by Jordan Dane
Becca tightened her jaw after Sonja called Isabel stupid for wanting to do the right thing, trivializing rape as if it were a silly parking ticket. But she needed to keep her talking and resisted the urge to let her own emotions show.
"She was going to blow the whistle, and you couldn't let her do that."
"Exactly. I had no choice. I kept thinkin' about how I'd be arrested and do jail time. Even if I could live with that, Matt would've been arrested, with his party guests dragged into it. A big mess. He had a lot more at stake. Just like now, I'd be better off in jail, away from him. And it sounds like he's headin' the same direction. Good for me."
So she was protecting Brogan? Yeah, right, Becca thought. And oh what a difference seven years makes. Now she couldn't care less if he's put in jail. Sonja's smoke and mirrors were completely transparent now. How could she have been so blind to her lies? Becca resisted the urge to glance at Murphy. If Sonja had found out about Brogan being dead, this interrogation would have been over before it began.
"Tell me what happened," Becca prompted.
Sonja heaved a sigh, her eyes engrossed in her memory. "I stood in her way, shoving her. But she wouldn't back down. When Isabel slapped me, I lost it. The bitch! She didn't care what would happen to me. I grabbed the first thing I found. Some kind of hammer. And I hit her over the head with it. There was so much blood."
She cried. Her sobs echoed in the room until a lumbering silence took over. Becca narrowed her eyes and caught Murphy's eye. He gave a slight nod, letting her know he thought the same as she did. Becca had gotten what she wanted—a solid confession— but it left her empty knowing Isabel's life had meant so little to Sonja Garza. A pawn in her sex play with Matt Brogan.
Becca kept her composure and moved on. "What did you do then?"
Sonja wiped her cheeks with a sleeve of her sweat jacket, choking on her words. "I panicked. Didn't know what to do. I shut all the doors and locked them, so no one would come in. The blood ... I couldn't. . . I called Matt using my cell . . . and waited."
Just when Becca thought there would be no more twists to Sonja's story, the woman zinged a curve-ball over home plate. But Becca couldn't afford to react. If Brogan were alive and partial to talking, he would've mentioned something as trivial as disposing of a corpse.
Only Isabel hadn't been dead after Sonja struck her. She had been alive. Unconscious, but alive. Sonja waited for Brogan while Isabel's heart beat in her chest, a faint pulse. The outcome would have been the same, but the callousness of the crime made her sick. Becca fought the knot wedged in her throat.
"Tell me your version of the story."
Sonja shrugged with depraved indifference. "I can't believe I had to convince that son of a bitch to help me. I would have done much more for him."
More than murder? Becca shook with anger, but held it in. Finally, Sonja looked up and raised her chin.
"You'll find Isabel buried in the old theater, to the right of the stage behind a brick wall. She's been there all along. Brogan bricked the body in the wall with the cement and equipment left behind. And he had Cavanaugh suspend the renovation for a while, to make sure no one would notice the smell and the finished wall. From what Matt said, he never told Cavanaugh what happened, but the old man did him a favor, no questions asked."
Out of the blue, Sonja laughed, a coldhearted hollow sound. "Matt dumped me after that. Threatened me with a knife to stay away. But knowin' what I did and where the body was buried had been his insurance I'd do what he said. Since he helped me, guess the insurance worked both ways."
Becca couldn't hide her reaction this time. Sonja confessed to killing a friend and reduced the murder to nothing more than a catalyst to a breakup with her boyfriend. Unbelievable!
"Sonja Garza. You're under arrest for the murder of Isabel Marquez. In your own handwriting, I want you to make a statement, telling what happened to Isabel. Then sign and date it." She shoved a notepad across the table, along with a pen.
Becca would wait until she had a written confession and a signature before telling her Isabel had been alive when Brogan bricked the girl in the wall. For most people, that knowledge would make a difference on the guilt barometer. But in this case, Becca suspected the news would have little significance, no more concern than a fender-bender in a rental car.
