Breaking Point by Pamela Clare
God, how he missed her. He’d had a nightmare about her last night—the same nightmare he’d had when they were at the hotel in Altar. He’d woken up covered in cold sweat. He’d started in on a bottle of whiskey, but then decided to go to the twenty-four-hour gym, where he’d worked out until his ribs ached and he’d been ready to puke.
Now, punchy on lack of sleep, he was back for a second day of answering questions, doing all he could to cooperate with the investigation. He wished he knew how it was progressing, but no one was telling him anything, not even Pearce.
“Zachariah?”
Fuck.
Zach recognized that voice. He switched off the television set, stood, and turned to face his old man. “What the hell do you want?”
It had been four years since he’d last seen his father face-to-face. But time had been good to the bastard. He stood there in a three-thousand-dollar suit, looking like an older and better dressed version of Zach, the resemblance undeniable. Though his hair was whiter than Zach remembered, the man looked strong and healthy as an ox.
He fidgeted with his tie. Was he nervous? That would be a first. “I heard what happened—how you were captured and almost killed, how you escaped and rescued that girl.”
“That girl rescued me. And how do you know anything about this? Some of that information is classified.”
His father gave him a wounded look. “You don’t think I have my sources after thirty years of working inside the Beltway? I’m the ranking member of the Senate Armed Services Committee.”
As arrogant as ever.
“So you heard what happened, and you came by to tell me how glad you are I wasn’t killed. Is that it?”
“Partly. I also know you’re being investigated, that some of the people here think you might have stolen cocaine from one of the cartels and murdered an Interpol agent.”
Now it made sense.
“I can see why there are no reporters with you this time. Your son is in trouble. How embarrassing. And by the way, that really is classified.”
“You’re my son. My sources knew I’d want to hear about it.”
Zach crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose you’re worried about how this might look in the media if word gets out that Senator Robert McBride’s son was exposed as a crook. Well, you can relax, because I’m clean.”
“That’s not it at all.” His father’s voice rose a notch, the old man’s temper kicking in. “I know you’re innocent. I came to see if I could help in any way, cut through some of the red tape, help make sure the process goes smoothly.”
And Zach felt his own temper rise. “You just don’t get it, do you? You really believe that your elected position gives you rights the rest of America just doesn’t have. Forget it. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. Justice will take its course. I trust the agency I work for to get to the truth.”
“I’ve never understood you. You don’t think that fathers out there everywhere do all they can to help their kids get ahead in this life? You think I’m the only one who tries to pave the road for my son?”
“You don’t just pave the road. You manipulate someone into moving it so that it comes to my front door. Being a U.S. senator’s son shouldn’t mean that I get to live by a special set of rules. You’re charged with making the laws. You need to respect them more than the average person, not less.”
They’d been arguing about this since 9/11, when Zach had walked into the living room to overhear his father tell his mother that their son would never have to serve in the military because he was a U.S. senator’s son. It had been the last straw after years of watching his father wade through one scandal after another. In disgust, Zach had joined the navy and applied for Officer Candidate School the next day.
His father shook his head. “You know, I thought maybe you’d matured enough—”
“Matured? Go to hell!”
“—so that we could have an honest conversation, maybe spend some time together. But you’re just as pigheaded and unreasonable as you’ve always been. You know, your mother understood—”
“Don’t you bring her into this!” Zach was in his father’s face now, blood pumping hot in his veins. “My mother was an idealist who believed in everything she thought you stood for. It literally killed her to watch you turn into a crook. All your sleazy mistresses. The money you blew on—”
The blow took Zach by surprise. He rubbed his jaw, looked his father in the eye. “You better get the hell out of here, old man. If I hit back, it’s going to hurt.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Zach. I don’t know what made me do that. I’ve missed you. I came here to make amends, to help—”
“I said get the hell out of here. Now.”
His father turned and, with an angry look over his shoulder, stomped off.
Jaw aching, Zach sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
THE MOMENT ARTURO heard the voice on the other end of the line, he broke into a sweat, beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead and upper lip.
“Are you watching the news?”
