Bare-Naked Lola (A Lola Cruz Mystery)

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  She waved her hand. “Not to worry. Rochelle’s gone, remember? You’ll take her spot.”

  Victoria made it sound so simple, but somehow I doubted the dancers would buy it. I sidled up to Jennifer and Selma as they gathered their purses and bags, making my first attempt at camaraderie. No dice. They didn’t flash a single pearly white.

  Victoria turned to Manny. “You’ll be in touch, I assume?”

  “Por supuesto,” he muttered, his lips curving up.

  Sadie and I both stared at him. I checked my watch to be sure it was still ticking, then I pinched myself. And grimaced from the pain. Nope, this was not a dream.

  I was pretty sure Victoria didn’t know he’d said of course, but she’d gotten something from his tone. She batted her eyes, just once, then glided away after her husband and the dancers.

  Manny walked them to the door, the surveillance camera zipping along as it recorded their departure. A moment later, Manny sauntered into his office, the almost nonexistent grin still lingering. He closed the door behind him without another glance at me or Sadie.

  “Son locos,” I muttered as Sadie shoved back her chair and marched out. I waved at the boxy camera in the corner. “Did you get all that? Enjoy the entertainment?”

  As if in response, the camera zipped up and down. Yep, in his lair, Neil was laughing his ass off.

  Chapter Two

  After spending the next ten minutes writing down information on one of the whiteboards that hung around the conference room, I dubbed the case Operation: Dance. I finished by putting the lines of the mysterious letters the dancers had received across the top of the board, then I stood back to think.

  Being a detective was like being a scientist. Manny had taught me to come up with a hypothesis and then work to prove or disprove it. Most of the time that was easier said than done. Still, I studied the facts, such as they were.

  Victoria Wolfe: director of Courtside Dancers

  Lance Wolfe: co-owner of the Royals basketball team and married to Victoria

  Rochelle Dupre: former dancer; had been having an affair with a player

  Selma Mann: current dancer — one letter

  Jennifer Wallace: current dancer — two letters

  Letters began arriving three weeks ago

  Thin and fit is out as a body type; sexy curves are the preferred for Courtside Dancers

  I stood back to survey my progress. No great stroke of brilliance surfaced in my mind.

  After another minute of perusal, I capped the dry-erase marker and wiped away the last bullet. My curves weren’t pertinent to anyone but me. And maybe to Jack Callaghan.

  Definitely to Jack Callaghan.

  Except that Jack’s ex-girlfriend was holed up at his sister Brooke’s house and he was helping her—and not nearly as indignant about Brooke helping his ex as he should be. And what were they helping her with, anyway? So Jack had no claim on my hips, boobs, or any other curvature right now.

  I’d been as patient as I could be, pero enough was enough. If he wanted to see any of my curves again, he had to make some choices. Muy difícil choices, pero choices. My disastrous relationship with Sergio had early destroyed my faith in love, but Jack—Jack showing up again after so many years of being gone—he had restored it.

  My mind drifted back to when Jack had told me the truth about Sarah. I’d solved a case and when the dust had settled, he’d taken me to meet her. We’d sat in his sporty silver Volvo in front of his sister’s house.

  “You ever see the movie Fatal Attraction?” he’d asked me.

  I darted my eyes toward him. Did a double-take. “As in Glenn Close psycho rabbit killer Fatal Attraction?”

  He tapped the tip of his index finger to his nose. “That’s the one.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Yeah, great movie.”

  If you like demented, obsessed, murderous adultery cinema.

  “Remember how Alex—”

  I arched a questioning brow.

  “—Alex is the character Glenn Close plays,” he clarified.

  “Oh. Right.” Jack had a keen knack for movie trivia, it seemed.

  “Remember when Alex spies on Michael Douglas’s family?” Jack asked.

  “Vaguely,” I said, suddenly connecting the acting dots between Michael Douglas and Kevin Bacon. My brother Antonio was the master at the game, but I did pretty well. My mind wandered. Michael Douglas to Glenn Close. Hadn’t she been in some pseudo-romance movie with Christopher Walken? I was positive she had been. I couldn’t name the movie, but I went to see Christopher anyway.

