No One Heard Her Scream

For a moment, she stood in the kitchen with motive scenarios gyrating through her head. Eventually, it came to her. She remembered the payroll records and the architectural billing the lieutenant had given her that morning. The white envelope. Earlier in the day, she'd tossed the faxed information onto her coffee table in the living room.

Becca rounded the corner of her kitchen and sat on her sofa. She spread the papers out to compare the two documents. As she expected to find, the name of Rudy Marquez had been on the payroll of the subcontractor, listed as a mason apprentice. Seven years ago, around the time Isabel went missing, Rudy would have been a teenager. No more than eighteen or nineteen tops. Becca drilled through the more detailed listing used to support the billings on the renovation charged to the architectural firm. She ran her finger down the list, not wanting to miss any detail. She found Rudy's name on page four, but another name stopped her cold.

'No way. There's got to be some kind of mistake.'

She rummaged through the papers and compared the two faxes again. One name had been omitted off the subcontractor's payroll, but was clearly listed on the invoice to the architect.

'Well, I'll be damned.'

Victor Marquez. The priest had been in the seminary during that time, but had apparently worked the renovation at the Imperial Theatre on occasion.

'Why didn't you say anything about this, Victor? You kept your mouth shut and let Rudy take the spotlight.'

Why did the subcontractor not list Victor as an outright worker on the payroll, yet bill his hours on the project to the architect? With his part-time status, had they paid him under the table?

But a bigger questioned loomed in her mind.

If the investigation turned up the heat on Rudy, his older brother Victor could divert attention and share the limelight. With both brothers appearing guilty, reasonable doubt might set them both free. Had the priest planned to protect his little brother in the only way possible? Would the priest let things go that far?

From what she had seen of Isabel's mother, the woman might not withstand such pain. Becca couldn't imagine Victor putting his mother through the turmoil. But it wasn't up to Becca to interpret the facts, only to follow the evidence to an irrefutable conclusion—not a long list of 'what ifs.' Finding a plausible and substantiated motive would be key.

Her list of suspects had grown by one more— a man wearing the white collar of the Catholic Church. Isabel Marquez might have died because of her involvement with prostitution, killed by person or persons unknown. Or maybe an overly protective brother, who disapproved of her choices, had murdered her. Pick a brother. Becca could make a case for either one doing the deed.

Only hearsay pointed a finger to Hunter Cavanaugh, the desperate accusations of a brother who might have killed his own sister. Sonja had denied Rudy's story about the Mercedes and the trip out to the Cavanaugh estate. But even though Becca's gut told her the wealthy entrepreneur might still be involved, could she trust her instincts where Cavanaugh was concerned?

Becca heard a soft knock. She rose from her couch and went to the door, peering through the peephole.

'Oh, boy. Not sure I can deal with this right now,' she whispered. Slowly, she undid the dead bolt and chain and opened the door.

Diego Galvan leaned against the doorframe, a long-stemmed white rose in his hand. Looking good enough to feast on with a shrimp fork and lemon—scratch the lemon—the man wore a brown all-weather coat with boots, jeans, and a cream cable-knit sweater. At that moment, a phrase from the Sci-Fi Channel popped into her head. Resistance is futile.

Their eyes met, and his lazy smile greeted her, his dimples embellishing an already perfect moment. Infused with a lyric Hispanic accent, his low, seductive voice titillated her ear.

'Did you miss me, Rebecca?'

CHAPTER9

'You better be here with good news,' she threatened. 'I don't have time for mental sparring with you. Gloves or no gloves.'

Diego handed Rebecca the rose and stepped inside her place. With a show of reluctance, she took his offering. He wanted to smile, but couldn't.

'You and I working together? Not sure that should be considered good news.'

He meant it. They were about to play a very dangerous game, one that might get them both killed.

'So you've decided to accept my offer?'

'You act like you proposed some kind of legitimate merger. You blackmailed me. Let's at least start off with some kind of reality check.' He yanked off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. 'What now?'

'You have to fill me in on everything you know so far.'

He rolled his eyes and turned toward the window, looking down on the river. Diego jammed his hands into his pockets.

'Look,' she persisted. 'You gotta give me a reason to trust you. The way I look at it, you're square in the enemy camp. Show me you're willing to cross sides.'

In the reflection of the glass, he saw her posture, defiant, with hands on her hips. Diego knew it would come to this, but Rebecca had no sense of foreplay.

'Can I have a drink first? I'm not a cheap date. I've got my reputation to think about, you know.'

He turned in time to catch her surprise at the shift in topic and her faint smile.

'This doesn't have to be an interrogation, does it?' He shrugged. 'Besides, I'm hungry.'

She pointed a finger. 'This is not a date, mister.'

'Fine. I'll cook. What do you have in the fridge?' He trudged past her into the kitchen.

Diego did a quick inventory of her pantry and refrigerator, hampered by a steady barrage of objections from Rebecca.

'Look, this is business, not a social occasion. Get out of my stuff.'

When he turned, she hit him square in the chest with a pot holder. It flopped to the floor. Diego stared at it, then looked up. 'I hope you have a license for a concealed pot holder. If not, I may have to report you to the authorities ... or the Food Network.'

'Go ahead. There's never a cop around when you need one.' She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, any amusement well disguised.

In truth, all she had to do to stop him cold was look into his eyes. She stood in front of him now. The smell of her skin and the fire in her eyes made him forget what he wanted to say. Eventually, it came back to him.

'Eggs . . . omelet. A basic to the single guy's play-book.' He swallowed and cleared his throat. 'You feel like breakfast, Rebecca?'

'You don't have to . . .'

He never let her finish. Diego stepped closer and touched the side of her cheek with a finger.

'I know I don't have to. I want to.' He smiled. 'Now make yourself useful. Pour us some wine... and find some music to inspire my culinary skills.'

'Something from Sesame Street? Or would that be too challenging for you?' she sniped. 'Not exactly my taste in music, but I can humor you.'

He pointed a finger. 'Hey, you can take a cheap shot at me, but lay off Big Bird.'

Sesame Street and Big Bird broke the ice. As Diego worked, they talked about the rain, the Riverwalk, and the understated perfection of the eggshell. The subject matter wasn't important. He marveled at how it made him feel to speak of such mundane things, to feel so . . . normal. Diego wanted to remember every second of their time together. He hadn't felt this carefree in years.

'Who taught you how to cook?' she asked, sipping wine as she sat on a chair near the breakfast bar and watched him work from a safe distance.

Diego sauteed vegetables while the eggs cooked in another pan. A fond memory crossed his mind.

'My mother.' He grinned and gestured, holding a hand to his neck. 'She had it up to here with men who suddenly became invalids in the kitchen. My mother wanted nothing to do with raising one. She used to say, 'You and I are going to redefine the word 'machismo,' Diego.''

'I like her. Sounds like you two are close.'