Sonja wrote a few lines and stopped. She looked up at Becca and asked, "Can I have a cigarette now?"
The cold dead eyes of a killer stared back. No remorse in sight.
CHAPTER20
Two Weeks Later
This time, Becca had taken a real vacation, taking the first steps to mend her soul. Danielle spent a couple of days in the hospital but was eager to come home. Momma insisted both her girls live under one roof for a while. How could Becca refuse? The gesture touched her heart, along with her mother's willingness to join her and Danielle in therapy.
Dani wouldn't be alone on her road to recovery.
And today, another milestone had been realized. A bittersweet one. Isabel Marquez had come home, too. Over a week ago, a positive ID had been made using the family's DNA, and the bones had been released for burial. Although today's memorial had been a private affair, only a few close friends and family, Diego had pulled strings to make the day solemn for the Marquez family. And in his mind, only one church would do.
On Main Plaza in downtown San Antonio, the San Fernando Cathedral had the honor of being the first parish in Texas, its construction completed in 1755. The historic site was the crown jewel of the Old Spanish Missions, with an elaborate stone facade, ornate stained glass, an impressive pipe organ, and a hand-carved stone baptismal font. Pope John Paul had blessed the church with one of his visits. And politicians, ambassadors, and governors had become a part of the cathedral's distinctive history.
Diego had insisted Isabel deserved nothing less. And he spared no expense, paying for all the arrangements of the tasteful service.
Angelic voices of a small choir heralded the passing of a life cut short. Incense and the aroma of flowers filled the air, along with a sense of relief that the Marquez girl would finally be put to rest. A moving and solemn memorial service, no less extraordinary than Isabel's brief life.
Now, the meager funeral procession pulled into the San Fernando Cemetery on Castroville Road, not far from the Marquez home. Across a piercing blue sky, faint wisps of clouds graced the horizon. And the sun reflected off the glittery offerings left at other grave markers. To honor the dead, tinsel and baubles danced and fluttered in the breeze. A sea of loving mementos, the striking image never failed to touch Becca. Whole families often spent Sunday afternoons at the cemetery, bringing small children and picnic lunches—a celebration of the lives that came before. Here, the dearly departed were never truly forgotten.
Becca parked on the edge of grass and got out of her car. Danielle and Momma had come along, sensing the importance of this day for Becca. Her mother and sister clung to each other now, standing under the dark green awning. And Isabel's shiny copper casket was covered in lilies and white blush roses. Innocence lost. On one side of the grave, a solemn-faced Mariachi quartet waited to strike the first note, another part of the culture Becca had grown to respect. Diego hadn't forgotten a single detail.
He stood at her side, holding her hand. And as Father Victor Marquez began a graveside tribute to his sister, Isabel, Becca leaned her head against Diego's shoulder. He drew her close, a welcomed intimacy. And she took advantage of his warmth. She nuzzled her arms around his waist with eyes shut tight, fighting back a sudden rush of tears. As Becca breathed in the heady aroma of flowers, the rich smell of overturned earth, and Diego's subtle cologne on the breeze, a wave of peace swept over her. A fragile stillness.
It would take time for her to feel worthy of happiness. But now she had hope the day would come.
"It was a beautiful service, Father Victor." Becca made a point to speak to the priest in private, away from the crowd hovering near Isabel's grave.
"Diego Gal
van had much more to do with that," the cleric insisted. "My mother will never forget this day. Isabel's life honored at the San Fernando Cathedral? You have no idea what it meant to her... and to Rudy and me. We can never repay Diego's generosity."
"And he wouldn't expect anything in return. I have gotten to know his . . . quiet ways."
Father Victor smiled, warm and genuine. "Yes, I can see that."
When she returned his gesture with heat coloring her cheeks, the priest added, "You have a look of contentment about you. I can see it in your eyes. Different from the woman who came to my family's home a lifetime ago."
"Not many people get a chance to do things over again." Becca gazed over her shoulder at Danielle and her mother, talking to Diego in the warm sun. "I've been blessed."
