No One Heard Her Scream (8 page)

"Get out. Leave me alone, damn it!" Her mother screamed, her face red and swollen with rage, her breath bitter from alcohol. "Who are you to preach to me about needin' anyone but yourself? My baby is dead. I got nothing."

Like a sucker punch to the belly, Momma's words struck deep, even as Becca stared out her window, reliving the past.

"You got me, Momma," she whispered. "For what it's worth, you still have me."

All she had tried to do that day was get her mother into rehab and counseling. Her drinking had gotten out of control. With the therapy, they could have taken it together. But Momma wanted no part of it.

When her mother drank, her rage took over. First, the focus was little day-to-day stuff. But as time and grief wore on, her anger shifted to Dani's killers, the useless police investigation, with the final stages centering on herself—the kind of mother she had turned out to be. The failure.

But eventually, Momma's rage took on a bitterness, all pointed at Becca. And that hurt the most.

Sure she could rationalize and say her mother hadn't really meant her cruel words, but an element of truth filtered through. When she dared to look into her personal failings, Becca discovered she had no one to trust, no one to share how she felt. A harsh reality check. Her job and her ambition had always been enough, until now. Momma had a point.

"God, I hate this. When will it ever stop?"

Becca took a deep breath, stifling the lump wedged in her throat. The unending hurt had left her bone weary. She hadn't realized she'd been crying. Trembling fingers wiped away the tears.

She glanced back at the clock on the far wall. Almost midnight. The sounds outside her window died down to a muffled thump, a jazz band nearing last call. And the dregs of city traffic, coming from the streets of Crockett and Presa, had been reduced to a vague notion carried on the breeze. Despite the surge of emotions welling inside her, the familiar cacophony gave her a strange comfort.

Her home was nothing to brag about, but it had become a safe haven, of sorts. Martha Stewart wouldn't be knocking on her door looking for housekeeping tips. But her condo had been an amazing return on her investment, inheritance money from her grandmother. On a cop's salary, she couldn't touch the locale.

For most people, the noise might have made it difficult to sleep. Yet Becca found the steady clamor of downtown to be soothing—up until Danielle first went missing. Now it didn't matter much. She and sleep had parted ways. Irreconcilable differences.

Becca wiped her cheeks with a sleeve of her sweatshirt and stretched her back. The muscles between her shoulder blades felt stiff, and her thighs were sore, the result of her early-morning workout, self-inflicted abuse. After grabbing a fresh beer from the fridge, she walked toward her fire escape window, heading for her nightly ritual. Raising the window, Becca ducked through and stepped onto the first landing, cold beer in hand. Her skin erupted in goose bumps when her bare feet hit the cool cement.

She made a short climb up the fire escape and over the parapet wall to her rooftop garden, an oasis she maintained to preserve her own sanity. Rather than flick on the festive white Christmas lights she had strung across the ornamental garden, tonight Becca preferred the anonymity of the dark. She pulled up a lawn chair and rested her elbows on the brick ledge, gazing to the river below. Becca took a sip of her Corona, feeling the chill rush through her. She shut her eyes and listened to the sounds of the city.

Adrift on the cool breeze was the faint smell of the river. The earthy essence of stale humidity mixed with the lingering aroma of fajitas, a gift from the Casa Rio Restaurant. She opened her eyes to glance toward the river bend. At this hour, festive lights shimmered along the water and made a dramatic silhouette of the weeping bowers of cypress trees. From a nearby club, a muffled voice on a microphone announced last call, and the jazz band began its final short set. She knew the drill and listened to every note, letting time sift through her fingers like sand.

But as her gaze drifted toward the music, something peculiar caught her eye, triggering her cop instincts into high gear. A lone man stood at the crest of a stone bridge over the river, his body silhouetted by a pale light. Becca craned her neck to get a better view. Squinting, she tried to catch a look at his face. Her mind played tricks.

It made no sense, yet she pictured Diego's handsome face in her mind.

"Come on, Beck. No way," she muttered.

