Unlock the Truth

Unlock the Truth - By Robena Grant

Dedication

For Gina Bono, the best critique partner ever.

Chapter One

At nine sharp, Dena Roman pushed open the gold-lettered glass doors and squared her shoulders.

Steve Brennan would chew her out for sure. But after hearing the late news on TV last night she’d risk losing her job to gain access to Three C’s Estates. She’d do anything to find out the truth; even visit the small town in the California desert, despite the heat and the bugs. She blew out a small puff of air and rolled her eyes. This was no time to be worrying about bugs.

The receptionist looked up. Red lights blinked on her desk phone.

“Morning, Wendy,” Dena said, feigning cheerfulness.

“Mr. Brennan’s looking for you.” Wendy adjusted the phone’s handset while connecting to another incoming call. “Good morning, Brennan & Associates, Public Relations, this is Wendy. How may I direct your call?”

“Thanks.” Dena glanced down the long hall. Her boss strode toward them.

“You heard?” Steve waved the front section of the Los Angeles Times.

Dena nodded. Wendy wriggled her eyebrows, mouthed a big “sorry” and went back to answering the phones.

“Good morning,” Dena said over her shoulder. Steve followed her into her office. She sat behind the desk but left her sunglasses on.

“Sorry, yes, good morning, Dena.”

“I caught it on the late news.” Dena looked up at him. “Can’t say I got much sleep afterward.”

“I can imagine.”

Steve remained standing, and she wondered if he was about to leave for a meeting. He leaned a hand on the back of the chair opposite her, his expression grave as he put the newspaper on the desk. She glanced at it, not really wanting to see the headlines but drawn by some magnetic force.

She cleared her throat and shifted her gaze. “Can you believe another woman’s body had been buried there? I thought they’d done a complete investigation.”

Steve pressed his lips together and shook his head slowly. “You holding up okay?” His pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners as his frown deepened.

“I called him.”

“Who?”

“Zeke Cabrera. I have a two o’clock.”

“What the—?”

“Now, before you get all steamed up.” Dena raised her hands and leaned both elbows on the desk. “You said I could offer representation to anyone. I could secure my own clients—”

“I did.” Steve rubbed at the back of his neck and glanced away. He smoothed his already smooth tie, and then he slid into the chair.

“This could be a conflict of interest. And, what if he’s found guilty?” He rolled up the newspaper and tapped it against his thigh. “The timing’s just wrong, Dena. I’d suggest you wait until after the results of this new investigation, and—”

“And what?” she asked, feeling her anger rip away from the last remaining shreds of self-control. She swallowed hard and fought to get control of her emotions. It wasn’t Steve’s fault, but her anger bubbled up from within. “I can’t sit around and wait for those small town cops to find out who murdered Carli. It’s been three whole months and not one lead. Somebody down there is covering for someone.”

“I know, I know. Calm down. Did you tell Cabrera who you are…and your relationship to Carli?”

Dena looked down at the stack of message slips. “I will, eventually.”

“Do it, and before he signs a retainer.”

Dena nodded. She knew it could be a conflict of interest. It could bring bad publicity their way, and she hated to do that to Steve. He’d always been good to her. But she wouldn’t back down. She couldn’t back down.

“I tried the correct channels,” she mumbled. “If the hotel development company would have allowed me to access the land—”

“It was a crime scene, and a hard hat area,” Steve said. “Besides, there would have been nothing left. No clues to be found.”

Dena blinked hard against the smart of her tears. It was easy for him to say that; Carli wasn’t his sister. She removed her sunglasses and exposed her tired, red-rimmed eyes. “Well, you’re wrong on that count. There’s a second body, remember?”

Steve sat back in his chair and frowned. “Look, the firm’s reputation is at stake here. You’ve become obsessed with investigating your sister’s death. But seriously—”

Dena stacked some loose papers. Anger rose in her chest again. Did nobody understand? She swallowed hard.

“Mom needs closure, hell we both need closure. I sense there are clues on that land that Cabrera owned. I mean why did he sell that portion so swiftly? Nobody in the town even knew about the hotel development. Did they?”

“It would have had to pass city council.”

“But it happened so fast.”

Steve straightened. “We’ve been over, and over, and over this, Dena. You have to let it go. Besides, I’m not sure about you going down there. You could put your life in jeopardy—”

“And my job?” She looked up, holding his gaze.

