“I’m sure you do—” I gave her a gimme a break look. “—but let me share my theory with you. I think either Zod gave Garrett Diggs a tattoo using poorly sterilized equipment or your son showed Garrett how to give himself a”—I made air quotes with my finger—“ ‘prison tattoo.’ Either way, it wasn’t very hygienic, and it caused a heart infection and he died.”
Mrs. Case slammed the stack of papers she’d been holding down on a desk, and her daughter jumped, her eyes wide. That’s right, I wanted to say, your mom just might be a murderer.
“That woman was a slanderous lunatic, and I told her so,” Mrs. Case said. “She was always getting involved where she had no business. Affairs with married men, secret children, each with a different father. She was a gold digger.” She took a step toward me. “My son was not involved in that boy’s death,” she ground out from between her clenched teeth.
I shrugged. “Maybe not intentionally, and we really can’t prove it anyway, but I don’t think the voters care too much about that. Your husband’s career could be ruined whether Garrett’s death happened the way Emily Diggs thought or not.”
The arctic shrew ran a palm down her charcoal suit and blinked, slowly, three times. “What do you want, Ms. Cruz?”
“Emily Diggs met with your husband. I believe she told him about Tattoo Haven and Garrett’s death with the hopes that he’d do something about it.”
Mrs. Case lowered her chin and stared at me through her spidery lashes. “The boy died. I’ll say it again. It was tragic, but Todd—” She took a deep breath and brushed her suit down again. “—Todd was not involved. Now, I do have a full schedule today. If there’s nothing else—” Then she picked up her stack of papers again and walked away from me.
“Mrs. Case, the story’s out there. She contacted a reporter, you know.”
She stopped dead in her tracks, flicked an icy look at Manny, and then faced me. “Let the story be told, then. My family has nothing to do with that woman’s death.”
She turned on her heel and passed through to the small office, slamming the door behind her. Before I knew it, a man who looked to be the president of the Young Republicans appeared out of nowhere and ushered us out of the building. With a pointed glare at us, he turned the key in the lock.
Manny took me by the elbow and steered me toward his truck. “Nice job.”
Yeah. His sarcasm wasn’t lost on me.
My cell phone vibrated from inside my purse. Pulling my elbow from Manny’s grip, I dug it out and flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Ms. Cruz?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Joanie. Case.” She whispered.
I perked up and knocked the back of my hand against Manny’s arm. “Joanie. What can I do for you?”
“Can we talk?”
Maybe she was going to snitch on her dysfunctional family. “Definitely. Now?”
“I can meet you around the corner in a couple of minutes.”
“We’ll be right there.”
“Uh…”
“What is it?”
“That guy you were with makes me nervous.”
Yeah, he makes me nervous, too, I thought, darting a glance up at Manny’s brooding face. “I’ll leave him here, then.” The phone went dead, and I dropped it back into my bag. “She wants to talk,” I said to Manny.
“Good.”
“Alone.” I shot him a faint smile. “You make her nervous. Can’t imagine why.”
His jaw tightened. “I’ll wait for you in the truck.” He walked off, and I headed in the opposite direction to meet Sporty Spice.
Chapter 19
Waiting for Joanie in the blistering sun, I started to open the paper, just to see the smoldering picture of Jack again. But then the assemblyman’s daughter was in front of me. She glanced at the paper before I tucked it back under my arm, Jack’s face against my body. I didn’t want to share him.
She looked up and down the street. “Can we go somewhere more private?”
Before I had a chance to answer, she started down the street toward the capitol. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“I—I’m not sure.” We walked onto the grass, and she stopped behind a huge evergreen, leaning her back against it.
Give up the goods, chica. I knew from my conversation with her brother that she was on Prozac, but she was still seriously on edge. “Maybe I can help?”
“It’s just—” She pressed her palms against her eyes, shaking her head. “I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“You think my brother’s involved in Garrett’s death?”
Poor thing. She was so out of the loop. “I think it’s a possibility.”