"Yes, I read about your sister in the newspaper. Just like our Isabel finally coming home, you experienced a miracle of your own."
"Yes ... a miracle." She hadn't thought of it that way until now. "An amazing blessing."
It puzzled Becca to hear that Father Victor considered the return of Isabel's body to be a miracle for his family. She supposed time and dashed hopes had convinced him that his sister would not walk through their front door. His mother would never embrace her daughter again. His brother Rudy would not experience the privilege of asking a sister's forgiveness. And he would not play the part of older brother to guide her, protect her . . . save her. Isabel's burial and the peace of mind of his family were all Victor had left.
Perhaps miracles were still miracles, no matter what the size.
"You were at the Imperial Theatre the morning after the fire. Weren't you, Father?" she asked, squinting into the sun. The arson part of her investigation still remained open.
Her question, out of the blue, surprised him. But a look of resignation on his face told her she would hear the truth . . . finally. How could he bend it standing next to Isabel's grave? After all, his sister had been the reason for the priest's subterfuge. He had no more reason to lie now . . . except one.
"Yes, I was." He looked away and took a deep breath, waiting for her to go on.
"You set the arson fire hoping Isabel would be found. And I'm sorry ... sorry we couldn't find Isabel without your help. But you had another reason to put up roadblocks whenever I questioned you."
He nodded, his face grimacing with the memory.
"You were protecting Rudy. Weren't you?" She locked eyes with Father Victor. The look of shock on his face wrenched her heart. She shifted her attention to Rudy Marquez, standing among the mourners. The young man looked lost even in a crowd.
"Please don't make me answer that question, Rebecca. I don't want God to hear those words come from my mouth." His lips trembled as a single tear drained down his cheek.
"Please . . . hear me out. I know about the fight Rudy had with Isabel at the theater on the day she went missing. I think you knew about it, too. That's why you thought he needed your protection."
Father Victor shut his eyes tight—his mouth moving in a silent prayer—a priest trapped in his own brand of hell on earth. She had to set things straight.
"Don't worry, Victor. Rudy won't hear about it from me, but he does need your help whether he admits it or not. Your brother will always carry the burden of his guilt. . . because he can't rectify it. Not now." She reached for the cleric's arm and squeezed it. "I'll get a chance to fix things with Danielle and my mother. It's up to me now to make a difference. But Rudy won't ever get that opportunity. He needs you more than he would ever say. Don't let him ride this out alone. I know how that feels."
"I understand. I'll do what I can. I've asked to be relocated to San Antonio, to be with my family. I owe my brother that much. He's a good man, but Isabel's loss has taken a toll on him ... on us all." A sadness darkened his face. "I still can't believe what happened. Sonja had been Isabel's friend."
"No, Father. She never really was." Becca took a deep breath. "I don't want to ruin today, but you and I should talk about the details of this case before it goes to trial. You'll have to prepare your family for what they may hear. But I want you to know Isabel was a good girl. She tried to do the right thing, and she loved her family very much. Never doubt the Isabel you honored and cherished. She's someone I would have been proud to call a friend."
Father Victor's face softened into a show of relief, a long-awaited release of his burden. His tears were for a different reason now. And as far as the Imperial Theatre arson case went, the priest would not be charged. Becca had only her suspicions and no hard evidence. Not enough to make a case. The Marquez family had suffered enough.
"Thank you, Rebecca. May the Lord bless you on your journey." He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross.
"He already has, Father Victor. But a good word from you can't hurt." She smiled. "Take care of your family. Let them mourn. Help them heal. And I'll call you soon. But first, I'd like you to meet my family."
As she introduced Danielle and her mother to Father Victor, Becca's mind drifted to Sonja. During the course of her investigation, she had always had a blind spot when it came to her. She wanted to believe her lies because to comprehend what really happened was darker than Becca wanted the world to be.
In the end, Sonja confessed because she thought Brogan was alive and would refute her story, big-time. A major finger-pointing session with her coming out on the losing end. And she thought by serving jail time, she might avoid the man's revenge for her betrayal, a strong motivator.
