He glanced at his car door. "Please, tell Nate to call me."
She nodded, but tears pricked her eyes.
"Hey, it's going to be okay."
She tried to smile. "I appreciate your help."
He placed his huge hand on her shoulder. "You know what Sam said?"
Sam had said a lot in the time the woman had spent with them, but Marisa couldn't seem to focus on anything right now.
"She said God knows exactly where your daughter and your sister are."
The scent of rain, and now this. Like a big cosmic joke. "You believe in God?"
Garrison paused, looked at nothing. "I do. I think I do. How about you?"
"I just want my family back."
"Yeah." He glanced at his car door again.
She stepped away. "Go. Thank you for your help."
"Don't forget to have Nate call me."
Marisa watched as Garrison drove away. She'd kept the tears at bay, but now they streamed down her cheeks. She'd been praying. If God knew where her family was, she needed him to tell her. Now.
She climbed in the truck to wait for Nate, and mercifully, just five minutes later, he knocked on her window. When she opened the door, he said, "You want to drive?"
She slid to the passenger seat. "I haven't driven in years, Nate. You don't want me to drive."
He seemed relieved but didn't say anything as he climbed into the driver's seat.
"Well?"
"I don't think he had anything to do with it."
Nate started the truck but didn't shift into drive. He turned to tell her what happened, but she stopped him.
"Why don't you call Garrison? He wanted to hear, too."
"You talked to him?"
"He had to go." She handed Nate the folded piece of paper. "He wants you to call."
Nate dialed, and the sound of ringing came through the speakers. Bluetooth cars. Another new thing she'd heard of but hadn't experienced in Mexico.
Garrison answered a moment later, and Nate told them both what Anderson had to say.
"He has a theory. He says a lot of the people at G&K share it."
"What's that?" Garrison asked.
"That Marisa was able to gain access to Charles's accounts because they were"—he glanced at Marisa—"sleeping together."
"What!" Her whole body vibrated with rage.
Garrison said nothing.
Nate ignored Marisa's outburst. "You heard that, Garrison?"
"A few of them expressed that theory to me, yeah."
The very idea that people thought she and that...that terrible man had been together turned her stomach. She looked at Nate.
He met her eyes.
"Do you believe it?" Marisa asked.
"No." Nate's gaze never left hers. "Not for a minute."
Garrison said, "I didn't know you from Adam's cousin, Marisa. I kept my mind open to the possibility."
Charles had been such a pig when he'd come on to her. And that was after she'd started seeing Vinnie. He'd even bought her a bracelet, as if a few precious gems would convince her to cheat on her boyfriend. And to think, all those people she'd run into from time to time at the office, their smiling faces—they'd all thought she was a whore.
Had Vinnie heard the rumors? Had he ever considered it?
"How could they think that of me?"
"They didn't know you," Garrison said. "You were just the cleaning lady."
Nate took her hand. "It's circular reasoning. You had to have stolen the money, therefore, you must've gotten access because you were sleeping with Charles."
"And if you were sleeping with Charles and found out he'd killed your fiancé," Garrison said, "obviously, you stole the money to get back at him."
"Or because you found out you weren't his only mistress." Nate went on to explain about what he called Charles's "propensity for intimacy."
"Sexual addiction?" Garrison said.
"Probably. Apparently, there were a lot of women."
"But Jessica English," Marisa said. "I thought she was his mistress."
"Did you know her?" Garrison asked.
She shrugged. "Didn't know her. Saw her one night, slipping into Charles's office."
"Huh." Nate rubbed his temples. "But Charles said she'd never set foot in the office."
Marisa shrugged. "I just assumed it was her. I guess because I'd heard her name before."
"From?"
"Leslie. She always knew the office gossip, everywhere she cleaned. I never knew how she did it."
"What did the woman you saw with Charles look like?" Garrison asked.
"Tall, pretty, and blond. She was wearing a gray suit with a bright blue shirt and carried an expensive purse. She had on... What were they called? Those really expensive, gorgeous, but sort of slutty stilettos."
"Jimmy Choo?" Nate suggested.
Garrison chuckled. "Got a pair in your closet, Nate?"
"I don't have to own them to know them," Nate said. "Unlike some of us, who buy our clothes at Walmart."
"How could you tell?" Garrison asked.
Marisa almost smiled. "They looked like Jimmy Choo's. Maybe they were knock-offs. She was sophisticated, but the shoes... At the time I remember wondering if she'd worn them all day or just slipped them on to visit Charles."
"That sounds like Jessica English, if I remember correctly." Garrison was all business again. "She was working for an advertising agency, a graphic designer."
"The woman I saw looked more like...I don't know, somebody who'd own an advertising agency."
"They say to dress the part," Nate said.
"And tall, blond, and sophisticated," Garrison said, "could describe a lot of women. We'll want to confirm it was English, because if she was at G&K's offices, that means she lied to me when I questioned her."
"And Charles lied to me," Nate said.
"Right." A horn blared through the speakers, and Garrison muttered, "Idiot driver."
"Where are you?" Nate asked.
"On my way back to Long Island. Did Anderson tell you anything else?"
