“I can’t believe it,” Naomi whispered, her words muffled against Paulo’s chest. “How could this have happened? Who’d want to hurt Maribel?”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Paulo murmured, though he knew better than to make any promises to her. But it was so damned tempting. After all, this was the woman who’d always been like a second mother to him, bandaging his scraped elbows and knees, nursing him through colds with the same love and affection she’d showered upon her own children. It was no wonder that Paulo’s first instinct was to assure her that Maribel Cruz’s killer would be caught and brought to justice, even though the cop in him knew it was rarely as simple as that.
After several moments Naomi pulled back and took Paulo’s hand, drawing him into the warm house. The entrance hall was massive, with a vaulted ceiling that soared over imported Italian tile floors. The scents from the gardens spilled in to mingle with the perfume of the flowers that had been arranged indoors.
“Where’s Ignacio?” Paulo asked.
“On the phone in his study. People have been calling nonstop ever since we learned what happened. News travels fast.” Naomi sniffled, absently reaching up to brush Paulo’s hair off his forehead. A soft, tremulous smile touched her mouth. “You need a haircut.”
“I know,” Paulo murmured, smiling a little. Even now, Naomi couldn’t stop herself from mothering him.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yeah.” And because he knew she would ask, he added, “I had lasagna. Homemade.”
Naomi arched a finely sculpted brow. “Whose?”
Paulo was spared from answering when Ignacio Santiago appeared in the entryway. He was a tall, powerfully built man, well used to taking control, be it in business or family matters. His thick brown hair had turned mostly gray, and his olive complexion came courtesy of his Mexican father, who, like Ignacio, had married a beautiful African-American woman.
Ignacio’s piercing whiskey-colored eyes settled unerringly on Paulo. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, rich baritone that resonated with authority. “Good, you’re here. Now we can start getting some answers.”
Paulo grimaced. “You know I can only tell you guys so much without compromising the investigation.”
“We understand,” Naomi said, tucking her arm companionably through Paulo’s. “Let’s talk in the living room. Would you like something to drink? I could ask Lydia to bring you some coffee or sweet tea.”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. And if I change my mind, I know where the kitchen is.”
Naomi returned Paulo’s smile as they followed Ignacio from the foyer.
New visitors to the house always remarked on the sheer elegance of the furnishings. The formal living room was a decorator’s dream, with its coffered ceiling, beautiful crown molding, priceless antiques, original artwork, and plush oriental carpeting. A cozy fire crackled in the marble fireplace, and on the wall above the mantel were family photographs framed in gold leaf.
Paulo wandered over, absently studying the familiar gallery of photos. His lips quirked at a picture of him and Rafe dressed in their Little League uniforms and sporting wide, gap-toothed grins as they stood with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. There were the obligatory portrait-studio photos, Ignacio and Naomi flanking their four young children against an innocuous muslin backdrop or an artificial scene from nature. In the updated versions Angela, Rebecca, and Rafe posed with their own spouses and adorable offspring. There was a shot of Daniela, the youngest of the Santiago siblings, beaming radiantly after being crowned Miss Houston ten years ago.
It was obvious to anyone looking at the collection of photographs that Ignacio and Naomi Santiago cherished their loved ones. Together they’d built a multimillion-dollar corporation that boasted a family-friendly culture, a rarity among high-powered law firms. They genuinely believed in taking care of their employees, treating them like members of the family. Which was why Maribel Cruz’s death had come as such a devastating shock.
“We couldn’t believe it when Ted Colston called to tell us what had happened,” Naomi said, echoing Paulo’s thoughts. “Apparently he was the first person Kathleen Phillips contacted after calling 911. Ted said she was so hysterical he could hardly understand what she was saying. That poor girl.”
“Ted Colston was Maribel’s supervisor,” Ignacio supplied, seated beside his wife on the antique sofa. “He’s a partner at the firm.”
