Unlock the Truth (3 page)

Dena ignored the comment. “Remember, an agent can make a public statement for you, and frame you and your company in a positive way.”

“Thanks.” Zeke urged her toward the door.

“Don’t give interviews, but don’t bury your head in the—”

“Will you return to L.A. tonight?”

“No,” Dena said, surprised by the swift change of topic. “It’s been a full day, and a long drive.”

He picked up his BlackBerry. “I’ll cover your costs. Make a reservation for you at the La Quinta Resort and Spa.”

“That’s not necessary,” Dena said, covering her surprise. At least he didn’t want her out of town; only out of his place. But she’d also heard that particular resort was ultra-expensive, and she didn’t want to owe this surly guy a cent.

“I might stay for the weekend.” She held a smile, even though her cheeks ached.

Zeke nodded, and then shook her outstretched hand. Rocky stood, left his hat on the seat and moved to the far side of the room. He shoved both hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and stared down at his boots. Okay, well if that didn’t say move on along, she didn’t know what did.

“Thank you for your time,” Dena said. “I’ll let myself out.”

She hurried down the hallway. There were secrets, not only in the desert, but here in this cool, dark house. Maybe not secrets about murders, but definitely secrets, and she’d uncover them, one way or another.

Chapter Two

Zeke listened to the receding click of Dena’s heels. He’d been a real ass. He’d seen it in her eyes. And he should have walked her to the front door. In this forced seclusion he’d lost his social skills. At least he’d offered to pay for her accommodation.

He turned to Rocky. “Think we did the right thing?”

Rocky looked skeptical but nodded his head. He’d never been one for excess words. However, his recent moods turned their conversations into a series of monosyllables and grunts. They’d become a couple of, not even middle-aged, Neanderthals.

“There was something about her,” Zeke said, filling the awkward silence. He poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the credenza. “Want some?”

Rocky shook his head. Zeke picked up a cookie and bit into it.
Damn.
He hadn’t offered the woman coffee. Why had he let her get under his skin? He’d known millions of women like her. Well, maybe dozens. He brushed the cookie crumbs from his shirt and returned to his chair with the plate of cookies in hand.

“Did you sense nervousness under that professional demeanor? Not lying, but maybe covering something…”

“She lied,” Rocky said. He stretched out his legs until his boots hit the bottom of the desk. “You asked for a male agent—”

“I meant to.” Zeke rubbed at his jaw. “Not certain I did.”

“No problem. She’s gone.”

“Why didn’t you like her?” Zeke asked, swallowing the last of the cookie. “You sided with her at first.”

“Wanted to keep you calm.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. She knew her business. I probably should have heard her whole presentation.”

Rocky shrugged. “Strange theories, though.”

“Theories?” Zeke’s head shot up. “Oh yeah…about the murders. Hmmm, wonder if she had an ulterior motive? Wanted to investigate, sniff around, and sell a story to the papers—”

“Could be.” Rocky leaned forward with sudden enthusiasm. “She jumped on the idea that you needed representation and hot-footed it down from L.A. the minute they found that second woman’s body. Like she’d been waiting for an opportunity—”

“Interesting,” Zeke said.

Those were the most words Rocky had spoken in days. Zeke observed him for a moment. He’d left the daily affairs of the farm to him, and at first they’d seemed to get along. Three months ago, when the woman’s body was found, things had changed, but that could also be because money had become an issue and he’d had to have a firmer hand in the running of the business. He could only imagine the problems they’d have now that a second body had been discovered. Yet, today, he’d relied on his foreman. One raise of his eyebrows and a shake of his head, and Zeke had agreed not to hire Dena.

“Look, I’ve been wondering.” Zeke frowned again. He still valued his old friend’s opinion. The personal topics were always difficult for him though; he never knew when he’d crossed that line between employee and friend. Zeke cleared his throat. “Ah…I know these are strange times, with the murders, and the problems with the business.” He rubbed at his jaw, and stalled.

Rocky gave a brief nod.

“Is anything wrong? Personally, I mean.”

“Like what?” Rocky scowled and slapped at his hat.

“Forget it. I just thought you seemed…ah, preoccupied, or—”

“You’re unhappy with my work performance?”