She pressed her palms to her eyes again then shook her head as if she were clearing it of cobwebs. “How?”
“Like I told your mother, Zod may have given the tattoo—or he may have taught Garrett how to give himself one. I’ve spoken with the woman who manages the bar, and she said Emily Diggs felt that she had enough to go to the police and raise the question.”
“Proof? To prosecute him?”
“She kept a journal of everything she discovered. I think she wanted someone held responsible for Garrett’s death. She talked to a lawyer, but she died before there was an investigation.”
Despite the blistering heat, Joanie’s face lost all color. “She talked to a lawyer?”
“Your roommate’s father.”
She gave me a look like I was speaking pig latin.
“George Bonatee,” I said.
Her expression cleared. “Right. It makes sense that Mrs. Diggs would talk to him.” She played with the hem of her T-shirt, then looked at me. “So is Zod in trouble?”
Poor girl probably felt guilty for her part in getting him the job in the first place. “If he killed Emily to keep her quiet, he is.”
“He doesn’t have it in him.”
So she didn’t think mangy Zod had a violent streak. I inched to the left, trying to follow the minuscule bit of shade the tree offered. Sweat dripped between my cleavage. Lovely. “So Zod never talked about any of this with you? You’re not close?”
She shrugged. “Average, I guess. We don’t talk a lot. And if he wasn’t worried about it…” She hesitated and darted a glance at my newspaper. “You told my mom that Mrs. Diggs contacted a reporter?”
I nodded. “After she didn’t get anywhere with your father. What makes you so sure Zod didn’t kill her?” I asked.
Joanie’s eyelids fluttered in the heat, and she scoffed. “Zod wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s all talk. Always has been.” She glanced around the park before she looked back to me. “What can I do to help him?”
My job is to help bring Emily’s killer to justice, muchacha, not help the potential killer get off easy. “I can’t help you there. Sorry.” I squeezed her arm. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to her.” I ran the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away the sweat. “Are you glad to be rooming with Mary again?”
She nodded, a small frown playing on her lips. “Just moved back in. Kind of freaky knowing the woman who lived there before me died.”
“Emily was murdered.”
“Right. Murdered.”
It sounded so sinister when someone else said it. “But it’s better than living with your parents?”
She rolled her eyes. “God, yes. I’d do anything not to be in the Case household. No freedom.” She hesitated. “Beatrice is really upset, though. I guess she and Emily became friends.”
“You can tell Bea that I’m not going to stop until I find out who killed Emily, and why.”
Joanie’s gaze was intense and direct. “It wasn’t Zod. He wouldn’t do that.”
I couldn’t comfort her, or reassure her that I believed Zod was innocent when I hadn’t discovered the truth yet. Instead, I asked, “When was the last time he lived with your parents?”
“Oh, Jesus, I don’t know. He escaped a long time ago. I don’t think he’d take a
million dollars to go back.”
After last night, I completely understood wanting to get away from nosy parents. “He’s got a pretty good gig going since your dad owns Tattoo Haven.”
She bared her teeth. “You think he’s guilty, don’t you?”
My guard went up. Despite how skittish she was around her mother, Joanie clearly didn’t want to consider that her brother was involved in Emily’s death. I didn’t blame her for being upset. If Antonio were under suspicion of murder, hell, I’d defend him to my grave.
It was go-for-broke time. What had Jack’s note said? Finish the job. That was exactly what I intended to do. Until I found Emily’s killer, I wasn’t safe—and neither was my family. I needed to push buttons and see what happened. “He has a pretty clear motive. But then, so do your mother and father.”
“He didn’t do it.” Joanie flicked her wrist in front of her face, her shiny gold Rolex knockoff reflecting the sun. “I have to go.”
“But—”
“I have to go,” she repeated, her tone leaving no room for discussion.