  I kept at it. Self-preservation, I think. It was better than facing whatever Jack was trying to tell me about his ex.

  Jack took my hand and gave it a squeeze. He was saying something about Glenn Close and a gleam she had in her eyes, but I was trying to connect the dots between Christopher Walken and Kevin Bacon.

  Until I realized he’d stopped talking. And was watching me.

  “Six degrees to Kevin Bacon,” I explained, feeling a bit sheepish at being such a chicken.

  “Ahh,” he said, as if playing the game in my mind was a perfectly normal thing to do. “Starting with whom?”

  “Michael Douglas.”

  “And you got to—”

  “Glenn Close, then Christopher Walken.”

  He tapped one finger against the steering wheel, thinking. “Yep, that’ll work. Walken was in True Romance. It’s an early Tarantino flick,” he explained when I raised my eyebrows. “It’s sort of a classic. Brad Pitt was in it.”

  He was?

  “And Pitt was in—”

  “Brad Pitt was in Sleepers!” I said, feeling like I was the big winner on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?.

  “…with Kevin Bacon,” Jack finished.

  We high fived, and then I suddenly registered what Jack had been saying before I got sidetracked. I turned to him. “Glenn Close had a gleam in her eyes?”

  Bless his heart, Jack caught right back up to speed. “She did.”

  “And?”

  “And…” He hesitated, gripping the steering wheel of the parked car before turning to me again. “Lola, I’ve seen that in Sarah’s eyes.”

  I stared at him, shoving my hair out of my face. ¡Dios mío! “Seriously? You’re comparing your ex-girlfriend to a murderer?”

  “Crazy, huh?”

  “The idea, or Sarah?” I said, completely backtracking on my plan to introduce myself to the woman and tell her to back the hell off. Kung fu wouldn’t do squat against crazy.

  But then I had a flashback of Jack knocking on Sergio’s door, coming to my rescue then—even though I hadn’t needed it. I was Xena: Warrior Princess, not a damsel in distress. But he’d come, risking his life for me. Now it was my turn to face Sarah.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t have any rabbits.”

  He laughed. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “It is, actually.” I was dead serious. “If I had a rabbit, and Sarah was off her meds and got all loca on said rabbit, I’d have to open a can of whoop-ass on her.”

  His right eyebrow quirked up. “Whoop-ass, eh?”

  “That’s right. No holding back. Mess with my rabbit”—or with my Jack—“and you’ll pay.” As it was, I was pretty ticked at Brooke for harboring Sarah. I knew she wasn’t really on my side, but was she against me? “That’s how I roll.”

  He barely managed to hold in his laughter as he said, “You harbor cans of whoop-ass. That’s good to know. I might borrow some. I’m going to have a chat with Brooke after—”

  “After Sarah’s gone home?”

  His lips thinned. “Right.”

  I threw open the car door. No more stalling. “You can have all the whoop-ass you want,” I said, marching up the walkway to Brooke’s front door.

  He got out of the Volvo, slammed the driver’s door, and raced after me. I turned and waited. Even in the dark, I could see that his blue eyes had turned smoky gray. I wasn’t sure if he believed everything could really
work out for us. If you counted the years since high school, and the interruptions thanks to Sarah, time was not on our side.

  Just as we stepped onto the stoop, the front door was flung open. I stumbled backward a step, registering the radiant face of a gorgeous blond-haired woman as I regained my balance. Híjole! This was Sarah? She was a living, breathing, walking Barbie.

  She, with her flawless skin and perfect 36-24-36 proportions, would have been a perfect fit on the Courtside Dancers.

  She gazed at Jack, grinning from ear to ear. Then, as she slowly registered that someone was standing next to him, her body tensed. She moved her gaze to me.

  “Sarah,” Jack said cautiously, barely masking the anger I sensed brewing under the surface. It was as if he were trying to calm a feral cat. Or a rabid dog. He slipped his arm around my shoulder. “I want you to meet someone.”

