Marisela Morales 03 - Dirty Little Christmas - Julie Leto (8 page)

When Frankie opened the driver side door, she opened her mouth to make sure he understood how serious she was, but he had his hands up in surrender.

“
Calmarse, vidita
. I’m not criticizing. God knows I haven’t been brother of the god-damned year, either. I’m just saying you don’t know what your sister might be into. What might have brought this shit down on her from across the ocean.”

“Then it’s time we found out.”

Headlights from a car entering behind them sparkled against Marisela’s deep-set brown eyes. Frank waited for the sports car to come to a halt in a spot closer to the elevator, then broached the topic he’d been trying to avoid all night. “You’re sure this has nothing to do with Titan?

“Not one-hundred percent,” she admitted. “But my gut says it doesn’t. I haven’t worked on anything dangerous since Boston and that mess was cleaned up a long time ago.”

The driver of the sports car got out and jogged around to open the door for his date. Frank recognized him as the portfolio manager who owned a condo on the top floor—and the woman was most definitely not the girlfriend he’d seen hanging out with him by the pool.

“Are you sure they picked up every crumb?” he challenged, tearing his attention away from the super-short skirt, shapely legs and nearly exposed
tetas
of the guy’s new squeeze. Or probably, his latest conquest. She was a hot piece of ass, but Marisela was exhausted, emotional and armed. She’d already shot one guy tonight—and if he looked a little too long, she might manage an encore. “What if someone got wind of…how you
handled
that situation…and decided to take revenge by snatching Belinda?”

The couple toddled to the elevator, all hungry hands and sloppy wet lips until the bell on the elevator dinged and they practically tumbled inside. When Marisela turned her attention back to him, he could have sworn he spied a glint of jealousy. He couldn’t blame her. He’d much rather be having hot, heavy, drunk sex rather than discussing the case that had ended his career at Titan—and sent hers into a meteoric rise.

“Ian put his best people into making sure no one ever finds out what I did,” she said.

“You seem awfully confident in…
Ian
,” Frank spat. He hated how her relationship with his former employer had shifted since Boston. When Marisela had first met the slimy Boston-based Brit, she’d hated him on sight, an emotion that had grown when he’d used Frank, bleeding out from a gunshot wound, as leverage against her while working a case against an arms dealer in Puerto Rico. But she’d turned the tables on the master manipulator and in the end, beat him at his own game.

But then rich, entitled Ian Blake had faced a crisis of conscience, thanks to a rogue assassin who’d stirred up pain from his tragic childhood. And instead of treating Marisela with his usual disdain, he’d confided in her, trusted her—and more importantly, cleaned up after her when she’d taken the law into her own hands.

Since then, she’d had nothing negative to say about the guy, when she said anything at all. And she’d stayed on with Titan despite Frank’s invitation for her to join him in his private venture, which said everything he’d needed to hear.

“I could sure as hell use Ian’s help now in finding my sister,” she snapped. “What kind of life did she live in London? She didn’t scream or fight once they had her in the SUV. She must have known the kidnappers. Trusted them.”

She’d changed the subject without much finesse—but she’d changed it all the same.

“Maybe they threatened to kill you if she resisted.”

“They killed my car and nearly blinded my best friend.” She marched to the elevator and punched the up-arrow button. “They anticipated that I’d be an obstacle. That means they knew I was picking her up and that it would take explosives to keep me from kicking their asses.”

She punched the button again, cursing when she realized that the lift stopped between the fifth and sixth floor.

Frank was surprised his neighbor had gotten that far.

“They couldn’t take her inside the airport,” he said, leaning against the tiled wall, attempting to fill the silence with useful information. “Too much security.”

She shoved him to the left and matched his pose—back to the wall, arms crossed over her chest. “They couldn’t risk me getting her home, either, because the minute she walked through my parent’s door, she’d be surrounded by people twenty-four, seven. Their only chance for minimum collateral damage was to grab her in the parking lot.”

“Not a perfect plan,” he surmised. “But not a bad one. What does it say about the kidnappers?”