“Sí. Yes, I am. And I can explain—”
“Explanations are irrelevant. Besides, it’s obvious what happened. You wanted her for your perverted little rituals, so rather than instructing your men to put a bullet through her head on the bus, you had them take her captive. Isn’t that right?”
How dare this gringo speak of La Santa Muerte as if she were a perversion?
“Sí. I had them take her captive. I wanted to see the woman who was so dangerous that she frightened you.”
“That was a grave mistake. We asked you to do something for us, and you agreed to do it. Board the bus, and kill her, along with the Mexican journalists. It would look like just another act of cartel-related violence. No one would think twice about it.
“But now, somehow, she’s back in the United States, very much alive. That’s very disappointing, Arturo. Very disappointing.”
Arturo swallowed—hard. “I am sorry. She had help. A shipment of cocaine was stolen, and we caught the man who—”
“He didn’t steal the cocaine, you imbecile. The woman you cut up and tossed in the street stole it. Or hadn’t you figured that out yet?”
“She stole it?”
“Yes. Gisella Sanchez worked for Interpol. And that man you chained up wasn’t a drug pusher. He’s a deputy U.S. marshal and former Navy SEAL—a war hero no less. That pretty reporter you planned to rape—she turned out to be a lot tougher than she looked, too. She’s the one who broke them out. You probably assumed it was the man, didn’t you? That’s what you get for being a chauvinist bastard.”
Arturo heard all this, but only one part connected.
“U.S. marshal? SEAL? How do you know all of this?” His heart was beating so hard it hurt. Was he having a heart attack?
“That doesn’t matter. You fucked up, Arturo.”
“I can fix it. I will send my best man to Denver to—”
“No, Arturo, we don’t trust you. Your incompetence sickens us. So we’re going to take care of it ourselves. We wanted to have her eliminated down there to prevent any suspicion being cast our way. But since it’s known that your men took her and were tearing your country apart looking for her, people will assume that you had her killed.”
“If you think that is best.” Arturo didn’t tell him he’d put his own plans into motion the moment he’d seen that little puta’s face on television this morning.
“We do.” There was a pause. “For the sake of our long association, we’ll forgive—no, that’s not the word—overlook your failure this time. But we need you to do something for us.”
“What is that?”
“Spread word on the street that Los Zetas are crossing the border to finish the reporter.”
That made no sense. “If I do that, won’t the police put her under their protection, making it harder and riskier for you?”
“By the time the police mobilize, she’ll already be dead. Action has a
lready been taken. The pieces are moving. Just get the word out. Do it tonight.”
Then the line went dead.
Arturo put the phone down and then, with shaking hands, he poured himself a shot.
Santa Muerte protect me!
“YOU’VE GOT IT, Syd.” Natalie hung up the phone, glad her article was done and in the hands of the managing editor.
She’d spent the day writing an eyewitness account of the attack on the bus, her kidnapping, captivity, and escape. It wasn’t something she’d wanted to do, but Tom had thought it would be good for readership. Rather than focusing on her own experience, she’d decided to use the article as a chance to pay tribute to the slain Mexican journalists, sharing what she remembered about each of them. Their home newspapers had generously donated head shots and other photographs, enabling her to put a face with each name. It had been especially painful to write about Sr. Marquez.
Marquez finished his prayers, then turned to me and apologized, as if he were to blame for the fact that he was about to be murdered. Then, he looked up into his killer’s face. In the next instant, it was over, and he was gone, a bullet hole in his forehead.
Then, referring to Zach only as Mr. Black—a joke for his benefit in case he read the article—she’d managed to report on her hours in the Zeta prison, as well as the escape, without giving away sensitive information. She’d felt close to him, as if she were connecting with him, writing words about a shared experience, words that he might see and even appreciate.
He probably won’t even read it, girl.
God, how she missed him! It put a constant ache in her chest, some part of her unable and unwilling to accept that she wouldn’t see him again. More than once she’d found herself wondering what would happen if it turned out she was pregnant. Would he change his mind and come back? Would he want to see the baby, be a part of its life?
That’s no way to win a man’s heart, girl. Are you that desperate?
