Authors: Julie Leto
“She likely caused the shot meant for Bennett to go wild,” Ian added. “He was seriously injured, but he’ll live.”
“He still has his brain matter, so I’m sure he considers himself lucky.”
“He will when he wakes up. But he won’t be able to speak and his ability to communicate under the influence of painkillers is an unknown. We can’t depend on him for information.”
Brynn nodded in agreement. “So his wife hired us to find out who ordered the hit?”
“She doesn’t trust the police. She thinks the cops have been trying to railroad her husband for the Rebecca Manning murder for years.”
“Funny how perception colors things. Other than the Boston elite, of which we are members, the entire community thinks those boys got away with murder.”
On his computer, Ian pulled up the outline of information they’d gathered. “The guilt or innocence of Bennett and his friends is not our concern—what we need is to determine who might be using Rebecca Manning’s death as reason for revenge. The police had nothing more than circumstantial evidence linking Bennett and the two Hightower boys to Rebecca’s murder. They admitted they were on the harbor island, but not in the bog where the body was recovered. There were campers near the boys who reported hearing a loud argument, but otherwise, not a shred of proof linked them to her killing. And the body was badly decomposed by the time she was dragged out of the marsh. For all we know, she died of natural causes.”
“And threw herself in a marsh?” Brynn asked skeptically. “Wasn’t she dating one of the Hightowers?”
“Bradley, the oldest,” he replied, “but they’d reportedly broken up a month earlier. The archival police report notes that her classmates reported that Rebecca wouldn’t let go.”
“Fatal attraction?”
“For her, clearly. But the boys insisted they never saw her that night and no one could prove she didn’t go over to the island on her own searching for Hightower, got lost, and died in the marsh.”
“And yet suspicion lingers after all these years,” Brynn noted. “Why?”
Ian shrugged. “I suppose that’s our job, to find out why. Frankie and Marisela will interview Parker Manning, the girl’s brother, later today.”
Brynn nodded decisively. “What about political enemies?” she asked.
“He has several, including the host of last night’s party.”
“Leo Devlin?”
“You know him?”
Brynn ran her hand through her hair. “I seem to believe I met him once. You?”
“He hired us directly to protect the jewelry several designers loaned to his guests for the party last night.”
“Have you interviewed him since the shooting?”
“He came to the hospital to pay his respects this morning just before I left. I made arrangements to see him this afternoon.”
“And the shooter?”
Ah, the shooter. “Marisela identified her as female, five seven to five nine, slender, excellent in a fight.”
“That’s not much to go on.”
“There can’t be that many female assassins in the world,” Ian said.
Brynn arched a brow. “You’d be surprised. She didn’t catch a glimpse of any identifying marks?”
“The woman wore a mask. Hair was dark, but she could have colored it or worn a wig. She did report,” he said, consulting the notes from Marisela’s interview with the police, “seeing something red on her wrist.”
Something red on her wrist
…
An image flashed in Ian’s mind. A woman. Dark haired. On top of him. Rocking into him. Deep-throated groans. Nails digging into his skin. His kiss on the inside of her wrist as her hand smoothed under his chin.
A tattoo.
The memories existed in a fog, but were suddenly clearing. He remembered fantasizing that the mark he’d seen on his lover’s arm had been a purple crown tipped with dots of ruby-red blood, the brand Marisela had imprinted on her arm as a sign of her loyalty and lifetime commitment to
las Reinas
.
Now he realized, there had been no purple. Red, yes, but in the shape of a tubular flower, cradled by green.
He retrieved the note. Yes, that had to be what he had seen that night.
Brynn stood up and snatched the square of paper from his hand.
“Good God,” she said with a deep, shocked breath. Ian’s gaze snapped up to hers.
“What?” he asked.
“I know this symbol. It…can’t be.”
“What is it?” Ian asked sharply. “What do you know about this flower?”
“Did Marisela see it on the woman’s wrist?”
“She said she saw something red. Elongated. She didn’t know what it was, but dammit, she reacted oddly when she saw this on the note. Why didn’t I put it together?”
“Call her in,” Brynn demanded. “I need to know if she could have seen this image tattooed on the woman’s wrist.”
