Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 02 - Hasta la Vista, Lola!

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  Sylvia stiffened beside me. “Like a robbery?”

  “Someone robbed us? When we were, like, here?” The pitch of Chely’s voice rose. “My mom’s going to freak!”

  “Cálmate sobrina.” My father rubbed a hand over Chely’s back. “Everything is fine.” He turned to Antonio. “See if anything is missing, mi’jo.”

  Antonio took the stairs two at a time, Sylvia and I right behind him. “I can’t believe this,” she whispered. “You think your old boyfriend did this?”

  I knew my face was strained when I turned to look at her. “It’s possible, though I can’t think of a motive.”

  We stood in the doorway while Antonio searched the room. He went through his papers, methodically stacking them into organized piles. “Nothing missing here,” he announced after a few minutes.

  Sylvia fidgeted beside me. “What would someone want in here?”

  That was a good question. The day’s cash and other important documents were in the safe. There was account information from our vendors and personal belongings in the room, but nothing worth stealing.

  I frowned as Antonio comforted Sylvia with a touch on her arm. “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.”

  I peered at my brother, trying to catch his eye. He ignored me. Guilt-ridden, I saw my future flash before me. Antonio would break Sylvia’s heart, and I’d be working the lunch and dinner shifts again, probably sooner rather than later. I scolded myself for my selfishness. He was just comforting her. Compassionate, like Jack. I hoped.

  “Check your lockers,” Antonio told us.

  “I already did,” I said.

  Sylvia raced to hers and threw open the door. While she rummaged through her belongings, Antonio turned to me. He laced his hands behind his head. “Is anything gone?” he asked me.

  “I’m trying to remember what I had—”

  A gurgled choke from Sylvia stopped my words cold. She clutched the photographs of her kids in her hand. Her skin had turned a sickly green. She stared at the floor.

  I went to her. “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head, laying the pictures of her kids down in her locker.

  “Is anything missing?”

  “My baby.” Her voice had fallen to a whisper, her face panicked beyond belief.

  “You mean his picture?”

  She nodded.

  I pointed to the pictures she held in her hands. “Those were on the floor. I’m sure it’s here.” A sudden panic filled my gut. I knew it was a picture of the baby she’d lost. I dropped to my knees and peered under the lockers. “I see something!”

  Antonio moved to the wall, braced his legs, rooting them like tree trunks, and gripped the wall of lockers. He took a deep breath and heaved. The lockers didn’t budge. He tried again, grunting through tight lips.

  “They’re not going anywhere.”

  Sylvia sniffled, wiping her fingers under her eyes. Antonio put his arm around her and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’ll keep trying.”

  Sylvia nodded, placing her other pictures in her pocket for safekeeping.

  Antonio picked up Chely’s sweatshirt, giving it a good shake like he expected something incriminating to fall out. Sylvia closed her locker and retied her apron. “I better get back,” she said, wiping away a final tear. All the spunk seemed to have been washed clean out of her.

  Antonio gave her arm another squeeze. “Do you need a break?”

  Real concern was painted on my brother’s face. It was an unexpected picture, and if I had to bet my life on it, I’d say it was genuine.

  Sylvia shook her head. “I’m okay.”

  “You have other pictures, right?” he asked.

  She swiped at another tear, pulled her head stoically high, and nodded. “Of course. Of course I do.” She pulled her lips into a strained smile that made me wonder if she was telling the truth. “I’m fine,” she said again before heading back down the stairs.

  I peered out the door to make sure she was gone before turning on my brother.

  “You better not take advantage of her when she’s weak, Tonio.”

  “Maybe she needs someone to show her some interest. Her ex-husband sure as hell didn’t. Doesn’t,” he corrected. “He drops her off sometimes, and she barely gets her feet on the ground before he peels out of here.”

  I’d never seen Antonio so worked up over a woman. His face was flushed, his goatee giving him a thoroughly menacing look.

  “I mean what kind of man leaves a grieving wife and his other kids?” he said, barely controlling his rage. “He walked out on them.”

