“¡No mas!” Abuelo’s bark startled me into jumping a full three inches off my seat. “Bring me salsa!” He motioned with his hand. “Ahorita. I must speak with Dolores.”
Antonio nodded his head solemnly, as if he always did our grandfather’s bidding. “Sure thing,” he said. But as he slid out of the booth, he winked at me. I stifled a growl. The scoundrel! If he wasn’t my brother, I’d have strangled him a long time ago.
Once Antonio was out of earshot, Abuelo laid his cane across the table and focused on me. “Zacarias needs help,” he said, his voice all whispery and mobbed up.
I had completely forgotten about my cousin.
“Creo que Lucy tiene otro hombre.”
My grandmother sucked in a breath and muttered a prayer for her grandson.
“No, she doesn’t,” I said, dismissing the accusation with a flippant wave. There was no way Lucy had another man.
Abuelo nodded sagely. “Pero sí. Zacarias thinks maybe. Maybe more than one. Men come to the house, he says.”
“Abuelo, Lucy works out of her house.”
“Not on men.”
“Why not? Men can’t get facials?”
“What is this… facials?” His lips pulled down into a wrinkled frown.
Gesturing with my hands, I tried to explain. “It cleans your face and helps your skin.”
“Men do not do… that.” He wagged his finger at me from across the table. “Ayuda a tu primo.”
I threw my hands up. “Okay, okay. I’ll look into it.” I’d give Zac a call even though the idea of an adulterous Lucy was ludicrous. Abuelo had to have misunderstood Zac.
But one thing I’d realized early in my life was that it was usually easier to give in to the craziness of la familia Cruz than to fight it.
Chapter 6
You seriously think she’s having an affair?” I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it, as if it, and not my cousin Zac on the other end, were crazy.
“I don’t know. She doesn’t—We don’t—Things are different,” he finally said.
Different and difficult to talk about. “Do you want me to talk to her?”
He hemmed and hawed. “Is there another way? I don’t want you to put her on the spot.” I could hear the anguish in his voice. The respect he had for Lucy and her privacy despite his fears.
I’d wanted Abuelo to be wrong. No such luck. “I guess I could do a little surveillance,” I offered reluctantly. Spying on Lucy would be like cheating on the PI exam, but I’d never heard Zac so distraught, and I couldn’t not help him.
I headed to their house the first opportunity I had. Their Sacramento neighborhood was situated in the Pocket, a well-established enclave, the neighborhood well maintained but outdated.
I parked down the block from their chocolate-brown flat-roofed residence. The front yard was drought-resistant, covered with lava rock and ice plant rather than the more typical green foliage of other yards. I curled my lip at the cold landscape—I was a roses-and-trees kind of girl—and settled in to watch the house.
Zac had laid out a rough outline of Lucy’s schedule for me. Their three kids attended elementary school in the neighborhood. Meanwhile, Lucy operated a skin aesthetician business out of their home. Her clients came during the day, leaving her nights free for family time.
After an hour of watching zero activity at the house, I wondered how Lucy even managed to make a living. Business was not booming.
My thoughts turned to my case. If only Manny would just tell me exactly what to do to solve my case quickly and efficiently, I could get back to a paying gig. But no, even if I wasn’t billing hours, that wasn’t how my boss operated. He was more like my sensei, and in that capacity, he rarely gave me what I needed. He was more like a guide, telling me vaguely about the path I had to travel but not giving me clear directions on how to get there.
I had to work for it. Muse and formulate and figure things out for myself. I’d become a better detective because of it. Eventually.
One thing he’d taught me was that time management was crucial, so with one eye on the dead house, I jotted down notes on Rosie Gonzales and formulated questions to try to answer.
Numero uno was,
• What drove her to steal my identity?
I had absolutely no idea.
It was hard to understand how someone could give up their name and use someone else’s. I mean, I was Dolores Cruz. I could never be anyone else. Even if I married, I’d keep my name. I’d be Dolores Cruz hyphen—er—Callaghan?
My thoughts screeched to a halt. What was wrong with me? Thinking about marriage with Jack was dangerous territory. I refocused on my notes and moved on to my next question.
• How long had Rosie been Dolores Cruz?
That was one question I might be able to get answered right away.
I flipped open my phone and dialed Neil Lashby, tech guy extraordinaire of Camacho and Associates. I was new in the detective game, but he’d been at it for a decade and had sources I could only dream of. Sometimes he was willing to share; sometimes he wasn’t.
I had my notebook out, pen at the ready, in case he was in a generous mood.
He answered on the first ring. “Yo.”
“Yo,” I replied. Speaking his lingo was key. He was a man of few words and few syllables. “Has Manny filled you in on my mistaken identity thing?”
“Bad deal.”
“Yeah. Do you have a contact so I can find out if the DMV issued her a license in my name?”
“Jane Murchison,” he said without a second’s hesitation, and he rattled off a phone number.
The license could be a fake, but then again, it might not be. I added Jane’s name to my contact page. “Thanks,” I said to Neil, but the click of the phone meant that he’d ended the conversation. He was not one for small talk.
