Buch lesen: «House Of Secrets»
Joe felt himself being sucked backward into the darkness
He hurled his weight to the right until he felt the solid connection of the wall against his shoulder. Glass-covered pictures of women holding calla lilies rattled in their frames from the impact.
Just get out. Just don’t remember. Don’t ever remember.
And then the door swung open, and Emma stood before him, haloed by the golden light of a California Indian summer afternoon.
“What are you…?” she began, taking two steps toward him with those impossibly long legs of hers. “Are you okay?”
Before he could stop himself, Joe let his forehead drop down to rest on her thin shoulder. A minute. He just needed a minute and then he could talk to her and pretend everything was normal. He breathed in the warm, peaceful scent of the shampoo she used and, just for a moment, he was himself again.
House of Secrets
Tracy Montoya
MILLS & BOON
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For Roselyn Rysavy
(the real Scrabble Champion of the World)
and Jerry Rysavy, the greatest grandparents ever. Love you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Harlequin Intrigue author Tracy Montoya is a magazine editor for a crunchy nonprofit in Washington, D.C., though at present she’s telecommuting from her house in Seoul, Korea. She lives with a psychotic cat, a lovable yet daft Lhasa apso and a husband who’s turned their home into the Island of Lost/Broken/Strange-Looking Antiques. A member of the National Association of Hispanic Journalists and the Society of Environmental Journalists, Tracy has written about everything from Booker Prizewinning poet Martín Espada to socially responsible mutual funds to soap opera summits. Her articles have appeared in a variety of publications, such as Hope, Utne Reader, Satya, YES!, Natural Home, and New York Naturally. Prior to launching her journalism career, she taught in an under-resourced school in Louisiana through the AmeriCorps Teach for America program.
Tracy holds a master’s degree in English literature from Boston College and a B.A. in the same from St. Mary’s University. When she’s not writing, she likes to scuba dive, forget to go to kickboxing class, wallow in bed with a good book or get out her new guitar with a group of friends and pretend she’s Suzanne Vega.
She loves to hear from readers—e-mail
TracyMontoya@aol.com or visit www.tracymontoya.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Joe Lopez—After witnessing his mother’s murder at age ten, his mind coped by erasing all memory of early childhood. But now, the man without a past is seeking answers—or maybe they’re seeking him.
Emma Jensen Reese—An English professor at St. Xavier University, Emma learns that the old Victorian home she so lovingly restored was the house where Joe spent his childhood.
Daniela and Ramon Lopez—Twenty-five years ago, they were murdered, leaving behind four children who are still searching for answers…and each other.
The Whistling Man—With a penchant for whistling Sinatra, he shadows Joe with an obvious intent to inflict harm.
Detective Daniel Rodriguez—A member of Homicide Special, the Los Angeles Police Department’s elite detective unit, Rodriguez manages to show up whenever trouble comes calling. Does he really want to help, or is the detective hiding something?
Senator Wade Allen—An extramarital affair made him the victim of blackmail. Did he order the Lopezes killed to save his political career?
Amelia Rosemont Allen—Married to Senator Allen, Amelia will do anything to support her husband.
Mavis Richards—The “other woman” in Senator Allen’s past has put the past behind her. Or has she?
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Prologue
Twenty-five years ago
When the glass of her basement window shattered late one Sunday night, Daniela Lopez’s face barely registered surprise. Mainly because she didn’t feel any.
Daniela sat in the dark on the unforgiving hardwood staircase inside her Victorian home, only her eyes moving as they scanned the front door. Then the foyer. Then the inky blackness of her front hallway.
Silence.
Her thumb clicked off the safety of her off-duty Smith & Wesson—the only gun she had left after taking an extended leave of absence from work. At least she could be grateful they hadn’t sent a real professional after her. The spectacular crash the intruder had made upon entering her house gave her a small bit of comfort. Maybe she’d actually survive the night. Maybe buy herself enough time to put the last piece of the puzzle in place, to put the ones who’d murdered her husband behind bars forever. To keep the rest of her family safe.
God, she missed them. She wanted to smell the sweet baby softness of Sabrina’s hair. She wanted to scoop up both her twin boys, Patricio and Daniel, and read that ridiculous Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel book to them for the hundredth time. And, despite the fact that ten-year-old José Javier thought he was a man already, she would have held him close and sang him to sleep had he only been there beside her.
But her children were safe at her friend Jasmine’s house. And she was here. Alone in the dark.
Creak.
