Dirty Little Lies (6 page)

Ian waited a few sympathetic seconds, then slowly opened the folded paper.

“You didn’t see who gave it to him?”

She shook her head, her lips quivering.

Ian’s mouth drew into a tight line. He refolded the note, then handed it to Marisela.

She opened it quickly.

Remember Rebecca Manning
.

She flipped the paper over. That was it? But no, that wasn’t it. Drawn in the corner in pale colored pencils was a shape. A flower? An odd flower. Tubular, scarlet, with sharp star points around the edges and green leaves.

She gasped.

Ian glared at her and she recovered with a shake of her head and a surrender of the note back to Ian. “Who’s Rebecca Manning?”

Denise whimpered. Ian instantly produced a handkerchief, which the woman used with as much delicacy as a woman with a runny nose and eyes could.

“She’s the girl who’s nearly ruined my husband’s life.”

The spite was sharp and raw. Marisela sat up straighter. “A girl?”

“He was a boy, then. It was a long time ago. Long before I ever came to Boston. You don’t know about it? I thought everyone in Massachusetts knew the whole sordid tale.”

With his eyes, Ian encouraged Marisela to speak. She got the impression he already knew what Denise was talking about, but with Marisela in the dark, she could push the questions a little further, perhaps learn something new.

Marisela leaned forward, her hands gripping the pew directly behind Denise. “I’m not from Massachusetts. I’ve only been here since this morning.”

“What a welcome to our fair state.” Denise chuckled with no humor. “Rebecca Manning died. Fifteen years ago.”

“Then why would someone send a message like this now? Was she related to him or something?”

Denise’s eyes instantly blazed with defiance. When she spoke, her chin jutted sharply, as if she’d been asked this question many times before and her reaction was instinctual and instantaneous. “Or something,” Denise responded. “You see, he killed her. Or so everyone in this state seems to believe.”

Four

FRANKIE WATCHED EVAN
Cole pace outside the operating room, his hands pressed hard into the pockets of his jacket. His lips twitched as if he needed a hit of something, whether caffeine or coke or nicotine, Frankie couldn’t tell. So cool when they were in the chapel, Craig Bennett’s friend now stalked around like an innocent man on death row. Or a guilty man pretending to be innocent.

“Want to go outside for a smoke?” Frankie offered. “I’ll stick around, bring you news.”

Evan’s eyes transmitted pure disgust, with a heavy dose of mistrust thrown in. Not that Frankie wasn’t used to the look, especially from rich
maricóns
who thought their shit didn’t stink, but he’d never get used to having to control his reaction to them. Took a lot of effort to remind himself that one punch in the wrong man’s face, and he’d end up back in the joint. And that wasn’t going to happen.

“No. Thank you.”

Manners over emotion. Must be a lesson taught in the prep schools in this part of the country, judging by how both Evan Cole and Ian Blake seemed to have mastered the skill.

Frankie wandered nearer the doors to surgery, where Max stood, arms crossed, expression stoic.

“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 linking 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.”