Slowly but surely, I was developing my own source list. I dialed Jane Murchison. She answered, and I started talking, telling her that Neil had referred me. “That big old teddy bear? You get to work with him?”
Were we talking about the same Neil Lashby? “Sure do,” I said, putting a smile in my voice.
“You tell him I said hi, would you?”
“Of course, Jane.” I got down to business. “You work at the DMV?”
“Worst job in the world,” she said sourly.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m sorry to live it. What do you need?”
“You won’t get in trouble for helping me?”
“Only if I get caught.” She harrumphed, and I wondered if maybe she wanted to get caught.
I better ask my questions quick. “Can you give me information about when a license was issued?”
“Let me get to that screen.” She tapped away. “Ready. Name?”
“Dolores Cruz.”
“Wait, isn’t that your name?”
“It is, but someone else was using it, too.”
“Wow. That sucks.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Got quite a few Dolores Cruzes in Sacramento. Address?”
I gave her the L Street address Rosie had used at the self-storage company.
“Here it is. Issued in April of this year.”
A chill snaked through my body. Rosie had been living as me for six months. That was a lot of time in which to do a lot of damage.
I snapped to attention as a flashy cobalt Miata zipped up in front of Lucy’s house. “Gotta go, Jane. Thanks for your help.”
“No prob. Good luck. And give that teddy bear Neil a squeeze from me.”
“Will do,” I said, thinking, No way! Giving Neil a hug was not going on to my list of things to do.
I slid down in my seat and watched a man wearing slacks, a Façonnable sweater, and Top-Siders walk up the path that led through the lava rocks to Lucy’s front door. Was he one of Lucy’s clients or the supposed lover? I jotted down the license plate number in my notebook and settled in to wait.
My mind started working again
. How else could I track down Rosie? What contacts did I have?
Only one came to mind: Jack.
He worked at the newspaper. Maybe Rosie subscribed to one. I had to go off assumptions. Her storage unit was in Sacramento. So was her fake address. She’d died in Sacramento. It only seemed logical that she’d lived here somewhere.
If she read the paper, it was most likely the Sacramento Bee. It was another long shot, but my long shots had been paying off. I snatched up my cell phone again and dialed.
“Callaghan.” His voice was clipped, like I’d caught him in the middle of something important.
“Hey, it’s Lola.”
His tone instantly turned friendly and warm. “Hey, you.”
“Hey. You must be tired.”
“A little. Sorry I called so late last night. How was the party?”
It would have been better if he’d been there. “It was fine if you like a bunch of weeping, overly dramatic women in black praying on their rosaries for my soul, which, last time I checked, was still part of me.”
He laughed. “I would have liked to see that.”
“Next time.”
“Hopefully there won’t be a next time. You dying isn’t something I want to relive.”
On that note, I cut to the chase. “I have a favor to ask.”
My ears caught the faint sound of his fingers tapping on his computer keyboard. Apparently mi amor was a multitasker. “Shoot.”
“The police identified the dead woman. Her name was Rosie Gonzales. I’m trying to track down a valid address, and so far I’m coming up empty. I was hoping you could look to see if maybe she had a newspaper subscription, and if she did, what her address is.”
The tapping stopped, and I sensed I had his full attention. “Rosie Gonzales isn’t exactly a unique name. There have to be a million of them in Sacramento and the surrounding areas.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“I can check.”
He was a good contact. Willing to hack into subscriptions to find information for me. What a guy.
I looked up and down Lucy’s street. All quiet. Miata man was still inside, getting the metrosexual treatment. “You might just skip searching Rosie,” I said, going with my instinct, “and search my name.”
“Yours.”
“She had a driver’s license in my name that she got six months ago, and she’s been using a fake address on L Street. But if she subscribed to the paper, a fake address wouldn’t work.”
“I’ll check it out and call you—”
I didn’t hear the rest of Jack’s sentence. Miata man trotted out of Lucy’s house, a decided bounce in his step. Could a facial do that? “Thanks, Jack. Gotta go.” And I snapped my cell phone shut.
I tried to determine if the man had a postcoital glow to him. He seemed to, but then again, having blackheads squeezed out of your skin probably resulted in the same glow. He hopped into his sports car and sped away. I thought about following him but decided against it. My cousin-in-law needed my business.
I pulled down the sun visor and peered into the tiny mirror, examining my olive skin. Did I need a facial? Lucy had given me one when she’d first started her business, and it had felt like a little slice of heaven. Scrutinizing my reflection, I had to admit it did look a little lackluster. A facial wouldn’t be a bad idea.
I flipped open my cell phone again and dialed the number for Skin Delicacies, Lucy’s business.
“I’d love to give you a facial, Lola!” Lucy said after she’d heard my request. Her booming voice reverberated off my eardrum, and I held the phone away. “You could sure use it after the shock you’ve had.”
“Have you been busy today?” I thought maybe I’d be able to read between the lines of her answer.
“I have an appointment with Gracie in twenty minutes. Just finished a facial. Guy gets one once a month, like clockwork.”
“Really? Men like facials?”
