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

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  “Lola! It’s Lucy. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  Jack shifted under me. The hard pressure of him turned my stomach to knots. My throat constricted. My eyelids fluttered closed as he kissed my neck, trailing his tongue across my collarbone. The whisper of his lips against the swell of my breasts made me gasp. His hands crept up my sides, his fingers spreading along my rib cage, edging up. Up. Up.

  “Uh—h-hi, L-Lucy.” I tried to focus on the phone call instead of on Jack. Impossible. With his free hand, he lifted the ruffles and undid the top buttons of my blouse, easing the lace of my bra down. Blood pounded in my head as his hands, then his mouth, took over. Focus! I spoke into the phone. “I—Is everything—ahhh—”

  “Are you all right?” Lucy’s voice sounded faint and far away.

  No! Jack was like a drug. “Uh—” I swallowed, trying to pull myself together, scared of how out of control I felt. I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t move. When his mouth latched on to my nipple, I turned into a statue.

  “Fine. I-I’m fine.” How I got the words out, I’ll never know.

  “Lola?”

  Jack pulled me closer. I wanted to fall into him. “Y-yes?”

  “What’s going on? Are the kids okay?”

  Lucy’s sharp voice cut through the fog in my brain. I pulled myself together enough to answer coherently. “I’m fine.” I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. “Just thinking about my case.”

  “God, you scared me!” She laughed nervously. “I thought there was a home invasion going on, or something.”

  I giggled more nervously than she had. It was more like an emotional and physical invasion. “N-no!”

  “There’s not, is there? A home invasion, I mean. Do you need to use a code word? You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine!” I said with more force than I thought I could muster. “You should be out dancing!” Good girl, Lola. I sounded halfway normal.

  “We just wanted to check on the kids.” She paused, then said oh-so-matter-of-factly, “Oh. My. God. You’re not alone.”

  I craned my neck to look around. Oh, crap, did they have a nanny cam? Were we being filmed right now? I jerked away from Jack, pulling my blouse together. “Why do you say that?”

  “Ha!” she exclaimed, and I jumped. “I knew it! You’re not, are you. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Had she developed some telepathic abilities while I wasn’t looking? “Yes,” I admitted. “You’re right.”

  Jack raked his hand through his hair as I snatched my wineglass and poured myself a refill, drinking down half of it in one gulp. I shouldn’t be drinking on the babysitting job, I realized, but I was in a tailspin. I put the glass down and turned my back on it. Alcohol. That had gotten me into this situation in the first place. Lowered my inhibitions, dulled my senses.

  A thought shot into my brain. If Rosie didn’t drink as a general rule, but had been drinking at Juana Zuniga’s, she might have been loose-lipped about something. Said a little too much, maybe. I’d ask good ol’ Bill the neighbor, if I ever had the opportunity to speak to him.

  Jack bent forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his forehead in his hands. I could almost hear him singing our song. Damn, baby. You frus-trate me.

  “Hello? Lola?”

  Lucy’s voice knocked me out of my reflections. “I’m here.”

  “Is it Jack?”

  “Por supuesto,” I said with a sigh. I flicked my eyes toward him again. There could be no other. He was pointing the remote at the TV, flipping through channels. Guess he was over the moment.

  “Don’t you dare have your first time with him in my bed, Lola Cruz!”

  “Ew! God, Lucy—how can you even think that?” I cupped my hand over my eyes, way too embarrassed to mention that it might have happened on her oversized chair if her phone call hadn’t interrupted us.

  “Sorry,” she said quickly. “Thanks for staying with the kids. They’re good?”

  “Perfect. All tucked in.”

  We said good night, and I hung up. The phone call had given me time to cool off and think clearly. It had apparently done the same for Jack. He sat with his wineglass balanced on his knee, barely smiling at the punch lines of the movie he’d turned on. He was tuned out to everything but the blue light of the television.

  I sat on the couch, three times almost going over to him, three times changing my mind, knowing if we started again, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I sighed, louder than I’d intended.

  “You okay?”