  I poked my finger in my ear. Had I heard right? Was Antonio making mature statements about responsibilities in a relationship? “What happened?”

  “He split—asshole—right after the fire.”

  I sucked in a breath. “It was a fire? That’s how they lost the baby?”

  He dipped his head in a nod. “Babysitter was watching the kids.”

  Sylvia’s experience certainly put a petty theft into perspective. I hit Antonio on the arm. “You have to stay away from her. She won’t be able to handle it if you break her heart.”

  “Give me some credit, would you? It’s not like I’m going to marry her, for Chrissake.”

  “Does she know you’re not the marrying kind? She needs full disclosure.”

  “No, what she needs is someone to listen to her. The other day she went on and on about how her baby burned to ash and blew away on the wind. She’s a mess.”

  I sank into the chair at Antonio’s desk. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the anguish. Antonio went back to straightening up the break room. I spoke to his back. “You better get those lockers moved and find that picture for her.”

  He turned back to face me. “I will, Lola.”

  “But will you stay away from her?”

  “No.”

  I sighed. Antonio and I were cut from the same cloth, stubborn to a fault. Gracie and Ray made out with the more rational genes. Pushing the issue with Antonio just might make him dig in his heels even more.

  “You really think this was Sergio’s doing?” Antonio asked with a quick change of subject.

  “Maybe not…” I trailed off, knowing that Sergio being involved didn’t make sense. The fact that my address book might be gone felt like a stone in my gut. The break-in had to be about Rosie Gonzales and the identity theft.

  Chapter 16

  It had been a long day of discovery and disappointment. I changed into my flannel boxers and my sleep tank, downed a glass of ice water, brushed out my hair, and crawled into bed.

  I didn’t want to think about Rosie Gonzales, Lucy and Zac, or Jack. Especially Jack.

  But what I wanted didn’t matter. Their faces buzzed around behind my eyes like flies circling a picnic spread. Squeezing my eyes tighter made their images distort, but they clarified again once I unclenched. The glamorous life of a detective wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I was frazzled and tired, but the faces were like ghosts—ever-present and haunting.

  Smothering my face with my pillow, I shouted, “¡Duerme!”

  Finally, growing heavy, my legs began to sink into the mattress. My eyelids fluttered closed. Every cell relaxed.

  Until I bolted upright, disoriented. Bleary-eyed and groggy, I identified the culprit of my fitful night’s sleep: daylight. And a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I went through my normal morning routine: showering, straightening the house, and releasing Salsa to freedom.

  At the table, eating my girl-power breakfast, I flipped open the Sacramento Bee and found the Metro section and Jack’s byline. His photo smiled up at me.

  He had a casual man-about-town kind of style, storytelling with some hard facts woven in to drive home his point. His columns were usually a good break from the heaviness of the regular news articles. I scanned the beginning of his column.

  What does identity theft mean? If our identities are not safe, if we are not whom people believe us to be, how do we tru
st anyone? How do you know if Aunt Kristen is really Aunt Kristen? Could she have a secret life, another identity that no one knows about?

  When did people forget the value of hard work and forgo the satisfaction of a job well done? Identity theft has erased our sense of security; not even our garbage is safe from the twenty-first-century criminal. I recently spoke with a man who spent the better part of ten years stealing the details of other people’s lives… .

  Jack had hit a home run with his column. It spurred me back to my investigation. Starting with Bill Johnson. I dialed him again, and after three rings, a man’s voice barreled across the line. His answering machine, again. I hung up again without leaving a message. I’d pay the man a visit tonight.

  I headed straight to Camacho and Associates and walked into the conference room with more confidence than I’d felt since my close encounter with Manny and Sadie. They could do what they wanted; what did I care? I refused to give it another thought.

  “Lola!”

  “Reilly! Oh my God! You’re actually here!” She was at her desk, tapping away on the computer, like she had no sudden secret spy life. I stopped right next to her.