  Her expression turned wary, but I put out my hand and she reluctantly gripped it.

  “Hi, Sarah,” I said. The annoying cheerleader voice that surfaced when I was nervous came out in force. “My name is Lola. Lola Cruz.” I felt like James Bond. I wondered if she could make me a martini—shaken, not stirred.

  “Lola,” she repeated in a dazed voice.

  “Right. I’m a friend of Jack’s.” A good friend. As if he’d heard my thoughts and was offering reassurance, Jack squeezed my shoulder. “It’s a—” I hesitated, but forced myself to continue. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The Glenn Close craziness Jack had described a few minutes ago passed over her face and her grip on my hand tightened.

  “Um, Sarah?” I said, pulling back, trying to pry my hand free.

  She held tight.

  Jack wrapped one hand around her wrist and the other around mine. “Babe,” he said.

  Sarah and I both turned to him. “Yes?” she said, at the same time I said, “Hmmm?”

  The faint indentation of his Adam’s apple slid in his throat as he swallowed. So she was babe. My heart pounded. I was ready to take this girl down. And maybe him, too.

  “Sarah.” Jack spoke with clear intention this time, his voice calm but strained. “Babe, let go of Lola’s hand.”

  I yanked, and at the same time, she released her death hold on me. Jack had said he could calm Sarah down when nobody else could. Had I just witnessed him in action? Was that all it took? A strategic “babe” and a placating voice?

  “Jack’s told me a lot about you,” I said, but I was thinking that he hadn’t told me nearly enough. He hadn’t said a word about how gorgeous she was. And he’d seriously downplayed the locura.

  “Yeah.” Her beauty turned menacing as she snarled. “He’s mentioned you, too. Lola this and Lola that. But I thought he said you were dead.”

  I tried to ignore the chill that swept up my spine. She sounded decidedly disappointed that I wasn’t six feet under.

  “I thought she was dead,” Jack said, “but thank God she’s not.”

  We’d come here thinking that if Sarah saw Jack and me together she’d realize whatever they’d once had was over. But from the possessive glint in her eyes, I got the impression the plan hadn’t worked.

  Brooke appeared behind her houseguest. She shrugged at her brother over Sarah’s shoulder, her expression grim. So at least she didn’t seem to want Sarah around. That was some consolation.

  “How long are you here for?” I asked Sarah, hoping she’d show us her packed suitcase and her bus ticket out of town.

  “Oh, I’m here to stay,” she said slowly. Very slowly.

  All of Jack’s muscles seemed to contract at once. “To stay,” he repeated. Not a question but a disbelieving statement.

  “I’ll be sure to send the Welcome Wagon,” I said, biting back the urge to ask what mental institution she’d be checked into. Her proclamation felt like the final nail in Jack’s and my relationship coffin. I wanted her gone. G-O-N-E. But since she wasn’t going, I would.

  I lifted my hand in a quick wave to Brooke, turned on my wedge heels, and, knowing full-well that they were all three watching me, I held my head up high and sauntered back to the Volvo.

  “Don’t need your help,” she said to my back. I could hear the Billy Idol sneer in her tone.

  A muffled ringing coming from my purse brought me out of the memory. I dug inside and pulled out my cell phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Cruz.”

  Speak of the devil. “Hey, Callaghan.”

  “You free for lunch?”

  “I don’t know, Jack.” I was a one-man woman, and I expected Jack to be a one-woman man. Sarah was making that difficult. Her parents had taken her back to San Luis Obispo, but two weeks later she was back in Sacramento.

  He hesitated, only briefly, but long enough for me to pick up on it. “I’m working on it, Lola.”

  Uh-huh. My mother had always called Jack un mujeriego. He’d been a player back in high school—and I’d wanted him then. He’d outgrown his ladies’ man status and I wanted him more. But I needed his undivided attention and, right now, I didn’t have that.

  “Lo siento, Callaghan. Can’t do lunch.” I slung my purse over my shoulder and headed out to my car. I had a legitimate excuse. I had to race home, change into sweats, and get over to dance practice.