Paulo nodded. He’d already gleaned as much from Kathleen Phillips. “I’ll need to speak to him, as well as Maribel’s other coworkers.”
“Of course,” Ignacio said. “We’ll make everyone available for questioning tomorrow. You can come to the office in the morning and use one of the conference rooms for interviews.”
“Thanks. That’d be great.” Paulo walked over and sat down in an adjacent armchair. “I know you both make a point of getting to know as many of your employees as possible. What can you tell me about Maribel Cruz? How well did you know her?”
“Fairly well,” Naomi answered. “As you may remember, I’m very involved in the hiring of professional staff at the firm. Three years ago I had the pleasure of interviewing Maribel as one of three finalists for the secretarial position in our labor and employment law division. I was very impressed with her, which is why we hired her. She was intelligent and dependable, a consummate professional. Ted Colston never had any complaints about her—nor did anyone else, for that matter.”
Paulo nodded. “I remember meeting her at the fund-raiser dinner two years ago.”
“That’s right. You were there.” Naomi smiled sadly. “I was secretly hoping that you and Maribel would hit it off that night. She was such a nice young lady, and I thought you two might make a great couple.”
“Really?” Paulo was surprised by the admission. “You made me promise to be on my best behavior.”
“Because I didn’t want you to be so busy flirting with other women that you’d completely overlook Maribel. She was beautiful, but she didn’t advertise her assets the way some women do. You know the ones I’m talking about.”
Paulo chuckled dryly. “The ones I’m usually attracted to, you mean.”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it.” Naomi smiled softly. “Maribel wasn’t like that. She was modest, and painfully shy when it came to men.”
Paulo thought about the way Maribel had flirted boldly with him that evening, and decided not to contradict his cousin’s opinion.
“Anyway, I guess Maribel wasn’t your type,” Naomi continued, a hint of reproach in her voice. “Afterward, when I casually asked her what she’d thought of you, she said you were a hunk, but you didn’t seem particularly interested in her.” She gave an elegant shrug. “I decided not to push the issue.”
Ignacio shook his head, smiling wryly at Paulo. “She’s conveniently forgetting the part where I told her not to meddle in your love life.”
Naomi snorted. “Since when has that ever stopped me?”
Ignacio and Paulo laughed. The Santiago women had been plotting to find the perfect mate for Paulo for as long as he could remember. In the wake of his bitter divorce they’d intensified their efforts, introducing him to a slew of friends, coworkers, clients’ daughters and nieces, even “smart, attractive” women they’d met and chatted up at the hair salon. To date, their matchmaking campaign had been unsuccessful. Paulo wasn’t interested in a relationship, and he was perfectly capable of finding his own bedmates.
Unbidden, an image of Tommie Purnell flashed through his mind. He wondered what his family would think of her. Would Naomi regard Tommie as one of those women who shamelessly “advertised” her assets? Would Angela, Rebecca, and Daniela have anything in common with her?
Paulo scowled at the direction of his thoughts. Why the hell should he care what his family thought of Tommie? It wasn’t as if he intended to introduce her to them. Not in this lifetime.
Giving himself
a hard mental shake, Paulo returned to the matter at hand. “I understand Maribel was originally from Brownsville.”
“That’s right,” Ignacio confirmed. “She left home to attend college in San Antonio. She—”
“Maribel lived in San Antonio?” Paulo interrupted.
“Yes. She attended St. Mary’s University. After graduation she went to work for Crandall Thorne. You’ve probably heard of him before—”
“Big-time criminal defense attorney? Yeah, I’ve heard of him. His son, Caleb, is married to a friend of mine’s sister.”
“What a small world,” Naomi remarked.
“You can say that again,” Paulo murmured. “So Maribel worked at Thorne’s law firm?”
“For two years,” Ignacio replied. “She liked it there, but she was unhappy in San Antonio. She said she wanted a change of pace. When she learned about the vacancy at our firm, she immediately applied for the job.”