From her perch, foot traffic this time of night always drew her attention, but this man stood still, almost a fixture. He melded with the footbridge as if he were part of the stonework. She almost missed him.

But suddenly, he moved.

He held something in his hand, raising it to his face in a sweeping gesture. Even though his features were shrouded in darkness, the object caught the light before he tossed it into the water. She leaned forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he'd thrown. It floated on the water's surface, buoyant, not heavy enough to sink. A bulb of white caught in the lazy current of the river. As it drifted by her vantage point, under the reflection from a security light, she recognized it.

A single white rose.

The flower bobbed on the water. Faint ripples skimmed the surface, undulating with every movement of the rose. Becca furrowed her brow and peered through the shadows toward the bridge, searching for him. Nothing. She stood and leaned over the parapet wall, straining to see under the heavy bower of trees. Up the river and down.

He was nowhere in sight. Gone. How did he disappear so fast?
Damn it!

Becca's heart picked up the pace to match the jazz band downriver, pounding for all the wrong reasons. Her face flushed. She searched every shadow, yet eventually gave up on finding him. Clenching her jaw, she wrapped her arms across her chest to ward off the chill of the night breeze. The wind rustled the trees of her garden, stirring a memory. Becca pictured Diego's lips, his strong jawline, and she remembered the gentle touch of his large hands when he wiped the smudge off her chin. But most of all, his dark eyes haunted her.

"You better put him out of your head, Beck. The man's trouble."

No doubt, it had only been her imagination that willed the stranger to be him. A heaping dose of wishful thinking and a couple of Coronas hadn't hurt either.

"Last call." She raised the bottle of beer to her lips and downed the rest.

With empty bottle in hand, Becca navigated the steps down, her mind preoccupied with the image of the man on the bridge. As she turned to her window near the landing, Becca caught a glimpse of something. Her eyes fixed on it.

"What the hell?" A breath jammed in her throat.

Another white rose lay on the cement near the open window to her condo.

On pure instinct, she pressed her back against the outside wall, hiding in the shadows. Becca didn't want to be silhouetted by the light coming from her living room, making herself a target. Her eyes searched the darkness, squinting to regain her night vision. After a long moment, she felt certain her mystery man had skipped.

Exercising caution, she inched her way toward the window and peered in. Everything was like she left it, but had he been inside? She hadn't been gone long, but damn it, the man was a ghost.
A blasted ghost!

And he had the gall to leave a calling card, one that would lurk in her memory for nights to come. Either he knew her routine, or he'd waited for the right opportunity.

Why? None of this made sense.

He could have come and gone without her knowing it. Instead, he chose to leave a rose and made a show of calling her attention to it—a very deliberate act. A romantic gesture tinged with an element of danger. The man had some kind of personal agenda involving her, but she had no clue what it could be. Not yet.

Becca knew she'd see Diego tomorrow when she called on Hunter Cavanaugh. Maybe that thought played on her subconscious more than she realized. Or maybe her loneliness had triggered the illusion of romance—driven by her need to be touched by someone. Either way, she had to be careful. She knew nothing about his past, only that Diego Galvan had unsavory connections to the mob and traveled in dangerous circles. Their worlds could not be farther apart—cop and criminal. Tainted and forbidden fruit, that's all he represented to her. No way she'd allow anything to happen between them.

Becca crawled back through the window. After a quick search of the premises, gun in hand, she found nothing out of the ordinary. She locked up for the night, flicking off lights as she went. One last time, Becca stood in the dark by the window, scanning every shadow along the river.

"Who the hell are you, Diego?" she whispered. "And what do you want from me?"

Barefoot and dressed in jeans and black T-shirt, Diego sat in the kitchen before dawn, a morning ritual he'd cultivated since taking up residence at Cavanaugh's estate. He preferred to be alone with his newspaper and coffee, before the onslaught of the chef and his kitchen crew. Diego lived amidst the pampering, but he fended for himself, keeping Cavanaugh and his staff at bay. No one knew his comings and goings, by design.

And this morning, although he held the newspaper in his hand, Diego hadn't retained a single word. An image from last night replayed in his mind, over and over.

