She whipped down her stretch pants, turned around, and mooned us. I slapped my hand over my mouth. Oh. My. God. One cheek was—big surprise—covered in leopard print. On the other side of her flat behind was a rectangular white bandage.
Jack coughed. “Classy,” he muttered from behind his hand.
“Holy guacamole, Batman,” Lucy said.
Allison pulled her pants back up. “Satisfied?”
Not even close. Jack had me hot and bothered, and Little Miss Sunshine and Zod, the Tattoo Man, were each other’s alibis. I was extremely unsatisfied—in every way—but I smiled sweetly at Emily’s daughter. “Was anyone else here with you?”
Allison shot a nervous look at Zod. Her hard-ass exterior seemed to be cracking just a little. She shook her head. “We were alone.”
“Convenient,” I muttered. “One more question.”
She huffed, but crossed her arms and waited.
“How many tattoos did Garrett have?”
Her beady eyes studied me, probably trying to discern if it was a trick question. I wish it was and that the answer would reveal the killer. In truth, it was just curiosity. I wanted to know if he had been as rebellious as his sister. She shrugged, then looked to Zod for the answer. “How many?” she asked him.
The chain at Zod’s hip jangled as he moved. “I already told you. Four,” he said.
“Where were they?”
Allison smirked. “That’s another question.”
God, she was annoying. “Indulge me.”
Her smirk deepened, but she looked at Zod again. “One on each gun—”
“His biceps,” Jack translated when I raised my eyebrows.
“—one on his forearm, and the last one he did was above his knuckle.”
I thanked God I hadn’t been insane enough to have gotten a tattoo in place of my new piercing. Boundaries, I reminded myself. The line blurred sometimes, but I had them, and Allison and Zod had become my temporary moral compasses.
“Thanks,” I said to them, adding, “I’ll be in touch.” As soon as I figured out what had happened to Emily, and assuming Zod, or whoever the killer was, didn’t get in touch with me first.
Chapter 12
Jack dropped Lucy and me off at the downtown mall. He rolled down the driver’s window. “I might need to check your belly button later, make sure it’s healing properly.”
He seemed to have a voice set aside that he pulled out for seduction. It dropped to a low come-hither tone and drew me in until my insides were melting. I was going to have to use super strength to keep myself lucid tonight and not fall into his arms. As much as I wanted to lose myself with him, never allowing myself to be a one-night stand was one of my hard-and-fast rules.
I raised my eyebrows at him, and he added, his voice like black satin, “Research. I need to get every detail and fact correct for my article.”
“Of course you do.” Despite my reservations about Jack’s motives—and my own willpower—I added some flirt to my smile. “If it’s in the name of research, then I’m sure I can’t deny you a belly button inspection.”
The second he drove off, Lucy grabbed my arm and whirled me around. Her California tanned face blotched red with pent-up curiosity. “Oh. My. God. Spill it! What’s going on, Lola?”
“Nothing’s going on. He turned up as part of my investigation—that’s all.” I started walking toward Macy’s. “We’re going out tonight, which I’m afraid,” I added, “might be a mistake.”
“A mistake?” She squealed and yanked me back. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. He’s not a settle-down kind of guy. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
She sputtered, clearly holding in her laughter. “You’re going to have fun! You deserve it. And who cares if he doesn’t want marriage and children? He’s gorgeous.”
I stared at Lucy. “Who cares? I’ve seen him love and leave plenty of girls. I have no intention of joining their company. I want marriage and children someday. Why waste my time with someone who doesn’t?”
“People change, Lola.”
“Not all people. Look at Antonio. He’s the same as he’s always been. Noncommittal.”
We started walking again, but Lucy kept on. “You know Jack well enough to know that’s how he feels?”
It was a fair question, and the truth was that I didn’t know… Jack. Maybe I was just trying to protect myself.
“Look,” Lucy hurried on. “You’re going out with him. Just have a good time. Now, what are you shopping for? Where are you going? Do your folks like him?”