“Although she’d only been out of college for two years,” Naomi chimed in, “we were confident that working at a top-tier law firm like Thorne and Associates had given her the skills and experience we were looking for. And we were right.”
“You said earlier that no one had ever complained about Maribel,” Paulo said.
“Not to our knowledge,” Naomi said, glancing at her husband for confirmation. Ignacio shook his head.
“So you didn’t know of any conflicts she may have had with coworkers?” Paulo clarified. “No formal complaints filed against her with human resources?”
Naomi’s brows furrowed together. “I don’t think so. I believe that’s something Ted would have shared with us. You’re welcome to double-check with him tomorrow, but I’m fairly certain that the answer to your question is no. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that Maribel was a model employee.”
Ignacio was frowning at Paulo. “Are you suggesting that one of Maribel’s colleagues may have killed her to settle a vendetta?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Paulo said mildly. “But I can’t rule out the possibility. You know that.”
Ignacio and Naomi exchanged worried glances. The idea that one of their own employees could be a cold-blooded murderer was unthinkable. Paulo didn’t want to believe it, either, but it was his job to explore any and all angles, no matter how unsavory.
“Kathleen told Ted that there was writing on the wall,” Naomi said faintly. “The word liar written in blood. Is that true, Paulo?”
He hesitated, then nodded grimly. “I’m going to ask both of you, as well as Ted Colston and Kathleen Phillips, not to discuss specifics of the case with anyone else. The press is gonna be camped out at your office building all week. Please instruct your employees not to talk to reporters. Ask them to refer all media inquiries to the Houston Police Department.”
Ignacio nodded. “Our public relations office will be issuing a statement to that effect tomorrow morning.”
“Good.” Paulo paused. “I would also recommend sending out a companywide memo to employees urging them to be vigilant at all times.”
Naomi’s eyes widened fearfully. “Oh my God. You don’t think this was an isolated incident? You think someone may have targeted Maribel because she works at our law firm?”
“I don’t know,” Paulo admitted. “It’s possible. Your firm has represented some controversial clients in the past, and your attorneys have successfully litigated cases that undoubtedly angered the losing side. We have to consider the possibility that Maribel’s murder was someone’s way of retaliating against the company. Which might explain why liar was written on the wall.”
“Jesus,” Ignacio muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What a damned nightmare.”
Naomi gazed imploringly at Paulo. “But it’s just a theory, right? You don’t have any evidence to support the idea that Maribel was deliberately targeted by a former plaintiff?”
“No, I don’t. All I have at this point are a lot of unanswered questions. When I talk to Colston tomorrow, I’ll ask him about some of his most recent cases, see if that might provide any potential leads. It’s a start.”
As Naomi and Ignacio reached for each other’s hands, instinctively seeking a physical connection, their wedding rings’ light caught the firelight.
“I’m glad you’re in charge of the investigation,” Naomi said quietly to Paulo. “I wish to God this awful tragedy hadn’t happened, but it comforts me to know that you’re on the case, doing everything you can to find Maribel’s killer.”
“I’ll do my best,” Paulo said grimly, “but I can’t make any promises.”
“Of course. We don’t expect you to.” Naomi glanced at her slim gold wristwatch. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you stay here for the night? Daniela’s flying in tonight and would be thrilled to see you when she gets home.”
“Where is she?”
“Attending a conference in New Mexico. She switched to an earlier flight after I called to tell her about Maribel. Angela and Rebecca were tied up this evening and couldn’t make it over here, but they’ll be at the office tomorrow.” Naomi paused, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Do you still keep a change of clothes in the trunk of your car for surveillance duty?”
“Yeah,” Paulo said, and immediately realized his mistake.
“Great! Then you can just get dressed here in the morning and head out with us to the office. I’m going to help Lydia prepare your room,” Naomi announced, and before Paulo could open his mouth to argue, she rose from the sofa and strode purposefully from the room.
Paulo stared after her in amused disbelief for a moment, then looked at Ignacio, who merely lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug.
