Twisted Lies Page 23

  But where would Marisa and Nate go after this? How long could he conceivably follow them before they hit open road and got suspicious? And with the kid in the trunk...

  That wouldn't work.

  What could he do?

  The answer was obvious, and he laughed out loud. Duh—he was in Leslie's car. He'd been tracking her since he'd started seeing her. He'd been watching her on the iPhone app, too, but that wasn't as reliable, and he had to keep an eye on it all the time. The car's tracker kept records. With it, he could check it every once in a while and see what she'd been up to. That was just one way he'd confirmed that she was indeed on his side and not working with the feds.

  Their pillow talk was the other way he'd known. Make a woman feel loved, and she'd do anything for you.

  Now he just had to get the tracker on Nate and Marisa's truck. Eventually, they had to get out of it, if not here, somewhere. He'd just follow until they did. When the truck was empty, he'd grab the tracker from beneath Leslie's car and secure it to the truck. The magnet would keep it in place, and he'd know where they were.

  For the first time since this all had begun, luck was on his side. He'd get what was coming to him, one way or another.

  Chapter 21

  NATE GLANCED AT HIS watch when the limousine stopped in front of the brownstone. Thirty minutes had passed. Thirty difficult minutes during which Marisa had more than once opened the door of the truck. He'd barely kept her from getting out.

  "I just can't sit here," she'd finally said. "I have to move."

  "You don't want her to see you when she pulls up."

  Marisa had stayed in the truck, though every muscle in her body seemed poised. Her legs jiggled, her hands folded and unfolded. Her eyes darted up and down the street, over and over.

  Finally, the chauffeur opened the rear door, and a thin, silver-haired woman stepped out. She wore a wool coat and carried a red leather bag big enough for a laptop. The chauffeur followed her up the stairs with her suitcase. A moment later, they disappeared inside.

  "Let's go." Marisa opened her car door and headed for the house.

  Nate caught up with her at the foot of the steps, and they climbed together. The door was still open. The chauffeur brushed past them on his way back to the limo.

  Pamela Gray stood in the entry beside a round table that held a vase of fresh flowers that filled the narrow room with their sweet scent. Beside the vase lay the laptop case Mrs. Gray had carried. Beyond her was a sitting area, probably reserved for guests. On the far side, a wall of windows looked out on the small garden beyond.

  "May I help you?" She still wore her coat. Nate had never met her, but having seen Charles, he'd expected her to look older. Perhaps she'd had a facelift. Her eyes were dark brown and deep set. Her skin was darker than he'd expected, as if beneath the aristocratic facade, she had Italian or Hispanic roots. Her face wore a polite scowl.

  A noise shifted his attention to the staircase that led to the second floor. A Hispanic woman descended the last few steps and froze. He'd assumed Rosa was older, but by the look of fear on her face, this young woman was the housekeeper Marisa had just spoken to. She wore a tan uniform that looked more like hospital scrubs than a maid's outfit. Nate flicked his gaze away from Rosa. He wouldn't give her away.

  "I'm Nate Boyle. This is Marisa Vega."

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied Marisa. "You're the one who stole the money."

  "I didn't," Marisa said. "And I need your help."

  "Why should I help you?" She looked about to order them out when Marisa interrupted.

  "My daughter's been kidnapped."

  Mrs. Gray turned to her. "And this concerns me how?"

  "The kidnappers are demanding the money they think I stole. But I didn't steal it. I'd give anything to get my daughter back. Anything."

  "Mrs. Gray," Nate said, "we were hoping maybe you could help. And maybe we can give you some information, too."

  "What do I care? My ex-husband's in prison, and I've moved on. If you'll excuse me." She pointed to the door. "I've just arrived, and I don't have time for this."

  "We just need five minutes."

  "Sorry. I can't help you."

  Marisa stepped closer to the woman. "My sister was murdered last night."

  Pamela Gray's eyebrows shot up, and she stepped back. "Murder? Kidnapping? All the more reason for me not to get involved."

  "It has to do with Charles and the money that was stolen."

