by Jordan Dane
But Diego had been a different story. He stared at her, his eyes narrowed in question, suggesting a hint of concern and compassion. Well, what do ya know? Becca took a deep breath, resisting the urge to read too much into this man. With her life being a complete wreck, she couldn't deal with a potential disappointment named Diego Galvan.
"Do you suspect it is this young woman's body in the theater, Detective?"
"Too soon to tell, sir."
"Well, certainly, I'm sympathetic, but what does this have to do with me?" Cavanaugh asked.
Becca hated that question. Had heard it many times before. She took a deep breath and held back her resentment. Murder was a crime against humanity, a depraved act that diminished mankind as a whole. But Cavanaugh viewed the world with him at its center. End of story. She would get nowhere explaining her belief to a man like him.
"I have to investigate all the angles. And you owned the property at the time." She set her coffee cup down on its saucer. "What motive would someone have to select your theater for a body dump?"
"I have no idea." He answered way too fast.
No outrage. No questions. The man didn't even seem curious. In her experience, an innocent person might mull over the question, maybe speculate on an answer. But someone with something to hide would answer without thinking, like Cavanaugh. She decided to try a different tactic.
"Play along with me here, Mr. Cavanaugh. 'Cause I tell you, I can use all the help I can get on a case this old. Why would someone kill and leave a body buried in a wall of your theater?" she pressed.
If she read him right, Cavanaugh looked like a man who relished being in charge. Stroking his intellect seemed like a natural choice. Given the man's ego, he might have the audacity to reveal certain elements of the truth, throwing them in her face. A man like Cavanaugh might believe he was above the law and smarter than the police. It wasn't up to Becca to prove him wrong. Her only objective, at this point, was to keep him talking. If she was any judge of character, his ego would do the rest.
But from the corner of her eye, she saw Diego shift his weight. Becca resisted the urge to look over. His deliberate move triggered his words of warning about his "benefactor." They replayed in her head. Just make sure you bring your A-game with this guy. He's powerful and as nasty as they come. Suddenly, her lowly Columbo routine didn't feel adequate for the challenge.
When she looked at Cavanaugh, the man smiled, ingratiating and perverse. Her skin crawled at the sight.
"Hypothetically speaking, you say?" the man asked. When she nodded, Cavanaugh gazed across the room and made a good show of playing along. "Well, let's presume this unnamed body is the beautiful young woman in the photograph, shall we?"
He waited for her to acknowledge his clever deduction before he continued, "Perhaps it was a crime of passion, the stuff of Edgar Allan Poe. A jilted lover buries her alive, the sound of her beating heart still resounding in his ear. What better place for high drama than an old theater?"
"With all due respect, Mr. Cavanaugh, I didn't say the victim was buried alive. But please go on. Your thoughts interest me."
He fell silent for an instant, considering her observation.
"No, I guess you didn't." He smirked. "But Poe wouldn't have had it any other way."
Cavanaugh raised his chin and spoke in a raspy whisper.
"I didn't know the girl, but perhaps she wasn't entirely innocent. Maybe this girl had a secret life no one knew about. Is that the type of speculation you mean?"
For an awkward moment, he turned his gaze on her like a weapon. She blinked. The intensity of his ice blue eyes took her breath. And even though he asked questions, his conjecture sounded an awful lot like statements of fact.
Witnessing her uneasiness, Cavanaugh leaned toward her, closing the gap of her comfort zone. His voice low and intimate, he brushed a finger across the petal of the white rose on her lapel.
"An older man can offer a younger woman so many things. Maybe unwittingly, she became the moth to a very dangerous flame."
Becca held her ground, not backing off. Breathe, damn it. She returned his unblinking stare, resisting the urge to bolt. Her creep barometer had hit the red zone. Yesterday, Father Victor suggested Isabel had a relationship with an older man, one who had money.
Was Becca staring into the eyes of a killer? She swallowed and forced a smile.
