Randall nodded. His braces caught on his dry lip, pulling it up into an unattractive sneer. He pulled out a campus map and held it for me to see.
“We’re here?” I asked, pointing my finger to a spot on the map.
“Right. Child care is here.” Randall indicated a building closer to admissions, where we’d just come from.
I grabbed my purse. “Thanks for your help,” I said before the door closed behind me.
Jack walked beside me, and we retraced our steps to the admissions building before veering off to the child care facility. The silence between us was electrically charged steel; thank God the walk was quick.
The child care center was a three-room structure, clean and organized. A baby room appeared to house children three and under, and a toddler room was for the over-three crowd. Thirteen kids milled around, three adults on supervision.
One of them, a middle-aged African-American woman, approached us. “I’m Ms. Nelson. Can I help you?” She had a singsong voice, flowing geometric-patterned clothing, and hair separated into more than a hundred thin braids that were pulled back into a band. She looked like she ought to be reciting poetry in an artsy coffeehouse. She probably had the voice of an angel, singing beautiful songs and telling magical stories to the kids.
I introduced myself before getting straight to the point. “Is it possible to find out if someone has their child registered here?”
She looked at me like I was a potential kidnapper. “You can’t just walk in off the street and find out about our children.” She paused. “What did you say your name was?”
“Dolores Cruz,” I repeated as I looked at the kids’ faces. I tried to pick out Rosie’s child. Was it possible he was here? Could whoever had him still be bringing him?
“That’s odd.”
I brought my attention back to her. “What’s odd?”
“I know another woman with the same name.”
“About five five, short, curly black hair, kind of plump?” Jack said, speaking for the first time.
Ms. Nelson nodded her head, her thick eyebrows knitting together. “What’s this about?”
I held out my driver’s license. “I’m Dolores Cruz. I believe the woman you’re talking about is actually Rosie Gonzales. She’s been using my name, and now she’s dead.”
Ms. Nelson’s eyes opened wide, her brown irises almost iridescent. “Come in here,” she said in a low voice. We followed her into a small office off to one side. “Have a seat.”
Jack and I sat in chairs across the desk from her. I leaned forward, my knees pressed together, anxious. What was she going to tell us? “Does her son attend here?” I asked.
Ms. Nelson hesitated again, clearing her throat. I could see the indecision on her face as she wondered if she should trust me. Finally she folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “He did. Not anymore.”
“Her real name was Rosie Gonzales. She had all my personal information. I’m trying to find out why she died.” I tried not to sound too desperate. “Anything you can tell me might help.”
“Rosie Gonzales. Rosie Gonzales? That name…” Ms. Nelson bent over the file drawer at the bottom of her desk, skimming her fingers over the tabs of the folders inside. Then, like a jack-in-the-box, she popped up, a file in her grasp. She flipped it open, scanning the information quickly, nodding. “I thought so. I go through these files pretty carefully. Rosie Gonzales is an emergency contact and a reference for Dolores Cruz. That is, for the Dolores Cruz who came here.” She slid the file across the desk for us to see.
Ms. Nelson swung her long braided strands of hair behind her back, sucking her cheeks in as she moved. She pointed to the emergency contact information on the form. “There is one other name there. Will that help?”
I peered at the writing on the information sheet. “F. Zuniga.” Excitement pricked my skin. “Francisco,” I murmured. Juana’s brother-in-law.
“No first name?” Jack asked.
Ms. Nelson shook her head. “If it’s not written there, I wouldn’t know it.”
“It’s Francisco,” I said.
Jack stared at me. “How do you know that?”
I threw him a look that said, Hello? I’m a detective, remember? I scanned the rest of the sheet. The boy went by Junior, last name Cruz. “Who usually dropped off Junior?”
“Ms. Cru—that is, Ms. Gonzales.”
“Did Mr. Zuniga ever pick him up?” I asked. Please, give me another lead, I willed. “Is there an address for him?”