He stood, pressed his lips tight, and glanced at the wall behind him, checking the time on her clock. He would have client appointments and calls to make.

“I’ll leave around eleven,” she said, surprised by the firmness of her voice. “I’ll be in on Monday.”

Steve sighed. “Keep me informed.” He left without a backward glance.

****

Two hours later, Dena changed lanes on Interstate 10. She checked the rearview mirror, exited the freeway, and drove through the posh desert golfing city of La Quinta, then on to rural Rancho Almagro. She felt hot and sticky and even though it was fall, she turned on the A/C. When she’d spoken to Zeke Cabrera early this morning, she’d neglected to say the agent’s name. She furrowed her brow thinking about that evasion, well, lie.

Damn.

She thumped the steering wheel. There’d be two lies, because she wouldn’t disclose to Zeke that Carli Jarvis was her sister.

Minutes later, she drove beneath the wooden archway into Three C’s Estates’ private road and caught a glimpse of the white-walled adobe hacienda. Beyond its orange Spanish-tiled roof, citrus trees stretched for miles up to the seductive haze swirling around the deep blue of the Santa Rosa Mountains. She averted her gaze from the lush oasis. She hated the California desert. And not just because her sister was murdered here. She’d always hated the heat and the bugs.

Dena parked in the motor court, grabbed her laptop case, and climbed out of the car. No sense checking make-up; the shadows beneath her eyes would still be there. She strode to the courtyard gate, pulling at the back of her jacket and hoping her clothes weren’t too wrinkled. The gate was locked, and a huge wooden front door stood beyond it. An eerie quiet hung in the air. She glanced about, and then jabbed at the intercom button.

“¡Hola!” a brusque voice said.

“This is Ms. Roman, I’m with Brennan—”

“Sí.”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Cabrera.”

A buzzer sounded and she pushed the gate open. The house looked spooky with everything locked up tight. Iron bars covered the windows. She could only imagine what creepiness the vast acreage might hold. A tiny window, set in the middle of the entry door, slid open. Dark eyes stared from behind three black wrought iron bars. Dena gripped her laptop case, holding it tight to her thigh. Locks and bolts opened, and the sounds echoed into the stillness of the courtyard like gunshots.

The door swung wide. A plump Hispanic woman looked her up and down. “Come.”

Dena took off her sunglasses and entered the foyer. Halfway down the long, tiled hallway she gave silent thanks for her suit jacket. Cool shadows filled the house. The click of her heels and the soft swoosh of the woman’s braid, which swung from side to side over a cotton shirt, were the only sounds.

“Mr. Cabrera,” the woman said, with an abrupt halt and sweep of a hand toward an open doorway. “He is in the office.”

“Thank you.” Dena smiled. “And your name is—?”

“Irma Hernandez.” The woman scowled. “I am housekeeper for many years.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Irma.”

The woman gave her a suspicious glance and walked away as Zeke Cabrera came out of the office. His steps faltered.

“Ah…,” he said, and rubbed at his jaw. He glanced toward Irma’s receding figure, then back to Dena. “You’re the agent from Brennan and Associates? I expected a male.”

“Yes—my initials—that’s understandable,” Dena said, and held out her right hand. His green-hazel eyes were cool and his handshake brief. He towered over her, staring down his straight nose. She dug into her jacket pocket and handed him her business card.

He narrowed his eyes. Held the card pinched between two fingers like it had cooties and gave it a quick appraisal. “D.L. Roman. That’s you?”

Dena nodded.

“I requested a male agent,” he said, his voice deep, firm. He slipped the card into his pants pocket and indicated she should enter the office ahead of him.

Maybe she owed him an explanation. The truth perhaps? She took a quick breath, held it for a moment, and then exhaled in a controlled manner. “Mr. Cabrera—”

“Please, take a seat. We’ll sort out this mistake in a minute.” He crossed the room in three swift strides, eased into a leather chair and rolled it toward the desk.

Seated to face the carved desk, and the gruff man behind it, Dena wiped her clammy hands discreetly down her suit skirt. “There is no mistake. Not really. I’m a crisis communications expert.”

Zeke ignored her—almost to the point of dismissal—while he arranged papers she suspected needed no re-arrangement.

“One moment,” he said. “I’ve asked someone to join us.”

“No problem.” She turned to the window and her breath caught. A glint of sun on steel in the distance made her heart pound. Could that be the girders of the hotel? Oh geez, she couldn’t have a panic attack here. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing.