Her voice deepened, just as it always did when she was upset.
“What is it, Brynn?” he asked, forcing his own tone to be calm even while his chest tightened with a sick sensation.
Brynn tore her gaze away from the note, her lips drawn in a tight line. “This is a pomegranate flower. It’s the national flower of Spain.”
“Marisela did say the woman spoke with a completely authentic Spanish accent. Old school, she called it.”
Brynn nodded gravely. “This can’t be a coincidence?”
“Brynn, I swear on our father’s grave that if you don’t tell me everything you know right this instant—”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was taken off guard.”
“Who is she?”
Brynn took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Her name is Yizenia Santiago. She’s one of the deadliest assassins in the world, but she doesn’t just work for money. She believes in justice. Punishing the unpunished.”
Ian dropped into his chair. “How do you know this?” he asked.
Brynn clutched the note tightly. “Because I know her.”
“You know her?”
His sister nodded slowly, as if the shock hadn’t quite released her yet. “We’ve been…friends…for years.”
“What do you mean,
friends
?”
Brynn leaned closer, gripping the edge of the desk so tightly, her knuckles turned white. “She murdered the men who killed our mother.”
Ian’s heart dropped. “What?”
“Father hired her, years ago, to avenge our mother’s death. She’s deadly, Ian. A master of disguise. An expert with accents and she speaks, I don’t know, twenty languages. And when she’s on a job, she’s incommunicado for as long as it takes to succeed. If we’re going to protect our clients, we need to find her. And stop her. Fast.”
Yes, they needed to find her. And unfortunately, he knew just where to look.
Six
“WHAT THE HELL
do you want?”
Marisela slid her sunglasses down her nose and leaned her shoulder on the threshold of Parker Manning’s apartment door, eyeing the man who glared at her.
“Is that any way to greet a guest?” she asked, her voice a seductive purr.
“Gue—?” Manning paused mid-bark, cigarette hanging precariously out of the corner of his mouth, his ratty Harvard T-shirt sporting a wicked collection of condiment stains, including but not limited to, mustard, ketchup, and, from the smell, sauerkraut.
Marisela arched her back and let her tight, scoop-necked, jewel-encrusted
chica
T-shirt weave its magic.
He straightened, grabbed the top of the doorjamb and leaned forward, like he was frickin’ Rocky Balboa or something. He probably meant the pose to be sexy.
Fat chance.
At one time, Parker Manning might have pulled off Stallone, but now his muscles sagged, he reeked of cigarette smoke and booze, and while he was probably only in his late thirties, he had the crags, wrinkles, and lines of a much older man. The only thing he had in common with the Italian Stallion was that he’d gone into the ring and got the shit kicked out of him.
Still, she needed information from him, so she moved in closer. “So are you going to invite me in, or what?” she whispered.
“Funny,” he said with a vulgar chuckle. “I don’t remember calling 1-800-HOOKERS ARE US.”
The hell with seductive. Marisela slammed the door open with her shoulder, knocking Parker Manning hard against the arm. But she didn’t walk inside. Last thing she wanted was this jerk having her arrested for trespassing. Assault would be enough, thanks.
The guy’s bellow sent Frankie scrambling from where he was waiting down the hall.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
She stared at Frankie with complete innocence. “You know these doors nowadays. Hinges are too loose. Just like this asshole’s lips.”
“She nearly fucking killed me!”
Crybaby.
“Accidents happen,” Frankie said to Manning, who was glaring at both of them now. “I apologize for my associate,” Frankie continued, his voice calm, friendly, and so Ian-like that Marisela nearly lost her breakfast. “She can be…unpredictable. We’ll have no need for more violence, if you ask us inside.”
“For what?” Manning demanded.
Frankie’s
el diablo
beard and moustache lent power to his sharp reply. “We have business to discuss.”
Manning sneered, but not without a skitter of fear in his eyes. Frankie had clearly copied the polite routine from their boss, but the intimidation factor was all Frankie, all the time.
“Who the hell are you?” Manning rubbed his shoulder furiously and eyed Marisela with acidic spite, but he made no move to block the door.
