“Keep an open mind.”
“Always.”
My eyebrow arched skeptically. He was un poquito closed-minded when it came to Sergio, but I was beginning to think a touch of jealousy might be a good thing. “First,” I started, “there’s the fact that Sergio showed up so quickly that night when my… um… death was on the news.”
“I wanted to beat the shit out of him.”
My hero. “Second, do you remember who came with him?”
“His cousin. And a—” He stopped abruptly. “And a kid.”
“Right. Pancho.”
“O-kay,” he said, but I could tell he didn’t see the connection. “We already talked about this. You’re reaching. How could he be connected to Rosie?”
“Just listen,” I said. “Third is Rosie’s address. She lived in the south area. The same neighborhood as Sergio.”
“Yeah, we were there, remember? At her apartment.”
“From what I can tell, Pancho seems to be living with Sergio. I don’t know the street number. What if that’s the address Rosie used on the rehab paperwork? She didn’t have my ID yet.”
He considered this. Nodded. “But it still comes back to the question of how Pancho and Rosie are connected. What else do you have?”
“There’s the emergency contact form at the day care center at Sac State. It listed Francisco Zuniga as a contact.”
“Right. So?”
My skin pricked with goose bumps. This was the clincher. “Jack, in Spanish, Pancho is a nickname for Francisco.”
He connected the dots as I had. “So you think Sergio’s cousin Pancho,” he said slowly, “is our Francisco?”
My heart warmed. Our Francisco. He was in this with me. I nodded. “There’s one more thing,” I said. “All along I’ve been wondering how Rosie got my information.”
“Go ahead.”
“The box of stuff I got from Sergio’s house—”
A low growl came from deep in Jack’s throat.
Which I ignored. “Sergio had everything he would have needed in that box to give my identity to Rosie.” I ticked the items off on my fingers to confirm I wasn’t going crazy. “He had my Sac State transcripts and my financial aid application. Which had my Social Security number on it,” I added.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled.
Exactamente. It made perfect sense.
Ten minutes later, I pulled into Sergio’s parking lot, shut off my lights, and cut the engine. Urban noises filtered through my rolled-up windows: shouting and rap music, a song in Spanish, kids on bikes riding slowly through the lot, the ravaged bark of a dog and the clang of a metal fence as it crashed against its prison.
The walk to Sergio’s apartment stretched long, feeling more ominous with each step I took. My own Green Mile. Sort of. I had my deductions, but getting Sergio to confess to aiding and abetting with my identity theft was another matter altogether.
With Jack by my side, I pounded on the door. No one came to answer. I leaned closer, listening. A man yelled, and another yelled back. A child cried. My heart thundered in my chest. Rosie’s child.
I pounded again. “Open the door, Sergio!”
Jack nudged me aside and braced himself to charge the door, just as it burst open. Sergio stood there in his uniform of baggy beige Dockers and his ribbed sleeveless undershirt. He glared at Jack, then at me, his eyes bloodshot, his black hair a disheveled mess.
He started to slam the door, but my foot jutted into the opening, stopping it. “I want to talk to you.”
He pulled his mouth into a smile. “I don’t want to talk to you, chiquita.”
“Sure you do.” Jack shoved the door, but Sergio snarled and pushed back.
Jack caught the door with his hand and forced it open. “Try to stop her again, Garcia.”
Sergio crossed his arms over his chest, an ornate oval tattoo of the Virgin Mary pulsing on his arms. I didn’t know what Jack’s tattoo was of, but it was so much sexier. “What do you two want?”
Sergio’s apartment looked worse than it had the last time I’d been there. More discarded wrappers were scattered around, a garbage can overflowed with rolled-up diapers, and an empty milk gallon had begun to smell.
“Why’s the baby crying?” I asked, raising my voice over the desperate wails.
“None of your business,” Sergio said.
“Really?” I held my finger up to my cheek in a mock thinking stance. I felt the veins in my neck straining with my anger—not a good look, I was sure. “I think it’s completely my business.”
