by Misa Ramirez
A minute later, the chattering abruptly stopped. I froze, a few French fries in my mouth, gaping at the women—who were all staring at something behind me. A hand came down on my shoulder.
Selma’s words came back at me and I gulped. A dimple and blue eyes. It couldn’t be. But I knew that hand. My intestines tied themselves into inexplicable knots as I turned to look over my shoulder.
Jack.
Antonio stood behind him, a big ol’ shit-eating grin on his swarthy, goateed face.
I peered around them to see who the other guy was.
Oh boy. My cousin Zac.
The guys Selma had met.
I made a series of expressions, trying to communicate to them all. I’m undercover! I tried to say.
“Jack,” I said, sucked in by his liquid blue eyes.
The dimple Selma had admired worked its way into his cheek. “Lola,” he said, looking un poquito hot and bothered. “Let’s take a walk.”
Chapter Nine
The dancers’ voices came at me all at once, Selma’s the loudest. “You know them?”
I forced a smile onto my lips. “Kind of.”
Antonio’s grin grew wider, if that was possible. “She better know me. I’m her brother.”
Zac gave a wave. “I’m her cousin.”
All the women turned their attention to Jack. Cassie hung her arm over the back of her chair. “And I guess you know her.”
“Why yes, yes I do.” He flashed a beguiling grin. “I’m her boyfriend.”
I poked my finger in my ear. ¿Qué dice?
I laughed but quickly whipped my head around so the dancers couldn’t see my face and mouthed, I’m undercover!
He made a face at me, making it clear he already knew that. I’d wondered if Antonio had known back at the restaurant. Then I remembered Selma saying our faces were shown on the huge screens at the arena. Which meant they were probably seen at home on people’s television sets, too. Oh, Lord.
Finally, I thought about the phone call with Jack earlier. He’d asked me to go with him somewhere and had started to say he had tickets—to the game, I now realized. He’d known and was giving me the chance to tell him.
I squinched my eye and flicked my chin so he’d follow me as I walked outside. I felt the weight of someone’s stare on my back and glanced back at the table, keeping my smile intact. No wonder. Everyone was watching us like we were some part of a dinner theater. Oh, bueno. I was going to be the prime gossip tonight.
Antonio and Zac slipped into chairs at the table. We locked eyes and I shot daggers at them. God, I hoped they had sense enough to keep quiet about my being a detective.
“Hey, you,” Jack said once we were outside.
I gulped down the anxiety bubbling up inside me, feeling like a big, fat liar. I hated not telling him what I was up to, but it was a toss-up if I hated that more than being caught red-handed keeping secrets. “Hey, yourself. What’re you doing here?”
“Just what I was going to ask you.”
“I’m working a case.”
Jack shoved his hands in his pockets, his body tense. “I figured.”
“I would have told you, but—”
He leaned against a brick pillar, staring off over my shoulder for a second. “But what? You don’t trust me? Jesus, Lola, we’re supposed to be a team.”
I wanted to be, but I’d been keeping my distance, protecting my heart. “You’re still dealing with Sarah—”
“I told her I’m done, that she isn’t going to interfere with my life anymore.” He lifted his hands and sliced his palms through the air. “She’s gone.”
My eyes got glassy. “¿Verdad?”
His eyes darkened. He’d told me that my Spanish drove him wild…in the best possible way. I could see how the one word slipped under his skin. He drew me to him. With my heels on and my head tilted back a touch, my lips met his perfectly.
“I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of you,” I said quietly.
“In front of the whole world, but not me?”
My lungs felt short of air. It sounded ridiculous when he put it that way, and I’d never been one to back away from a challenge. Hello, I was Xena, Warrior Princess. “You saw the outfits.”
He spoke slowly, suddenly looking pained and frustrated. “Yes, I did.” He bent, moved his mouth to my ear. “I liked what I saw. I’ve always liked it.” And then his lips brushed my neck and a wave of goose bumps swept over my skin.
