Dirty Little Lies by Julie Leto Page A

days later in the harbor. But there was no evidence of any struggle and no fingerprints at all.
    The next article revealed that despite public outcry that the rich Boston boys had exploited their money and influence to intimidate prosecutors, the boys were never charged, not even after the body was discovered not far from their campsite. The detectives assigned to the case had protested that the prep school students knew more than they were admitting, but had been unable to come up with hard proof. The Hightower boys, who’d been whisked away to Europe by their father, had never even been questioned by the police.
    “Talk about getting away with murder,” Marisela said.
    Frankie leaned back in the seat and sighed heavily. “If they’d come from our neighborhood, they’d still be in prison.”
    “Nah,” Marisela contradicted. “Electric chair. Do you have the electric chair in Massachusetts?” she asked Max, curious.
    Max looked up from his laptop, his gray eyes stoic. “Are we back to the case or are we still making jokes about your misspent childhoods?”
    Marisela smirked. “Sorry, it’s just that after talking to Denise Bennett and reading all this, I can’t help but guess that these guys are guilty as sin.”
    Frankie clucked his tongue. “Evidence is circumstantial.”
    She couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re taking the side of the defense?”
    Frankie tapped a few keys. “There was no defense. The guys were never charged. Besides, innocent or guilty makes no difference to me. I met both in prison, and under most circumstances, one wasn’t any better than the other.”
    “We aren’t concerned at this point with their guilt or innocence,” Max said. “We need to piece together exactly what happened that night. Right now, the note is our only clue, so that’s where we start.”
    “Why didn’t Bennett’s wife turn the note over to the police?” Frankie asked.
    “She doesn’t trust the cops,” Marisela answered. “Claims they tried to railroad her husband all those years ago.”
    “The cold case squad of the Boston police department recently started investigating the case again,” Max informed them. “The inquiries caused a public relations nightmare for the good congressman. Probably turned Denise Bennett’s life into a living hell.”
    “She doesn’t know what happened back then?” Frankie asked.
    Marisela pursed her lips. “Before we left the chapel, she claimed her husband told her exactly what he told the police at the time. He’d been camping with his buddies and none of them saw Rebecca that night.”
    Frankie frowned. “What about Evan Cole?”
    Marisela looked at Max.
    He shook his head, “So far, there’s nothing in my initial research that links him to the incident at all. I don’t think he was there.”
    “He told me he was Craig Bennett’s best friend,” Frankie informed them. “If the guys all went out for a night in the woods, why wouldn’t he go along?”
    Max nodded appreciatively. “Good question. Another avenue for us to pursue.”
    Marisela pressed her hand to her forehead. She was starting to get a headache, though whether from excessive thinking, exhaustion, or a combination of both, she couldn’t be sure.
    “Did that new task force dig up anything new?” Marisela asked.
    “No,” Max replied. “My sources tell me the case is just as dead in the water, if you’ll pardon my pun, as it was fifteen years ago.”
    “Any political influence to reopen the case?” Frankie asked.
    Marisela and Max both eyed Frankie with surprise.
    “What?”
    Normally, Frankie was more muscle than brains, but Marisela should have learned a long time ago not to underestimate her ex.
    Max cleared his throat. “I find it hard to believe that a congressman who is making serious waves in Washington, D.C., with his new prescription-plan initiatives isn’t ruffling feathers somewhere. The D.C. crowd doesn’t like upstarts. He’s in the news quite a bit with a new