  I jumped at Jack’s voice. And I’d thought he wasn’t paying attention. “I’m fine.” I tucked my feet under me and tried to concentrate on the movie, the images blurring, the sounds like echoes in my mind.

  After an eternity—and then some—the movie ended. I glanced at my watch. One fifteen. I began retrieving pillows from the floor and tossing them onto the couches, folding the picnic blanket with gusto, picking up stray pieces of popcorn from the shaggy carpet.

  Jack watched me as I moved around the room. The image of him playing monster with Zac and Lucy’s kids popped into my head, and my warm feelings toward him strengthened. He was dad material. How could I never have seen that before? ¡Dios mío! I was in trouble.

  His voice startled me. “It’s late. I should go.”

  He should, but he didn’t have a car. “Your sister’s probably sleeping.” I kept talking, my mouth operating independently from my mind. “You should just spend the night,” I offered. It was the charitable thing to do.

  His face was unreadable. “You sure?”

  Not even close. Had I lost my mind? “Of course,” I said, and I knew that I had. Lost my sanity. Completely.

  Scenarios played out in my mind. Jack and me in the master bedroom when one of the kids wanders in. Jack and me not making it to the bedroom… and one of the kids wanders in. Jack and me making our own kid, since his box of For Her Pleasure Trojans was tucked safely in his medicine cabinet.

  How people with kids continued to have an active sex life without being busted by their offspring was un grande mystery.

  In the end, Jack slept on the couch.

  I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable in a strange bed, more unable to get Jack off my mind, and my thoughts continually circling around to Rosie. Finally I shoved the pillow over my face and drifted off.

  Five minutes later—at least that’s what it felt like—cartoon voices blared from the television. Kids. This was what it was like waking up to kids.

  I threw back the comforter and padded out to the living room, stopping short at the sight in front of me. ZJ was enveloped in a blanket on the chair Jack and I had shared the night before, eyes glued to the TV. Jack lay on his side, his body stretched the full length of the couch, his legs curled slightly. Chris and Mia cuddled up in the space behind his legs, a little boat on the couch. Chris laughed; Jack ruffled his hair; Mia snuggled in a little closer; Jack wrapped his arm around her, giving her a squeeze; and my heart twisted at the sight of it all.

  I tiptoed back to the bedroom, gathered my things, and quickly showered. With clean clothes, combed-out wet hair, and brushed teeth, I went out to start breakfast for the kids.

  “Bacon!” Mia exclaimed from the kitchen entrance a few minutes later. She rubbed her tummy through her flannel nightgown, then clapped. “I love bacon!”

  “Buenos días,” I said, cracking an egg into a bowl. “Everyone like scrambled eggs?”

  “And toast?” Chris asked.

  “And toast,” I said, the toaster popping out four slices at that very moment. I skimmed butter across them, stacked them on a plate, added four more slices to toast, and went back to the eggs.

  “Mind if I shower?” Jack’s morning voice was husky from the night’s sleep.

  “Sure,” I said, staying focused on my eggs. I didn’t want to see his tousled hair and his unshaven face again. A minute later, I heard the water turn on in the bathroom and the faint click of the shower door closing. I swallowed hard, trying
not to picture him.

  I don’t know why I even bothered. The photographs I’d taken of Jack after he’d gotten to know Greta Pritchard—in a biblical sense—were embedded in my mind as if it were me he’d been getting busy with in the backseat of his car. I had only to close my eyes to picture him sin ropa.

  I stirred the eggs, bracing myself with one hand stretched onto the counter… . Good God. He was fifty feet away from me… naked. Jack, not God.

  “Are they almost done?” ZJ asked, pouring himself a glass of pineapple-orange juice.

  “What? Oh, yes. Just about perfect.”

  I laid three plates on the counter, scooped a spoonful of eggs onto each, added two strips of bacon and a slice of toast. “Do you want me to get Jack?” Chris asked.

  “No,” I said quickly. “You eat. I’ll get him.” Bad Lola. But I marched into the bedroom anyway. The bathroom door was half-open. I listened for a sound. The water was off. Tiptoeing toward the door, I leaned one ear closer. It was utterly silent in the bathroom. Just a little peek…

  “Looking for me?”