"One thing I never knew. He said the money was transferred at two different times to two different accounts. Is that true?"
"It is."
"At two different times?" Marisa glanced at Nate. "Why would somebody do that?"
Garrison said, "We never could solve that mystery."
"Anderson theorized that if Marisa didn't steal the money, maybe it was stolen by two other people."
"On the same night?" Garrison said. "That's quite a coincidence."
That it was, but things had all happened fast. "I didn't steal it, but whoever did, Garrison, they knew you guys were moving in."
"We think so."
"Okay, hold on." Nate let go of Marisa's hand, pulled out his notebook, and wrote something down. "Garrison, you said back in Nutfield that you'd quit suspecting Marisa. Why was that?"
"It didn't add up. If you'd stolen the money, Marisa, why hang around? Why not steal it and run? But you hung around awhile longer."
"I was trying to figure out what to do," she said.
"Of course," Garrison said. "But if you'd stolen the money, you'd have had a plan, right?"
She shrugged. "I never had much of a plan. I just took off."
"That makes sense, though." Nate nodded to the steering wheel as if Garrison could see him. "She would have been prepared, because the money being stolen wouldn't have been a surprise."
"Instead," Garrison said, "you were still hoping for witness protection until you found out we suspected you. And you didn't know we were going to raid G&K that day. You only knew we were going to arrest Charles, and you didn't know when. And if you were going to steal it, why that night? Why not earlier? You'd known what was going on for weeks."
"That's true." She glanced at Nate, who was still taking notes.
"The whole thing never added up," Garrison continued. "Your running—that made you look guilty."
"I thought Charles would kill me."<
br />
"Exactly what I said to my partner," Garrison said. "It took me a while, but I eventually convinced him we were on the wrong track."
"Where was the money transferred to?" Nate asked. "Two different accounts in the same bank?"
"Not even in the same country," Garrison said.
"Huh."
"Charles's money went to an account in Grand Cayman. The firm's money went to an account in Switzerland."
"So you always knew two different people had stolen it."
"No," Garrison said. "We figured one person had two accounts, because it seemed too much of a coincidence, unless they were working together."
"If that's the case, why was the money taken at two different times?" Nate asked.
Marisa pushed her hair back from her face. "We're going in circles."
Nate sighed. "You're right."
"I agree," Garrison said. "Was there anything else, Nate?"
"That covers it."
Garrison cleared his throat. "Nate, can you take me off Bluetooth for a minute?"
Nate glanced at her, and she glared. He gave her an apologetic look. "Sure."
He tapped his phone and spoke into it. "What's up?"
Marisa strained to hear what Garrison was saying.
Nate stepped out of the truck and closed the door behind him.
She had half a mind to drive away and leave him standing there. Except she was a little scared to drive. And it was his friend's truck. And her license was expired. And Nate had done nothing but help her.
She tried and failed to wait patiently. Fortunately, less than a minute later, Nate opened the car door and slipped the phone in his pocket.
"Well?"
"It was nothing."
"Please don't lie to me."
He blew out a breath. "He has a theory about...something. I promise I'll tell you if you need to know. Right now, you don't."
"I need to know everything!"
He looked in her eyes. "Please, trust me." He squeezed her hand. "Let's go see Jessica English."
"ARE YOU SURE IT'S THE right Jessica English?" Marisa asked.
Nate turned onto 9A and headed north as the map program on his smartphone directed him. Marisa was continually amazed at what the little devices could do.
"As sure as I can be," Nate said. "Garrison told us she was a graphic designer. This Jessica English owns a graphic design business. You read her website—it said she worked on Madison Avenue before she opened her doors. Why are you convinced it's not?"
"Because..." She stared out at the Hudson on her left as she considered her answer. Finally, she said, "Because the woman I saw didn't seem the suburban type."
"Maybe she's miserable in White Plains." Nate glanced at her and smiled.
"I wish we'd asked Garrison to help us track her down. He'd be able to tell us for sure."
"You're the one who said not to call him."
"He seemed distracted, and he was driving. But what if this is a fool's errand?"
"We're already on our way. It'll take us less than an hour. If this isn't her, we'll regroup, figure out our next step."
"Any idea what that'll be?"
"I think Jessica English is our next step. If this isn't her, we'll call Garrison. He'll be able to find her."
"What if she's moved out of the country or something?"
"Remember what we said back in Acapulco? Do the—"
"Next thing. And then the next thing." Her voice rose. "And then the next. We're just going to keep doing the next thing until Ana and Leslie are dead."
"We have to trust—"
"What? Trust what?"
He seemed to falter. A moment passed before he said, "Trust that it's going to be all right."
"Why would I believe that?"
"Because if you don't, the worry will drive you crazy. And we need to think straight if we're going to figure this out."
Right. Except they weren't going to figure it out, and even if they did, why would the kidnapper release Ana and Leslie? Marisa wouldn't be able to give him the money he obviously wanted. Would proof of who stole it really satisfy him? And how could Marisa and Nate figure out something the FBI had failed to learn in eight years?
They continued north until the road turned inland. The landscape changed from the pretty view of the river to the ugliness of the harbor buildings, warehouses, then apartment buildings. Millions of people, millions of places to hide.