The unmistakable sound of pressure on the loose board at the foot of the basement stairs told her she didn’t have long to wait. She trained her gun on the doorway to the kitchen.
A few more days. Just give me a few more days. She was so close to finding out who’d ripped her family apart as if they were a chain of paper dolls. She could feel it.
She heard a soft footfall on the kitchen linoleum.
And stay away from my children, she prayed silently.
“Mama?”
She nearly dropped her gun when the tiny, boyish voice called out to her. “José?” Daniela sprang off the staircase and vaulted down the stairs to the hallway. Sure enough, there stood her oldest son, bundled in a Lakers jacket two sizes too large for him. His big, guilty eyes stared up at her under the too-long bangs of his shaggy black hair. Light from the streetlamps filtered through the slats of the window blinds, illuminating the hammer José clenched in his right fist. No doubt it was the same hammer that had smashed through glass moments before.
“Nene, what are you doing here?” she asked gently, switching on the safety of her gun. She pulled up the back of the gray LAPD T-shirt she was wearing and stuffed the Smith & Wesson in the back of her jeans.
“I don’t like you all alone here, Mama.” He crossed his arms, hammer and all, and braced his feet wide apart, his dark brown eyes all defiance. Her little man. “Not after what happened to Papi.”
Daniela’s heart clenched at the mention of her children’s father. “Corazon, I need you to go back to Jasmine’s. It’s not safe for you here.” She tugged him into the living room, where an inexpensive cordless phone lay on the end table near the terrible orange-flowered sofa the boys had picked out for her last birthday. “I’m going to call—”
“No, Mama. I’m staying here with you.”
So like his father, in every good way. Bracing her hands on José’s narrow shoulders, Daniela bent down to look her son in the eye. “Sweetheart, I need you to do something for me,” she said. “I need you to go back to Jasmine’s and watch over Sabrina, Patricio and Daniel.” His stout little form remained rigid. “I don’t like being apart from you, either,” she continued, “but I have to find out what happened to your daddy. And I’ll only be able to do it if I know you’re protecting your brothers and your sister.”
He glared fiercely at her, then his lower lip trembled as he threw his small arms around her waist. “I miss you, Mama.”
She wrapped one arm around him while pulling the gun out of her waistband with the other to keep it away from his clutching fingers. She set the weapon on the table near the phone and bent to hold her son.
And then she heard the faintest noise from the curving staircase in the front foyer. The kind of noise that sounded like something coming from the outside or something you’d imagined.
They hadn’t sent an amateur after all.
She squeezed José by the shoulders, moving him away from her body. With her finger to her lips, she guided him around the awful sofa, over to the far wall, her fingers fumbling for the small level she knew was there. That was the thing about old Victorian houses—lots of drafty alcoves, dark places, secret corners where people could hide. And one of them lay just beneath her scrabbling fingertips.
Just big enough for one small boy.
José opened his mouth to say something to her, but she placed her fingers over his lips, then gestured for him to crawl inside the opening she’d uncovered. He shook his head.
Her cop-sense told her someone had moved into the hallway behind them.
“Please, sweetheart,” she whispered. He must have heard the urgency in her voice, because he quashed his stubborn streak and moved.
“Don’t say a word, my angel,” she whispered as she helped José tuck himself inside. “Not until the police come.”
Another footstep, this one closer.
“Turn your head, baby,” Daniela whispered at the wall behind which her son lay. “Close your eyes.” José could escape when the time came. Now all she needed was a miracle.
The softest exhale came from the doorway.
Daniela turned, stretching her arms out to make herself large enough to protect her boy. Time slowed to a crawl, measured in her own thundering heartbeats. Her head swiveled toward the doorway. A shadow moved into her line of vision. She threw her weight to the side. The man before her raised his arm and pointed at her pounding heart. Her body arced toward the end table. For a few exhilarating seconds, she was flying, her hand nearly closing on the gun that lay on the end table.
She wasn’t fast enough.
Chapter One
Stumbling over a loose brick, the boy lurched down the well-worn path. The open doorway before him grew taller and wider and blacker, like something out of Alice in Wonderland. But it was no white rabbit he was chasing.
Urgency wrapped itself around his narrow chest, threatening to squeeze the air out of his thin frame. And even though he knew he had to go inside, he skidded to a stop, breathing hard. The doorway of the large Victorian house stretched and undulated above him.
He looked down at the scuffed white tops of his Nikes. He was small. Weak. And the house, which was so beautiful during the daytime, frightened him to the core in the dark.
