was still powerful. Funny how Catholic school imprints on the brain, even when she’d spent the majority of her time there with the nuns in detention. She could stare down murderers and go hand-to-hand with a trained assassin, but put a crucifix in front of her when she was still lamenting the fact that she hadn’t shot the killer and she quaked.

She cleared her throat, trying to push away the thought that if she’d simply killed the shooter when she had a chance, their client’s husband wouldn’t still be in danger. Commandments were fine and everything, but where did justice come in?

Marisela wiped a smear of blood off her chin. “So we’ve been hired to provide protection for the congressman?”

“Partly, yes. He has private security, but they did little good tonight. Max is now the lead agent on that assignment.”

“Was there any reason to think the congressman would be a target at the party?” Frankie inquired.

“The shooter said revenge,” Marisela injected, though she’d just recounted her brief conversation with the shooter to both of them minutes before.

“Revenge for what? And besides, we don’t know if she was lying, trying to throw us off.” Ian shook his head. “Until we have more proof, we must assume that Bennett wasn’t a target any more than the other politicians in attendance. But the congressman’s wife asked us to investigate further. Her name is Denise. She’s extremely distraught,” he said, directing the tidbit of information at Marisela.

Her mouth dropped open in shock. “I can be nice.”

“That’s not been my experience,” Ian contested.

“I wonder why,” she shot back. Ian Blake had been nothing more than a high-class bully since the first time they’d met, and with the exception of a few brief acts of compassion on his part, neither one of them had tried very hard to hide their antagonism. The only thing Marisela succeeded in masking was her innate and, frankly, damned annoying attraction to the guy.

Ian opened the chapel door gingerly, then led his agents inside. Marisela shook off the chill and focused on the woman sitting hunched over in the front pew, a rosary dangling from her fingers. A police officer guarded the door on the inside and a man wearing a tuxedo sat beside her, his arm around her shoulder.

“Mrs. Bennett?” Ian said softly.

Frankie and Marisela hung a few steps behind.

The woman looked up. Her wavy caramel hair, streaked with wisps of blond, hung limp over cheeks that had been washed of makeup by rivulets of tears. Her eyes, a soft green, were surrounded by skin at once bruised and puffy from the kind of crying a woman did when her world was ripped out from under her feet.

“Mr. Blake?” The woman held out her hand, which quivered until Ian took it firmly in his. “The doctors are hopeful. The bullet missed a major artery in his neck, but did serious damage to his windpipe. He’ll be on a respirator…when,”—she forced the word out—”
when
he wakes up. I don’t understand how someone could…”

She dissolved into tears again and Marisela looked away. She didn’t blame the woman for losing it, but she didn’t exactly like watching, either.

“Perhaps you can come back later,” the man beside Denise Bennett suggested.

Marisela pursed her lips. Though he was clearly close to the victim’s wife, this man held his emotions firmly in check. No signs of tears or worry lines, just classic sleek cheekbones and a lift at the end of his nose that had rich written all over it. His crisp brown eyes flicked warily over Marisela and Frankie, and then returned to Denise as he tightened his hold on her shoulder.

Ian stood straighter and matched arrogant privilege to arrogant privilege. “And you are?”

“Evan Cole. Congressman Bennett is my closest friend and I won’t have his wife exploited when she’s so vulnerable.”

Marisela glanced at Frankie, who shared her incredulous expression. Was it her imagination or did she sense Evan Cole had solid gold bars shoved up his ass?

“Please, Evan,” Denise said, her voice no more than a weary sigh. “I sent for Mr. Blake. He runs Titan International.”

The distrustful look on Evan Cole’s face bloomed to full dislike. “The investigation firm?”

Ian grinned. “Our reputation precedes us.”

Evan’s reply was dismissive. “You did corporate work for one of my subsidiaries a few years ago.”

“I trust our work was up to snuff,” Ian replied, nonplussed.

Evan Cole didn’t respond, just gave a curt nod. Marisela glanced over her shoulder toward the tiny window in the chapel door. Nurses and techs in scrubs flashed by in a rainbow of colors. She didn’t see one single hint of institutional green, which made her breathing a little easier. Still, echoes of the past rang in her ears. Doctors talking in hushed tones, unaware or unconcerned that she could hear their grave diagnosis. Her mother’s weeping. Her father’s whispered prayers.

“And this is Marisela Morales,” Ian said, snapping Marisela out of her reverie and beckoning her over.

Marisela held out her hand, which she just noticed was smudged with dirt from the fight. She rubbed it on what was left of her skirt, which did very little to remove the grime.

Denise Bennett took Marisela’s hand without hesitation and cupped it with care. “You fought with the person who shot my husband?” the woman asked, her eyes wide with what looked suspiciously like hope.

“Yes, I did.”

The corners of her mouth quivered as they folded down in a frown. “But your representative,” she said, speaking to Ian though she hadn’t broken contact with Marisela. “Max, I believe. He said you had no proof she was actually the shooter?”