Ana could be anywhere.
A phone rang.
Nate glanced at her, and she fumbled for the phone in her pocket as Nate exited the highway.
She took a deep breath and connected the call. "Hello?"
"You got the money?" The man's voice was clearer than it had been the day of the kidnapping. And scarier. His local accent came through perfectly. As if that narrowed the search.
Nate screeched into a parking lot and slammed on the brakes. He leaned over to hear.
"We're working on it," Marisa said.
"Don't tell me you spent it all."
Marisa hands shook, and she pulled in another breath and forced it out, trying to push down the frantic fear. "I didn't take the money. I never had it."
"I thought you loved your daughter."
"I do." She swallowed a sob and looked at Nate.
He pulled the phone closer. "Even the feds don't think she has it."
"You talked to the cops?"
"No!" Marisa shouted.
Nate laid his hand on her knee. When she looked at his face, he put one finger over his lips. The universal sign for shut up.
"I told the agent I was working on a follow-up story," Nate said. "You said that if we could prove Marisa didn't steal it, you'd let them go. We're trying to figure out who stole it."
"Right." The man drenched the word in sarcasm. "She has the money, and you're probably in on it."
"If we had the money," Nate said, "We'd give it to you with interest to get Ana and Leslie back."
"Please, you have to believe us," Marisa said. "We're trying to find it."
Nate met her eyes. He wanted her to keep quiet. But how could she?
"Why don't I believe you?"
"Because you want the money"—Nate ignored the man's obvious sarcasm—"and you've paid a high price to get it. You've kidnapped two people. You've made yourself an international criminal. But you've targeted the wrong person. Marisa doesn't have it, and she never did. We're doing our best to figure out who does. And you'll let them go. Right?"
"You don't ask the questions," the voice said.
"You're already a kidnapper. A kidnapper who lets his victims go might escape. A kidnapper who treats his victims well, the courts might have mercy on him. You don't want to become a murderer. A child killer. Nobody has mercy on that guy."
"Nobody's going to get hurt if I get my money."
My money. Marisa met Nate's eyes, and he nodded. "We need to speak with Ana and Leslie."
"You need to get the money."
"We're working on it. Please put them on the phone."
"Screw you. Get the money."
"We're not doing anything if we don't hear Ana's voice right now."
The man swore a blue streak, which was followed by silence. On the other end of the line, Marisa could hear scuffling, some banging. And crying.
Ana's crying.
"Shut up, kid. Talk to your mother."
A moment passed while tears streamed down Marisa's face. She couldn't move, afraid to break the connection and the only link to her little girl.
"Mama?"
"Oh, baby." Marisa stifled a sob. "Are you all right?"
"I want to come home now." Her voice was strong, just like always. Marisa wanted to hug her confident little girl so badly, her limbs ached.
"I know, pajarita. I miss you so much. I'm trying to get to you."
"Aunt Leslie has been really nice to me, and they let me have ice cream. Chocolate. But this place is yucky. Rats and cockroaches and spiders. And there's a—"
&
nbsp; "Hey." The man's voice was too loud and too close.
"I love you," Marisa said.
The man answered. "Yeah, I'll tell her. You have 'til Friday to get me the money."
"You said a week," Nate said. "That gives us until Sunday."
"I changed my mind."
"We can't do Friday." Nate said. "If you want your money—"
"Fine. Saturday I want my money."
"Or proof of who stole it," Nate said. "That was the deal."
A second ticked by, two, then three before the man said, "If she doesn't have it, I need to know who does."
"Let's make the trade in New York," Nate suggested.
"I decide where and when."
"You'll have to give us a hint or some time to get there. We're not staying in the city."
Another moment of quiet. "Where you staying?"
"You want to stop by for a visit?"
"Just trying to figure the plan."
"You tell us where and when," Nate said, "and we'll be there. And remember, if you hurt the woman or that little girl, money's going to be the least of your problems."
"The girl's fine. Leslie's fine. Four days."
The line went dead.
Marisa held the phone in her hand long after the man hung up. She stared at it, willing her daughter's voice to come through again. Ana had sounded scared. But she was okay, and Leslie must've been, too, if she was taking care of Ana. Marisa should take solace in that.
But it had already been three days, and they were no closer to finding out who stole the money than they had been the day of the kidnapping.
Nate took the phone from her hand. He pushed up the armrest between them and wrapped his arms around her. She wept on his shoulder.
"They're still alive. The man wants his money. We're going to figure out who has it."
"What if we don't?"
"One step at a time, Marisa."
She sniffed and sat back. "If we don't, we have to say we do. We'll have to trick this guy into exposing Ana and Leslie. I'm going to get them home safely, or I'm going to die trying."
Chapter 13
LESLIE. The kidnapper had called her Leslie. Not that woman. Not even your sister.
Nate didn't know what to make of it, but he couldn't get the thought out of his mind as he turned onto a quiet suburban street in White Plains, New York, just an hour outside the city, and stopped in front of a two-story blue Colonial with black shutters and a wide front porch. The yard was well kept, and evergreen shrubs lined the front of the house. A BMW was parked in the narrow driveway.
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