“Mama,” he breathed, looking down at his hands. They were the hands of a ten-year-old, and the sight of them made him feel that something was very wrong. They should have been bigger hands, stronger hands. Squinting his eyes shut, he willed them to grow into the hands that should have been his. When he looked at them again, he saw they had not.
He jerked his head up, and the scenery around him blurred and darkened. Then he was inside.
“Mama?” he called, pitching his voice as low as he could to keep from sounding like a crybaby, even though he felt like one. A floorboard creaked above him, and he saw a ripple of movement in the shadows on the stairway. A breeze blew across his cheek, sending the door crashing shut behind him.
He cringed at the sound and hurled his body toward the wall, seeking the security of something to grab onto. His hand closed around one of the carved wooden newel posts flanking the large staircase in the front foyer. He traced his fingers around the whorls and dips of the carved shape of a horse’s head that had inspired many a boyhood fantasy of knights and castles and flashing swordfights. The familiarity should have been comforting. It wasn’t.
His head throbbed with a sudden, sharp pain, and he pressed his hands against the sides of his skull. “Nooo,” he moaned, not wanting to go any farther into the house, not wanting to see. Then his mother’s face floated into his line of vision, a pale oval framed by dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. The slight lines around her large, brown eyes crinkled with love and concern as she looked at him. They also held an unspoken message—he shouldn’t have come.
She reached for him, brushing his hair away from his forehead with the softest of touches. “Close your eyes, José Javier,” she whispered. He did.
He felt her hand on his chest, and then, with a vicious, sudden force, he was pushed back, back, back into a long black tunnel, away from his mother, away from everything. He scrambled for purchase, trying to climb out and save her from what he knew was coming. But his body kept sinking, farther and farther away.
A disembodied voice next to him, inside the tunnel, inside his head, whispered soothingly in his ear: “Turn your head, baby. Close your eyes.”
And then he heard his mother scream.
“SIR? SIR!”
He batted at the fingers that gripped his shoulder and groaned. Let go of me.
“Sir, please wake up.”
Let go.
“Wha—?” Blinking rapidly, Joe Lopez shook off the last net-like strands of the dream holding him under the waterline of consciousness. He scrubbed a hand across his face, opening his mouth wide for a loud, gaping yawn. Once he’d rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, the dream evaporated from his memory, and he finally managed to register the presence of one very flustered flight attendant. Her well-manicured hand was still on his arm.
“Sir, I’ll need you to put your seat back and tray table in its upright position, please. We’re about to land.” The woman straightened, tucking a stray lock of her sleek, blond hair behind her ear. The scowl on what would otherwise have been a pretty face told Joe she wasn’t happy with him.
“Sure. Yeah,” he muttered. He snapped the tray in place, hoping she’d hurry up and go away so the other passengers would quit staring at him. Thank God the flight to Los Angeles wasn’t full, so he had the entire row on his side of the plane to himself. Otherwise, he probably would have drooled on the people next to him. Or smacked them around. He wasn’t exactly the lightest and gentlest of sleepers, and he’d been down for the count as soon as the plane had leveled after takeoff.
Once the attendant had finally left, stopping two rows up to harass some other poor schmo who had endangered humanity by reclining his seat back half an inch, Joe turned his face toward the window. Tiny cars rode along seemingly endless ribbons of highway, matchstick-sized palm trees, and the sparkling blue waters of the Pacific lined with yellow sand beaches. Los Angeles. Man, he hated Los Angeles.
But this year, the National Association of Private Investigators was holding its annual conference in this godforsaken city, and he never missed a conference. He never missed anything related to his work—even when it meant he had to come to a hellhole like L.A. Most of the women he’d dated had told him he was “obsessed” with his work, and as a result, his relationships never lasted. They wanted more attention, more flowers, more something. And he was never able to give it to them. But there was always work, like a faithful dog.
He wasn’t obsessed. He just liked his job. He was the job. Lots of people he knew were the job. Unraveling cases was challenging, and nothing beat the feeling of taking a seemingly unsolvable puzzle and putting the pieces into neat, irrevocable order.
Okay, so sometimes really great sex beat it, but it had been awhile since he’d had anything or anyone approaching great.
Lucy Harrington, his last girlfriend, had told him he was “emotionally distant” and “completely closed off” right before she threw a dinner plate at his head and broke his brand-new high-definition TV set. That had not been great. And that had also been the last time he’d seen Lucy Harrington. Last he’d heard, she was engaged to some stockbroker from Carmel. He hoped they registered for plastic plates instead of china.