Sergio’s hands shot out at me in a flash, grabbing hold of my shoulders. Jack shouted and charged, but I wound my hands up between Sergio’s arms, knocking them away, ramming my knee up at the same time.
I caught him smack between the legs.
He buckled over, clutching himself and crying out in agony. “You really should learn not to touch me,” I said slowly.
He looked up at me through glassy eyes. “Otra vez, Dolores. ¿Qué quieres?”
“What do I want?” I laughed viciously. The deep sound, combined with my veiny neck, made me feel like the evil octopus Ursula from The Little Mermaid. “I want to know why Rosie Gonzales had my name. I want to know why she had a cell phone bill in my name. I want to know why she was registered at Sac State in my name.” I flicked my head toward the bedroom door. “I want to know whose baby that is in there.”
Sergio gurgled. “Screw you.”
I thrust my foot against his chest, and he collapsed. “I’m going to ask again, Sergio. You better come up with a better answer than that.” I ground my heel as I smiled pleasantly. “So, here we go. Why did Rosie have my name?”
“How should I know?” he choked out. “I don’t even know her.”
I shook my head, my lips pressed together. “See, I think you’re lying. You came to my parents’ house that night to see if it was me or her that died.”
“We have history, Lola. I came because I heard you were dead. I was paying my respects to your family.”
I spat out a laugh. “You have no respect for my family. You have no respect for anyone or anything. Where’s Pancho?”
Jack was already at the bedroom door. He flung it open, and Pancho stumbled out, the crying child clutched in his arms. “Let me guess,” Jack said. “You’re Francisco, and this is Rosie’s son?”
Pancho held the boy tighter, his face pale and scared, a stark contrast from the red, blotchy face of the screaming child. “My son now,” Pancho said. “I want to adopt him.”
“Cállate!” Sergio barked. “Shut the fuck up.”
I took a step backwards. Adopt? If the boy wasn’t Pancho’s, then who was the father? “What was Rosie running from?”
Sergio clawed the wall as he stood up. They both clamped their mouths shut, the baby still screaming at the top of his lungs. “Don’t you feed that child?” I demanded.
No one answered.
Muttering under my breath, I marched to the kitchen, dug through the dirty dishes, and found a baby’s bottle. Rotten milk solids floated at the bottom. I turned the hot water on and dribbled liquid soap into the bottle. Using a knife to loosen up the crusty milk, I scraped and scrubbed until I could have read the newspaper through the clear plastic.
After all that, I just hoped there was fresh milk. Crinkling my nose in preparation for an ungodly stench, I pulled open the refrigerator door. No furry cantaloupe tumbled out. I needn’t have worried. The only nutritious things in the fridge were a lone hot dog and the last bit of milk in a gallon container. About twenty cans of beer and soda toppled over haphazardly on the shelves.
After a quick smell for freshness, I poured the remaining milk into the bottle, twisted on the clean teta, and marched back to Francisco. The little boy reached out his arms the second he saw the bottle, grunting for it.
I glared at Francisco. “Why do you have this child if you can’t take care of him?”
“Don’t talk to her, Pancho,” Sergio said, his face s
till holding lingering pain.
Jack was back in bodyguard mode. He threw Sergio a threatening look.
“Yeah, don’t talk to me, Pancho,” I said. “It’ll go much better for you with the police if you don’t cooperate.”
His face contorted, and he lowered his gaze to the boy in his arms. “Police?”
“Ever hear of kidnapping? What, do you think I’m just going to forget that this boy’s mother is dead?” I glared at them both, but trained the full extent of my wrathful gaze on my ex. “And you! You have screwed with my life for the last time.”
Sergio flung his free arm along the back of the couch—the other still artfully cupping his jewels. He cocked his head at me. “Always the drama queen.”
Another growl came from Jack’s throat. “Shut up, Garcia.”
I pressed my lips together. Sergio should never procreate. I hoped I’d kneed him hard enough. “Why are you hiding?” I said to Pancho. “Did you kill Rosie?” I added, not believing it for a second. Solving the theft of my identity didn’t solve Rosie’s murder.