It was hard to get a word in edgewise, but I managed to answer her questions in order, ticking them off on my fingers. “I’m looking for a whole new outfit, we’re going to Club Ambrosía, and my parents like him, although they don’t know that we’ve been—” I dropped my voice to a heavy whisper. “—somewhat intimate.”
She dug her fingernails into my flesh. “What! You just said he’s noncommittal and you don’t want to waste your time. And you’ve been intimate?”
God, I was a mess. I pulled away and jabbed my finger at her. “I know, Lucy! That’s what I’m talking about. I lose all control around him.”
She wasn’t laughing. “What’s the scoop, Lola? I need details.”
I managed to laugh. “Well, intimate may be a stretch. He’s seen me in my pajamas.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. “Is that all?”
What had she been expecting? “It was a thin white top. He got an eyeful.”
“So he’s hot for you. Lola, just let loose, for goodness’ sake.”
Maybe she was right. What would it hurt to really do myself up and let my boundary lines blur? With new intent, I pulled open the door. Cool department store air washed over us. We made a beeline for the shoe department, and I immediately zeroed in on a four-inch stiletto. After examining it this way and that, I put the shoe back and moved on. I didn’t want to break an ankle on my first night out with Jack.
“Look! Mulberry!” Lucy practically ran through the racks to pick up a displayed Birkenstock. “I don’t have one like this,” she said.
I laughed. Lucy and her Birks. I flagged down the saleswoman for her and looked around. Not a minute later, a ray of light seemed to shine from the ceiling and onto the perfect red, flirty heel. It had straps that wound around the ankle, and most important, a three-inch heel that would put my lips in perfect proximity to Jack’s. “This is it,” I announced, holding it up as if it were the Holy Grail.
Lucy cocked an eyebrow at them. “Those look like strip shoes.”
“What?”
“Strip shoes. You know, like you’d use for your strip list.” I stared blankly at her, and she looked at me like I was straight out of the loony bin. “Don’t you have a strip list?” she asked, sounding horrified.
“What is that?”
“A list of guys you’d strip for?”
An image of me dancing around a pole in the red shoes and sexy lingerie, with Jack’s smoldering eyes taking in every slow, deliberate move, slid into my mind. “Uh, no.” I swallowed. “Do you?”
Her face flushed. “Never mind. Forget I mentioned it.”
Gladly. I didn’t want to know who Lucy would strip for. I went back to the shoes, but she’d got me thinking. I could go the distance getting a piercing for my job, but strip for Jack on the second date? What were my limits?
I bought the shoes. I had no plans to strip for him tonight, but shoes were a state of mind, and I was gearing up for salsa dancing. “Come on,” I said to Lucy. Now I need an outfit to go with them.”
“I need to make one more stop,” I said to Lucy. It had taken less than an hour for me to find the perfect red-and-black flamenco-like outfit. Now I was ready to get back to business.
“Where to?”
I pulled George Bonatee’s business card from my purse. “It’s three blocks from here.”
“I’m digging this detective stuff. So cool.”
I put my finger to my lips
. “It’s confidential, though.”
She closed her mouth and turned an imaginary key. “Mum’s the word.”
We started down the sidewalk, hauling our shopping bags with us. By the time we reached the law offices of Bonatee and Craig, I’d reviewed the nuts and bolts of the case with Lucy. “I’ll do the talking,” I said.
She frowned. “Again? But I want to participate.”
She looked so dejected that I gave in—a little. “Let’s play it by ear.”
The lawyer was in, and even though it was an unscheduled visit, Mary Bonatee’s father, Emily’s landlord, agreed to see us. We stashed our bags behind the mousy receptionist’s desk, and she escorted us into the man’s office. Bonatee was finishing a phone call. Law books lined the dark wood shelves, and photographs of the family on vacation—on a boat, in Old Sacramento, with the current governor—were strategically scattered here and there.