The plane dipped noticeably as the pilot hit an air pocket, and Joe’s stomach responded by doing a little tap dance that—if he hadn’t known better—he might have attributed to nerves. But of course it wasn’t. José Javier Lopez didn’t get “nerves.” It was just L.A. Maybe he was allergic to it. Because one little city was nothing to be scared of, unless you feared rank smog and a proliferation of brittle, unhappy people who’d gone to see their friendly neighborhood plastic surgeon so many times, they’d become wall-eyed.
Joe rested his forehead against the Plexiglas of the small, oval window next to his seat. So if he wasn’t scared, then why did he feel like he’d rather lop off his own head than get off that plane?
“Maybe,” Lucy Harrington said inside his head, “if you weren’t so out of touch with your emotions, you’d be able to talk about how you’re feeling, instead of repressing everything and watching baseball instead.”
Yeah, what do you know, Luce?
And for the record, basketball was his sport of choice. Anyone who’d been as interested as she had in becoming Mrs. Lucy Harrington Lopez should have known that.
What he wouldn’t give to be watching a game right now, with a cold six-pack and his dog Roadkill sitting next to him. But instead, he was minutes away from landing in Los Angeles. He turned away from the window in disgust. He’d hated the city for as long as he could remember, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember exactly why.
Story of his life. He couldn’t remember a lot of things.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Fasten Seat Belt sign has been turned on,” a voice called over the airplane loudspeaker. “Please return to your seats. We are about to start our final descent into Los Angeles International Airport. Local time is 10:37 a.m.”
Joe’s hand gripped the armrest until his knuckles looked bloodless.
Man, he hated this city.
WITH A QUICK GLANCE over her shoulder, Emma Jensen Reese shifted her grocery bags, the heavy brown paper crumpling slightly under the pressure of her forearms. He was still behind her.
Emma hadn’t actually seen him close up, but she’d registered the baseball cap, baggy mid-length coat and penchant for whistling Sinatra. Was he dangerous? She didn’t know. At every intersection, she kept telling herself that he would turn this time, that it was all in her head, that he was just some random guy who lived in the area and also needed to go to the Trader Joe’s at ten o’clock at night because he needed eggs and had a craving for those chocolate raspberry jelly things they sold. But the thoughts didn’t keep her from worrying.
Maybe she was overdramatizing the situation, but he’d been walking behind her for five blocks now. In the dark. The thought made her instinctively quicken her pace down Third, the heels of her boots echoing on the pavement.
Her ears pricked up as the faint footsteps behind her sped up accordingly. Emma’s pulse followed suit.
Maybe she was in danger.
Ridiculous. She was being utterly, completely ridiculous. After all, she’d been walking in a straight line ever since she’d left the health food store, and Third wasn’t exactly one of the most deserted streets in Los Angeles. Three cars whipped by her in succession as if to illustrate the point. She would turn down that short alley a few feet away—the one that threaded between a couple of high-rises and ended within a block of her Hancock Park neighborhood—and everything would be all right. He’d keep right on going.
She turned.
A few seconds later, so did he.
The thin, shrill notes of someone whistling “All or Nothing at All” hung shrilly in the cool night air. They screeched down her spine like the chalk sometimes did on her blackboard when she wrote too fast.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Emma muttered to herself, the words keeping time with her ever-quickening steps. The decision to enter the alley hadn’t been one of her best. In a nutshell, she’d just acted like some clueless bimbo in a B-grade horror flick, and the person behind her had her just where he wanted her. And now she was going to die. She was going to die trapped in a horrible cliché.
Glancing back at him, Emma hugged the bags closer to her body, noting that he was still about fifty feet behind her. If she started to run, so would he.
Emma kept walking. Not yet. She wasn’t ready.
She should have driven, but nooooo. She’d caved to convenience and had bought a gas-electric hybrid car instead of a wholly electric model, and so she usually walked on most errands out of guilt. No matter how late at night.
A cool summer twilight breeze blew at her back, and she tossed her head frantically when her hair flew into her eyes. For crying out loud, some gang banging hip hop artist had been shot mere blocks from where she was right at this moment, and he’d had an entire entourage protecting him. She had a rape whistle and a pound of organic butter.
Emma glanced down at the bags she held. And some free-range eggs.
Her calves ached from walking too fast in her high-heeled boots, but she pushed herself further and faster. She would not die in that alley. She would not.