  She quickly minimized the open screen on her monitor and spun her chair so we were knee to knee. Her hair was still raven black, and her sunglasses hung from the V in her shirt. Her very black, very tailored, very non-Reilly-looking shirt. “I’m here”—her gaze darted from side to side—“but not for long.”

  I grew instantly suspicious. “Why not for long?”

  “My top secret mission isn’t over yet.”

  Leaning in close to her ear, I whispered, “Will you self-destruct if you tell me what your mission is about?”

  She drew her fingers across her sealed lips, turning them and throwing away an imaginary key.

  Curiosity got the better of me. The questions poured out of me. “When are you leaving? How can your secret mission not be over? Did you get your PI license when I wasn’t looking? I miss you! You have to spill the chisme!” I might as well have been channeling Reilly herself, the way I rattled on and on.

  Her eyes twinkled; her grin stretched across her face. I couldn’t remember when I’d seen her so happy. Then she said in one hurried breath, “I’ll be here another fifteen minutes. The mission’s not over until el bosso says it’s over. No, no PI license. I miss you, too! I have no gossip to tell.”

  “Top secret,” I muttered. “You can’t tell me, or you won’t?” My stomach plunged to my feet. Reilly usually told me everything. This was not good.

  She shook her head, her grin turning sly. “I gave my word. Lo siento, chica.”

  Her new 007 status hadn’t improved her Spanish accent, but her ethics were intact. I had to give her props for that. “At least tell me what happened to your hair.”

  She patted her head. “Sexy, huh?”

  I frowned. I liked the neon-bright colors she usually chose. Black was so… so boring on her. “What happened to the blue?” It had been almost fluorescent, like the tip of a heat-seeking missile.

  “Oh.” Her face lit up. “Right. I decided blue was too electric.”

  “So you decided to channel Morticia Addams?” I felt her forehead, checking for fever. “You sure you’re feeling okay?”

  She looked around, checking the office for eavesdroppers. There were none to be found, but she lowered her voice anyway. “Don’t worry, this is just temporary. Teddy Bear likes my wild side.”

  “Teddy Bear?” I stared at her. “Did I miss something?”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “I can’t really tell you,” she whispered. “It’s kind of a secret, too.”

  “Reilly Fuller, did you get yourself a boyfriend while I wasn’t looking?” I heaved a sigh. Maybe that was the top secret secret! But no, she’d said too, implying she was involved in more than one covert operation.

  Her blush deepened. “I wouldn’t exactly call him a boyfriend.”

  “What would you call him?”

  Her nose scrunched up, and she shook her head. “He’s more like my caveman.”

  At precisely that moment, Neil Lashby lumbered out of the Lair. He grunted at me, double grunted at Reilly, and continued on his way. Mr. Personable, that was our Neil. Now, there was a caveman.

  My mind screeched to a halt and rewound. Neil’s contact at the DMV had called him a teddy bear. “Oh. My. God.” I ran to the lobby of Camacho and Associates, hid in plain sight next to the sad little fake fern I loved, and watched Neil galumph through the parking lot. In a flash, I was back at Reilly’s desk. She’d scarcely moved a muscle. “Caveman?” I asked. “Seriously? Dígame, Reilly. Neil?”

  Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip, and she looked down at her desk. “That special assignment?”

  “Yes?”

  She nodded. “I’m doing it with Neil.”

  “Doing it with Neil,” I repeated, one of my eyebrows arched at her word choice. “Really?”

  Her eyes bugged. “I meant on the case. Watching el bosso’s da—”

  I was on the edge of my imaginary seat, but she caught herself in time and clamped her mouth shut.

  “Watching Manny’s what?”

  But she wasn’t telling. She got a gleam in her eyes. “Did you know that Neil and me both have the same vowel combination in our names? It’s, like, kismet. I mean how many names have an e followed by an i?”

  I drew a blank, but gave her another set of props for her quick subject change.

  “There aren’t many, believe me. Reinhold, Heidi, Einar, Eino, Deirdre, Keisha, Leila, Keido, Sheila. And only three are men’s names.”

  I blinked.