“No. No, nothing like that.” He cussed under his breath. He was bad at this. He didn’t want Rocky to storm off in a huff. “It’s just that we used to talk, but lately things seem strained.”

Rocky rubbed a finger over his upper lip. “Everything’s fine.” He stood. “Those grapefruit trees aren’t gonna fertilize themselves.” He shoved on his hat and strode out the door.

Zeke grimaced. That sure went well. He grabbed another cookie, thought about the guy he’d gone to school with and how he’d turned into a stranger. Rocky had been good to his mother though, a much better son than he’d ever been. Rocky’s loyalty to the Cabrera family—who had all but adopted him—and to Three C’s Estates went without question.

He stared at the stack of large blue binders. Why on earth had Mom kept her own records? The damn things were a mess. He shoved the hair off his forehead, took another sip of coffee and pulled a ledger forward. Rocky had never married. Strange, that. Not that he had anything against a man choosing not to commit. Hell, he hadn’t married either.

He tapped the pen on the blotter for a few moments. He had his own reasons for avoiding marital bliss. A long list of reasons, but he didn’t have time to contemplate a single one. And like the grapefruit that couldn’t self-fertilize, the books weren’t about to self-balance.

****

Dena took off in a rush of embarrassment. For someone quiet and controlled, she’d almost cried in there.

At the top of a rise in the road, she stopped the car and fished around in her purse for a tissue. She’d taken an alternate route to Three C’s—not wanting to pass the hotel gates and arrive for the appointment an emotional wreck—but now her heart pumped like crazy. She gripped the steering wheel and tried not to look. Like a passerby at a freeway accident, her head swiveled back again and she stared down at the hotel site. Beyond the yellow and black caution tape and the cop cars, the huge, yellow, earth-moving machines stood idle in the sun.

“I’ll find a way to investigate this, Carli,” she said, and swiped at the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “I swear.”

Dena pulled several photos from the inner compartment of her purse. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and stared at her favorite picture. It always calmed her down. Carli’s fifth birthday party. They’d worn hula skirts, even her father. She blinked hard, smiled at the memories of happier days, back when they’d been a family—a real family.

She held the photo to her heart and stared at the hundreds of miles of desert stretched out before her. Why had Carli’s body been buried here and not near Palm Springs where she’d lived? It didn’t make sense. A body could be dumped, and the sand, swept by high winds, would soon cover it. There were remote rocky canyons and isolated roads everywhere. Why choose farmland?

She tapped the photo against her chin. A cop on the main street below directed traffic, another logged in the vehicles allowed entry. Tall wire fencing covered in green mesh cloth enclosed the hotel site. Maybe she could appeal to the local cop for answers. They’d spoken several times after Carli’s murder. He seemed nice.

Her cell phone rang and jarred her out of her daydream. “Hello, Mom.”

“I left you a message.”

“Sorry, I meant to call back. It’s been a busy day.”

“They all are.”

Dena ignored the sarcasm. “I know, I know.”

“These new pills make me dizzy.”

Dena stifled a sigh. “You have to give them a chance. At least ten days is what the doctor said. Lie down and get some rest.”

She provided the necessary treatment, even hired live-in help when her mother started to talk about her life not being worth living without Carli. But she wasn’t good at this. She’d never been close to her mother.

“Where is your caregiver?”

“In the kitchen,” her mother said sharply. “Reading.”

“Mom, listen, the girl is hired to help you and that means she keeps you company—”

“I don’t like her.”

Dena battled the momentary panic that rose in her chest.
Not now, Mom, not now
. “Don’t do anything rash,” she said, in a soothing tone. “Don’t fire her.”

The agency had complained a week ago about how many women her mother had fired. Dena smoothed a hand over her hair, massaged the back of her neck. “I’ll swing by on Monday, after work. I’m sure the agency will recommend someone else.”

“Okay. Are you in the car?”

“Yes. I’m working.”
Hah. Good one
. She wouldn’t have a job after she told Steve what she’d attempted.

“Did you hear they found another girl, like my poor Carli?”

Dena froze. Mom seldom watched the news. She should have called but figured they’d have had another endless talk about Carli, and that would have left them both sad and weary.

“I didn’t want to say anything. I thought you’d get upset.”