"That's very good. If this whole wealthy playboy thing doesn't work out, I could put in a good word for you down at the SAPD." To regain her composure, Becca took a sip of coffee before she continued. "The recent fire may prove to be arson. Any theories on that?"
"Arson? Well, there's your answer," he offered.
"How so?"
"Whoever set the fire no doubt knew about the body. Don't you see? Otherwise, it would be too much coincidence. Your arsonist may well be the killer."
"Interesting theory, sir."
Cavanaugh looked like a man who had delivered the only line he had in a stage play. Smug and theatrical. Surely Diego had told the man about the possibility of arson at the Imperial. If he did, Cavanaugh had plenty of time to conjure up his great insight, his theory to place blame on a faceless firebug.
Becca had thought of this angle before. But why would someone wait seven years to pin a murder on Cavanaugh? Could the body have been intended to act like a time bomb, waiting to blow up in the man's face at the worst possible time? Why now? Too many questions without answers.
"Do you know of anyone who would frame you for this murder, sir? Set you up to take the fall?"
"A man in my position has made enemies to be sure, but I can't think of anyone who would do this, no."
Yeah, right. From what she gathered, Cavanaugh had jump-started his family business on a foundation of mob money. And he hired "muscle" to ensure his protection. Yet he sat before her—innocence personified. Time for her to rock the yacht.
"Your travel company merged a few years ago with Global Enterprises. And since that time, your business has flourished. Any possibility of—"
Cavanaugh interrupted. "What would cause you to look into the merger of my company?" The man's eye twitched. A subtle gesture. But the tightening of his jawline had been more pronounced. Becca hit a nerve.
Throughout most of the interview, she struggled to maintain control, with Cavanaugh playing the part of grand master of their mental tug-of-war. Yet with the topic of Global Enterprises on the table, Cavanaugh clammed up, pretended to be insulted by her line of questioning. His cooperation came to a grinding halt. Becca had discovered his trigger—an Achilles' heel. Score one for the visiting team.
"At this stage of my investigation, I have to look at anything and everything, Mr. Cavanaugh."
His composure had vanished. "If you are asking if someone within my corporation would do this, the answer is no, Detective." Cavanaugh set his coffee cup down and stood. "This conversation is over. Anything else I can do for you?"
Becca had been dismissed.
"No, sir. That will do for now. You've been very helpful." She stood and reached for her casebook to retrieve a business card. "If you think of anything else, please contact me."
Although Cavanaugh took her card, he never glanced at it. The man had no intention of picking up where they'd left off. The next move would be hers.
"Diego will see you to the front door," the man ordered.
As Cavanaugh left the room, gesturing for Brogan to follow him, Becca caught a distinct reaction from Diego. His double take gave him away. Cavanaugh's directive had surprised him. And he didn't appreciate being odd man out.
"I can find my own way out. After all, I am a detective," she teased. And in her best Hispanic accent, she added, "I can detect such things."
Diego looked distracted and totally missed her impersonation of him. The man watched Cavanaugh leave the room with Brogan and his beady-eyed stare that only a coiled rattler would understand.
"Why didn't you—?"
Before she finished her thought, Diego fla
shed her an intense look coupled with a subtle shake of his head, cautioning her to keep quiet.
"No trouble, Detective. It will be my pleasure to escort you out."
They walked in silence, his hand touching the small of her back. Although she tried to ignore his gesture, the feel of his fingers on her body kindled a surge of adrenaline she couldn't control. Toe-curling stuff. With cheeks flushed, she set her jaw. No way she would acknowledge his effect on her.
"This estate has eyes and ears," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, not looking her way.
Becca knew the clack of her heels on the tile floor would make audio surveillance difficult, but video was another story. So she kept her eyes straight ahead and her voice low.
"We gotta talk," she muttered.
"Not here," he whispered. When they got to the front door, Diego reached for the knob and opened it. In a louder voice, he added, "Good day, Detective."