Quashing the thought, she gathered her things, took the elevator down, and walked out to her car, only to find a dozen or more persistent reporters staking out the front entrance. She thought for a moment about taking the back entrance, but slinking down the alley while gunshots still echoed in her memory held no appeal. So she lifted her chin and walked out the door.
“Thank you, but no comment,” she said again and again, finally making it to her car. She unlocked the door, got inside, and quickly locked it again. Then slowly, she nudged the car forward.
And then out of the corner of her eye she saw him—Sr. Scar Face.
She gasped, jerked her head around, looking for him. But he was gone.
Or maybe he’d never been there. Writing the article had left her jumpy, reviving the terror for her. Perhaps she was just seeing things. Besides, how could he have gotten here so quickly?
The same way you did.
A chill shivered up her spine. She picked up her cell phone and called Julian.
CHAPTER 23
“I’M SORRY. WE’VE moved on. We’re going to focus on letting our daughter heal, and we’re not interested in talking to the press.”
Natalie stared at the phone as the line went dead. “That’s strange.”
“What’s strange?” Sophie looked up from a report she was reading, purple highlighter poised above the page.
“Before I went to Mexico, I had five families who’d agreed to be interviewed about what had happened to their daughters at the Whitcomb Academy. They were outraged and after blood. Now none of them want to speak with me at all.”
“That is strange. Did they say why?”
“They said they’d talked about it and had decided that lots of press was not what their daughters needed. They want to move on and let their daughters heal.”
“I suppose I can understand them feeling that way.”
Natalie turned in her chair. “I can, too. But how do you go from begging to be interviewed to refusing to speak in a week?”
But Sophie was already buried in her report again.
Natalie ran through the facts of this investigation, trying to figure out whether she had enough for an article. She had already reported the basics. A soccer coach at Whitcomb Academy, a small private school for gifted and talented girls, had been using a picklock kit to get into girls’ dorm rooms at night, where he had allegedly raped them. After one of the victims attempted suicide, the truth came out, and the parents went to the county sheriff.
The sheriff had moved quickly, arresting the coach on a host of felonies, and promising a full investigation. And then . . . nothing.
After two weeks of investigating the case, the sheriff let it go, and the DA dropped the charges against the coach for lack of evidence. Given that the evidence included semen samples on one of the girls’ sheets, a picklock kit, and fifteen victims telling almost exactly the same story, this came as a surprise to everyone. But it had been good news for the coach, who’d promptly disappeared, leaving no forwarding address.
Understandably, the girls’ parents had been outraged, some insinuating that the sheriff and the DA had been bought off or intimidated by the school’s administration. Feeling that they had nowhere left to turn, the parents had come to the newspaper. Natalie had done some preliminary poking around, gathering police reports and tax documents for all the players. She had arranged to interview the families, but she’d gone to Mexico before she’d gotten the chance.
And now no one wanted to talk.
It looked like she would end up dropping the story.
She stretched, unable to stifle a yawn, wishing she could run out for another café au lait. Even though Julian and Marc had cleared her house and the Denver police had parked a surveillance team on her street, she hadn’t slept well last night, every sound she’d heard making her jump. The ice maker. The AC kicking on. The creaking of her wooden floors. In her mind all of them became Sr. Scar Face. Then she’d imagined Zach was there, holding her, sleeping beside her, and she’d finally fallen asleep.
She’d been tempted more times than she could count to call him today just to make sure he was okay. She was so afraid her deposition had gotten him into trouble. If only his superiors in the Justice Department understood that he’d done what he’d done to keep her safe . . .
Oh, who was she fooling? She wanted to talk to him, wanted to hear his voice, wanted to know that he was okay. But if she called, she’d only make it harder on herself. He’d made it clear that he didn’t feel capable of having a relationship, and she had too much self-respect to throw herself at any man.
Outside her window, gray clouds rose over the mountains, promising a late afternoon thunderstorm. Already the wind was picking up, branches swaying.
Don’t we have to get skin to skin for this to work?
Are you saying you want to get naked with me, angel?
That’s not what I meant.
No? Too bad.
Memories of another thunderstorm came back to her. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d taken shelter with Zach in that alcove and made love underneath the little waterfall. But in fact, it was just the day before yesterday.
Too much, too fast. Two worlds apart.