“That doesn’t matter. It’s over. You want me to say it’ll be all right? Fine. It’ll be all right.” He paused, flashing a practiced smile, and held up a finger to us. I was immediately taken by his charisma. It seemed to fill the room, as if he exhaled pheromones. His skin was the color of milk chocolate, his tightly wound hair cut close to his head. And his eyes—as expected, were like amber just like his daughter, Mary’s, and plain gorgeous. “Right. Me, too.” He smiled at Lucy and me again, but spoke into the phone. “I’ll see you then.”
He hung up the phone and stretched his hand out to us. In three strides, I was face-to-face with him, grasping his hand firmly, trying to hide my satisfaction. This man was definitely Sean Diggs’s father. Emily had good taste, assuming he wasn’t a killer. “Thank you for seeing me,” I said.
“Not a problem. Ms. Cruz, isn’t it?” Then he looked at Lucy.
I gestured toward her. “My colleague—”
Lucy thrust her arm out and strode forward. “Clarice Clooney. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
I stared at her. Oh. My. God. Apparently George topped Lucy’s strip list.
Bonatee gestured to a pair of black leather chairs facing his desk.
I started to sit, grimaced at the ache in my belly, and straightened back up. “I’ll stand.” This navel piercing was proving to be a big pain in the ass. It hurt like hell. I needed some Advil. Bad.
Bonatee pushed himself back under his desk and directed his full attention at me, his fingers steepled and perched under his chin. The man had a lethal mixture of suave sophistication and base animal magnetism. “That’s a nasty abrasion on your arm.” He peered at my face. “And your lip. Were you in an accident?”
“Yes, they are, and I was. Played chicken with a car last night.”
He stared at me for a beat, but when I didn’t offer any more information about my injuries, he went on. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“Emily Diggs.” I paused, waiting for him to blurt out that she was the mother of his child. Or, at the very least, his tenant. He sat silent, his face like chiseled stone.
I kept waiting. A good screw, maybe? Anything?
No dice. Bonatee’s poker face was stellar.
“Yes,” he prompted.
“You are aware Ms. Diggs disappeared last Wednesday.”
“Disappeared,” he repeated. His eye twitched slightly, and the crack in his voice when he spoke revealed a tiny bit of… something.
“Your daughter told you your tenant was missing, didn’t she? I assume the police have been to speak with you.”
Bonatee shifted in his chair and sputtered a cough. “No, I haven’t seen the police. Mary e-mailed me, but I haven’t read it. I’ve been tied up on a case. Disappeared. That word has strong implications. You’re sure Emily’s not on vacation somewhere?”
“Do you read the newspaper?” I supposed it was possible he hadn’t heard Emily was dead. Was I the only person that read the obits?
“Of course, Ms. Cruz.” His spine seemed to stiffen. “But as I said, I’ve been out of town.”
Likely story, but a little too convenient. “You arranged the rental for Ms. Diggs, is that right?”
He nodded, the muscles in his face pulsing. “Correct. We were actually, er, old friends. She needed a favor.”
The small repetitive movement of his jaw only added to his attractiveness. “Is that right? How far back do you go?”
He folded his thumb under the lip of his desk, sliding it over the edge. “Our daughters went to kindergarten together.”
I stood up straighter and drew an imaginary line between Allison and Mary. I didn’t know what it meant, but Allison was the common denominator.
“Really, Ms. Cruz,” Bonatee said, interrupting my thoughts, “what’s this about?” His voice had tensed, and a transformation seemed to take place. The cutthroat litigator materialized, replacing the congenial man he’d been a moment before. He didn’t want us here.
“Emily’s not on vacation.”
There was a knock on the door and he pushed back from his desk. “Yes, Margaret. What is it?”
The mousy receptionist shuffled into the room a few feet. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Bonatee. You—you have a call. You can take it out here… .”
Bonatee smiled indulgently, if a little forced. “Of course.” He looked back to Lucy and me. “Excuse me a minute, won’t you?”
Lucy popped out of her chair the second the door closed. “He’s hiding something. Did you see his shifty eyes? What do we do? What do we do?”
“Good question, Clarice.” This guy was a lawyer, probably trained in cross-examination. I snapped my fingers. “How about good cop, bad cop?”