She scowled. “They’re smart.”

“My contact at TPD said your car was damaged, but not destroyed. The explosives were placed beneath the engine, but not close to the gas tank.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because your car is still toast,” he said. “They haven’t finished their tests yet, but the bomb squad said whatever they used wasn’t high grade. It was more like high-powered fireworks.”

Marisela’s eyes narrowed. “Fireworks? Seems like a cheap option.”

“Or an easy one. Means they might have been in a hurry. Or that they wanted to stop you, but not kill you. Maybe they’re rank amateurs with no access to the real shit.”

She slumped against the wall, gingerly tilting her head back. Instead of retrieving her sister for a triumphant Christmas surprise, she was facing the prospect of telling her that Belinda had been kidnapped out of her care. Her only hope for help was him, and despite the dire circumstances, he couldn’t keep his mind off of how great she filled out her snug turtleneck sweater.

“What if I don’t find her in time?” she asked, her voice quaking with the kind of desperation he’d heard from her only once—a long, long time ago. “What if they hurt her, Frankie? I’ll never forgive myself.”

She turned so that her forehead was flush with the metal elevator doors. He glanced up at the lighted numbers above her, but the car was still motionless. He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead, then jabbed at the button, as if moving the lift would somehow ease her pain.

Of course, the damned thing didn’t move. He cursed and then spun around, desperate to find the stairwell even though five minutes ago, he’d known its precise location. Frankie had never needed to fix anything for Marisela. It had usually been the other way around. But now she needed him—and he didn’t know what the hell else he could do.

Ten

Marisela gave herself one full minute to pull her shit together. The elevator would arrive sooner rather than later, judging by the fact that the chick in the short skirt had lost her panties before she got out of the car and the
carbón
who’d brought her home had had a hard on the size of a salami. Wouldn’t take them long to get their business done and then she and Frankie would plunge into the job of finding her sister and getting her—and her baby—home alive.

Using the app on her phone, she timed her pity party, not risking one extra second. If she went too short, the pent-up frustration smoldering in her bloodstream might consume her. If she went too long, she’d be left with nothing but cinders and ash. She indulged her helplessness until the buzzer sounded and then she slammed the stupid elevator button so hard, she jammed her knuckle.

She cursed, but the machinery cooperated; the gears moaning as the car descended. While she waited, she re-played the message that had come in earlier from her mother, the one she hadn’t had the heart to delete. Aida had gone on and on about how grateful she was for the luxurious hotel stay Marisela had arranged, but she threw in a few jabs about not being home to supervise her cooks at the restaurant on Christmas Eve.

Her heart eased as her mother prattled about how the Morales family had been supplying food for
Noche Buena
for a generation and how the cooks couldn’t possibly prepare the traditional Cuban Christmas Eve menu without supervision. Marisela knew for a fact that each of them had been soaking black beans and roasting pigs since they were wearing short pants and running around the beaches of Havana, and yet, she listened, drinking in her mother’s every nervous word, filling her chest with the warmth of normalcy even as the heat of the stuffy parking garage caused a sheen of sweat to form at her nape.

This was some Christmas. No cold. No snow. No family. No guarantee that their family would ever be together again, if she let herself think of Belinda as gone forever, which she wouldn’t. For the first time, Belinda’s Asperger’s might work to their advantage. Though the syndrome manifested in different ways for different people, for Belinda, it dulled her emotions—and right now, knowing her sister likely wasn’t as terrified or lost as anyone else might be in the same circumstances gave her comfort.

It wasn’t much, but she’d take what she could get.

“Hey,” Frankie said, sliding his hand across her shoulder as they walked inside the lift. “You okay?”

He laced his fingers into her hair, then tugged her toward him so that she could lay her cheek on his chest. A tightness pulled between her breast bone—a sharp pang she couldn’t allow herself to feel—not until Belinda was back home, where she’d never fit in, but always belonged.

She pulled away. “I’m fine.”

“You were attacked. Your pregnant sister was kidnapped and your best friend nearly blown up. It’s okay to be upset,
vidita
, even if just for a minute.”

