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NATE PARKED ACROSS the street from a brick brownstone in Carnegie Hill on the Upper East Side and glanced at Marisa for a reaction. She didn't seem impressed.
In Nate's days covering the financial world for the Times, he had been to some swanky areas. This neighborhood ranked among the nicest. Just a couple of blocks from Central Park, the five-story house had to be worth close to ten million. A drop in the bucket for too many Wall Street types.
Back in the day, Gray'd had another house in the Hamptons, an apartment in Manhattan, and a vacation home in Colorado. During Nate's investigation of the mortgage scandal, he'd learned that the federal government had seized all of those properties. Pamela had managed to hang onto this brownstone because she'd brought it into the marriage, and because the house had been owned by a trust. Her wealthy grandfather had fixed it so that Charles had never had access to it. Maybe the old man had known something the rest of them had missed.
Marisa opened her door and stepped out before Nate could stop her.
He jumped out of the truck and called over its bed. "If she were here, the maid would have called."
She glanced at the house. "Maybe she forgot."
"It's not even eleven yet. She was flying in today. Let's not spook Rosa."
Reluctantly, Marisa slid back into the truck. "Can you at least call?"
He slid in, closed his door, and unlocked his phone. He found the woman's number in his notebook and dialed. When the Hispanic housekeeper answered, he took the phone off Bluetooth and handed it to Marisa.
While she conversed with the woman in Spanish, Nate's mind drifted to the events of the morning. Leslie was dead. Nate tried to wrap his mind around it. A week ago, Leslie had shown up in his house, battered from the purse thief and desperate for help. Or so he'd thought. And now, she was gone. Just like that.
Life was fragile, even for a tough woman like Leslie. What had happened? Had the kidnapper simply grown tired of her? Had they fought? Had Leslie been trying to protect Ana?
Nate glanced at Marisa and wondered if she'd had the same idea. He hoped not. She was right to keep moving forward. Her forward motion was probably the only thing keeping her sane.
A few tears dripped down her cheeks. What was she telling this housekeeper? Could the woman be trusted?
Could anybody? Leslie had trusted the man who'd pulled her into this charade. Was the kidnapper the same man Leslie had said was her fiancé? That was the theory they'd been working under—assuming the fiancé was real. If he was, Nate had a strong suspicion he was the kidnapper. Otherwise, why hide his identity? Not a single photograph of him had been displayed at Leslie's house. Leslie must've believed he'd loved her, believed it enough to be convinced to betray her own sister. In those moments before the life seeped from her body, what had she felt? Fear? Shock? Regret?
Resignation?
Nate understood all of those. The memories came before he could stop them. His torturer's sudden, powerful blows. The realization that Nate's life was no longer in his control. That he would die in that crappy hotel room, in a pool of his own bodily fluids. He'd imagined the police finding him tied to the chair, imagined his father's face when he identified Nate's body. The hopelessness poured over him like thick tar.
Nate forced himself to look beyond the truck's dashboard to the street. A young woman with a child holding each hand skipped down the steps from a brownstone a few doors away. Probably a nanny. Folks in this neighborhood could certainly afford them. The little girl on her right was pointing at something, and Nate turned to see an old man walking a dog. The man stopped, and both the children fawned over the creature. One of those yappy little lapdogs with a bow on its head. A shih tzu, he thought.
Cars lined the street on both sides. Lots of luxury vehicles. A taxi idled in front of a house down the block.
Nate took a deep breath and blew out the memories of his own personal trauma, picturing the hopelessness dripping off of him and settling in a pool on the bottom of Brady's truck. A stupid visualization exercise his counselor had suggested. He'd never been willing to admit it worked. He rolled down his window, heard the birds singing and Marisa's rapid Spanish. He breathed in the air, safe for now. And Marisa was safe. They just had to get Ana home. Then he could get back to his real life and finish his move to New Hampshire.
And do what? Live alone, hide from the world? That had seemed a really good plan at one point, but now... He glanced at Marisa beside him. The thought of leaving her behind, of never seeing her again, was a whole different kind of torture.
But what if they weren't able to rescue Ana? Garrison had been right earlier. The FBI would have more resources and better instincts than he did. What did Nate know about chasing a killer? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Maybe he should insist they step back and let the FBI handle it.
He imagined how that conversation would go. Not well, he knew. But maybe the FBI could rescue Ana.
Maybe not. There were a thousand ways Nate could fail. The myriad options were overwhelming.
If they got the FBI involved, and Ana still died, could Nate live with having talked her into that decision? Would Marisa ever forgive him?
If they continued going Marisa's way and they failed, she wouldn't blame Nate. He could be with her, help put the pieces back together. Otherwise, she'd be all alone in the world.
Nate wanted desperately to find Ana, but Marisa was right. With Leslie dead, the situation looked bleaker than it had that morning. Chances were good Ana wouldn't survive.
Once again, Nate would have failed to protect someone he loved. How could he live with himself after that? What accusations would the image in the mirror hurl at him then?
And what difference would that make? He couldn't imagine that sweet, precious child hurt, killed. Ana was so full of life, so energetic and joyful. If she didn't make it through this, Marisa would never be the same, and neither would Nate.
Marisa hung up the phone and handed it back to him.
Nate pulled in a deep breath and turned to her. "You told her everything, didn't you?"
"Not everything, but about Ana, yeah."
"And?"
"Pamela Gray's flight landed a half hour ago, and she's on her way. I tried to get Rosa to let us in, but she said she couldn't risk her job." Marisa shook her head. "She said Pamela Gray considers the help expendable. She said Mrs. Gray would fire her on the spot and not think a thing about it. The woman's a fool. Maids, cleaning people—they know everything about their clients' lives. They see what's in the trash, they overhear conversations. Mrs. Gray's just lucky she hasn't been ripped off or worse if she treats her employees like that."
A spark of passion lit Marisa's eyes. Despite everything, she still cared about people. He loved that about her.
The thought had him swallowing and leaning toward his door. Until he got his head screwed on straight—as if that would ever happen—he'd better put the L-word away. And with Ana still missing, there was no time for such foolishness.
If only he could dictate to his heart how to feel. Just one more thing he was powerless over.
"Will she call us when she arrives?" he asked.
"Rosa said we wouldn't be able to miss her."
They settled in to wait. Nate hoped Pamela Gray had answers, because if she didn't, they were out of options. He didn't know how, but one way or another, he had to get Marisa's daughter back to her, safe and sound. If he didn't...
He couldn't fail to be a hero twice and survive the fallout.