She grabbed her file and stood, then walked the short distance to Tom’s office. He had a way of resurrecting investigations she thought were dead in the water. And if he thought she was wasting her time on this one, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell her.
He glanced up, a shock of gray curls slipping over his forehead, reading glasses low on his nose. “Benoit.”
She stepped into the mess that was Tom’s office—newspapers piled everywhere, manila file folders with coffee stains, books stacked wherever there was space, and on the wall above his head, a poster with his favorite quote, from George Orwell: In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.
“I think this Whitcomb Academy investigation is at a dead end, but I wanted to run through it with you first.”
“Let’s hear it.”
&n
bsp; She refreshed his memory about the facts of the case, then told him what had happened with the girls’ families today. “I feel like there’s something there, but I can’t find a way to crack the nut. I’m not even sure where the nut is.”
He frowned, clearly thinking it through. “So the alleged victims and their families won’t talk. The school won’t talk. And the sheriff and DA won’t talk.”
“Yes, that’s about the size of it.”
“What about the perp?”
“He skipped town the day after they let him out of jail. His neighbors said a moving van showed up and cleared out his apartment. No forwarding address.”
“I assume you’ve already gotten everyone’s tax records.”
Natalie nodded. “The sheriff’s, the DA’s, the administrator’s, the alleged perpetrator’s, as well as all of the school’s public records for the past five years. There was nothing that seemed suspicious to me, but then I admit I’m not a tax genius.”
“You could fax those documents to that forensic accountant we keep on retainer and see what she finds. She knows all the tricks. If anyone is playing games, she’ll be able to spot it.”
Natalie stood. “Thanks. That’s what I’ll do.”
He turned back to his work. “When in doubt, Benoit, follow the money.”
“DID YOU KILL Agent Gisella Sanchez?”
“No.” Zach sat with a blood pressure cuff on his right arm, two pneumographs strapped around his chest, and galvanometers on the first and third fingers of his left hand.
He had agreed to take a polygraph test in hopes that it would speed the investigation along. He knew he was telling the truth. He needed to convince them of that fact so that he could get back to work.
So far the experience had been tedious rather than intimidating, perhaps because he knew he was innocent. They’d brought in the FBI’s top polygraph expert, a small bald man whose thick glasses gave him the appearance of a mad scientist—or Mr. Magoo.
“Whom did you pay to kill her?”
“No one. I had nothing to do with her death.”
Now, punchy on lack of sleep, he was back for a second day of answering questions, doing all he could to cooperate with the investigation. He wished he knew how it was progressing, but no one was telling him anything, not even Pearce.
“Zachariah?”
Fuck.
Zach recognized that voice. He switched off the television set, stood, and turned to face his old man. “What the hell do you want?”
It had been four years since he’d last seen his father face-to-face. But time had been good to the bastard. He stood there in a three-thousand-dollar suit, looking like an older and better dressed version of Zach, the resemblance undeniable. Though his hair was whiter than Zach remembered, the man looked strong and healthy as an ox.
He fidgeted with his tie. Was he nervous? That would be a first. “I heard what happened—how you were captured and almost killed, how you escaped and rescued that girl.”
“That girl rescued me. And how do you know anything about this? Some of that information is classified.”
His father gave him a wounded look. “You don’t think I have my sources after thirty years of working inside the Beltway? I’m the ranking member of the Senate Armed Services Committee.”
As arrogant as ever.
“So you heard what happened, and you came by to tell me how glad you are I wasn’t killed. Is that it?”
“Partly. I also know you’re being investigated, that some of the people here think you might have stolen cocaine from one of the cartels and murdered an Interpol agent.”
Now it made sense.
“I can see why there are no reporters with you this time. Your son is in trouble. How embarrassing. And by the way, that really is classified.”
“You’re my son. My sources knew I’d want to hear about it.”
Zach crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose you’re worried about how this might look in the media if word gets out that Senator Robert McBride’s son was exposed as a crook. Well, you can relax, because I’m clean.”
“That’s not it at all.” His father’s voice rose a notch, the old man’s temper kicking in. “I know you’re innocent. I came to see if I could help in any way, cut through some of the red tape, help make sure the process goes smoothly.”