  I jumped, clasping my hands to my chest. Wheeling around, I caught my breath. Jack stood next to the dresser, towel-drying his hair. His jeans were unbuttoned, riding low on his hips, with what looked like nothing underneath. My gaze slowed at the spattering of tawny hair that crept up from his waistband. I gulped. And that tattoo. What was it? A Chinese symbol? A spiral? My name in Old English lettering?

  I tried to speak, but my voice stuck. After clearing my throat I tried again. “B-breakfast is ready.”

  He smiled at me, an enticing, full-dimpled affair that sent my head reeling.

  “So, just letting you know.” Then mustering as much dignity as I could—after being busted as a peeping Tom—I walked calmly out of the room, closing the door behind me. In the hallway and out of sight, I collapsed against the wall, buckling over to catch my breath.

  The door handle turned. I sprinted for the kitchen, snatched a plate from the cabinet, and flung eggs onto it.

  “I’ve been thinking about the Rosie situation,” he said as he walked in.

  “Who’s Rosie?” ZJ asked through a mouthful of eggs.

  “She’s a woman I… I know,” I said.

  That satisfied them. They went back to their conversation—an animated discussion about the importance of a secret handshake between best friends, because best friends kept your secrets, Mia was saying.

  “Best friends kept your secrets,” I repeated thoughtfully.

  Suddenly Jack was by my side. “You have an idea?”

  “Just wondering how to track down Rosie’s best friend. Or any friend, for that matter. Juana didn’t know her. Bill, the neighbor, argued with her. Other than that, I have nothing. Francisco’s MIA. If Rosie had a friend. A best friend who she confided in…” I trailed off, trying to figure out how to track down someone else in Rosie’s life.

  “That’s your focus today?”

  I nodded as I handed him the plate. “That’s my focus for today. Someone knows something.” Nobody, I reasoned, was completely alone in the world, and I knew Rosie wasn’t the exception to that rule, since she’d stolen my identity. She was running from something.

  Chapter 19

  The low hum of a camera clicked on the second I entered Camacho’s lobby the next morning. The surveillance unit mounted in the corner had come to life. It followed me, then rattled back to its position aimed at the entrance after I turned into the conference room. Like a Pavlovian response to all the uncertainties going on here lately, my heart started pounding erratically, but I willed it into submission. I was a damn good detective, a loyal employee, honest, and if that wasn’t good enough for el bosso, then that just wasn’t my problem.

  Neil—with an ei—lumbered out of the Lair carrying a ladder as if it were a feather. His heavy head seemed to smash into his body, erasing any sign of his neck. “It worked,” I said to him. “I heard it, though. It kind of rattles.”

  He gave me one abrupt nod, then set the ladder up in the lobby, hauled his body up it, and began tinkering with the camera mount.

  “Tom has sound now,” he announced a minute later.

  “Tom?”

  He answered as he tightened a screw. “As in peeping.”

  I cringed inside at the implication of Neil naming his surveillance system Tom. “Isn’t anything sacred here? No privacy at all?”

  “Sure. The john, the boss’s office, and the Lair.” No one was allowed into the Lair without an invitation.

  I preferred not to go into the Lair at all—even with an invitation. And I thanked God it was Tom-free—for Reilly’s sake.

  The girl herself sat busily typing as I entered the conference room. “Hey, you’re here,” I said, but what I was thinking was, Please don’t let Neil film you.

  “Hey, chica.”

  There were two things about Reilly that would never change. One, she was a Latina in a white girl’s body. Two, she had style, with a capital S. Case in point? Today her hair was purple. The spy girl was gone, and in her place was the Crayola girl I knew and loved.

  “Any chisme?” I asked, wishing the gossip she’d share would include her own supersecret activities—with Neil and with Manny.

  “Nada word,” she said, cracking herself up at her crafty double entendre. “As Camacho Turns is off the air today. No good story lines.”

