Don't Say a Word

by Barbara Freethy

  "What about this theater group? Can you put me in touch with anyone who was on that trip with my dad and Sarah?"

  Stan's mouth turned down in a displeased frown. "Alex, please, just drop it already."

  "That's not going to happen, especially now that I know my father was murdered to keep him silent about something. He might have lost his voice, but I haven't. And I'll speak for him when I know the truth."

  "That kind of reckless behavior could get you silenced as well."

  "I'll take that chance."

  Stan shook his head. "You're just as crazy as your father. He always thought he could beat the odds, too, but look what happened to him."

  "You should have found his killer twenty-five years ago, Stan. You should have looked harder."

  Anger flared in Stan's eyes. Alex felt a momentary flash of guilt, but he quickly discarded it. He wouldn't take back his words. It was the truth. Stan should have made sure the investigation continued, instead of letting the government shut him up.

  "I don't understand why you didn't," Alex added. He waited for Stan to offer an explanation, but he remained silent, so Alex came up with his own answer, an answer he didn't like at all. "Did they threaten you? Was that it?"

  "Leave it alone."

  "I can't, dammit," Alex said loudly, bringing his fist down on the edge of Stan's desk. "Why can't I get a straight answer from anyone?"

  "The night your father died, I received a message on my answering machine. The voice was garbled, but the message was clear. If I asked any questions, my parents would be killed. I'd already lost my wife. And Charles was gone, too. There was nothing to be gained by pursuing the truth. It wouldn't have helped you or your mother. Charles wouldn't have wanted you to grow up thinking he'd been murdered. I know that for sure." He gazed into Alex's eyes. "Would you have made such a different decision?"

  "Yes, I would have seen justice done for my friend," Alex said without hesitation. "Is that it—the whole truth?"

  Stan hesitated for a split second too long. "That's it," he said. "Now will you let it go?"

  "No, because unlike you, I don't have anything to lose."

  "What about Julia? Are you willing to risk her life? And the lives of her family, her sister, her stepfather, her friends?"

  Alex's eyes narrowed. "How do you know so much about her?"

  "Brady filled me in."

  "Of course." Alex stood up. "I want to talk to someone in that theater group who was in Moscow. Where do I look?"

  A brief pause followed his question; then Stan said, "The Sullivan Theater Group out of Los Angeles. I'm sure you can find their number. A woman named Tanya Hillerman sits on their board now. She was an actress during the Moscow tour."

  "You had that information on the tip of your tongue," Alex said, wondering why.

  "I figured you'd be asking. You're stubborn as hell." Stan rose from his chair. "As you said, you're a grown man now and capable of making your own decisions, so I'll leave you to it. Just be careful. Don't underestimate the enemy."

  "I wish I knew who the enemy was."

  Alex made the call from his car after retrieving the number for the Sullivan Theater Group from Information. After working his way through a receptionist and a secretary, he was given a number for Tanya Hillerman. As he waited at a red light, he punched in her number. The phone rang three times before a woman's voice came over the line.

  "Hello," she said.

  "Tanya Hillerman?"

  "This is she. May I help you?"

  "I hope so. I'm interested in speaking to you about a cultural exchange that took place in Moscow twenty-five years ago."

  "Who are you?' she asked, an edge to her voice, now.

  "Alex Manning." He heard her sharp intake of breath.

  "The photographer? I thought you died."

  "That was my father, Charles," he said. "Is that who you're thinking of?"

  "Oh, yes, Charles. You're his son. The little boy who stood at the back of the stage and tried to blend in with the scenery."

  "That's me," he said wryly. He had hated that brief stint on the stage. Even though he hadn't had a speaking part, he'd felt very self-conscious. He was much more comfortable behind the lights than under them.

  "What did you want to ask me, Mr. Manning?"

  "I assume by what you just said that you were there."

  "You don't remember me? I was the star, you know. I actually played out a death scene on stage. It was my trademark. No one could die like me. It was very slow and painful to watch, but I enjoyed it."