“I don’t get upset.”

“No, you get pissed,” he said, his gaze infuriatingly compassionate. “But you’re not even that.”

She smacked him in the chest, hard, as she pushed away. “You can’t read me all the time, Frankie. I’m so angry, I could explode and take out this entire building. But I can’t let it out. Not until I have those bastards within striking distance.”

He had the good sense to drop the topic. They rode up to his floor—the fifth—in silence, both of them actively ignoring the smell of sex and sweat captured by the stagnant air.
Dios mio
, Marisela would have loved to lose herself in the mindlessness of a good fuck right now, but she couldn’t, not even if it cleared her head. She couldn’t take a chance that even a short distraction would result in Belinda staying with her kidnappers one more minute.

Once upstairs, Frankie insisted they eat, so they broke into the plastic containers filled with cold chicken and rice he’d swiped from his mother’s house and popped open cans of caffeine-rich sodas while Marisela made calls to various Titan offices on the off-chance someone had not abided by the company order that everyone go home for the holidays.

She got nothing but voicemail.

Frankie booted up his laptop and asked Marisela for the name of Belinda’s company.

“Pro-tech or Protech or Pro Tech, two words,” she answered.

He arched a brow. “You don’t know?”

“As you so sweetly pointed out, we weren’t exactly close.”

They found the right website and with skills that forced Marisela to step back, literally, and re-assess Frankie’s usefulness, he breached the company firewall and entered the employee directory.

“How’d you do that?” she asked.

His grin lifted higher on the right than the left, bringing the dimple on his cheek into sharp relief. “I may not have been a Titan employee for long,
vidita
, but I paid attention. Especially once I realized I would need skills beyond breaking bones to make it on my own.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “I used a very basic encryption sequence to break through. They must not care that their employee roster can be accessed.”

“Think that means they’re stupid or that they’re not working on anything top secret?”

He shrugged, but she could tell he was leaning toward the latter. Pro-Tech, two words with a hyphen, was a computer software developer. Even though their main focus seemed to be video gaming technology, their security should have been top-notch. If Frankie had accessed the information so easily, it was because they didn’t care about covering it up.

“Are there pictures?”

He clicked, typed and scrolled. “Yea. By department.”

“Find Belinda.”

She leaned down and watched, fascinating by the speed and accuracy of his fingers on the keyboard. She’d always known Frankie was good with his hands, but his typing and expertise turned her on more than it should. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe she was on emotional overload. Maybe she just wanted this whole mess to be over so she could go back to being Frankie’s fuckbuddy rather than dragging her into memories of their brief, but spectacular pairing as partners before he’d left Titan to go out on his own.

“Here she is,” he said as photos of two dozen analysts in four rows appeared on his screen, her sister practically dead center.

She wasn’t smiling. She stared at the camera with her regular, bored expression, as if the activities in her head were infinitely more interesting than anything she might see with her eyes. Marisela supposed her sister’s brain was more exciting than most people’s lives, especially her own—until, of course, she’d gone and snagged herself a lover.

“
¿Puedo sentarme?
” she asked.

Frankie got up and gestured for her to sit. She leaned in close, examining every male face, scrutinizing every pair of male eyes.

“What are you looking for?”

“Not
what
. Who.”

“Okay, who are you looking for?”

She threw an incredulous look over her shoulder. “The baby-daddy. Do you have tape?”

“Tape?”

“Scotch-tape. You know, the long strips of plastic that are sticky on one side? I know you’re all master of the computer now, but I prefer to kick it old school. I’m going to eliminate suspects, one by one.”

Frankie padded over to his desk, giving Marisela a chance to scan the room and measure the man against his personal space. The apartment was large, but sparse, which she expected, but the few furnishings he had picked were sleek and modern and stylish. She’d never imagined Frankie with anything other than hand-me-downs and thrift store treasures. That’s how they’d both grown up. Even when she’d bought her parents a brand new house, she’d trolled estate sales and consignment shops to find nice, pre-owned stuff to put inside.