The Apartment of Veronica Romero

South Los Angeles, California

 

Wren felt her heart jump into her throat as she knocked on the door, glad that Cormac was standing there beside her. She’d had to talk to a lot of people when she was starting out on the police force, usually the beat cop who was assigned with going door to door, asking what people might or might not have seen. She was never nervous then. But this was different.

She nearly jumped when the door opened. A middle-aged woman with intense green eyes in her dark face peeked out at them, her expression suggesting she didn’t like getting visitors in the middle of the afternoon. Wren forced a smile, trying to look as approachable as possible.

“Ms. Romero? I’m Wren Ryland, and this is my colleague, Cormac Delaney. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s possible.”

She tilted her head to one side, studying the two of them.

“This about my son?”

“No, ma’am. This is about a murder that happened in Reed Park when you lived near there.”

The woman straightened, her expression slightly more open. “That was nearly thirty years ago! I was only fifteen then.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She hesitated a second. “Well, then I guess you should come inside.”

Wren sighed a sigh of relief and stepped through the door, aware of Cormac close behind her. He was tall and so damn handsome that sometimes Wren found herself thinking about him at inappropriate times. Now was probably one of those times, her nervousness running somewhere it shouldn’t to keep from sending her into a panic attack. It didn’t help that he rested his hand on the small of her back like he had a right to touch her in that intimate way. Not that she minded all that much.

Ms. Romero led them to a small table in one corner of her cramped kitchen, setting a plate of half-burned, homemade cookies in the center between them.

“My daughter fancies herself a pastry chef. She’s not very good at it.”

Wren smiled, picking up a cookie just to please the daughter that wasn’t even there.

“You lived in the apartment building on 5th Avenue back in 1990, correct?” Cormac asked, his deep voice adopting a professional tone.

“I did. My mother and father were still married then. They divorced a couple of years later, and Dad took off with some floozy.” She shook her head. “Things weren’t as good for us after that.”

“We tried locating your parents, but—”

“Dad lives in Connecticut, and Mom died some ten years ago.”

Cormac lowered his head, offering her consolation with the slight movement. “And you don’t have siblings?”

“Just me and my mom until I got married to that loser twenty years ago. I guess Mom and I had the same taste in men, too.”

“Do you remember the Santa Monica Black Dahlia case?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “It was all anyone talked about for months after the body was found. Everyone thought it was eerie how she resembled that old case, you know? I didn’t even know who the Black Dahlia was until that case.”

“Did you see the emergency lights the morning they found her?” Wren asked, nearly choking on the dry, tasteless cookie that she carefully set back on its plate. “Do you remember seeing the cops?”

“Oh, sure. They swarmed over the park for days. A group of friends and me tried to get close to them, but they had all this tape all over the place, blocking off a huge section of the park. All we could see was the forensic people, combing through the weeds and the debris. They even searched through the trash cans for some reason.”

Cormac glanced at Wren. They weren’t learning much here.

“What about the night before the cops showed up? Did you play in the park? Did you see anything unusual?”

Ms. Romero made a face, her bright green eyes darkening slightly as she thought the question over. “Well,” she said slowly, “my friends and me hung out in that part of the park a lot. We were there that night, and I remember seeing a woman there with a young man. They were sitting on that old bench over on the north side of that little grassy area, leaning close to each other as they talked. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and they left a few minutes later. I don’t remember seeing them there before or after that night.”

“What did the woman look like?”

She shrugged. “Blond. Average height.” She tilted her head slightly as she regarded Wren. “A little like you, maybe.”

“Yeah? And the guy?”

Wren’s heart was in her throat, pounding out of control. Had this woman seen her mother at the crime scene hours before her death? Was it possible?

“He was tall, a little on the thin side. Handsome. And he had the most intense blue eyes I’d ever seen.”

Wren looked sharply at Cormac. She knew exactly whom Ms. Romero was describing. She jerked her cell phone out of her pocket and pulled up a picture she had in her gallery app.

“Is this him?”

Ms. Romero took the phone and studied the picture for a long time. “Could be,” she finally said. “He had brown hair back then, and he wasn’t quite that thin. But, yeah, I think that could be him.”

Wren slid the phone to Cormac so that he could see whom they were talking about. He shot Wren a look of caution, but her imagination was already running away with her.

Her mother had known Devin Wilde. Devin Wilde was a serial killer who liked to emulate other killers’ modi operandi. Devin Wilde had been accused of her mother’s murder for years, ever since he was caught back over twenty years ago.