She shook her head again. “Junior came only a few times. The semester just started.” She paused, thinking. “Mr. Zuniga may have come once. I’d have to check the sign-out sheets.”
It took her about five minutes to locate the signature. F. Zuniga had picked up Junior once, a week before Rosie died.
“When was the last time you saw Rosie? Do you remember?”
Ms. Nelson poked the underside of her chin with her index fingers. “I’m trying to think. She brought Junior a couple of times, but hasn’t been here for two weeks or so.”
Because she died. I thanked her, and Jack and I left.
So far, all the clues seemed to be pointing to Francisco Zuniga as the father of Rosie Gonzales’s son. It was the only plausible answer. But was he the killer?
Jack walked with sure steps, keeping half a pace ahead of me. I put my sunglasses on, my shaded eyes drifting to his back. I slowed a bit, distancing myself enough to study his stride, the shape of his back, the way his pants hung perfectly on his legs—in case I didn’t get a chance to see him like this again.
Without realizing it, I’d stopped walking, completely lost in thought. What life might have been like if Jack and I had connected before he’d found Sarah. Before he’d become engaged to her and apparently forever obligated to her. My throbbing headache was back in full force. Jack understood my passions, my job, my drive. Would there ever be anyone else who’d get me the way he did?
A hand sliced through the air in front of my face, breaking the trance. “What’s going on in there?”
I blinked, shuddering as I chased away the thoughts. I propped my sunglasses on top of my head. “Nothing.”
“Jesus, Lola. You were miles away.”
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, and started walking again.
Jack and I drove, making strained conversation.
“F. Zuniga. How am I going to find him?” I wondered aloud. His sister-in-law, Juana, said she didn’t have any idea where her brother-in-law was. Apparently, neither did her husband. I’d check the phone book and the Internet and pass the name on to Detective Seavers, but my gut was telling me it was a name that would lead to a big fat zero.
“You think he could have been the one who gave Rosie your information?”
“I don’t see how.”
“It could have been random. He could have gone through your garbage can.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. But I knew that wasn’t the answer. Something about the situation didn’t feel random. But I didn’t know Rosie or Francisco.
“Why was she killed? What was she running from?” Her death appeared to have been an act of passion, a fight gone wrong. She bled to death from a head wound. A death blow against a Dumpster. Had she fought with Francisco? And if so, how was I going to prove it?
“You’ll figure it out, Lola,” Jack said as he pulled his Volvo into the parking lot in front of Abuelita’s.
He believed in me. I couldn’t ask for more than that from a friend. “Thanks for the ride—and the contact at the college,” I said, forcing my voice to be as bland as unseasoned masa.
“Sure,” he said. Unspoken words hung in the air, but all he finally said was, “I’ll see you later.” I got out, and he rolled away.
I stared down the street long after his taillights had disappeared. His vote of confidence hadn’t been enough to fill up my emptiness.
When I pushed through the
door to the restaurant for the second time that afternoon, the clatter of happy eaters accosted my ears. Dios mío, their joy was sickening. Home. Depressing, lonely home. That’s where I wanted to be.
The dining room was full, business was booming, and Sylvia and Chely were working their butts off. Sylvia’s hair had frizzed, poking out in prickly strands all over her head. Chely’s mouth hung open, her tongue glued in the corner as she concentrated on not dropping the plates she carried.
I sighed. They needed help… and, really, could I abandon them? They were my lifeline.
On my way up to the break room to deposit my purse, I tied a half apron over my skirt and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. At the door, I stopped dead in my tracks. Antonio’s paperwork, usually neat and orderly, was scattered all over the floor. The lockers had been ransacked, the doors left wide open.
Who could have done this?
A sliver of something cream-colored caught my eye. I picked it up. My mother’s whalebone letter opener. The metal was cold in my hand.
Like a talisman, the letter opener plunged me into a memory of Sergio. We’d been dating, but things weren’t right between us. His motivation to do something with his life had been waning and I had big dreams. I wasn’t going to let him hold me back.