Lucy smiled, big and diabolically. “So we need to get him to admit he was boinking the woman, right? I can do that. He’s good looking.” She winked at me. “Probably topped Emily’s strip list.”
That was an image I could have done without, but it did get me thinking about exactly what had transpired between Emily and Bonatee since she’d moved into his rental house. Had their old relationship been rekindled?
Lucy settled back into her leather chair. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said a split second before Bonatee came back into the room.
Lucy would make the perfect “good cop.” She was bubbly and exuded innocence. The question was, could I be a convincing “bad cop”? Manny, yes. Sadie, without a doubt. Neil could just charge. Me? I could take Bonatee down, but without resorting to kung fu, I was a little less confident… .
“I apologize for the interruption,” Bonatee said, rounding his desk. He was back to Mr. Congeniality. “Where were we?”
“Emily and her son did not go on vacation—” I started.
“Do you know where they are?” He asked the question a little too quickly to be indifferent.
“Sean is with his uncle,” I said, waiting for the right moment to unleash my bad cop.
Anxiety seemed to flow off him. He relaxed and slid back under the desk. “I’m relieved to hear that. I’m sure Em, er, Ms. Diggs will turn up.”
Lucy rearranged herself in her chair, fanning her skirt out and shaking her Birkenstocked foot. “She did turn up, you son of a bitch, facedown in the river. Now cut the bullshit, and tell us what you know.”
I gawked at Lucy. No! The sweet, bubbly, mother was not taking on the role of bad cop. ¡Ay, caramba! I shifted gears. Good cop. Good cop. I fumbled for words. “Clarice, I’m sure Mr. Bonatee knows the seriousness of the matter. Let’s give him a chance to cooperate—”
Bonatee’s voice snapped as he looked from me to Lucy, his pleasant demeanor gone. “You just said she was missing—”
Lucy jumped up and slapped her palms on his desk. “She was missing. Now she’s dead.”
“That can’t be right—”
“It’s exactly right. She was killed. Now, where exactly were you last Wednesday?”
His face froze, his amber eyes looking fossilized. “Wednesday?”
“That’s right, sir,” I said. A good cop should sit. I gripped the arm of the chair, grimaced, and lowered
myself down. “The day she disappeared.”
“I—I was out of town, working on a case. I told you that.” Finally, he managed to quash his bubbling emotion and bring his face back to a normal expression. “How? How did she die?”
Good question if he was innocent. Diabolical if he was guilty. “We’re waiting on the autopsy—”
“Autopsy?”
Lucy marched up and down the room, her Birks slapping, her skirt flowing. She wheeled around. “That’s right. Au-top-sy. They do that with a wrongful death. As an attorney, I’m sure you know that. Now, stop playing dumb and tell us about your relationship with Ms. Diggs.”
Damn, she was good. Even with my black belt, she had me on edge.
“You’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”
I watched Bonatee carefully. This guy was either Samuel L. Jackson good, or he was genuinely shocked. And maybe even upset. “She had drugs in her system—”
Lucy interrupted. “Yeah, like a Cuban boatload full.”
“Drugs?” He coughed. “What kind of drugs?”
Lucy didn’t know the specifics, but she was in full improvisational mode. “You tell us, George. What kind of drugs did your lover do?”
His face grew hard and calculated, like Lucy had said something that pissed him off. “My lover?”
I covered my eyes with my hand. Shit. She was beyond bad cop. She was out of control. I maneuvered myself out of my chair and took her arm, jumping in to smooth things over. “We know Sean’s your son.”
I could see him relax slightly. “Is that why you’re here? To confirm your suspicion that Emily and I have a son together?” He threw his hands up, like he was giving up. “I confess. We had a relationship years ago. Sean was the result of that union.”
“What happened with your relationship?” I asked.
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes seemed to sadden. “Let’s just say it didn’t work out.”
There were all kinds of reasons why relationships didn’t work out. Who had been the one to call theirs off? “I’m trying to understand Emily,” I said. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola Page 16