The faint notes of “My Way” floated on the air to sift through her hair and disappear on the evening breeze. Mother in heaven, he was closer now. Emma swept her gaze frantically across her surroundings, weighing her options. She could keep pretending she had no idea he was behind her and hope someone would stumble upon her and come to her aid. She could walk as quickly as possible through the rest of the alley and go directly to one of the big mansions on the next street. Or, she could drop the bags and run screaming back to the nearest well-lit commercial area, hoping she could beat her pursuer. The latter seemed like the best option—if she went up to a house and the inhabitants didn’t open the door, she was finished.
Choose.
The heel of her leather boot caught in a sidewalk crack, and her ankle buckled, causing her to lurch onto the carefully tended grass beside her.
She heard him laugh behind her, a low, rumbling, ominous sound.
An eternity later, she finally made it out of the alley, and she jogged to the nearest streetlight, basking in the glow of its warm yellow circle of light. People could see her. She was safe now.
And then she felt the breath of a stranger on the back of her neck, as someone behind her whistled “Strangers in the Night.”
That was it. The next level.
Emma dropped her bags, her groceries spilling and rolling onto the sidewalk at her feet. Screaming “Fire!” as she’d been taught in the free self-defense class on campus last semester, she threw her weight forward, running toward the front walkway of her house, just ahead. Something rippled in the darkness, in front of the fat little palm tree planted near the street, and she didn’t know whether it was a person, an animal or just her imagination. She prayed it was something that would save her. “Please,” she breathed.
The silk scarf she’d wrapped loosely around her neck slid smoothly across her skin and fell away—whether of its own accord or because someone had pulled it, she couldn’t say. Quelling the urge to look behind her, she kept running in her torturous heeled boots, scrabbling through her purse for that damned whistle on her key chain. She reached deep inside her for one last burst of energy, just enough to live through this…
Then she tripped.
Time slowed to a crawl as the ankle that had buckled earlier gave out once more. It was almost as if she were floating above her body, watching herself stumble, scream, fall. Watching her pursuer pull a Taser from the waistband of his grimy jeans. Watching herself scuttle backwards on her heels and elbows like a pathetically small and scared crab.
The moonlight glinted off the Taser above her. Attack. Immobilize. Isolate. The words of the self-defense instructor came back to her with stark clarity. The pavement cut into the palms of her hands. The sounds of cars whirring along the nearby streets and highways mingled with dance music and barking dogs. The breeze blew her hair into her eyes. And Emma waited, not moving, not blinking, for the man charging toward her to do all of the above.
His attack never came. He charged right past her, toward the squat trunk of the short, leafy palm tree in front of her home, several feet away. The darkness rippled again, and a second man erupted out of the tree’s shadow, chopping his hands so both thumbs hit either side of her would-be attacker’s wrist. The Taser flew into the air, landing harmlessly a few feet away from her. Emma scuttled sideways crab-style on her hands and heels until she could reach out and grasp it by its thick plastic handle. She wasn’t sure how to use it, but at least it was in her hand and not anyone else’s.
The two shadows circled each other slowly, one with his hands clenched into fists, and the other assuming a vague, martial arts-looking stance. The one with the fists—the Sinatra freak—swung wildly, and the other man curved his body into a bow, effectively dodging the blow. He followed defense with attack, delivering a well-controlled blow to the attacker’s temple with the back of his fist. A lightning-fast punch to the stomach, knee to the head and swirling roundhouse kick to the chest, and it was all over. Her former pursuer slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Emma zapped him with the Taser anyway. Or tried to. She thought she’d missed, but then the man’s body jerked upward and he went still. Whether he’d been intentionally following her or not, she had a great story for the next Take Back the Night rally on campus.
“Are you all right?” the other man asked her, his face obscured by the shadows. He held out a hand to her, and she grasped it, allowing him to pull her off the pavement to a standing position.
“I’m fine,” she gasped. “Thank you.” She glanced briefly at her pursuer, who lay spread-eagle on his back, groaning like a child.
“Get inside.”
Emma squinted into the darkness, wanting very much to get a look at the man who might have saved her. “Who are you?” she asked.
But all around her was darkness, and her rescuer was gone. A handful of dry leaves blew around her ankles in a crackling dance, and when she looked at the ground where her pursuer had fallen, she saw that he’d disappeared, too.
In the distance, she heard the sound of someone whistling, “Strangers in the Night.”
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