“I didn’t even say yes,” Paulo muttered.
Ignacio grinned. “Since when has that ever stopped her?”
Paulo was running, trying to keep pace with the barking dog streaking through the wooded forest. The night air was thick and suffocating. The moon hung full and bright overhead, threading silver through the dense canopy of trees. Broken branches, exposed roots, and moss-covered rocks littered the ground, slowing his progress. But he kept running, lungs burning, heart thudding in his chest. He was too close to stop now.
The hound’s barking had grown louder, more agitated. The animal had found something.
And then Paulo saw it. A woman’s nude body.
Swearing under his breath, he knelt beside the crumpled form. Thick black hair had fallen over the woman’s face; even in the darkness, Paulo could see that the hair was matted with blood. He reached out and carefully turned the body over. The tangled hair fell away to reveal Maribel Cruz’s face, eyes wide and staring sightlessly, mouth open in a scream no one would have heard out there in the forest. Her throat had been viciously slashed.
As Paulo reached for her, the dog that had led him here gave a low warning growl that brought Paulo’s head up. The hound stood rigid as a statue, staring alertly into the shadowy trees. Paulo’s skin prickled, the muscles in the back of his neck tightening. He scanned the dark woods. Though he saw nothing, he sensed another presence nearby.
A malevolent presence.
Watching him.
As Paulo’s hand eased toward his holstered gun, the woman on the ground suddenly moaned. Startled, Paulo looked down. Instead of Maribel Cruz, he found himself staring into the face of Tommie Purnell.
He recoiled, his gut twisting savagely in protest. No!
Without warning Tommie’s dark eyes snapped open. “Help me, Paulo,” she whispered. “Please help—”
“Paulo? Are you awake?”
Paulo lurched upright in bed, violently dislodging the hand that had been resting on his shoulder. His heart hammered painfully against his rib cage, choking the air from his lungs. Perspiration dampened his skin.
“Are you okay?”
Shaken and disoriented, Paulo stared at the young woman perched on the edge of his bed, then looked around the semidarkened room, with its gleaming mahogany furniture and thick oriental carpeting. It took sev
eral moments for him to realize that he wasn’t in a dark, creepy forest kneeling over the body of a dead woman.
Not just any woman. Tommie Purnell.
“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing at his bleary eyes with the heels of his hands. “I need a smoke.”
“You quit,” Daniela Santiago reminded him.
This time Paulo swore in Spanish.
Daniela laughed, a warm, lilting sound that penetrated the black cloud fogging his brain. “What time is it?” he grumbled.
“Six-thirty. That was some nightmare you were having.”
Paulo said nothing, leaning back against the headboard and dragging an unsteady hand through his thick, tousled hair. Naomi was right. He needed a damned haircut.
Daniela was eyeing him worriedly. “Are you sure you’re okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah,” he said gruffly.
Daniela looked unconvinced. At thirty-four years old she was the youngest of the Santiago siblings. Her silky black hair was cut in a short bob that made her look like an exotic pixie doll. Her skin was golden brown, her oval face characterized by large hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and full, pouty lips. That morning she wore a tailored black designer pantsuit that made her look both businesslike and feminine, attributes she used to her advantage whether she was delivering a closing argument in the courtroom or conducting a meeting at her family’s law firm, where she was the youngest partner.
When they were children Paulo had always treated Daniela like a pesky little sister, one who’d thrown temper tantrums when she didn’t get her way, followed him and Rafe everywhere they went, and routinely snuck into their room at the crack of dawn to jump up and down on their beds. Now as adults, Paulo and Daniela were closer than anyone could ever have predicted, bonding over their failed relationships—both were divorced—and sharing the unenviable burden of being the only siblings in their families who hadn’t yet brought children into the world.
“I was walking by your room when I heard you calling out in your sleep.” Daniela hesitated, biting her full lower lip as she studied Paulo. “Who’s Tommy?”
Like No One Else Page 6