And without a definitive no to stop him, Frankie strolled past him, then turned to Marisela so she’d follow. “We’re investigating the shooting of Congressman Craig Bennett.”
“You aren’t cops,” Manning spat.
Marisela rolled her eyes. “Do you see us flashing badges?”
“What I see are a couple of thugs coming into my apartment. You got a business card or something? I could call the police.”
Frankie slid a card from his pocket and flicked it within Parker’s reach. “The police will be here soon enough without your call.”
Manning didn’t react to Frankie’s comment, but instead kept his eyes glued on the card. “Titan International? You’re private dicks.”
Marisela chuckled. “He can actually be a really public dick when he puts his mind to it,” she said, thumbing in Frankie’s direction.
With a snicker, Manning nodded his head toward what Marisela suspected was his living room. Overflowing with piles of paperwork, worn furniture, half-empty bottles of scotch and discarded beer cans that littered the brown pile rug, the apartment reflected a man who didn’t get out much—a detail verified by Manning’s rough beard, pasty skin, and bleary eyes.
“What would the cops want with me?” he asked finally, handing the card back to Frankie.
Frankie remained near Parker and near the door—while Marisela casually looked around. Newspapers littered nearly every flat surface and legal pads filled with illegible scribbles were stacked in several piles, each one threatening to topple if anyone so much as brushed by them.
Yet somehow, Marisela suspected this work was important, probably by the way Manning never took his eyes off her as she surveyed the room.
“Congressman Bennett wasn’t exactly a friend of yours,” Marisela said.
“Yeah, well, we didn’t run in the same social circles,” Manning quipped.
“And still, your sister managed to hang around with him pretty regularly,” Frankie pointed out, drawing Manning’s attention.
Color rose in the man’s neck, but his tone remained balanced. “That was a lifetime ago. My family doesn’t have a damned thing to do with those people anymore. We haven’t since Rebecca died. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot of shit to do today.”
Marisela sensed strong iron walls shooting up around Parker Manning. He was, for the time being, Titan’s prime suspect in the plot to assassinate Craig Bennett. According to their briefing at Titan’s home office before they’d headed over here, Parker Manning had been an inconsolable grieving brother fifteen years ago. He’d pushed the hardest for indictments against Bennett and the Hightower boys in his sister’s death, if for no other reason than to force an investigation. He’d haunted the police station, written pleading letters to the prosecutor’s office, even picketed the Hightowers’ Back Bay mansion until he’d been arrested for harassment and trespass.
Then suddenly, he’d stopped.
No more phone calls to detectives or prosecutors. No more letters to the editor. No more bad-mouthing the Hightower family to any tabloid reporter willing to listen. He’d simply focused on his work as a freelance journalist, covering the crime beat mostly, with a special emphasis on organized crime.
And with reported mob connections stemming from a series of articles he published about criminal families moving into Boston (thus gaining the gratitude of the homegrown mob), Titan couldn’t help suspect that at the very least, those ties provided him access to a professional killer.
Parker Manning’s motive for wanting Craig Bennett dead had festered a very long time.
“You know,” Marisela offered. “We could come back at a better time. You could pencil us in to your social calendar.” She picked up a date book on his desk from 1997, replete with condensation rings, pizza sauce, and if she wasn’t mistaken, little tiny red mouse tracks. “Give you some time to hire a new housekeeper, because the one you have now sucks.”
With a disgusted cough, Manning slammed the door shut. Either he was stupid, curious, or completely numb to the reality that he’d just let two perfect strangers into his home. Or maybe he just wanted to clear his name.
“I’ve never even met Craig Bennett.”
Frankie slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans and remained near the door. “You really want to start with a lie? We’ve checked you out. You think the congressman had something to do with your sister’s death.”
Manning paced the room. “So did the Boston police. You interviewing any of them as potential suspects?”
Marisela used the least-chewed pencil she could find on the desk to lift a stained pair of boxer shorts off a chair. With a grimace, she threw them aside. “Our boss has that covered.”
“Well, you can tell your boss to fuck off. I have nothing to say to either one of you.”
“Then why’d you let us in?” Marisela asked.