Images of her sister’s body being unearthed by the construction crew replayed in her mind. Carli! A tiny shudder jerked her shoulder and she took a quick look around, worried she’d whimpered her sister’s name aloud. It wasn’t right to die like that, not for either woman. Dena pressed her lips tight, glad to see that Zeke remained preoccupied.

This was not the time or place for emotion.

She straightened her shoulders and concentrated on Zeke. How could he be so rude? In her business a guest would have been offered water or coffee. He perused another sheet of paper. His photo had accompanied many of the articles in the Los Angeles Times three months ago. Then he’d had a smooth, almost aristocratic bearing. His features were craggy now, and there were shadows beneath his eyes. His dark blond hair looked in need of a trim, and—

He raised his head, and her face warmed at being caught.

He looked at her for a moment, and then beyond her, toward the office door.

“Ms. Roman, this is Rocky, my foreman. He knows the running of Three C’s better than I do. Rocky, we have a problem.”

Rocky bobbed his head in her direction. Gripping his cowboy hat, he gave Zeke a wide-eyed stare, and then sat on the edge of the chair next to hers. He didn’t make further eye contact.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Dena offered her hand but he didn’t seem to notice. She sat back. She’d have to play her cards right to get Zeke to sign a contract. Maybe Rocky was her ace, since he ran the place. “Rocky. That’s an interesting name.”

He eased back a little in the chair, but still gripped his hat. “Me and Zeke, we’re second generation Argentine. Rock is my last name, been called Rocky since grade school, right Zeke?”

Zeke gave a brief nod. Good, Rocky is a talker. I have a chance with a talker. Dena observed both men, and felt in control for the first time since she’d entered the office. The men were a set of salt and pepper shakers, one tall and cool with light eyes, the other square, muscular and dark. She figured she had the two of them pegged, as far as personalities went.

“You can see the problem,” Zeke said, looking at Rocky. “We had requested a male rep, and—” Police sirens wailed nearby.

Dena’s stomach clenched. “Are the police coming here?”

Zeke stared at her for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” she said, but her stomach felt queasy. Had they found another woman’s body, a third victim? How many could there be?

Zeke turned toward the window, tilted his head and listened. Rocky fiddled with his hat.

Zeke had been proven innocent in Carli’s case. There had been no DNA match. Besides, who in their right mind would murder women, bury them on their land, and then sell that land? But that didn’t mean someone working on the estate couldn’t be the murderer. She looked away from him and focused on the large legal-type tomes in the bookshelves. She’d forgotten he was a lawyer. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. The sirens softened. Zeke turned to face her.

“We’ll discuss the contract first,” Dena said, sensing her time had come to a fast end and not wanting to lose even a second.

“Ms. Roman, I can’t—”

“Dena.” She flashed a smile, and slid the contract across the desk. She thought she heard him sigh in resignation.

Zeke lowered his head and began reading.

That’s a surprise. That’s good. He perused the papers, and one long tapered finger underscored each line. She waited impatiently. She’d tell him the truth on Monday. Of course she would.

He raised his head and slapped a hand on the contract. “I’m sorry. I can’t have you represent me.”

“But…why not?”

“I don’t want to work with a woman. No offense.”

She was being turned away because of her gender? She began to sweat again and her annoyance grew. She softened her eyes and leaned forward. “I’m considered one of the best crisis communications experts on the West Coast. I have excellent references.”

He tilted his chin.

She tilted hers higher. “I’m here. Why not hear me out? It will cost you nothing but fifteen minutes of your time.”

****

Zeke twirled the pen between his fingers, his jaw clamped hard against the accusations threatening to burst forth. He gave Dena a tight-lipped glance, and then pushed back in the chair and stood. With both hands shoved in his pockets, he stared out the window.

He’d taken the woman’s call this morning and assumed she’d been a secretary. He’d gone to the PR firm’s website, seen the list of agents and liked what he’d read, and confirmed an appointment with a woman named Wendy. Could he be losing his professional grip in this god forsaken place? He hadn’t asked enough damn questions.

Had Dena known he’d asked for a male agent, or did the secretary not explain his needs? He didn’t want to talk about the murders with a woman, any woman, but especially not with one so young and attractive. When exactly had he decided she was attractive? He blew out a gust of air and turned around.