And Zach felt his own temper rise. “You just don’t get it, do you? You really believe that your elected position gives you rights the rest of America just doesn’t have. Forget it. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. Justice will take its course. I trust the agency I work for to get to the truth.”
“I’ve never understood you. You don’t think that fathers out there everywhere do all they can to help their kids get ahead in this life? You think I’m the only one who tries to pave the road for my son?”
“You don’t just pave the road. You manipulate someone into moving it so that it comes to my front door. Being a U.S. senator’s son shouldn’t mean that I get to live by a special set of rules. You’re charged with making the laws. You need to respect them more than the average person, not less.”
They’d been arguing about this since 9/11, when Zach had walked into the living room to overhear his father tell his mother that their son would never have to serve in the military because he was a U.S. senator’s son. It had been the last straw after years of watching his father wade through one scandal after another. In disgust, Zach had joined the navy and applied for Officer Candidate School the next day.
His father shook his head. “You know, I thought maybe you’d matured enough—”
“Matured? Go to hell!”
“—so that we could have an honest conversation, maybe spend some time together. But you’re just as pigheaded and unreasonable as you’ve always been. You know, your mother understood—”
“Don’t you bring her into this!” Zach was in his father’s face now, blood pumping hot in his veins. “My mother was an idealist who believed in everything she thought you stood for. It literally killed her to watch you turn into a crook. All your sleazy mistresses. The money you blew on—”
The blow took Zach by surprise. He rubbed his jaw, looked his father in the eye. “You better get the hell out of here, old man. If I hit back, it’s going to hurt.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Zach. I don’t know what made me do that. I’ve missed you. I came here to make amends, to help—”
“I said get the hell out of here. Now.”
His father turned and, with an angry look over his shoulder, stomped off.
Jaw aching, Zach sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
THE MOMENT ARTURO heard the voice on the other end of the line, he broke into a sweat, beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead and upper lip.
“Are you watching the news?”
“Sí. Yes, I am. And I can explain—”
“Explanations are irrelevant. Besides, it’s obvious what happened. You wanted her for your perverted little rituals, so rather than instructing your men to put a bullet through her head on the bus, you had them take her captive. Isn’t that right?”
How dare this gringo speak of La Santa Muerte as if she were a perversion?
“Sí. I had them take her captive. I wanted to see the woman who was so dangerous that she frightened you.”
“That was a grave mistake. We asked you to do something for us, and you agreed to do it. Board the bus, and kill her, along with the Mexican journalists. It would look like just another act of cartel-related violence. No one would think twice about it.
“But now, somehow, she’s back in the United States, very much alive. That’s very disappointing, Arturo. Very disappointing.”
Arturo swallowed—hard. “I am sorry. She had help. A shipment of cocaine was stolen, and we caught the man who—”
“He didn’t steal the cocaine, you imbecile. The woman you cut up and tossed in the street stole it. Or hadn’t you figured that out yet?”
“She stole it?”
“Yes. Gisella Sanchez worked for Interpol. And that man you chained up wasn’t a drug pusher. He’s a deputy U.S. marshal and former Navy SEAL—a war hero no less. That pretty reporter you planned to rape—she turned out to be a lot tougher than she looked, too. She’s the one who broke them out. You probably assumed it was the man, didn’t you? That’s what you get for being a chauvinist bastard.”
Arturo heard all this, but only one part connected.
“U.S. marshal? SEAL? How do you know all of this?” His heart was beating so hard it hurt. Was he having a heart attack?
“That doesn’t matter. You fucked up, Arturo.”
“I can fix it. I will send my best man to Denver to—”
“No, Arturo, we don’t trust you. Your incompetence sickens us. So we’re going to take care of it ourselves. We wanted to have her eliminated down there to prevent any suspicion being cast our way. But since it’s known that your men took her and were tearing your country apart looking for her, people will assume that you had her killed.”
“If you think that is best.” Arturo didn’t tell him he’d put his own plans into motion the moment he’d seen that little puta’s face on television this morning.
“We do.” There was a pause. “For the sake of our long association, we’ll forgive—no, that’s not the word—overlook your failure this time. But we need you to do something for us.”