Diego Galvan looked edgy, his unflappable facade a distant memory. And his dark eyes darted back the way they'd come, his jaw taut with tension. Something had caused him to lose his cool. She had to admit that seeing him like this did a number on her head. But her head was the least of her problems. Her body had a mind of its own.
Diego stood close enough for her to feel the warmth off his skin, mixed with his subtle cologne—a potent combination. Although the man tried to maintain his distance, his eyes conveyed another message altogether. They held a sense of danger mixed with an ironclad humanity, an intriguing labyrinth she had to explore.
Becca narrowed her eyes, resisting the urge to ask him how and when he would contact her. Instead, she walked out the front door, taking her first step toward trust. Besides, playing a little cloak-and-dagger with gorgeous eyes wouldn't ruin the rest of her day. Diego looked like a man who wanted to talk. A perfect match.
She wanted to hear whatever he had to say ... to a point.
Becca merged the Crown Vic into traffic on I-10 with a lot on her mind. Diego's words of warning about Cavanaugh were dead on the money. The man gave her a serious case of the creeps, triggering a gut reaction that the affluent pillar of the community hid something, especially where Global Enterprises was concerned. But as she replayed the interview with Cavanaugh in her head, her cell phone rang.
"Montgomery."
"Becca? Where are you?"
She recognized the voice of Lieutenant Arturo Santiago.
"I'm on I-10, heading back downtown. Why?"
"I wanted you to hear this from me, before the media gets ahold of it."
His words gripped her heart. A grave tone to his voice. It drew her back to the day she first heard about a bloody motel room. This couldn't be good.
"Sounds ominous. What's up?"
"There's been another abduction, in Austin near the U.T. campus. A couple of days ago."
Another young life ruined, a family torn apart. The news wrenched her gut. Danielle's sweet face flashed in front of her eyes. Becca clenched her jaw and gripped the steering wheel, hard. She tried to regain her composure, stay focused.
"Same MO?" She hated the edge to her voice. The need. "Is there a connection, Art?"
"No, the MO is different. Broad daylight this time, no nightclub involved. And the girl was a college kid, some foreign exchange student from Japan. The FBI clued Murphy in on this one. We wouldn't have seen it as connected except for one thing."
"Yeah, what's that?"
The man hadn't heard her. He kept on talking.
"We're not gonna leak this detail to the press, Becca. This one we keep."
"Art, spit it out. I gotta know."
"Your sister's senior class ring was found in a van they dumped, wedged in a crack."
The news stole her breath, bringing a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. The innocence of a graduation that would never be collided with the horror of Danielle's violent death in a blood-splattered motel room. A cruel jolt. It took every ounce of concentration to keep her car between the painted lines. No way she'd be frozen out on this one. Not now.
"By itself, this doesn't mean much. It's only her ring, judging by the initials on the inside of the band. We have no context, no time frame. The ring ties this vehicle to the FBI's case, that's all."
"But it's something, Art," she pleaded, softening her tone. "Something of Dani's."
"Look, I know what you're thinking, but I gotta tell ya," Santiago added, "I got a new guy from the FBI down here today. He's buttoning things up tight. You're not gonna . . ."
Becca didn't let him finish.
"I want in, Art. One way or another, I want in." She insisted, not waiting for Lieutenant Santiago's response.
Becca ended the call and tossed the cell onto the seat next to her. She hit the gas pedal. No way Santiago would bar her from the investigation now.
CHAPTER5
"Detective Montgomery is going to be a problem, one I will place in your hands."
Hunter Cavanaugh collapsed into his black leather desk chair, the start of a headache pulsing at his temples. The study smelled of brandy and cigar smoke, with the underlying musty odor of old books. The combined pungency gnarled his stomach, intensified by the reversal of fortune to his morning. Cavanaugh sat behind his desk and stared straight through Brogan, his mind on other things.
"And let's keep this our little secret. Diego is not to find out. The last thing I need is for Rivera to hear about my little . . . hobby."
"But this body in the theater, they won't find a connection."
"Does that really matter?" He didn't feel like explaining himself to Brogan. "Being under a cop's scrutiny is never a good thing."