He’d met me at the restaurant before my shift was over. He and Antonio had done a complicated handshake, ending with Antonio punching Sergio on the arm. “Where’ve you been hiding, man? Haven’t seen you around.”
Sergio shrugged. “Been busy. A little of this and little of that. Little sis is demanding.”
He spread his fingers and laid his hand on my butt, giving a squeeze.
I reared back. “Sergio!”
In a knee-jerk reaction, I knocked his hand away. “I’m working here.”
“You can work on me,” he said, putting his hand right back where I’d just smacked it away from.
Antonio stepped up. “Hey, man—go wait in the break room.”
I didn’t want him to wait, but I needed him to. “I’ll be done in twenty minutes,” I said, pointing Sergio to the stairs.
He snaked his tongue out from between his lips. “I’ll be waiting.”
For the last time. After I was done working, I was breaking up with him, once and for all. Sergio stretched his arms wide, putting his palms against the walls of the narrow stairwell. He propelled his body up the stairs, his feet hardly making contact. His baggy tan pants bunched around his ankles, his powder blue button-up shirt neatly pressed and creased.
“What do you see in him?” Antonio asked.
“You were just giving him the handshake!”
“Yeah, but I’m not dating him.”
“Well, neither am I after tonight.”
He lowered his voice and sneaked a look around. “You’re going to dump him?” He whacked me on the back. “About time.”
“Yeah, I said. About time.” I finished my shift, gaining resolve by the second. I had to do it. After more than two miserable on-and-off years, Sergio Garcia and I were almost done. He didn’t have goals. He didn’t have ambition. He was still stuck in a high school daze, right down to his chinos and lowrider.
I untied my apron, tossing it over my shoulder as I worked up the courage to confront him. Walking slowly up the stairs, my footsteps were quiet, just like my mood.
I stopped in the doorway. Sergio’s back was turned to me, an outline of something rectangular under his shirt, tucked into the waistband of his pants. He was riffling through a locker. I watched, frozen, as he pocketed something, then moved on.
“Sergio! What are you doing?”
He spun around, his face going from caught red-handed to aw-shucks playfulness in the blink of an eye. He was not going to try to talk his way out of this!
I scanned the room. Sergio had been alone for only twenty minutes, but that had been more than enough time to systematically search the room, my mother’s desk, and most of the lockers. “I said, what are you doing?”
“Straightening things up in here. This place is a mess.”
My body shook, rage oozing out of my pores. “You’re stealing from us?”
“¿Estas loca? I told you, I’m straightening up. Nobody cleans up after themselves around here.”
“Liar. What did you take?” I plowed forward, grabbing for his pocket.
Sergio caught my wrist, gripping it tightly. I pulled my hand away, breaking free from him with a force that sent me reeling backwards.
“Get out,” I said, my voice remarkably low and even.
“Can’t.” In two steps, he closed and locked the door, cornering me between the wall and my mother’s desk.
“What happened to you?”
He just smirked and put his hands on my sides, his palms hard against my hipbones. “Nothing happened to me,” he said.
I heaved my knee up, but it caught air instead of his family jewels.
“What happened to you?” he sneered, his grip on me making me immobile. “You used to be fun.”
My eyes searched my mother’s desk, looking for a weapon. I saw it. I reached my hand out to the desk, spread my fingers, and grasped the whalebone handle of her letter opener. In one swift motion, I pressed it against Sergio’s belly.
“What the—?”
I steadied my hand, pushing the tip of the dull blade deeper into his gut. “Back off, Sergio.”
He let go of me and backed up. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’re a lying thief, that’s what’s wrong. It’s over, Sergio. Get out.”
“What do you mean, ‘It’s over’?” He moved toward me again but stopped short when I brandished the letter opener.
“Just what it sounds like. Over. I don’t want to see you anymore. Get out.”