He took a deep breath and pulled back, something else simmering behind his eyes. “Your friend in there,” he said. “She cornered us at the arena when I was looking for you. Finally she invited us here and promised us a real good time.”
Indignance flared inside of me. “And you wanted that good time? Nice, Callaghan.”
“I had a feeling you’d be here—”
“Working—”
“Uh-huh. And how far are you willing to go for your job, Cruz?”
Ah. Now I understood the brewing question. I’d spent months being jealous of Sarah and whatever hold she had on Jack. Now the tables had turned.
“Not that far. She might make good on that, if you’re interested,” I said, “but me?” I batted my eyelashes at him, my hand pressed to my chest. “I have a boyfriend.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “Good to know you have limits, Lola.”
…
Jack, Antonio, and Zac finally left, my cover was intact, and I settled back into the conversation. But Jack’s statement stuck with me. How far was I willing to go for my job? That was the million-dollar question. I’d bared more of myself on the Royals’ court than I was comfortable with. Especially given the duct-taped breasts.
I was willing to go pretty far, but I wouldn’t sacrifice my relationship with Jack if it came right down to it.
Cassie had drowned her disappointment over the gorgeous guys leaving by drinking down two Long Island iced teas. “Jennifer has all the luck. Freaking guys fall all over her, you know? Anyone I meet is taken.” She glared at me like it was my fault Zac was married, Antonio was smitten with Sylvia, and Jack was with me. “Why do I have all the crap luck?”
“Shut up, Cassie,” Nicole snapped. “Victoria’s going to be pissed if you start shooting off your mouth in public. You’ve had enough to drink.”
Cassie flung her arms out to the side. “She’s not here, is she?”
Selma picked up a chicken wing. “Yeah. Where is she? She’s never this late—”
As if on cue, Victoria, pale and drawn, stumbled through the door.
I gaped. Manny was on her heels.
I jumped up, the alarms in my head going off in double-time. Something wasn’t right.
Nicole was already on her feet, rushing to the dance director. “Victoria? What’s wrong?”
Manny steered Victoria to the nearest chair, where she collapsed. She threw a vacant, scared gaze around the table and gave a low moan. “J-Jennifer,” she finally said. “Jennifer’s dead.”
Chapter Ten
Dead. Surely I hadn’t heard right. Dead? Jennifer?
A flood of disbelieving gasps and hysterical sobs erupted from the dancers.
“Dead!” one of the girls exclaimed. “How is that possible?”
Great question! This was a case about mysterious notes, not a murder investigation. Although maybe I was jumping to conclusions. Nobody had mentioned anything sinister.
“Dead…as in dead?” Selma pressed her hands against the table, her eyes wide and teary. And filled with shock.
Victoria fielded their hysteria while my gaze met Manny’s.
“What happened?” I mouthed.
His face was grim, his mouth drawn in a hard line. He spoke to the group, but I knew he threw in the extra details
for my benefit. “She was found in the arena parking lot. Strangled with a scarf from one of the dance costumes.”
¡Ay, caramba! So it was murder.
Selma drew in a sharp breath, pushing the question away. The color drained from her normally rosy-cheeked face. “Strangled, as in killed? Oh God,” she wailed, “then the threats are real.”
Victoria stood tall, but I could see her quivering. And she’d wanted to handle things in-house. Not that having me around had stopped someone from killing a dancer. A cold chill swept over my body. I’d failed—and Jennifer had paid the ultimate price.
A rumbling started and rapidly grew louder as the women slowly realized what Selma meant. If Jennifer’s death was related to the notes, then any one of them could be next.
Part of me wanted to jump up, take charge of the women, and get them to calm down so I could start grilling them for information, but I couldn’t dare blow my cover. Camacho & Associates had been hired to ferret out the truth without revealing I was a detective. I had to stay in character. I flashed a reproachful look at Selma, the only one left—aside from Lance and Victoria—who knew I was a detective. She seemed to understand and quickly averted her eyes from mine.