“No, he didn’t kill her,” Sergio barked.
I ignored him. “Tell me what happened,” I said to Pancho.
Francisco/Pancho looked like a lost puppy, wide-eyed and helpless, and wholly out of his depths. “I met Rosie after—”
Sergio slapped him on the back of his head. “Shut up!”
Jack took a menacing step forward. “She wasn’t talking to you, Garcia.”
Sergio leapt from the couch. Jack didn’t flinch.
“Isn’t that sweet,” Sergio said to me in his smarmiest voice. “You finally have one pussy-whipped.”
That did it. I swiveled my left foot sideways, cranked my right knee up at the same time, and let my leg fly out in the most controlled kick I could manage under the circumstances.
My leg was rock solid, and my foot hit Sergio squarely in the chest. I heard the air spew out of his lungs as his arms swung forward. He crashed onto his back, the wind swiftly knocked from his body.
I had no sympathy. Besides the murder, I had another unanswered question. “Did you ransack the break room at Abuelita’s?”
Sergio propped himself up on his elbows, grasping for breath, pulling himself up until he was able to lean his back against the couch. “Ancient history. Jesus, get over it already.”
“Two days ago, Sergio. Did you ransack the break room two days ago?” He looked at me like I was crazy. “Hell no.”
If not him, then who?
Sergio had given Rosie everything she needed to live her life as me. I couldn’t stand to look at his face another second, so I turned to Jack. And my jaw went slack. I didn’t think Jack could look any angrier. Rage visibly pulsed through him, his body housing pure hatred. “Call the police,” he ground out.
A thought zoomed into my head. “I have one more question.” I leaned down in front of Francisco. “Your sister-in-law—Juana. Why was Rosie arguing with her neighbor?”
The color drained from Pancho’s face. His gaze flicked to the boy in his lap. The bottle had calmed him, and the hours of crying had finally taken their toll, putting him to sleep. “She didn’t like the way he looked at her son,” he said finally.
Sergio shook his head, an exasperated sigh shooting out of his lips. “Pinche cabrón,” he muttered. “You’re so stupid. Shut. Up.”
The fact that Rosie didn’t like how Bill had looked at her son told me nothing. “Pero why?”
But Pancho was finally listening to Sergio. He kept his mouth shut.
I called Manny at the office, impatiently tapping my foot until his voice came over the line. “Camacho here.”
“It’s Dolores.”
“Dígame.” I liked that about Manny. He could tell from my voice that something was going down, and he cut to the chase.
I gave him the lowdown, ending with the fact that I was going to the Zunigas’ neighbor’s house as soon as we were done here. I felt sure Bill could give me some answers if I met him in person.
“I’m on my way.” Click. And the phone went dead.
The next twenty minutes passed agonizingly slowly, but Manny finally arrived with a detective I’d never seen before. He held out his hand to me. “Detective Martinelli.” He was tall and rangy, his hair completely white, giving him a distinguished cowboy look. A black-and-white unit arrived on the scene to take Sergio and Francisco to the station for further questioning.
I hugged the little boy, Junior, against me while we waited for the social worker to arrive to take him into protective custody. Jack and Manny stayed on opposite sides of the apartment, silently squaring off. Machismo at its finest.
Finally, the social worker came, food in hand. My heart ached when I handed the boy over and saw him cling to the woman. He inhaled the chicken pieces she gave him, sucking down milk from a fresh bottle.
Rosie’s son was finally safe.
Chapter 21
Jack and I drove to Bill’s house together. “You can leave the rest to the police,” he said. “Sergio was behind the identity theft. Why do you need to talk to this guy?”
Surely he knew me well enough to understand that I didn’t leave anything unfinished. “I told him I’d let him know about the boy. He was worried. Plus, I need to see it through. I have to know why she died, and he’s still the last person we know of who saw her alive.”
Jack squeezed my hand before we got out of the car at Bill Johnson’s house. “Rosie was already using my name at the party, so what freaked her out?” I thought aloud. “She was killed later that night. The argument she and Bill Johnson had is important. I feel it.”