  Alex didn't know how to respond to that. He cleared his throat. "Can you tell me if you remember a costumer named Sarah Davidson or Gregory?"

  "Sarah? Let me think. There were a few girls who worked behind the scenes. Was she the dark-haired girl with the big brown eyes?"

  "You tell me."

  "I do remember a woman like that. She was very quiet, and new to the company, but excellent with a needle and thread. That was the first and only trip she made with us. She didn't continue on with the company after that trip."

  "Do you know if she had a child with her, a little girl?"

  "There were some children in the company like yourself, Alex. I don't know if one of them belonged to this Sarah." She paused. "I'm surprised you're not asking me more questions about your father." He stiffened. "What should I be asking?"

  "Well, I always thought your father had other reasons for being in Russia—reasons that had nothing to do with our theater exchange. It was even rumored that he might be some sort of a spy. I thought it was very dangerous and sexy. I flirted with him madly, but he never flirted back."

  "He wasn't a spy; he was a photographer. And he was married," Alex added pointedly. Defending his father came naturally, but as he did so, he wondered if he had the right. Tanya Hillerman was the third person to imply his father was a spy. Could they all be wrong?

  "I think he said he was separated," Tanya continued. "It didn't matter. He wasn't interested in me. He had more important things to do. I knew it even if he didn't say it." She paused. "It was a different world back then. No one trusted anyone, especially over there. The KGB watched us like hawks, worried we would tempt some of their artists with our American ways. It was terrifying at times. Your father and I spoke about it once. He had such passion for the Russian people. I worried that it would get him into trouble. Up until that trip, I'd never not been free, but that week I felt trapped. I never wanted to go back there. And I never have. When did your father pass away?"

  "A few weeks after that trip," Alex said shortly.

  "He was so young, so vibrant. How did it happen?"

  "A car accident."

  "Oh, dear. That's terrible. Such a shame. He was a very talented photographer."

  "Yes, he was."

  "Are you still involved in the theater, Mr. Manning? If you grew up to look like your father, I imagine you'd make a wonderful leading man."

  "No, I'm not in the theater. I'm a photographer—; just like my dad." He hung up the phone, wondering if that was true. He'd always thought he'd followed in his father's footsteps. Maybe he hadn't. Because right now those footsteps seemed to be leading him far away from what he'd always believed to be true.

  * * *

  Christine Delaney, the reporter from the Tribune, was waiting in the lobby of the radio station when Julia finished her show Tuesday afternoon. As soon as she saw Julia, Christine put up a hand in apology. "I'm sorry about the hit-and-run photo the other day."

  "I don't think you're sorry at all," Julia replied. "And I have nothing further to say to you." Julia tried to sidestep around her, but Christine got in her way.

  "I've done some research, Miss DeMarco. I found someone who used to work at the orphanage in Moscow where your picture was taken."

  Julia couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You contacted someone in Russia?"

  Christine's smile was smug. "Actually, the woman lives in the United States now. She came over about six years ago
. She was a cleaning woman at the orphanage. She didn't want to talk to me at first, but I assured her that I would keep her anonymous."

  "Why would you do that?" Julia asked suspiciously.

  "Because I want your story, not hers." Christine paused, giving her a speculative look. "She told me that everyone in the orphanage was instructed to say that you were never there. They were threatened with death if they spoke about your presence. She said you were there for only one day, and she believed your parents were in serious trouble with the government."

  Julia tried hard not to react, not to reveal anything to Christine, but inside she was reeling. She had to say something. She had to buy some time. She fell back on what Alex had suggested earlier. "I'm not that girl. It's a mistake. I was born and raised in Berkeley, California. I have a birth certificate to prove it." She did have a birth certificate, something she hadn't considered before now.

  "Birth certificates are not that difficult to obtain, not if you know the right people," Christine said.