I felt my expression turn grim as I met Manny’s gaze again. He flicked his chin, almost imperceptibly, and I took his meaning. When we were done, we’d meet back at the office.
Nicole glanced at Victoria and voiced what I was sure all the dancers were thinking now. “Do you think whoever’s writing the notes killed Jennifer?”
Victoria’s eyes pooled. She swiped away the tears. “I think so,” she finally said. Victoria shared a few other details about Jennifer. She’d been found next to her car and there was evidence of a brief struggle. Several of her acrylic nails had been broken and her blouse had been torn, but otherwise the evidence seemed minimal. Her own costume scarf, pulled tight around her neck, had been the weapon. The forensic team was already on the scene, and I assumed Manny had made contact and would hear of any developments.
My first thought was whether or not Mrs. Michael Brothers could have done it, but that didn’t make sense. Killing Rochelle, yes. But Jennifer? No.
A short while later, I excused myself from the group, leaving them to grieve with one another while I hightailed it to Camacho’s. Selma’s terrified eyes were imprinted on my mind. The heaviness in my gut grew. Jennifer had died while I was supposed to be finding the letter-writer, who was now a potential killer. What kind of private investigator was I?
I somehow managed to push my doubt aside and focus on the situation in front of me. I had only two questions: Why had Jennifer been killed, and would someone else be next?
Chapter Eleven
The darkness outside pressed in on me as I drove back to Camacho’s. The brightness of the office was a welcome reprieve. Manny sat at the head of the conference table, the office ablaze with fluorescent ceiling lights. “This isn’t good, Lola. ¿Qué tienes? What have you got so far?”
I grimaced. “Nada. Selma got a letter at the game tonight. It’s not a death threat, though.” I pulled a plastic baggie from my purse and slid it to Manny. “This is the one from tonight.”
Manny slid the envelope from the plastic, knocked the letter free, and, using the back of a pen, unfolded the paper to read it.
I continued, frustration over my failure gnawing at my insides. “I saw the players’ locker room but the trainer was treating an injured player. There’s never a time when nobody’s around and there doesn’t seem to be a single clue in plain sight.”
For a mentor, Manny was on the quiet side. He didn’t offer a pep talk. He didn’t scold. All he said was, “You carrying?”
This was an area of contention between us. I didn’t like guns. Most detectives didn’t, actually. Too many opportunities for the weapon to be turned against you. “No.”
He grimaced, shaking his head like he was disappointed, but he dropped it. We’d been round and round about my stance, and he hadn’t worn me down yet. “We’re meeting with the detective in charge in the morning. I’ll meet you at the office, seven a.m. sharp.”
“Bueno,” I said to his back as he retreated to his office and closed the door. I turned to the whiteboards and wrote down the names of all the dancers and the number of letters they’d each received.
Jennifer 3
Tammy 2
Carrie 2
Selma 1
Vanessa 1
Geneva 1
Cassie 1
Rochelle 1
Tara 1
Nicole 2
Gina 1
I stood back and thought about what else I knew. Who had Jennifer been meeting? I thought I recognized him as Number 51. Had she been breaking her own rule and going against the contract she’d signed as a Courtside Dancer? So was there a disgruntled wife in the background?
And who was the “civilian” Cassie thought Jennifer had been seeing? Were the other dancers targets, too?
There were more questions than answers, and I went home with my head still pounding and an overwhelming feeling that I was experiencing an epic fail in my life as a detective.
…
The night passed slowly, the details of Jennifer’s death circling in my mind while I tried to sleep. Finally, I drifted off to the comforting wheeze of Salsa’s snoring, but morning came way too soon.