“I’m not promising anything,” he said, and sat down, annoyed at the sudden shimmer in her blue eyes. He’d had enough dealings with sophisticated women like her. Absolutely no way would he fall for her charms. “You’ve got your fifteen minutes.”

“We could hear the whole thing.” Rocky shifted in his seat. “I’ve put a couple of guys out in the field in my place—”

“Fifteen minutes.” He shot Rocky a dark look. On this subject, he was the boss.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s start with the contract.”

The cheerful tone in Dena’s voice irked him. He preferred to conduct business with a serious tone. If this were a court case, and he the defense counsel, he could be detached, weigh all the pros and cons, but even then he’d be serious.

“Fine.”

“I’d suggest a six month retainer,” Dena said. “If you’ve finished, maybe Rocky should look over the—”

“Standard contract,” Zeke said, and passed it to Rocky. Dena straightened. She handed him a glossy brochure and an equally glossy smile. He didn’t smile back, knowing he’d have to shoot a hole right through that slick confidence of hers. No way in hell would he hire Ms. Roman.

“Read over these. There’s mention of the mission statement—” she stopped suddenly, and her face colored.

He’d interrogated enough people to know when someone lied, well, most of the time. He squinted, put the brochures down. What could the chatty little lady be hiding?

“I’ll read them later,” he said, and settled back in his chair, hands behind his head, fingers intertwined. He had the upper hand. “Tell me a little about the firm from your experience.”

“Brennan & Associates is—”

“Not the slick PR crap. Tell me about the real firm. Why did you choose to work for them? How do they treat you?”

She took a deep breath and smoothed her sleek blonde hairdo. She would fight for this job, he could see that.

“I started as an intern, right out of college—”

“Which was?”

“Pepperdine.”

“Good school.”

She smiled a natural, almost shy smile, not that fake PR one. She lit up from within and transformed her rather long face. It took her from attractive to beautiful in a second. He lowered his eyes and focused on the blotter.

“Ours isn’t your typical Los Angeles firm that deals primarily with the entertainment industry,” she said. “I’m the only one who handles celebrities.”

“What?” His head shot up. Her gaze floated away then dropped. She’d probably recalled that he’d asked for a conservative agent, as well as a male. The last thing he needed was some Hollywood type let loose on the estate.

“I also handle business and corporate clients,” Dena said, her voice clear, her speech precise. “I can furnish references.”

He shifted in his chair. He liked her quick composure. He’d hear her out.

“Seems in order,” Rocky said. He handed Dena the contract.

She put it beside her presentation papers, placed a gold pen on top, and looked across the desk. Her steely determination made her eyes colder. In that moment, Zeke knew, if he did hire her, his life would never be the same.

“The plan I’ve developed is two-fold,” she said. “One is for the national and international aspect, the packing and shipping. The other is local, your community image—”

“I don’t get involved with the community,” Zeke said, aware that he sounded surly. He’d become a stranger in this town, the place he’d grown up.

“And that is precisely where one of your problems—”

“Let’s focus on the business.” To hell with community, the damn locals were blackballing him. “And I still want to work with a male—”

“I have eight minutes left.” She tilted her chin. “Besides, as I mentioned, I don’t think gender should be an issue.”

“Well, it is.” Zeke tossed the pen onto the blotter. Whatever she came here for, she had to tell it straight or get the hell out. He cleared his throat with a slight cough. “This is about me personally, and the best thing for Three C’s.”

“Exactly. That’s why I suggested representation.”

“You don’t get it! I’m not being sexist—”

“Yes, you are.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Zeke,” Rocky said. “Hear what she has to say.”

He scowled at Rocky then looked away. She wanted something more than to represent him. But what? He’d let her play this out, let her trip herself up. He eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, and lifted the pen, twirling it between his fingers.

“When your name is smeared the stink and suspicion remain,” he said quietly. “There will be more questions, discussions about the victims.” A prickle of irritation stirred at the nape of his neck. He tossed the pen and raised both hands, unable to hold back his anger. “Hell, the murders happened on my property, while I still owned the land.”

“I know,” she said, her glance sympathetic.

He didn’t want sympathy—he wanted results—three months and still not one clue, and now, another victim. There’d been female investigators, reporters, and with the second woman’s body found, the questions would start again. His stomach did a couple of churns. He was sick to death of women and questions. Men he could deal with. They spoke the same damn language, straight shooters, no emotional crap. But the female investigators, they all looked at him, sized him up, the questions visible in their eyes.