“What is that?”
“Spread word on the street that Los Zetas are crossing the border to finish the reporter.”
That made no sense. “If I do that, won’t the police put her under their protection, making it harder and riskier for you?”
“By the time the police mobilize, she’ll already be dead. Action has a
Then the line went dead.
Arturo put the phone down and then, with shaking hands, he poured himself a shot.
Santa Muerte protect me!
“YOU’VE GOT IT, Syd.” Natalie hung up the phone, glad her article was done and in the hands of the managing editor.
She’d spent the day writing an eyewitness account of the attack on the bus, her kidnapping, captivity, and escape. It wasn’t something she’d wanted to do, but Tom had thought it would be good for readership. Rather than focusing on her own experience, she’d decided to use the article as a chance to pay tribute to the slain Mexican journalists, sharing what she remembered about each of them. Their home newspapers had generously donated head shots and other photographs, enabling her to put a face with each name. It had been especially painful to write about Sr. Marquez.
Marquez finished his prayers, then turned to me and apologized, as if he were to blame for the fact that he was about to be murdered. Then, he looked up into his killer’s face. In the next instant, it was over, and he was gone, a bullet hole in his forehead.
Then, referring to Zach only as Mr. Black—a joke for his benefit in case he read the article—she’d managed to report on her hours in the Zeta prison, as well as the escape, without giving away sensitive information. She’d felt close to him, as if she were connecting with him, writing words about a shared experience, words that he might see and even appreciate.
He probably won’t even read it, girl.
God, how she missed him! It put a constant ache in her chest, some part of her unable and unwilling to accept that she wouldn’t see him again. More than once she’d found herself wondering what would happen if it turned out she was pregnant. Would he change his mind and come back? Would he want to see the baby, be a part of its life?
That’s no way to win a man’s heart, girl. Are you that desperate?
Quashing the thought, she gathered her things, took the elevator down, and walked out to her car, only to find a dozen or more persistent reporters staking out the front entrance. She thought for a moment about taking the back entrance, but slinking down the alley while gunshots still echoed in her memory held no appeal. So she lifted her chin and walked out the door.
“Thank you, but no comment,” she said again and again, finally making it to her car. She unlocked the door, got inside, and quickly locked it again. Then slowly, she nudged the car forward.
And then out of the corner of her eye she saw him—Sr. Scar Face.
She gasped, jerked her head around, looking for him. But he was gone.
Or maybe he’d never been there. Writing the article had left her jumpy, reviving the terror for her. Perhaps she was just seeing things. Besides, how could he have gotten here so quickly?
The same way you did.
A chill shivered up her spine. She picked up her cell phone and called Julian.
CHAPTER 23
“I’M SORRY. WE’VE moved on. We’re going to focus on letting our daughter heal, and we’re not interested in talking to the press.”
Natalie stared at the phone as the line went dead. “That’s strange.”
“What’s strange?” Sophie looked up from a report she was reading, purple highlighter poised above the page.
“Before I went to Mexico, I had five families who’d agreed to be interviewed about what had happened to their daughters at the Whitcomb Academy. They were outraged and after blood. Now none of them want to speak with me at all.”
“That is strange. Did they say why?”
“They said they’d talked about it and had decided that lots of press was not what their daughters needed. They want to move on and let their daughters heal.”
“I suppose I can understand them feeling that way.”
Natalie turned in her chair. “I can, too. But how do you go from begging to be interviewed to refusing to speak in a week?”
But Sophie was already buried in her report again.
Natalie ran through the facts of this investigation, trying to figure out whether she had enough for an article. She had already reported the basics. A soccer coach at Whitcomb Academy, a small private school for gifted and talented girls, had been using a picklock kit to get into girls’ dorm rooms at night, where he had allegedly raped them. After one of the victims attempted suicide, the truth came out, and the parents went to the county sheriff.
The sheriff had moved quickly, arresting the coach on a host of felonies, and promising a full investigation. And then . . . nothing.
After two weeks of investigating the case, the sheriff let it go, and the DA dropped the charges against the coach for lack of evidence. Given that the evidence included semen samples on one of the girls’ sheets, a picklock kit, and fifteen victims telling almost exactly the same story, this came as a surprise to everyone. But it had been good news for the coach, who’d promptly disappeared, leaving no forwarding address.