After a quick shower and a banana, I released my boxer to the backyard, slipped a suede jacket over my blouse, and headed out. Manny was in his office behind his desk. Another man sat in one of the wood-framed chairs opposite him. “Detective Bennett. Dolores Cruz, one of my investigators,” Manny said as I walked in. “Detective Bennett is investigating Ms. Wallace’s death.”
I held out my hand, taking in the detective’s features. He was young, probably mid-thirties, had short, dark-brown hair, and a strong, square face.
“After seeing you on the big screen last night, I almost feel like I know you.” He shook my hand, lingering for an extra, uncomfortable beat and studying me with his piercing, small black eyes.
I tamped down the embarrassed heat I felt rising up my neck. “So you’re a Royals fan?”
He winked. “Season tickets.”
I pulled my hand free. “Great.”
After the pleasantries—if you could call them that—were over, he started tossing out questions. “What do you know about Ms. Wallace?”
My gaze met Manny’s for a split second until he gave me the go-ahead to answer the detective’s questions. I turned back to Bennett, perched on the edge of the chair next to his, inwardly grimacing that I had to confess I knew next to nothing. “She was the leader of the team. She was waiting to meet someone just before she was killed—”
“How do you know that?” Bennett interrupted.
“I talked to her as I was leaving the arena.”
“Any idea who?”
I thought about the people I’d seen in the corridor. The place had been crawling with potential “civilians.” “Not really. She did talk to one of the ballplayers. But I’m not sure which one.”
My hunch that it was Number 51 was just that—a hunch. I’d tell Manny after the detective was gone, but without proof, I decided not to mention it. I couldn’t, in good conscience, throw someone under the bus without evidence.
“Did she ever sleep with any of the players?”
I felt my eyes grow wide. The guy was blunt. “I didn’t know her that well. You should ask the other girls.”
“I’m asking you.”
Huh. I didn’t know what to say to that. “It’s against the rules. All the girls sign a contract that says they won’t fraternize with the players. She told me she was seeing someone. Not a player.”
Bennett had been jotting down notes as I spoke. Now he lifted his dark eyes to me. “Did you?�
�
“Did I what?”
“Did you sign a contract?”
I glanced at Manny. He sat perfectly still, considering me as I spoke with the detective. “No. My contract is with Camacho & Associates. We were hired by the owners of the dance team and I’m undercover.”
“Uh-huh.” Bennett wrote something in his notepad. “So you’re free to do what you like.”
Like sleep with giant athletes? Not my cup of tea. “I’m free to investigate the case I’m working,” I shot back.
He moved on, not missing a beat. “And have you seen the other girls fraternize?”
“I know Rochelle Nolan did. She left the team. So far, I haven’t seen any other…fraternizing.” And I’d been looking for it. “But I’ve only been with the team for two games now. I need more time.”
He flashed another smile, but it lacked sincerity. “I’ll give you more time, Ms. Cruz. As long as you still have a client, you’ll have leeway from the department, but if Victoria and Lance Wolfe cut you loose, you’ll back off. A warning: don’t get in our way.”
I bristled, but before I could react, Manny stood. “Thanks for your help, Bennett.”
“Yep.” They shook hands.
Biting my tongue, I offered my hand next. Bennett took it, holding it loosely.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said, wanting nothing more than to give a good shake, twist his arm until he spun around, and crank it up in the back to show him that I was a whole lot more than the skin he’d seen at the game.
But I didn’t.
“Oh no, I’ll be in touch. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cruz.”
I gave a half nod. And no smile. He was smarmy, and I suddenly missed Detective Seavers—who was not my biggest fan, but who didn’t leave me feeling like I needed a shower.
Neil lumbered in as Manny and I headed out the door of the firm. Reilly was maneuvering herself out of her lime-green Volkswagen Beetle. So Neil went in first, then Reilly. Trying to deflect suspicion that they’d arrived at the same time. Smooth, but from the expression on Manny’s face, not smooth enough. Nothing got past el jefe, as Reilly called our boss.