“Well, of course I’m upset. It’s all over the T.V. and—”

“Don’t watch the news anymore. It’ll make you sad, them rehashing Carli’s case. Put in a movie or read a magazine. Or have the girl take you for a walk. There’s a good idea. You like to walk. We can go to dinner on Monday, okay?”

“Do you have to work all weekend?”

“Yes.” Dena tried to ignore the guilt tickling her insides but it kept nudging. She pulled her eyes away from the steel girders of the hotel. “But like I said, Monday works—”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

The phone clicked off and Dena flinched, despite being used to her mother’s outbursts. Being classified as the bad daughter—the one who chose work over fun—had hardened her, and it had widened the rift between them. She’d loved Carli and never resented that she’d been her Mom’s favorite.

Dena sniffled then blew her nose. They’d both been impulsive kids, but as they’d grown up she’d changed. Carli had pursued acting, without much success, and been married and divorced three times. She’d committed once, divorced once. And she’d become boring.

Puffs of sand blew along the shoulders of the four-lane highway below and stirred the tumbleweeds that lined its edges. She felt close to Carli up here. Her eyes roamed over the fence that separated Zeke’s land from the hotel site. If she followed that fence, she could access the hotel property on the other side of the caution tape.

Years of suppressed impulsiveness filled her. For the sake of her sanity, and her mother’s, she’d continue to follow her instincts. But first she had some questions to ask in town. She had to find anyone who had known her sister. Then maybe she’d find Bobby, Carli’s last love interest.

Bobby who?

“Carli,” she said, and slammed an open hand against the steering wheel. “I’ll search this place for clues before I go home, even if I have to climb the damn fence at midnight.”

Half an hour later, Dena pulled into a parking space at the Rancho Almagro Police Department sub-station next door to the post office annex in Old Town. Only a black and white, and one motorcycle, were parked in the other spaces. With her mouth set in determination, she strode inside.

A gray-haired man sat at a computer behind a countertop. “Good afternoon,” Dena said. “I’m trying to locate Deputy Stanton.”

A uniformed deputy, who sat behind another computer, scraped his chair back, stood and walked over to the counter.

“Deputy Stanton is off duty. Can I help you?”

Bummer, she had no connection with this man. “I’m Dena Roman, the sister of Carli Jarvis.” The deputy frowned, and then squinted. She guessed he searched his mental file. “Murder victim. Three months ago. Body buried at the hotel site next to Three C’s Estates.”

His head jerked upward. “Sorry, Miss—”

“Roman,” Dena reminded him. She’d given him a bullet list on Carli and sounded more like a cop than a sister. She had to do that though—disengage—because then she could discuss Carli’s situation in public without her eyes tearing up.

“How can I help you?”

“I’ve spoken with Deputy Stanton a few times by phone. Now with the second victim, well, I wanted to discuss Carli’s case.”

“It’s an ongoing investigation and—”

“Have they ID’d the second woman? Is there a connection?”

The deputy swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple jumped in his throat. She stared at the start of black whiskers on his neck to avoid his penetrating dark eyes. He hadn’t shaved close enough this morning, if at all.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I do understand your concern, but I’m not in a position to discuss the case with anyone.”

“But, I’m family—”
Oh, hell.
Her eyes began to well up and she blinked hard several times.

“Come back tomorrow. Deputy Stanton might be able to help.”

“Thanks.” She shoved her sunglasses on and left.

Ten minutes later, Dena inhaled the aroma of robust coffee and tried to quell her anger at all men: first Zeke, then Rocky, then the cop. She looked around the Starbucks, glad she’d noticed it earlier. She stirred the froth into the liquid, took a sip of the cappuccino, and let out a sigh. A blonde woman came in wearing running clothes, and a redhead sprang up and hugged her tight. As they laughed and joked with the barista, Dena caught fragments of their conversation and felt loneliness wash over her. Something about the redhead needing extra bartenders at a place called Cliffs. She didn’t have a lot of gal pals. Her life consisted of being on call twenty-four-seven for her mostly bratty celebrity clients, and she had no social life worth thinking about. She looked up as the women took their drinks and left, arm in arm. She swallowed hard. She missed companionship.