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.