But being dead was a powerful hurdle to overcome, even for Matt Brogan.
When Sonja found out what happened to him, she stuck with her confession, something Becca hadn't expected. She wanted to believe guilt played a mean game of devil's advocate and persuaded the woman to own up to her crime. But Becca had grown far too cynical to buy it. Sonja had been a willing participant in her own destruction. No repentance required. Maybe jail would be a step up to the life she had lived.
And the little gold necklace with the heart? Sonja bought it for herself. She gave the name of the jeweler, and their records were pulled from archives, giving police another piece of the puzzle. It turned out Matt Brogan wasn't the romantic type after all. Imagine that? In the fight with Isabel, the necklace was torn off Sonja's neck. Her CSI guy, Sam Hastings, confirmed the chain had been broken—one of the reasons it wasn't found dangling from the neck of Isabel's skeleton but lying on the ground.
So much of Sonja's story evolved around Matt Brogan, but he was probably only an excuse—an accelerant to her self-immolation. She had made contact with him again, hoping for a spark of what they'd had before. But when she realized that door had been shut for good, she accused him of Isabel's murder to get the monkey off her back once and for all. She thought the police would buy it. After all, Brogan fit the killer mold far better than Sonja, the consummate actress.
But the bastard was dead. He got off light.
Was Sonja a coldhearted killer and pathological liar or a sick, broken girl? It wasn't Becca's place to say. The justice system and court-appointed psychiatrists would determine that. The insanity plea was a tough uphill battle in the state of Texas. All Becca wanted was to set the record straight on the life of Isabel Marquez.
A higher power would sort out the rest.
The Riverwalk
Downtown San Antonio, 10 p.m.
During the time she stayed with her mother and Dani, Becca let Diego stay at her place. He had to give up his posh digs at the Cavanaugh estate, a hardship he embraced with open arms. Becca hadn't realized how much he hated living there, even when the arrogant Cavanaugh wasn't around. Diego preferred a simpler existence. And living at her small condo on the river was as basic as life got.
Standing in her kitchen, Becca poured Diego a refill on his wine. She had insisted on cooking dinner for him this time. The Chardonnay reflected golden light onto the counter, shimmering from the crackling fire in her hearth. She breathed a sigh and gazed across the room. He looked at home sitting on her sofa,
a sight she could get used to.
Dressed in jeans and a soft flannel shirt, he looked comfortable, a new side to him she wanted to know better. His shirt felt warm and inviting to the touch, but not as good as skin on skin. Seeing his handsome face reflecting the warm flicker of the fire stirred her libido.
But first things first. She had a point to make.
"You brought a knife to a gunfight, Diego." Becca handed him the wineglass and scrunched in close, nuzzling into the warmth of his chest. "Next time, you might consider a better plan."
"Next time?" He laughed out loud, a sound Becca would never tire of hearing. But Diego's smile quickly faded, dimples and all. "I don't want to even think about you going through that again."
He stroked her hair, his dark eyes conveying what she knew he held in his heart.
"Look, I get it. You don't want to talk about it," he said, understanding her use of humor as a shield to protect her tender underbelly. "But you took a risk coming after me the way you did, Rebecca."
"I figured if Dani had been rescued by Draper's guys, then she was already safe. If not, she'd need both of us."
"I like the sound of that. Us."
Even with her eyes mesmerized by the fire, she heard the subtle smile in his voice.
"So do I." Her crooked grin faded, nudged out by the knot in her throat. "And it did take the two of us. You risked your life to protect Danielle. It scares me to think how close Brogan came to killing her ... and you. I still have nightmares, but I won't ever forget what you did."
She breathed a sigh and laid her head on his chest, holding him close. Maybe they did need to talk. Closure was important.
"No more than you did for me. I had no choice really. If anything would have happened to you or Danielle, living with that pain for the rest of my days . . . would have been no life at all. And I'm done with merely existing in a fog. I have to reclaim my life, take it back."