They met in the park, argued, and he killed her. That had to be the way it’d gone. All Wilde’s suggestions that he knew her killer, but that it wasn’t him, was just his way of getting attention. She’d known it!

“Thank you, Ms. Romero,” Wren said, jumping to her feet.

“Wait,” Cormac said in his low baritone.

Wren glanced at him, convinced that this wasn’t necessary. But he had this determined look on his handsome face that made her heart beat a little faster for reasons other than the excitement of finally getting a break in this case.

“The couple you saw, you said they left. What time was that?”

Ms. Romero shrugged. “I don’t know. Before dark because I was supposed to be home in time for dinner every night.”

Cormac shot Wren a look. They knew from the coroner’s report that her mother had been murdered late in the night, closer to 1:00 or 2:00 AM, not before dark—which would have been around 7:00 or 8:00 PM.

“But you’re sure that’s the man she was with?”

Ms. Romero shrugged. “It’s been nearly thirty years. I remember that he was exceedingly handsome, and I was a little jealous of what a beautiful couple they made. And the way he leaned toward her, whispering near her ear, made me envious of their closeness.”

“Did they seem romantic with one another?” Cormac asked.

“No.” She hesitated a second. “I thought so, at first. But then I got a good look at their faces and thought they must be related. Brother and sister, maybe.”

“That’s not possible!” Wren blurted out before she could stop herself.

Cormac stood then, taking her hand in his. “We’ll get out of your hair now, Ms. Romero. Thank you so much for your help.”

“No problem. It was nice to talk to someone who wasn’t looking for my son!”

Wren plopped down in the passenger seat of his car, wrapping her arms over herself as she thought about what Ms. Romero had said. Brother and sister! That wasn’t possible.

“My mother had two brothers, but you can’t convince me that one of them was a serial killer!”

Cormac glanced at her as he slid behind the wheel. “She’s going off the fact that they had the same eye color. That’s all.”

“Has to be.”

He reached over and touched her knee. “But this looks like a possible sighting of the two of them together. It suggests he knew her. And it also puts him in Santa Monica the night she died.”

“He’s been playing games with me all along, just like you said.”

“I think he has. He just wants your attention.”

He started the car, glancing back up at the apartment before pulling away. Wren twisted to look, too, surprised to see Ms. Romero watching them. She had the phone pressed against the side of her head like she’d called someone to let them know she and Cormac had come to see her.

That was a ridiculous thought, wasn’t it? Who would care?

“This case is so old and the evidence so tainted, we might never find out who really killed her. You have to be patient and not jump to conclusions.”

“I was a cop. I know how to work a case.”

“But this is personal for you. You have to find a way to treat it just like any other case.”

She looked over at him. “You ever work a case that had some personal element to it?”

He rolled his shoulders, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel. Was he hiding something from her?

Suddenly, she realized she knew next to nothing about Cormac Delany. She knew he was an FBI agent with a stellar reputation, but that was about it.

“Are you married?” she asked.

Cormac laughed, clearly taken by surprise at the question. “All these months of working together, and you just now thought to ask me that?”

“I guess it just now occurred to me that you know just about all there is to know about me, but I know almost nothing about you.”

He glanced at her. “No. I’m not married.”

“Ever been?”

“No.”

“What about a steady girl? You have one of those hanging around somewhere?”

“No.” He glanced at her. “This job doesn’t really make time for that sort of thing.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” She dragged her fingers through her hair, rearranging it around her face. “The longest I’ve ever been with anyone was the guy I dated in college. After that…nothing.”

“I had a girl a few years ago.”

She glanced at him, taking in the white knuckles on the wheel and the tendon popping in his jaw. “Was it serious?”

“We were engaged.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t work out,” was all he said, but she got the distinct feeling that there was a lot more to it.

Cormac clammed up after that, giving her only yes or no answers as she asked him about his college career, his studies at Quantico. When they pulled up in front of her condo, he reached over and took her hand before she could get out of the car. Electricity burned up the length of her arm, sending tingles of pleasure through her body all the way down to her core. She looked at him, meeting his perfect eyes, wishing she had the nerve to make the space between them disappear.

“Promise me you won’t go interview any of the people on that list without me.”

“I already said I wouldn’t.”

“And don’t go see Wilde.”

She dropped her eyes because she had already been planning such a visit, thinking about it from the moment Ms. Romero identified his picture.

“I mean it, Wren. Don’t let him get into your head.”

“Okay.”