  "I don't know what you mean," Julia replied, even though she suspected Christine was right about fake birth certificates being easy enough to get. She had to find a way to convince Christine to move on to another story. "I don't think I look like that girl in the picture," she said with as much cool as she could muster. "In fact, I'm considering suing your newspaper for printing that photo and suggesting all kinds of lies." She hadn't been considering any such thing, but Christine didn't have to know that.

  "And you just happened to be hanging out with Alex Manning the other day as his mother told me? Please, Miss DeMarco, don't insult my intelligence. You're that girl and I'm going to prove it."

  "Why would you want to?"

  "Because it's a great story, and the newspaper never lets me write about anything but celebrities. This is my big break. I can help you. I've already found someone who worked at the orphanage. If you really want to know who you are, you need me."

  "I know who I am," Julia said flatly. "I don't need you for anything." She walked out of the station, hoping to leave Christine behind, but the woman followed her onto the sidewalk.

  "You say that now, but you'll change your mind," Christine said. "I'm very persistent. I don't give up."

  "And you won't change my mind," Julia retorted. She wondered if she could make a fast break for her car, which was parked just down the street. That's when she saw a man watching her. He was built like a linebacker with a square, muscular body. Dirty blond hair showed beneath a baseball cap. His eyes were hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses, and he wore a tan jacket over slacks. She couldn't tell his age, but he was probably in his fifties. As Julia stared at him, she wondered why he didn't look away, why he was searching her face as carefully as she was searching his. Was he another reporter? He certainly didn't look like one, but she hadn't had that much experience with the press.

  "Miss DeMarco," Christine said, drawing her attention back to her. "Please, let me tell your story. I really need this break."

  Her smile was meant to be disarming, but Julia didn't buy it. "I'm not your break," she said, "and I'm busy."

  Christine thrust her card in Julia's face. "Call me anytime, night or day."

  Julia took the business card and stuffed it into her pocket. As Christine left, the man came toward her. He said something she didn't understand. It took her a moment to realize he was not speaking English. He repeated his comment in a more agitated, determined voice, his arms gesturing. She backed away, his tone making her nervous.

  The door to the radio station opened behind her, and two of her coworkers came out. She latched onto them in relief. "Hey, where are you guys going?" she asked, feeling there was safety in numbers.

  "Coffee. Want to come?" Tracy asked.

  "Yes, sounds great." She cast a quick look over her shoulder. The man had moved down the street, but he was still watching her. She linked arms with Tracy and walked in the opposite direction. She was probably letting her imagination get the better of her, seeing danger where it didn't exist, but Brady's warning that her questions could get her into trouble was still fresh in her mind. She didn't want to suddenly disappear as Alex's father had. Until she knew which people in her life were telling the truth and which ones were lying, she'd trust no one.

  A half hour later Julia was back in her car, driving across town to her apartment. Her coworkers had walked her to her car after she'd mentioned the strange guy who appeared to be watching her. Much to her relief, he'd disappeared. She pulled into a parking spot in front of her building and got out. As she did so, she saw Liz heading up the steps. When it appeared that Liz was planning to ignore her, Julia called out for her to wait. Liz made a face but did as she was asked, tapping her foot impatiently on the ground. "What?" she asked. "I want to go up with you."

  "Why? You haven't wanted to do anything else with me."

  Julia sighed, wondering how long her sister's bad mood would last. "I'm getting really tired of your attitude, Lizzie."

  "Likewise, sis," Liz said sarcastically. "By the way, the family, our family, if you still consider them family, wants to throw you an engagement party at DeMarco's in a couple of weeks. Aunt Lucia wants you to call her and pick a date."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "Nothing. I'm staying out of your so-called wedding plans."

  Julia thought that was a good idea since she knew a conversation with Michael was long overdue. To her credit, she had tried to call him from the radio station, but he'd been out on his boat. She'd have to catch up with him later.