  “Except for you and”—I jerked my head toward the lobby, where Neil was fiddling with his system—“teddy bear.”

  Identity theft was a much bigger deal than a love affair with a coworker or a mum’s-the-word mission for a boss. If Reilly wouldn’t fess up about her secrets, I doubted Rosie Gonzales would have fessed up about hers to a friend.

  Her expression said ¡Cállate! and she held a finger to her lips. So the ei-couple was still top secret.

  I braced my hands on her desk and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “You know you can’t keep this secret forever. True love can’t be silenced.” I thought about it for a second, then added, “And best friends should be trusted.” True, the statement could be construed as un poquito manipulative, but it was for a good cause. If Reilly needed protecting, I had to know what to protect her from.

  She arched a skeptical brow at me. “Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “If it can’t be silenced, then what, exactly, is the deal with you and Jack-o?”

  I held my tongue as Neil lumbered back into the Lair. I waited until his door had closed before saying, “No deal.” Though if I believed my own cliché about true love, Jack and I were destined to be together.

  I waited while Reilly thought about her options. “Okay, look,” she finally said, “I can tell you this.” She darted a quick look around the conference room to make sure there were no lurkers. The coast was clear.

  I held my breath.

  “El bosso Camacho is hiding something pretty big.” She whispered so quietly, I could hardly hear her.

  “What is it?” I asked, resisting the follow-up question of How did you get involved?

  “He trusted me,” she murmured. “He’s fighting to keep this place open—”

  I gasped. Camacho and Associates might go under?

  She squeezed my wrist. “There’s more,” she said with hushed urgency. “He co-owns it—”

  I interrupted again. “With who?”

  “I can’t say.” Her grip tightened, and she darted another glance around. “There’s more. He’s trying to keep his majority over his silent partner, but he’s also fighting for something else.”

  An exasperated sigh slipped through my lips. “What else?”

  “It’s bigger than this business,” she whispered just as the door to the Lair flung open and banged against the wall.

  Reilly and I turned to see Neil standing in the doorway, heavy booted feet spread wide and planted firmly on the ground. “Sugarplum,” he barked. “In here.”

  For a second I thought he was alerting us about
a sugarplum invasion in the Lair; then Reilly stood, patted her purple hair, and glided toward him.

  He’d called her sugarplum. Ay, caramba, Neil had a pet name for Reilly. Absolutely shocking.

  The faint click of Tom reached my ears. The whole office was under surveillance—at all times. I suddenly understood Neil’s intrusion into Reilly’s conversation with me. Tom had sound now. Had Neil heard his sugarplum reveal part of the secrets she’d sworn to keep?

  My gut twisted. I felt like a heel for trying to manipulate Reilly into breaking a confidence. If Neil was going to blame someone, it should be me. I marched to the Lair, knocked three times, and opened the door just a crack.

  I expected to find Neil reading Reilly the riot act. Instead what I saw resembled the encounter I’d walked in on between Sadie and Manny. It was way more intimacy than I wanted to see between two people.

  At least Reilly wasn’t being punished—or at least it was voluntary punishment that she looked like she was fully enjoying.

  Locking the image away in my mind—and throwing away the key—brought my thoughts back to secrets. That was the underlying theme of this case—and my life. Almost everyone had secrets. Manny. Reilly. Jack. Neil. Only Antonio and Sylvia were free and clear, though I wondered if Sylvia really knew about my brother’s playboy reputation.

  I focused on Rosie. She had to have confessed to someone. I started by reviewing my case questions:

  Who had a motive to kill her?

  Better yet, what was the motive?

  Presumably Francisco, Rosie’s boyfriend (or husband) had vanished with the child. I wrote down the logical questions:

  KIDNAPPING??? MOTIVE???

  If Francisco was Junior’s father and had killed Rosie, he was obviously on the lam. But what would his motive for killing her be? If it was custody related, why not use the court system? From the looks of Rosie’s apartment, she hadn’t had a lot of money to throw into a court battle, so it would have been cut-and-dried—split custody—or favoring the mother.