“I’m sorry for my anger.” He took in a deep breath and let it out. “The first murder victim had my phone number in her purse. I never knew her.” He didn’t add that she’d been raped and strangled. That sounded harsh when spoken.

“No subject is off limits,” Dena said. “I’m a crisis communications expert. I’ve heard everything. I can advise—”

“Why would you want me as a client? I might be a suspect.”

She made eye contact, a defiant look on her face. “I know you’re innocent.”

He raised his eyebrows, and then sat straighter. “Based on what?”

****

Seconds ticked by. Dena thought about admitting to being Carli’s sister, but would Zeke throw her out if she did? Better to stick with her first plan. Get the contract. Investigate over the weekend. Tell the truth on Monday.

“You’re not…you weren’t the woman’s type. I read a lot about her.” She tried for a casual, relaxed pose, even though her heart pounded. “She always went for the artistic type…theater, film, struggling artists.”

Carli had never been attracted to tall rangy men, especially blonds. She claimed she liked her men like her coffee—dark and hot—but Dena wouldn’t tell him that. Some things should stay between sisters. Would she give herself away under his lawyerly appraisal? She thought of Carli, her vibrant life snuffed out, and let icy determination fill her veins. This could be her chance, probably her only chance, to do something to avenge Carli’s murder.

“I believe the woman knew her murderer. She’d never mentioned your name, or the town of Rancho Almagro, or Three C’s to…to her family, and—” She took a deep breath. “I think her murder took place elsewhere.”

Zeke remained silent but his posture relaxed.

Dena continued before he had a chance to stop her. “The CEO of a fruit farming company as large as Three C’s, wealthy, educated, well, she would have gone against type. I’ve fully researched the case and I know people. It’s my business.”

Zeke gave Rocky an inquisitive tilt of his chin and raised his eyebrows, maybe he even half-smiled. She couldn’t be sure. Rocky gave a quick shake of his head. Both men became even quieter for a few moments. Maybe Rocky held a higher position than she thought.

“The murderer could have been a stranger,” Rocky said. “A drifter—”

“But I don’t think so. I have a theory.” Dena leaned forward, excited. “You see—”

“I’m sorry.” Zeke pushed against the edge of the desk. “I like your idea of representation. The firm has a good reputation. However, this would not be a comfortable work arrangement.”

Her heartbeat kicked up a notch and her brow and upper lip felt damp. Darn it, why hadn’t she kept her big mouth shut? Theory, why did she say that? She clasped her hands together and resisted the desire to pat at her damp face.

“Would you like me to call Mr. Brennan?”

“No. Thank you,” Zeke said. “I’ll show you out.”

She restacked her papers. So, he wasn’t even going to use the firm. Would Steve fire her? Never one to give up easily, she turned toward Zeke.

“Wouldn’t the fact that I’m female be to your benefit?” she asked. “It would show the public that our firm trusts you, believes in your innocence.”

“I am innocent,” Zeke said curtly.

Darn. “Well, yes, I know that.”

“Small towns…lot of narrow minds.” Zeke pushed his chair back even further and stood. He leaned one palm on the desk and stared down at her. “The agent would be a guest of Three C’s. We would need to work closely over the next few days.”

“We’re all adults,” Dena said. “Staying here would not be a problem.”

“It would be for us,” Rocky said.

Zeke nodded. “I’m a bachelor, and this isn’t L.A.”

“Yes, but—”

“I want to stop the gossip and speculation, not start more.” Zeke walked around the desk. “I’m sorry.”

What an old-fashioned toad.

“I understand your mind is set,” Dena said, with a tilt of her chin. “It’s obvious there’s no room for negotiation.”

He was her first client to get away; her first business loss. She frowned, stuffed the contract back inside the laptop case and yanked on the zipper. More than the career aspect, the chance to learn about Carli’s connection to this place had been lost. She had to give it one last shot.

“When you were questioned before, at least in the newspaper and television accounts, some things raised a red flag for me.” Dena stood. She even smiled, although it almost killed her.

“Such as?”

“Don’t lash out with comments. Don’t be a smart-ass. When you’re under scrutiny, every word, action, every grimace counts, and you never know who is snapping a photograph—”

“I might as well sell the damn business,” Zeke huffed.

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.