  Julia and Liz walked up the stairs together. Liz seemed to have nothing to say, and Julia didn't know how to break the silence without drawing another sarcastic remark. "I wish we could be on the same side," she said as they reached their door.

  "I'm on the DeMarco side. I don't know what side,, you're on."

  Julia blew out a frustrated breath and opened the door. Her jaw dropped at the sight of their apartment. It looked as if a bomb had gone off. The room was in shambles. "Oh, my God!" She put a hand to her mouth, feeling like she was going to be sick.

  "What's wrong now?" Liz demanded, pushing past her, only to stop abruptly and gape in amazement. "Someone broke in," she said, stating the obvious.

  "I can't believe this," Julia said, dazed. Their home hadn't been just robbed, but ransacked. The drawers in their desk had been dumped on the floor. The CD cases were open and broken apart. The cushions on the couch and the upholstery on the kitchen chairs had been slashed. Fear swept through Julia at the violence of the burglary. She grabbed Liz by the arm. "They might still be here," she whispered. "We have to get out."

  Julia looked toward the hallway and the closed bedroom door. They never closed the bedroom door. They turned and ran.

  Chapter 12

  Julia and Liz didn't stop running until they reached the sidewalk, where they drew in gulping breaths of air.

  "We have to call the police." Liz reached for her cell phone with a shaky hand. "Oh, God, Julia, you don't think they're going to come after us, do you?"

  "No, of course not." Her chest heaved as she struggled to calm her racing heart. "They're probably gone. I just didn't want to take a chance. Not after I saw what they'd done to the cushions on the couch and the chairs. They must have had knives."

  Liz paled. "Let's get farther away," she suggested.

  "Good idea."

  When they reached the other side of the street, Liz made the call while Julia stared up at her bedroom window, which faced the street. She thought she saw the curtain move. Was someone in there watching them? She heard Liz talking to the police and knew she had to call Alex. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in his number, relieved when he answered right away.

  "You have to come over," she told him, her lips trembling so hard it was difficult to get the words out. "Someone broke in to my apartment. They might still be there."

  "I'll be right over. Stay out of the apartment, Julia. In fact, you should get yourself to someplace safe
."

  "Liz and I are across the street. She's talking to the police. It's the middle of the day. Nothing will happen to us here," she said, hoping it was the truth.

  "Keep your eyes open," he advised. "I have a feeling this burglary wasn't random."

  "I don't think it was, either, Alex. They didn't steal our stereo or our television, but they slashed the pillows on the couch like they were furiously angry or completely crazy."

  "Or looking for something in particular," Alex said. "Do you have any idea what that could be?"

  "I don't know. I can't think. I'm shaking."

  "All right, relax. We'll figure it out."

  "Maybe the swan necklace or the matryoshka doll," she said. "Maybe that's what they were looking for."

  "Do you know if they were taken?"

  "They're still in my purse from our trip to Buffalo." She put a hand on the strap looped over her shoulder.

  "Hang on to that bag. I'll be there in five minutes."

  Julia closed the phone and saw that Liz had finished her call. "What did the police say?"

  "They're on their way." Liz gave Julia a worried look. "This has something to do with you and that photo, doesn't it?"

  "I have the terrible feeling it does."

  The police arrived at the same moment as Alex. They searched the apartment first, then let Julia, Liz, and Alex into the living room. The damage was as bad as Julia remembered. All the tiny pieces of their lives were strewn across the room: magazines, books, knickknacks, the fabric Liz had been working on, and Julia's CD collection. Even the pictures on the wall had been stripped down and thrown onto the floor. It didn't look as if the burglars had missed one inch of the room.

  The police asked them to look around and see if anything was taken. It was impossible to tell with the mess, but obviously expensive items and even a twenty-dollar bill on the kitchen counter had been left untouched, which was even more worrisome. After a long discussion about whether they had any enemies or knew of anyone who might have wanted to hurt them, the police said they believed the apartment had been turned by a pro, someone who was looking for something in particular.