Understandably, the girls’ parents had been outraged, some insinuating that the sheriff and the DA had been bought off or intimidated by the school’s administration. Feeling that they had nowhere left to turn, the parents had come to the newspaper. Natalie had done some preliminary poking around, gathering police reports and tax documents for all the players. She had arranged to interview the families, but she’d gone to Mexico before she’d gotten the chance.
And now no one wanted to talk.
It looked like she would end up dropping the story.
She stretched, unable to stifle a yawn, wishing she could run out for another café au lait. Even though Julian and Marc had cleared her house and the Denver police had parked a surveillance team on her street, she hadn’t slept well last night, every sound she’d heard making her jump. The ice maker. The AC kicking on. The creaking of her wooden floors. In her mind all of them became Sr. Scar Face. Then she’d imagined Zach was there, holding her, sleeping beside her, and she’d finally fallen asleep.
She’d been tempted more times than she could count to call him today just to make sure he was okay. She was so afraid her deposition had gotten him into trouble. If only his superiors in the Justice Department understood that he’d done what he’d done to keep her safe . . .
Oh, who was she fooling? She wanted to talk to him, wanted to hear his voice, wanted to know that he was okay. But if she called, she’d only make it harder on herself. He’d made it clear that he didn’t feel capable of having a relationship, and she had too much self-respect to throw herself at any man.
Outside her window, gray clouds rose over the mountains, promising a late afternoon thunderstorm. Already the wind was picking up, branches swaying.
Don’t we have to get skin to skin for this to work?
Are you saying you want to get naked with me, angel?
That’s not what I meant.
No? Too bad.
Memories of another thunderstorm came back to her. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d taken shelter with Zach in that alcove and made love underneath the little waterfall. But in fact, it was just the day before yesterday.
Too much, too fast. Two worlds apart.
She grabbed her file and stood, then walked the short distance to Tom’s office. He had a way of resurrecting investigations she thought were dead in the water. And if he thought she was wasting her time on this one, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell her.
He glanced up, a shock of gray curls slipping over his forehead, reading glasses low on his nose. “Benoit.”
She stepped into the mess that was Tom’s office—newspapers piled everywhere, manila file folders with coffee stains, books stacked wherever there was space, and on the wall above his head, a poster with his favorite quote, from George Orwell: In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.
“I think this Whitcomb Academy investigation is at a dead end, but I wanted to run through it with you first.”
“Let’s hear it.”
&n
He frowned, clearly thinking it through. “So the alleged victims and their families won’t talk. The school won’t talk. And the sheriff and DA won’t talk.”
“Yes, that’s about the size of it.”
“What about the perp?”
“He skipped town the day after they let him out of jail. His neighbors said a moving van showed up and cleared out his apartment. No forwarding address.”
“I assume you’ve already gotten everyone’s tax records.”
Natalie nodded. “The sheriff’s, the DA’s, the administrator’s, the alleged perpetrator’s, as well as all of the school’s public records for the past five years. There was nothing that seemed suspicious to me, but then I admit I’m not a tax genius.”
“You could fax those documents to that forensic accountant we keep on retainer and see what she finds. She knows all the tricks. If anyone is playing games, she’ll be able to spot it.”
Natalie stood. “Thanks. That’s what I’ll do.”
He turned back to his work. “When in doubt, Benoit, follow the money.”
“DID YOU KILL Agent Gisella Sanchez?”
“No.” Zach sat with a blood pressure cuff on his right arm, two pneumographs strapped around his chest, and galvanometers on the first and third fingers of his left hand.
He had agreed to take a polygraph test in hopes that it would speed the investigation along. He knew he was telling the truth. He needed to convince them of that fact so that he could get back to work.
So far the experience had been tedious rather than intimidating, perhaps because he knew he was innocent. They’d brought in the FBI’s top polygraph expert, a small bald man whose thick glasses gave him the appearance of a mad scientist—or Mr. Magoo.
“Whom did you pay to kill her?”
“No one. I had nothing to do with her death.”