  “New case?” His voice had an enticing timber that made my knees weak. “Because there’s nothing to worry about with Sarah.”

  The casual way he said her name irked me. I called her she-who-must-not-be-named, a la Harry Potter, in case saying her actual name gave her power or something. “New case,” I confirmed.

  He waited a beat before prompting me to elaborate. “And?”

  I started my car and maneuvered out of Camacho’s parking lot, heading toward the midtown flat I shared with my brother, conveniently located above my parents’ house—where there was always a full refrigerator. Pathetic that Antonio and I lived together and in our parents’ house, technically? On the one hand, yes, but since neither of us were home much and we were both saving to buy our own places, it made sense.

  “Jack…,” I said, stalling. I was trying to protect myself from getting hurt. I’d spent too many years with the wrong guys to forge ahead without some assurance that there was a solid future ahead with the right one. “It’s just…it’s a new case. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  Lame. The guy had taken a bullet for me. I knew he cared, even if his life was complicated.

  “I’m interested in everything about you, Cruz. You know that.”

  Good to hear. “It’s confidential,” I said, touting the unspoken P.I. code I’d made up in my mind. Like the pirate code, it was really just a set of guidelines, but at the moment, I clung to it.

  He pulled out the very same bit of history I’d just thought of. “A crazy-ass woman shot me because of one of your cases and I’m still here, Cruz. You know you can trust me.”

  And therein lay the problem. It’s not that I didn’t trust Jack. I didn’t trust myself around him. He made my resolve weaken, and I didn’t like being weak at anything. Warrior princess. ’Nuff said.

  I cruised right past McKinley Park, too distracted to revel in the beauty of the late-season blooms in the rose garden. “I have an exercise class to go to. Let’s talk later,” I said, shocked that the words had come from my mouth. I was a Cruz. I didn’t skirt around issues. What was wrong with me?

  There was a silence as he regrouped. “So not work? Kung fu? Yoga? I could use some…exercise.” I sensed his grin through the line. “Another bike ride by the river, maybe?”

  I flushed, remembering what had happened after the last bike ride we took together. We’d come close to doing the deed before my good Catholic upbringing had kicked in. I needed commitment. “None of the above.”

  “You’re holding back, Lola. I feel that wall creeping up again.”

  How right he was. It took all my strength to not melt into a puddle from the sound of his voice. “I really have to go. I-I’m late, and I have to work at Abuelita’s to
night. It’s a busy day.”

  “What happened to Sylvia?”

  “I’m filling in for her.” Abuelita’s was our family restaurant and Sylvia was our newest waitress, the only one my Mafioso-wannabe grandfather hadn’t been able to scare off yet.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ll talk later, then. See you tonight, Cruz.”

  “No!” I didn’t want the temptation of seeing him.

  But he’d already hung up. Knots coiled in my stomach. In anticipation of seeing Jack in a few hours, or from the prospect of holding my own with eleven professional dancers?

  I was no fool. Both. Definitely both.

  Chapter Three

  The sports arena was an enormous compound that used to be in the middle of vast fields, but houses and retail centers were sprouting up like dandelions in a neglected lawn. The complex that used to stick out of the ground like part of a lost city was now surrounded by commerce.

  Following the directions Lance had given me, I parked my car, found the entrance, and tried to contain my nervous energy. Eleven perfect women were on the court in various stages of warm-ups: spread-eagle on the floor, stretching out their inner thighs; legs propped on bleachers, lengthening their hamstrings; bodies bent at the hip, hands flat on the ground. They were all way too flexible to be human.

  “Come on,” Victoria snapped when she saw me. “No time to waste.”

  I dropped my backpack, retied my sweatpants, and jogged to her side.

  “Ladies!” Victoria waved the Courtside Dancers over and they formed a circle around us.

  Taking stock, I realized I fell somewhere in the middle in height and body type. Some of the women had boobs and hips and others were straight as a board. The common denominator was the taut body factor. They were all lean, muscular, and athletic.

  They might be lithe and graceful, but I could take any one of them in an alley.