  “I’ve memorized them all,” she said sheepishly. She looked innocent and earnest. “Admit it, Lola, what are the odds that two people with that vowel combination would work at the same place?”

  I was still stuck on the fact that Manny had sent her on a top secret mission for him, but she was serious about the vowel thing. “I guess it is a pretty big coincidence,” I agreed. “But do you really think it’s fate? I mean, you’ve worked here a long time. So has Neil. And you’ve never mentioned the vowel thing before.”

  She frowned. “Oh. Yeah, right.”

  I couldn’t stand to see her looking so deflated. “But I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” I gave her a bolstering smile. “He did give you a double grunt. I’ve never seen him do that for anyone.”

  She inflated again. “I thought so, too!” Her eyelashes fluttered.

  “You sure you can’t give me a hint about the special assignment?”

  She put her finger to her lips. “Can’t. Like I said, top secret. Teddy Bear would spank me silly if I spilled any info about it. Ooh, but I might like that.” Her grin turned naughty.

  I poked my fingers in my ears. “TMI, Reilly. I don’t want to know that about you and Neil.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “Lemme tell ya, though, he’s gooood.”

  “Who’s good?” Sadie glided up to us, her presence like the residual smoke after a nuclear explosion. She was that much of a downer.

  Reilly gasped and slammed her lips shut. She silently pleaded with me to keep her secret.

  I turned to Sadie. I kept the one I actually knew. “Did you ever notice that both Neil and Reilly have an e, then an i, in their names.” I chuckled. “Isn’t that wild!”

  “Yeah,” she said drolly. “Wild. Alert the media.”

  I winked at Reilly, trying to be upbeat and optimistic. Surely I was overanalyzing things. At the whiteboard, I uncapped the dry-erase marker and began writing.

  Drug rehab

  Rosie enrolled at Sac State

  Her son registered at campus child care facility / Rosie’s name on emergency information sheet / also Francisco Zuniga. Boyfriend or husband? Domestic violence? Does he have the boy? WHERE IS THE BOY?!

  Birthday party invitation; Rosie came as Francisco’s guest

  At the party, Rosie argued with neighbor Bill; Why?

  Again, where is Ju nior?


  Did she kick her drug habit?

  Recapping the marker, I headed for Manny’s office. I rapped quickly on the door. “It’s Dolores.”

  “Come in,” he said, the gruffness in his voice throat-deep.

  I opened the door, cautiously peeking through the crack before swinging it wide. He was alone. Phew. I hadn’t seen Sadie slip into his office, but I’d made that mistake once before.

  “Good morning,” I said, making my voice extra pleasant.

  Manny sat behind his desk, his eyes riveted on the computer monitor. They flicked to me before returning to the computer. “Morning.” Apparently today’s jeans and shirt passed the appropriate-office-attire test. Thank God. I didn’t think I could take another blow to my ego today.

  I rattled off my newest discoveries about Rosie and the rehab center, wanting his opinion. “The drugs may have had something to do with her death,” I wrapped up.

  “People have killed for less,” he said.

  Jack had said the same thing to me. I’d had more faith in humanity than that, but I was beginning to realize that they were both right. Murder happened. Bottom line.

  I brought Manny up to speed on the birthday party and Rosie’s argument with the neighbor. When I finished the rundown, he shifted his weight and said, “What’s your hypothesis?”

  I pushed my hair behind my ears. Sometimes proving or disproving a hypothesis was easier than actually making a viable one. “That she was abused and the domestic violence went wrong.”

  Manny dropped his legs to the ground and shoved himself up. He breezed past me out of the office. I nearly fell off the edge of the chair to follow him. He marched up to the whiteboard with the Rosie Gonzales information.

  He scrutinized the list of facts and questions, turning to me after a few minutes. “The thing that strikes me is this Francisco. Who is he? Does he have the kid? Is he the father of the kid? What was their relationship like?” He pointed to where I’d written domestic violence and circled it.

  “You’re following the most obvious path,” he continued, “which is good. Even if it doesn’t lead to the truth, it may open up another door.”