He studied her face for a long moment, his eyes moving almost kindly over her. It was like a caress, a need burning somewhere. She was afraid it was only her need that she was feeling, afraid she was projecting something that wasn’t there. Cormac had never made the slightest move on her. But, still, it felt like something.

“I promise.”

He nodded. “I’ll talk to you in a few days. I have a case I need to resolve at the office, but then we’ll go hit a couple more of these witnesses.”

“Thank you.”

He lowered his head in an imitation of an old-fashioned bow. “Any time.”

Wren got out of the car, her pulse racing—not because she was nervous.

She was about to let herself into the condo, already listening to her flamboyant, passionate roommates arguing over something, when her cell phone rang. She glanced back at the curb just in time to see Cormac’s lights fade into the distance.

“Wren Ryland.”

“Little Wren,” a familiar voice said on the other end of the line. “You’ve been stirring up quite a few wasp nests.”

“Wilde.”

“You recognize my voice. How sweet is that?”

“It’s not sweetness. It’s horror.”

“Oh, don’t be mean to me, or I won’t tell you who’s been calling me.”

“Why would I care?”

“Because it might shed a little more light on the murder of your mother.”

Wren turned toward her front door, leaning against the brick wall as she resigned herself to this conversation. “Were you in Reed Park the night my mother was killed? Were you there with her?”

“We often met in that park. It was quiet and pleasant. Your mother enjoyed it.”

“Why would she meet with you? What were you to her?”

“Someone who cared deeply for her, just like I’m someone who cares deeply for you.” There was a slight pause. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to get the attention of some very dangerous men, Little Wren. You need to stop digging into your mother’s murder.”

“Then tell me who did it.”

“I will. Come see me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He chuckled softly. “You would be very surprised what kind of information I can get my hands on inside of this place, Little Wren. You have a nice little operative working at Spencer White’s law firm right now, don’t you?”

“How would you know about that?”

“I know that Spencer’s gotten himself in a little deep this time and that he’s desperate enough to take out anyone who poses a threat to him. That includes your deaf operative.”

“How do you know this?” she demanded, straightening, panic rushing through her.

This wasn’t the first time he’d come up with information about one of her operatives without explanation. A little more than three months ago, he’d given her similar information when she visited him in prison:

“You run a little security office called Mastiff Security, correct?”

“How do you know that?”

“One of your operatives—that is the right word, correct?—is currently the target of a hitman who was once an inmate in this place.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I overheard a phone call a few days ago. Someone hired this hitman to kill one of your operatives because he didn’t like who he was cozying up to. The job is supposed to be completed before Monday, which means your operative only has a few hours to live.”

That information had proven to be true. If this was true, too…

“I have my sources. And now you do, too.”

“What’s Spencer going to do?”

“He wants to get rid of your operative and the associate she’s been working with at his firm. He had someone burn down her house today. Tomorrow he’s planning to release information that could compromise not only the operative and associate, but your security firm.”

“What kind of information?”

“I can’t tell you everything. That wouldn’t be any fun. But, trust me, things are going to be quite complicated in the morning.”

He hung up on that note.

Wren pushed away from the wall and walked out into her narrow yard, pacing as she dialed Andres’ cell phone. She could hear the baby laughing in the background when he answered.

“I thought Spencer White fired us.”

“He did.”

“Then why is Stevie still working the case?”

There was a slight pause in which Wren could hear Gray say something softly to him and the sound of the baby disappear. Andres cleared his throat.

“She felt like she’d found something strong against Spencer. I told her that if the associate who was being framed for the information leak would hire her to protect him—which is plausible after someone took shots at him on the street and then ran a car through his front door—”

“I thought the police determined that was an ex-lover.”

“They did. But Stevie believes the shooting wasn’t a prank. She believes it was a 9mm that fired at him, nearly missing his head. I support her on that.”

“Based on what?”

“On the fact that I went to the scene and dug a 9mm bullet out of the parking garage wall.”

Wren bit her lip. “Then she’s still on the case.”

“She is.”

“Did her house burn down today?”

Andres grunted. “I hadn’t heard that, but I could find out.”

“I have reason to believe that Spencer White is about to release false information about us, or something related to this case. I need you to do whatever it is you do to find out what it might be and stop it.”

“Information?”

“Yeah. Get Stevie into the office. Call in the tech guys. I need to get ahead of this thing before it blows up in our faces.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Wren hung up, a shiver of fear running down her spine.

How did Wilde know these things? Why was he telling her?

This was the second time Wilde had told her something that had proved to be accurate.

What game was he playing with her?