  She regarded Marisa with narrowed eyes. "You really didn't take it?"

  Marisa was about to answer, but Mrs. Gray continued.

  "I knew it. Charles knew the feds were coming. I bet you anything he transferred it overseas to some secret bank account. It was either him or that whore he was sleeping with. Or maybe one of the other whores. There were so many."

  "That's not what happened." Nate let the words hang in the air.

  She looked at him and licked her lips.

  "I can tell you who stole the money from the G&K business account," Nate said, "if you agree to help us."

  She looked back and forth between them for a minute. "Please"—she indicated the seating area behind her—"be seated. My housekeeper will get you a refreshment. I need to get out of these boots." She snatched her laptop case and swept up the stairs.

  Nate and Marisa followed Rosa into the sitting area. A family portrait hung over the fireplace. Pamela was in the center. On her right stood a man in his mid-thirties with his arm around a woman about the same age. Two miserable looking boys around ten or eleven years old stood at their feet. On Pamela's other side stood a man in his early twenties beside an older, shorter man. Beside him stood another woman who was holding an infant. A little girl of about four stood in front of them. The two older men looked like Charles. The man who seemed the youngest and lacked a wife and children favored his mother, though with the dark brown goatee, it was hard to tell for sure.

  Nate focused on that one. He looked vaguely familiar, though Nate couldn't figure out why.

  The portrait had been professionally made—and within the previous eight years, considering Charles wasn't in it.

  Marisa was staring at the photo, too.

  "Something to drink?" Rosa asked.

  Nate looked at Marisa and shook his head quickly in warning, but it hadn't been needed.

  "I'll have a glass of water." Marisa's smile was the only hint that she'd ever spoken with Rosa before.

  Nate winked at the woman and said, "I'll have the same. Thanks."

  Rosa's tense shoulders relaxed as she walked away.

  As soon as she was gone, Marisa crossed to the portrait. "Can you take a picture of that?"

  "Why?"

  She shook her head quickly, eyes wide. She seemed excited. He took out his phone and snapped a photo of the portrait. Marisa pointed to the man with the goatee. The same guy Nate had been looking at. "A close-up of him, please."

  He snapped a few. At the sound of footsteps, he slipped his phone in his pocket.

  Rosa reappeared carrying a tray with two glasses of water. She set the tray on the coffee table and went upstairs.

  "What are you thinking?"

  She whispered, "I'll tell you after."

  Nate had originally asked for the water simply because Marisa had, but now he realized how thirsty he was. They hadn't eaten or drunk anything since they'd driven down from New Hampshire early that morning, and it was nearly lunchtime. He sat on the love seat and patted the space beside him. Marisa joined him. They sat in silence, though Marisa seemed to be nearly bouncing. Her eagerness made his heart race. He was definitely missing something.

  When Pamela Gray returned, she'd removed the boots and slipped on black house shoes. The casual choice surprised him—she'd seemed so buttoned-up. She sat in the wingback chair with her back to the windows and caught Nate looking at her feet. "I'm convinced dress shoes were invented by some misogynist to get back at powerful women." She looked at Marisa's canvas slip-ons, which she'd borr
owed from Rae. "I like those. They look comfortable."

  Marisa was coiled like a spring, and Nate tensed at the talk of shoes, afraid Marisa was about to explode in frustration, but she attempted a smile. "I borrowed them from a friend. They're a little big, but they work. All my shoes are back in Mexico, where I've been living."

  "Hiding, you mean."

  She nodded and stared at the portrait again. "That's your family?"

  The woman looked up. "My three sons. Two are married, as you can see."

  "What are their names?"

  Pamela sighed. "On my right, that's John and his wife, Tricia. On my left is Richard. He's the youngest. Next to him is Andrew. His wife is Jana."

  "Richard's not married?"

  Pamela shook her head.

  "Do they live close by?"

  Mrs. Gray looked at the portrait again, and the hint of a smile transformed her expression, if only for a moment. "John and Andrew have relocated their families to the suburbs. They both work in the city, of course, and the commute is difficult. But it's a better place to raise children."