The pretty detective piqued his interest when he thought she was investigating the fire at the Imperial Theatre. Diego had given him a heads-up on the blaze being arson. Professional courtesy, the man had said. And when Detective Montgomery walked into the room, he felt like a kid waking up Christmas morning—a new toy caught his eye. Yet in no time, she doused him with a harsh reality. And she didn't look like the kind of woman who knew how to play outside the rules.
"I'm afraid the detective has no idea how to have fun."
"We could teach her." Brogan's face squeezed into a grin like a compressed accordion.
"Yes, I suppose we can." Cavanaugh crooked a corner of his mouth, a fleeting gesture. "But this couldn't come at a worse time."
"What do you need me to do . . . exactly?"
Although Brogan lacked imagination, he made up for his shortcoming with a genuine enthusiasm to execute a direct order. A quality Cavanaugh appreciated in a subordinate.
"To start, let's consolidate the merchandise. You know what to do. I can't have the police nosing around my affairs."
Cavanaugh recognized the necessity for shoring up his defenses, but he resented his need to do so.
"How far do you want me to go . . . with the detective?"
He saw the glint in Brogan's dark eyes and marveled at what little it took to amuse him. Despite Brogan's eagerness, Cavanaugh wondered if he could entrust his well-being to such a man. He took a deep breath.
"I have some ideas on the subject. Pour a brandy for both of us, Mr. Brogan. Let's talk."
Becca had to slow her steps as she trekked down the corridor to Lieutenant Santiago's office. Gauging by the play of light from a window, she knew his door was open. When she rounded the corner and stepped inside, Santiago looked up, his expression stern. But he wasn't alone.
"Detective Montgomery. Please come in and close the door." Santiago gestured for her to sit. She shut the door but remained standing.
Paul Murphy, dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and his favorite red power tie, turned from the window as she entered the office. He leaned against the sill, arms crossed. Murphy stared at her, his expression blank. That surprised her. Normally, the man wore his smugness like an extra layer of skin. Arrogance fit him like a glove.
But the balding man to Murphy's left captured her attention. Tall and lanky, the older man wore
his suit as if he were a human coat hanger. An unflattering cut couldn't be blamed for the guy's inability to fill it out. His dark eyes looked like two lumps of coal set amidst the deep wrinkles creasing his face. She got the distinct impression the lines were not caused by his stellar sense of humor. Becca extended her hand to force an introduction.
"I don't believe we've met. My name's Detective Rebecca . . ."
"I know who you are, Detective. Please take a seat." He didn't reach for her hand.
"This is Mike Draper with the FBI's Criminal Investigative Division out of DC."
Santiago made the one-sided introduction for her benefit. Without a word, Draper glared at her lieutenant, a look intended as a directive to get started. And Santiago complied, without so much as an insolent scowl.
"Draper has some questions for you. I expect your cooperation." Santiago turned his gaze to the man standing near the window.
"Your investigation on the arson fire and the bones found at the theater. Brief me on the case and the meeting you had with Hunter Cavanaugh this morning," Draper commanded.
"Sir, I can do that, but I'd rather talk about my sister's . . ."
"Your sister's investigation is off-limits to you. Now tell me about this case and Cavanaugh's involvement," the man insisted.
Becca tried to read him, but the fed didn't allow it. Something was going down, and she wouldn't be a part of it. She took a seat in the chair nearest her. Becca stared at the men who would deny her and made a deliberate choice. She was damned tired of playing by their rules.
"Not much to report yet, sir. I've got an appointment with the Medical Examiner this afternoon. No ID on the victim. As you know, nothing much can happen until we get that identification."
"Tell me about your meeting with Cavanaugh. What transpired?"
"We had coffee, sir," she replied. In a roomful of interrogators, she had to remain calm, an open book. "Cavanaugh seemed surprised to hear about the skeletal remains found after the fire. I don't think he's going to be much help. He's not even the owner of record for the property anymore. It's some kind of historical site."