His black eyes became slits. “Whatever,” he finally said, shrugging his shoulders. “But you’ll come crawling back.”
I spit out a laugh. “Not a chance.” I clasped my hands together, the shiny tip of the dull blade pointing at his abdomen. “I should have dumped you a long time ago.”
“Your loss. There are plenty of women in line to take your place.”
“They can have you.”
“Oh, they already have.”
I yelled, charging forward with my weapon. “Get out!”
He fumbled as he unlocked the door, nearly tumbling backwards down the stairs.
I blinked, dislodging the old memory as I dropped my mother’s letter opener back onto the desk. Adrenaline rushed through me like a tidal wave. The break room had been violated again, so long after Sergio had been here stealing from us. He wouldn’t dare attempt it again, would he?
Surveying the room, I set to work, picking up the restaurant paperwork that Antonio had taken over now that he was manager. I restacked it neatly on his desk. The safe was secure. Nothing else seemed to be missing, so I moved on to the lockers.
I picked up Chely’s favorite hooded sweatshirt, a pack of gum, and her hairbrush—three things she almost never left home without. Next, I picked up the photographs of Sylvia’s kids, the rolled tape on the back barely tacky to the touch. I pushed them back onto the door where she’d had them, but they immediately fell down again, drifting back to the floor. I retrieved them and laid them on the bottom of her locker instead. Everything else seemed to be in place: hairbrush, hair spray, makeup bag, change of clothes.
I moved on, looking at the floor around my locker. My emergency makeup had been dumped out of its bag. An old criminal justice textbook had been carelessly thrown to the ground, pages torn. Was anything gone? I searched my locker. An extra apron. Still there. My address book. Had it been in there? I couldn’t remember and riffling through the rest of my locker didn’t jog my memory. I couldn’t really remember what else I might have had in there.
I slammed the door closed. Racing down the stairs two at a time, I barreled into Antonio at the bottom. “Whoa! Where’s the fire?” he said, catching me before we both crashed to the ground.
I caught my breath. “Someone was in the break room.”
“¿Cómo?” My father turned to us from the stove.
“Someone was in the break room.” I tugged on Antonio’s sleeve. “Your paperwork is all over the place, the lockers were ransacked, our things are on the floor—”
Papi’s face turned pale. ¿El dinero?”
“The safe’s still locked.”
He stomped his foot. “No one has been through—”
“That you saw.” If someone was hell-bent on looking for something, nothing would stop them. “You didn’t see Sergio, did you, Papi?”
“You think Sergio would do this, mi’ja?”
I knew from experience that he would, just as sure as I knew that Abuelo had an ancient secret connection to La eMe. The Mexican Mafia was a “don’t ask, don’t tell” kind of thing in the Falcón–Cruz family.
But I’d never told my parents that it was Sergio who had stolen the day’s deposits back then, and I didn’t want to tell them now. It was our own unsolved crime.
I felt Antonio behind me. “We had a run-in with Sergio last week,” I said to Papi. “Maybe he’s still mad.”
“Cabrón,” Antonio growled, slamming his open palm down on the stainless steel counter. “If he did this, I’m going to kick his ass.”
“Espera,” my father scolded. “We do not know it was Sergio.”
Chely backed into the kitchen, dumping an armful of plates into the busing container. She sucked her tongue back into her mouth. “What’s going on?”
“Did Sergio come in here today?” I asked Chely.
Her tongue found the corner of her mouth again, and her eyes rolled up as she thought. “Hmm-mm.” She shook her head. “Haven’t seen him.”
“Seen who?” Sylvia sidled up beside me, hands on her hips, looking from one face to the next.
Chely smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and frowned. “Lola’s old boyfriend. He’s kinda scary.”
“Huh,” Sylvia said. “And you think he was here?”
I shrugged. “We don’t know. Someone was in the break room going through everything. Paperwork, the lockers—”
Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 02 - Hasta la Vista, Lola! Page 19