  Marisa nodded, seemingly interested. "And Richard? What does he do?"

  Mrs. Gray's expression shifted. "Richard is still finding himself." By her tone, it was clear what she thought of that. "A luxury only young men with trust funds can afford." She sighed. "But he was much younger than his brothers when his father was sent away. It's been hard for him." She angled away from the portrait.

  "Does Richard live here?"

  "Heavens, no. When he decided not to work, I decided not to provide for him any longer. I have no patience for sloth. Nor do I have time to waste. Miss Vega, why run if you didn't take the money?"

  "I thought Charles was going to kill me the way he killed Vinnie."

  Unfazed, Mrs. Gray turned to Nate. "But you're saying you know who took it?"

  "The G&K money. We have reason to believe Marisa's sister, Leslie, stole it. We're trying to figure out who stole your husband's money."

  "Ex-husband," she said.

  "Of course." Nate continued. "The people who kidnapped Marisa's daughter believe Marisa has it, but she doesn't. They want their money, or they want to know who has it. Since Marisa doesn't have it, we're hoping that if we tell them who does, they'll let the little girl go."

  Mrs. Gray looked at Marisa with narrowed eyes. "Your sister's a thief, but you're completely innocent."

  "I didn't take anything. I ran because—"

  "Don't repeat yourself." She turned back to Nate. "And what do you need me for?"

  He could dance around it, but perhaps the straightforward approach was best. "When Charles's money was taken, a few people believed you'd taken it. That wouldn't have been a felony, of course, because it was your money, too. But by not telling anybody, you didn't have to pay taxes on it, and who knew how much the feds would confiscate—"

  "Charles protected our personal assets. Much of his money was untouchable, thanks to great lawyers and accountants."

  The benefits of the rich. "If we can figure out who has Charles's money, we can negotiate to get Marisa's daughter back." He pulled out his phone, tapped on the photos, and quickly navigated away from the one of the Gray family, swiping until he found a photograph of Ana, the sun shining off her black hair, her gaze one of wonder as she studied a flower they'd discovered on their walk. He leaned toward Pamela to show her. "That's Ana. She's four years old, incredibly precocious, speaks English and Spanish. She loves every kind of flower, but her favorites are the blue ones."

  Pamela studied the photograph. "Who's her father?"

  Marisa's voice was clear when she answered. "She's adopted. Her parents abandoned her at the orphanage where I work in Mexico."

  The older woman looked Marisa up and down. "I see."

  Nate met Marisa's eyes and nodded before he turned to Pamela. "If you have any information that'll help us rescue Ana, we'd be eternally grateful." An uncomfortable silence filled the space.

  Finally Pamela said, "I have no idea what happened to Charles's money." She glanced at Marisa. "Maybe your sister stole that money, too."

  "She was one of the kidnappers looking for it."

  The woman's eyebrows lifted. "You don't garner much loyalty, do you, Miss Vega?"

  "My sister was disillusioned. And she's paid the price with her life."

  "As you said." She shook her head. "I'm sorry about your sister and your daughter. I really am. I wish I could help you."

  Nate was about to press her further when Marisa stood. "Thank you for your time."

  Pamela seemed just as surprised as he was. She stood and shook Marisa's hand. "I wish you luck finding your daughter."

  "If you think of anything, please call us." Marisa turned to Nate. "Would you give her your phone number?"

  He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. "I'm no longer with the Times, so that number won't work, but my cell's on there. Anything you remember, anything at all, please give us a call."

  Chapter 22

  MARISA ALL BUT RAN to the truck. It was all she could do to contain her excitement while they'd questioned Mrs. Gray.

  Nate climbed in beside her. "What was that all about?"

  "The man in the picture. Richard. He's the same guy from Jessica's house."

  Nate's eyes narrowed. "From Jessica's—"

  "The soccer coach. Remember. I asked if he was the father? And she laughed and said no, he was her son's soccer coach. It was Richard Gray."