Drawn to the Riverwalk, he had stood in the shadows, watching her. That's all he intended to do. But Rebecca held him there, spellbound from the first tear. He still pictured her staring out the window, a beautiful face tainted by sadness.

And all he wanted to do was hold her.

Clearly, the woman could handle herself, so why had he been so hell-bent on taking her in his arms? Diego knew the answer, had avoided it like a scourge.

He'd been alone for so long, maybe he'd mistaken her need of comfort for his own. And that thought scared the hell out of him. The isolation of his work, of his life, had sowed a seed of restlessness. He no longer accepted the way things were. And the seed had sprouted, threatening to take root.

The white roses had been plucked from a vendor's cart, an afterthought, the only way he could touch her and still keep his distance. But judging by her reaction, when she shoved her back against the wall in fear, he should have resisted the urge. He hadn't intended to frighten her with the gesture.

But what the hell
had
he intended? That first day. He should never have made contact with her outside the Imperial. Big mistake. Now he was behaving like an idiot. He had no right to meddle in her personal life. Someone like Rebecca would never—

Intruding on his thoughts, a hulking presence blocked the overhead light, casting a shadow on his day and the sports section. The ugly face of Matt Brogan looked down at him.

"Where were you last night?"

"Out." Diego found single syllables worked best.

"Not good enough."

Brogan, the bully. A shaved, meaty head atop broad shoulders with no neck. So early in the morning, and the man wore a suit. Diego had never seen him without one. For all he knew, he wore the damned thing to bed, tie and all. But no matter how expensive the label, Brogan wore designer duds like they came off the rack. That about sized the man up. And those were his good points.

He didn't like Brogan's advantage over him, so he got up and moved, using the pretense of refilling his coffee mug. Brogan stood a head higher and outweighed him by fifty pounds, easy. Diego preferred to keep his distance, choosing a spot across a food preparation island to stand and sip his coffee. Besides, the hanging pots and pans blocked his view of the man's fleshy face. A side benefit.

"Who died and made you hall monitor, Brogan? You're just pissed 'cause I ditched you. You had no business following me, especially when you're no good at it."

Brogan had been dropped on his head as a child. At least, that's what Diego preferred to believe. Brain damage explained a lot. No sane mother would've raised a child using Brogan as a prototype.

"You don't know nothin' 'bout my business," he blustered, ready to pick a fight as usual. "As far as I'm concerned, you're some kinda outsider 'round here. You're nothin' but a damned watchdog with a fancy pedigree forced on us by Rivera and Global Enterprises. And those New York boys don't know squat about our operations in Texas unless the old man tells 'em. The way I see it, Rivera needs us a helluva lot more than we need you. So don't push your luck, mutt."

"The merger with Global is working as it should be, for now. And I'm here to see that both sides live up to the agreement. But you cause a blip on Castengra's radar screen, and you'll see how much he needs you. Hell, even worse, I wouldn't want to be the guy that topples this house of cards for Cavanaugh. But maybe you're man enough to take both of them on."

"You threatenin' me?"

Diego shrugged. "Actually, I'm conducting a scientific study on the correlation between abnormally high levels of machismo and stupidity. I think you'd make a perfect test subject."

Brogan tightened his jaw and clenched his fists. But after a long moment, the arrogance evaporated from his face.

"Hey, I'm only lookin' out for boss man's interests, even if the old man is too blind to see through your lone wolf act. You been spendin' too much time off the reservation. Don't think it's gone unnoticed."

Diego laughed and placed a hand over his heart in mock sincerity, trying to downplay his behavior. He didn't need the suspicion.

"Can't a man have a love life without you knowing about it?" He shrugged and shook his head, making light of it all. "But I tell you, I'm touched. I had no idea you were such a concerned citizen, looking out for the welfare of others. All this time I thought you only cared for
número uno.
I see now I was wrong. Can you forgive me,
mi amigo?"

"Cut the bullshit. I don't trust you, Galvan."

The man stepped closer, his eyes no bigger than slits. Diego had seen the look before, but usually rodents didn't come as big as Brogan.