“Sure, some do. My client that just left, he swears they keep him young.” She dropped her voice lower, like she was afraid Miata man was still there and might overhear. “What he really needs are some breath mints. His girlfriend came with him once. I wanted to ask her how she stands it!”
Lucy flossed twice a day and had travel toothbrushes in her purse and in her car. She brushed after every meal, no matter where she was. If Miata man didn’t have excellent oral hygiene, no way was Lucy having an affair with him. One point in her favor.
We scheduled my appointment for the next day, and I hightailed it out of there. I didn’t need my sister, Gracie, to let on she’d seen me lurking outside Lucy’s house. I’d have to wait until tomorrow for Lucy to save my skin from the ills of the sun and wind and CoverGirl, and hopefully I’d be able to uncover the truth behind Zac’s concerns.
The regular staff meetings at Camacho and Associates were always every other Monday at three o’clock. Then there were the irregular ones that happened on an as-needed basis.
I swung by Mr. Zimmerman’s office first to drop off the incriminating photos of his wife, and arrived at Camacho’s at 2:58. I greeted my sad little fake fern then walked to the end of the narrow lobby and turned into the main office.
Reilly’s desk chair was vacant. I actually stopped to ponder this for a second. Reilly never missed work. She lived for the gossip and the vicarious thrills. Now it seemed she was becoming part of the gossip. Something was seriously wrong!
I dragged my feet as I approached the conference table. If my life were a comic book and I had a mortal enemy, half the time that enemy would be Sadie Metcalf. She was blond, petite, plastic, and often diabolical. Undercover work was her specialty, and even though we’d had somewhat of a breakthrough in our relationship just a week ago, one of my office survival rules was still Stay the heck away from Sadie.
Impossible when she was staring at me like she wanted to take me down.
Neil slouched in his chair. His head rested on his shoulder in lieu of a neck. He riffled through a stack of papers, presumably part of an insurance-fraud case he’d been working on forever. “Thanks for the contact,” I said to him.
“Yep.”
Manny sauntered out of his office, a stack of brown file folders under his arm. He nodded to the group gathered at the table. “Afternoon.” His gravelly voice fit his personality to a T—no frills or comfort, but it made your body tremble.
After some general housekeeping issues, he turned to me. “Zimmerman wrapped up?”
“I just gave him the photos and the final bill. Finito.”
“Focus your attention on your own investigation. Backup here as needed. But,” he added, “I can spare you only for a week.”
I nodded my understanding. I had to work fast to solve the Rosie Gonzales mystery before my time would be obligated to my paying job. “Got it.”
Manny finished up the meeting. “Refer to the roster for floor assignments,” he said in closing. He referred to reception duty at the office as “working the floor.” Personally, I think it was his way of defeminizing the duty for himself and Neil.
Sadie suddenly sat up in her chair. Cocking her head to the side, she looked at me with what I was sure was false sincerity. “I could shuffle some things and help Dolores.”
“It’s okay,” I blurted. Sadie offering to help me was like the devil bargaining for your soul. We’d called a truce—once—but it had been short-lived. I’d rather take my chances in hell.
“She’s fine,” Manny said. He might as well have added “Punto,” his statement was that final. “Everything else is status quo. Reports on my desk Wednesday.”
We were dismissed, and I immediately went to one of the whiteboards bolted around the room and reviewed the little information Manny had uncovered. It wasn’t much.
• Real name Rosie Gonzales
• Died of head wound
• Storage unit with miscellaneous items inside
• Driver’s license in my name six months ago
• Uncovered charges so f
ar for food and clothing
Nothing extravagant. This one puzzled me—if she wanted credit cards in my name to be free with her shopping, why had all her spending been so mundane? It seemed that simple thievery and high living hadn’t been the motivation for the identity theft. There was something much bigger going on here.
My cell blared “La Bamba,” and I flipped it open.
“Hey,” Jack said on the other end of the line.
Just hearing his voice again made me want to crawl to him on all fours.
Through the open door to his office, I could see Manny hunched over his desk. Hard at work, as all superdetectives should be. I capped the dry-erase pen I’d been using and searched out a private space in the office. With no better option, I settled for a corner of the lobby next to my plant. I was still in full view, but at least not in the center of the room. “Hi,” I said to Jack, wondering if my voice sounded as breathy to him as it did to me.
“I did that research you asked for. Came up with some possibilities.”
“Already? That was fast.” Shift from breathy to excited. I was impressed.
“I aim to please,” he said, and I could hear the smile behind his voice.
I flipped my notebook open to a blank page. “Okay, what’d you find?”
“We should really discuss it in person. I’ll come meet you,” he said.
“No. It’s okay.” I rubbed my temples. Much as I wanted to be distracted by him, I had to focus. Like Manny, who never let his personal life get in the way of how he ran his business. I wanted information so I could move forward and solve the mystery of Rosie Gonzales, and if I was with Jack, I might get sidetracked. “You’re working—”
“This is part of my work. I want to pick your brain.”
Red flags shot up in my head. “About what?”
“My next column is on identity theft. And since that’s what seems to have happened to you—” He paused. “My editor loves the idea.”
Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 02 - Hasta la Vista, Lola! Page 7