  He hadn't looked at the photograph at Jessica's, but the man had seemed familiar to him, too. "You're sure?"

  "We have to ask Jessica, but I'm almost positive. Call her."

  "Wait a second. Let's think this through. What if she's in on it?"

  Marisa excitement waned. What if she was? "But would she have a photograph of him in her living room if they were doing something illegal? You saw her face when I asked about him. She wasn't at all nervous."

  He nodded as if he agreed. "We should call Garrison, see what he thinks."

  "No." Marisa had been thinking a lot about Garrison since they'd left him that morning. "He's a good guy, and he's been really helpful, but his loyalties lie with the FBI. I told the kidnapper no cops, and I'm not about to let Garrison get the feds involved."

  "But maybe—"

  "She's my daughter, Nate. If you don't want to help me—"

  "I didn't say that." He blew out a frustrated breath. "I just don't want to misstep here, and I think Garrison could help us."

  He was right, of course. Garrison could help them. He had a lot more experience than either of them did. Why didn't she want to call him? He'd done nothing but help. But he'd also told them he'd have to get the feds involved soon. And she couldn't risk that. "I know he wants to help, but the last time the FBI got involved in my life, I had to flee to Mexico. They were wrong about everything. And I'm not saying they would be again. But I just... I don't trust them to make Ana a priority."

  "They would, though."

  "Maybe. But—"

  "Okay. She's your daughter. We do what you want. We can always bring Garrison in later."

  She nodded as if she agreed. "Should we go straight to White Plains?"

  "Let's call Jessica. If she agrees to see us, if she's cooperative, that'll tell us a lot." He pulled out his notebook and flipped through it until he found the numbers and dialed. A moment later, her voicemail picked up.

  Nate left a message.

  "What if she doesn't call back?"

  He put the car in drive. "We'll give it an hour, then we'll drive up there. Okay?"

  An hour was a long time to wait. What would happen to Ana in the next hour? "Maybe we should just—"

  "Eat. I'm starving."

  "But—"

  "And you have to be, too. It's been hours since breakfast."

  She'd left her breakfast in the grass at the park.

  "Greek food? I know you love it."

  She sighed. "Fine. As long as it doesn't take too long.
"

  "Honey, you're in good hands."

  Nate drove to a garage in midtown, where he had a friendly conversation with the attendant. Marisa watched, amazed, as Nate talked the Middle Eastern man into letting them park for free. "Just for an hour, though," the man said in a heavy accent. "And if my boss finds out—"

  "Your boss loves me," Nate said.

  The man laughed and nodded. "Is true."

  Nate waved and drove up to the second floor. "I interviewed him and his boss a year or so ago."

  "Do they owe you?"

  "'Course not. I just let them tell their story."

  "How come they're so willing to do you a favor?"

  He shrugged. "I treated them with respect. Unfortunately, I think that's rare, especially for guys like him and his boss."

  She regarded this man she'd spent so much time with and thought about how he'd treated her, all those years ago. A crazy woman on the bus, but he'd listened to her. He'd taken her at face value when a lot of people might've just written her story off as the ramblings of a crazy person. "You're a good guy, Nate Boyle."

  He opened his door, came around the car, and opened hers. "Shall we? I'm starved."

  She was halfway through the best Greek salad she'd had in years when Nate's cell rang. He looked at the number and said, "It's Jessica."

  She swallowed a black olive while he answered the phone. The little shop was loud, crowded with customers, and she didn't blame him for not putting it on speaker, but she wished she could hear the woman's voice.

  "We had another couple of questions for you," Nate said into the phone. "We thought we'd head your way..."

  He listened, nodded as if the woman could see him, and said, "That'd be great. Where do you want to meet?"

  He told her where they were eating lunch, then waited through another pause, writing something in his notebook. "Perfect. See you soon."

  He ended the call. "She's in Manhattan with a client. She said she could meet us in half an hour."

  Marisa pushed back from the table. "Let's go."

  "We have time to finish our lunch. We're meeting at a park about five minutes from here."