Rapping on the hollow door, I was struck by how quiet the neighborhood was. A few house lights were on, but otherwise the street was dimly lit and eerily silent, void even of cars moving along the road. We stood on the porch for several minutes.
No answer.
I took a step backwards and peered up at the house. The porch was dark, but the lights were on. I knocked again, more loudly this time. Come on, Bill.
As if buckling to my will, the door jerked open and a bewildered-looking man stared out at me. He had one of those average faces that looked familiar but couldn’t be placed. “Can I help you?”
I recognized his voice from the telephone, gruff and pretty unfriendly.
Holding out a business card and my hand, I forced a smile and spoke in one breath. “I’m Dolores Cruz… . I spoke with you on the phone… . I’m sorry to come by so late… . I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
Bill’s eyebrows knit together as he studied me, taking the card and glancing at it. He must have decided that I looked harmless. He opened the door, and Jack and I passed by him. I glanced at my watch—10:43. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late. We didn’t wake your kids, did we?”
“No worries. My wife has them.” He corrected himself immediately. “Ex-wife, I mean.” He flashed a self-deprecating smile and shrugged.
From the door of the house I could almost see the entire first floor. It entered right into the family room, the kitchen straight through to the back, and a door leading to a bedroom off to one side. Jack and I followed Bill into the living room. “Hang on,” he said, holding up one finger. “I’ll be right back.”
I smiled. “Take your time.” Jack sat on the chocolate brown corduroy couch while I scanned the room, impressed by the orderliness. A few scattered toys lay about, but by and large the room was neat and tidy.
Though the light in the room was dim, I could see a layer of dust covering the television and marking where a book had been on the coffee table. Pictures of Bill’s children hung on the wall in cheap drugstore frames. They all leaned the same way, off center by an inch. One hung angled the other way, a small hospital photo of a newborn stuck in the corner of the frame. The off-white walls were stained and marked, crayon and black scuffs in crisscrossed lines.
“Drink?”
Bill held out a glass. He’d already given one to Jack. “No, tha
nk you.” I sat next to Jack, and Bill sat across from us, the ice cubes in his tumbler tinkling against the glass. “Let me get right to the point, Mr.—”
“Bill’s fine.”
“Bill. Remember the woman at the Zunigas’ birthday party? The one that you argued with?”
“I remember like it was yesterday.”
“I told you she was found dead,” I continued.
He nodded, the sallow skin on his face pinching as he listened. I got the feeling he was uncomfortable talking about a dead woman he’d known, even briefly.
“Her son was missing, but he’s been located. I’m still trying to find out what was going on in her life, though. Why she was killed.”
Bill ran his finger along the edge of his tumbler. He took a long drink before looking at me again. “So what do you want from me at this time of night? Her son was missing, but now he’s been found?”
Jack and I looked at each other. “I just want to go over the conversation you had with her again. I think something happened at that party to scare her. I haven’t been able to find a motive.”
Bill’s gaze drifted to the walls of his little house. He stood up and paced the room. I watched him, waiting. Finally, with his hand resting against one of the frames, he spoke. “I told you what happened. She got pissed ’cause I talked to her kid.”
“What did she say?” Jack asked.
Bill shrugged. “My kids wanted to play with the boy, that’s all.” He looked absently at the wall, straightening the frames.
Jack watched him carefully. “He’s the same age as yours?”
“Younger,” Bill said, his voice soft. “Where is he now?”
“He’s a lot younger than your kids.”
Bill’s voice caught in his constricted throat. “Kids don’t have to be the same age to play together.”
My mind raced through all the facts I had about Rosie Gonzales. She had a baby. She met Francisco, aka Pancho, and began a relationship. She took my identity and planned on moving. Why? She was killed after the Zunigas’ party. Random thoughts ricocheted in and out of my head. The ransacked break room. My missing address book. Bill and my doppelgänger, and their fight. Dolores. Rosie. Rosie. Dolores.
Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 02 - Hasta la Vista, Lola! Page 25