Marisela shook her head. She had the killer’s admission of guilt, but Marisela guessed that telling Denise Bennett that a highly trained professional killer believed her husband deserved to die for some past transgression was not the wisest move at the moment.

“The police recovered very little physical evidence from the crime scene,” Ian said. “They may find more in the daylight. You may not need us at all, Mrs. Bennett.”

Denise Bennett shook her head furiously and Marisela’s hand was released in the tempest. “No, no! I won’t rely on the police to investigate this thoroughly. They’ve never treated him with the respect he deserves. Never.”

An odd look passed between Evan Cole and Denise Bennett, one that only Marisela seemed to think was weird judging by the practiced professionalism on Ian’s face and Frankie’s bored indifference.

“Titan International is a top-notch organization,” Ian assured her. “We have contacts within the police department, but we can be discreet.”

“You aren’t obligated to share what you’ve learned with the police?” Denise asked, her voice quivering.

The question caused Frankie to step in closer.

Ian eyed both his agents, then glanced to the cop at the door. “State law dictates that unless the information is vetted through you, we have no obligation to reveal what we find out to any state or federal agency. Unless we’re subpoenaed, and even then we’ve fought that battle before and won. You are the client, Mrs. Bennett.”

She nodded, then patted Evan’s hand. “Evan, please go get an update on Craig for me.”

Evan’s eyes narrowed. “The doctor knows where you are, Denise. I’m quite certain they’ll come find you—”

“Please.”

Just as polite, but even more forceful. Evan stood, gave Ian a particularly cagey look, then disappeared out the door. With a nod from Ian, Frankie followed. Ian approached the police officer and chatted with the man quietly. The officer nodded curtly, then took up his post outside the door, leaving the three of them alone.

Marisela smoothed her hands down her tattered skirt, not entirely sure what she was supposed to do in this situation. So far, her training hadn’t included client interactions, and judging by her last case, interviewing clients without pissing them off was the area where she needed the most improvement.

Ian helped her out by gesturing to the pew behind Denise. She slid in, not surprised when Denise turned to her with wildly desperate eyes. “You didn’t see anything that could help us identify the woman who shot my husband?”

Ian snatched the question before Marisela could formulate a wise response. “Why don’t we focus on what you know, Mrs. Bennett? I promise that once your husband is out of surgery and I’ve had proper time to debrief my agents, I’ll give you a full and complete report of our progress.”

A look passed over Denise’s face, and for a moment, Marisela thought she’d press for more information. Instead, she nodded her head in agreement.

“Who would want to kill your husband?” he asked.

Denise’s shoulders drooped. “Who doesn’t? He’s a politician, Mr. Blake. He’s been harassed since he was first elected to office.”

“Anything recent?”

She leaned forward, her forehead cradled in her hands. “He’s been working on prescription drug reform, but except for the pharmaceutical lobby, the bill is insanely popular.”

Marisela ran her hand through her hair, discovering a new batch of grass blades and a tendril of moss. She hugged Frankie’s coat closer around her and focused her eyes on Mrs. Bennett’s face.

“Pharmaceuticals?” Ian asked. “Leo Devlin was the host of tonight’s fund-raiser.”

“Yes,” Denise verified. “He’s been an outspoken opponent to my husband’s plan, but he’s done quite a bit to reach out to the politicians supporting the bill, trying to find compromise so companies like his won’t go bankrupt. My husband doesn’t want to ruin American industry, he just wants a level playing field. Leo Devlin invited both sides to the fund-raiser tonight, and to be honest, he never once brought the topic up. Not when I was there, anyway. I can’t imagine…”

Ian’s expression transmitted directly to Marisela. Mrs. Bennett couldn’t imagine Leo Devlin doing her husband harm, but apparently, Ian could. Marisela had little opinion on the matter since she’d only met the man briefly, but in her experience, she’d yet to meet anyone who wasn’t capable of extreme violence if the circumstances were right.

“You realize,” Ian explained, “that the police aren’t even certain your husband was the target tonight? The assassin might have been gunning for any one of the politicians and celebrities at the party.”

Denise took a deep breath. “I can’t afford to assume that my husband is safe. As popular as his current platform is, Craig has seen his share of troubles, Mr. Blake. I won’t let him die for them.”

Denise reached across Ian’s lap and retrieved her purse. Marisela expected her to extract a tissue, but instead, she pulled out a small slip of paper. She tossed the beaded handbag carelessly aside and clutched the square tightly in her hands.

Marisela watched as Ian slid his hand over Denise Bennett’s shoulder. His blue eyes melted into pools of concern, sympathy, and even encouragement. Damn, he was good. Seconds later, Denise pressed the note into his hand.

He didn’t open it right away. “Where did you get this?”

Denise’s stare remained glued to the note. “Someone handed it to Craig as we were arriving at the party. People do that all the time. Requests for interviews or meetings with lobbyists in a back corner. Sometimes he shoves them in his pockets. Sometimes he hands them to an aide. Tonight, I was closest, so I simply took it from him and put it in my purse.”