The Killing Edge. Heather Graham
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daughter could do that?” Octavio said, and he looked like a man about to cry, a man who couldn’t begin to understand the stupidity of those around him. “Why doesn’t she see the danger?” he demanded passionately. “She loved Colleen. They played together when they were little girls, they knew right from wrong. Rene cried and cried when Colleen disappeared, but then … she believed the story this agency is telling. She believed those lying bastards who said that Colleen had run away. All because she wants to be a model, to be rich and have men lusting after her.
“Yes, we were strict, stern fathers. We cared who our daughters went out with, when they came home. We didn’t let our niñas get hooked on drugs. We tried to teach them right from wrong. But they watch TV—they see how American woman sleep with so many men with so little thought, how they drink and carry on, all on the giant television screen. I tried to tell my daughter that she mustn’t become like a puta, a whore, because decent men will not want her, decent men who go to work, love their wives and care for their children and their families. Do you know what she told me? She told me she didn’t want a decent man and a decent family. She wanted the American dream. So what is this dream? I ask her. To sleep around like the women on the television set?” He groaned. “So now—now that I don’t care who she wants to sleep with as long as she is alive—she will not even talk to me. Her mother cries every night. It is agony that she will not speak to us, and it is worse to think about Colleen, to think that Rene will be like Colleen and never come home, never get to live a long and happy life. I know you think I am just a worried father, that my daughter is safe and what happened to Colleen will not happen to her, but I know. I know. If she stays there, she will die.”
“Octavio, you have to stay calm,” Luke told him. “There’s no proof so far that anything bad even happened to Colleen.”
Octavio stared back at him with wise and tired eyes. “Colleen is dead. Her father knows it, as does her mother. As I do. Her parents went to Islamorada—because those swine at the agency would not allow her mother to go out to the island they own, the island where she … disappeared. They act like her parents are mosquitoes, an annoyance. My wife went, too. They set up crosses, a memorial for Colleen.” He winced, then downed his cognac in a swallow.
Luke was silent for a minute, then leaned toward Octavio. “I will do everything in my power, but you have to trust me. As of tonight, we know that your daughter is all right. Her friends told me that Rene wants this modeling career very badly—badly enough that she may be avoiding your calls because she doesn’t want you to keep trying to talk her out of it. I can try to get her to talk to you, but no one—not me and not you—can stop her from going on that photo shoot if she makes the decision to go.”
“If she goes, then you must go to the island, too. You must find out what is going on,” Octavio implored.
“I can do that,” Luke agreed.
Octavio stood and pumped Luke’s free hand. “Lieutenant Stuckey told me that I could count on you.”
“I’ll keep you informed,” Luke promised. “But, Octavio, if she calls you, no matter how hard it is, no matter how much you feel it goes against tradition, don’t try to stop her from pursuing her career or interfere with her life. Be open to her dreams.”
Octavio’s eyes betrayed his agony. “Even though I fear for her life?” he whispered.
“Especially because you fear for her life. Stay open so she’ll know she can turn to you if she needs to, no matter what. Rene is seeing what she wants to see, but even if someone at the agency is dangerous, that doesn’t mean the entire operation is corrupt.”
“Myra Allen,” Octavio said knowingly, his brows furrowing. “That woman is corrupt.”
“Everyone involved has been and is still being investigated,” Luke said. “They haven’t closed the case.”
“Officially, no? But in their minds, it is. Another silly girl gone off—that’s what they have chosen to believe. Even when they know it is wrong.”
The long day was starting to make itself felt. Luke repeated, “I’ll do everything in my power to keep your daughter safe, Octavio. And,” he promised, thinking of the job Stuckey had asked him to do while he was undercover helping the Gonzalezes, “I’ll find out what happened to Colleen Rodriguez.”
With that, Octavio nodded and started up the steps, looking older than his years. Luke followed him, jumping to the dock first and offering him a hand. Octavio thanked him, then said good-night and walked down the road toward the bait-and-beer shop, where his car waited beneath a wilting oak.
Luke returned to the Stirling, locking the cabin door once he was inside. His windows had security locks, as well, and he had rigged his own alarm system. Despite that, he didn’t worry a lot about security. If anyone ever really wanted him dead, they wouldn’t worry about gaining entry to the boat. They would just torch it.
In the master cabin he stripped off his suit and stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t know why, but Octavio got to him. The man was filled with passion, convinced he knew a truth everyone else was ignoring. Once, long ago, he, too, had known that kind of passion, known what it was like to know the truth, while others refused to see it. That was what had brought him here.
Stuckey had brought Octavio to him, just as Stuckey—and some of his friends—brought him most of his work.
He didn’t spy on philandering spouses, schoolgirls who might be smoking pot in the park after school or college kids gambling or stealing exams, and he didn’t like corporate intrigue unless it was connected with something more intriguing.
He worked for people who had gone through all the proper channels to find justice but run up against the brick walls that were inevitable in any system.
He didn’t have many friends, but those he had were close, and he liked it that way.
He lived alone now, and he liked that, too. He wasn’t a decent companion for anyone else.
He felt the slight rocking of the boat while he pondered his next move. The first step would be to get closer to Chloe Marin. She was his ticket to getting to know everyone else, and since her pretense for being there was as false as his own, she could hardly object or else he would blow her cover.
Light from distant street lamps played dimly on his ceiling, and as he watched the shadows stretch and fade, he wondered what would have happened if he’d caught up to Rene. At least he had learned what he needed to know: the girl was alive, and she was living at the mansion. But what he didn’t know was what had sent her down from the balcony and running for the beach in the first place.
And then there was Chloe Marin… .
He punched his pillow with annoyance. The strawberry blonde certainly knew her moves. Subduing her had been more difficult than if she’d been a man his own size and weight.
It was almost as if he’d been thrown off balance by a supercharged Barbie. Maybe that was what was most annoying.
But she wasn’t a living Barbie. She was a woman with entrancing eyes and a suspicious nature. In fact, where he was concerned, she seemed downright hostile. And yet, when he touched her …
Something happened to him when they touched. He was filled with a sudden raw heat unlike anything he’d felt in years.
He’d seen a dozen spectacularly beautiful girls that night.
But somehow, she was different.
He punched his pillow again. He had to get to know the woman, whether he liked it or not. She was key to cracking this case, no matter how annoying he found her—and his own attraction to her.
He had a job to do.
He forced himself to watch the shadows, to close down his mind, and finally he slept.
He didn’t dream, hadn’t in years. Not anything that he remembered, at least.
But that