Right. Mama Case was probably ready to unleash some whoop-ass on Joanie for being gone so long. She pushed off on the ball of her foot and jogged across the capitol lawn and back toward her father’s reelection office. Despite the short leash Mrs. Case managed to keep her daughter on, Joanie hadn’t defended either of her parents. Did that mean she thought they were capable of murder? And if so, which one?
An hour later, Reilly and I were sitting in her lime green Volkswagen Beetle in front of Bonatee’s office. The bubble car didn’t exactly blend in, but I couldn’t throw stones with my mangled car still sitting in Abuelita’s parking lot.
“This is so boring,” Reilly said after twenty minutes.
She was right. This stakeout had been duller than watching paint dry. I grunted noncommittally, slouched down in my seat, and kept staring at the doors to the building. My eyes scanned up and down the street every few seconds.
“Shouldn’t we go see how Antonio’s doing?” she asked.
“We will. Just a few more minutes.” Come on, I willed. Something had to happen. I needed a break in this case. Someone needed to make a mistake or act or do something.
My prayers were answered fifteen minutes later. A man came from around the back of the building and darted into the middle of the street. I recognized him immediately. George Bonatee.
I aimed the camera I’d borrowed from Neil’s stash and clicked. Documentation for my report. It felt so spy-novelish—now, if only it led me somewhere.
I bolted upright when Bonatee slipped into a mint-colored sedan that had come to a halt just ahead of the building. The driver’s side was smashed, streaks of dark green and brick red paint marking the crumpled steel. “Reilly!” I nudged her with my elbow. “Start the car!”
Reilly jumped, fumbled with her keys in the ignition, and brought the bug to life. “What? What’s going on?”
I strained but couldn’t see the driver. “Follow that car.”
She gunned it, screeching tires finally catching hold of the asphalt.
“Quietly, Reilly.” I caught a glimpse of the car’s license plate, committing the number and letters I could see to memory. SJ3. SJ3. SJ3. I buckled my seat belt and held on for my life.
“Who is it?” Reilly shrieked, her pudgy hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.
Grappling for breath, I let out the air I’d been holding. “I’d bet my life that that’s the car that hit Antonio last night.” And smashed the Mustang at My Place. Whoever it was, they had some nerve driving it around. I looked around for a police cruiser. There were none to be found.
Reilly slammed her foot down on the gas pedal. “My Antonio?” The car seemed to recoil for an instant before surging forward. I repeated the partial plate in my head—SJ3, SJ3—and dug my cell and a pad of paper out from my purse again. SJ3. I jotted the plate number down, wishing I could see all of it. I dialed the office.
“Camacho and Associates,”
Sadie said into my ear. “Sadie. It’s Dolores,” I said. “I need your help.”
“Jesus, Dolores. Relax—”
I took a breath. Screw relaxing. I wanted to nail the bastards—whoever they were—once and for all. “I need you to run a license plate.”
“What is it?” She seemed to be talking in slow motion.
I looked at the partial I’d written in my notebook. “SJ3. It’s a green—” I peered at the car three lengths ahead of us. “—Mercury, I think. Or maybe a Buick?”
“That’s all you have?”
“I can’t see the rest. We’re too far away.”
“Get closer.”
Like I wouldn’t if I could? “We’re trying.”
“Fill me in,” she said.
Sadie barked, “Back off—” I heard a scuffle, and then Manny’s voice came across the line. “What’s going on, Dolores?”
I ignored their squabble and told him about the banged-up car that Bonatee had climbed into. “I don’t know who’s driving. Reilly and I are following him now.”
As if on cue, Reilly cranked the wheel to the left, and the car skidded around a corner. Horns blared at us from all directions.
“I’ll call you back about the plate.”
I snapped my phone shut and dropped it in my lap, grabbing the handle of the door to keep from careening into Reilly. “Manny’s on it!” I shouted over the screeching tires and my thudding heart.
“Where’d it go?” she shrieked a second later. “It’s gone!”
Sure enough, we’d lost it. There was no green car anywhere, smashed front end or not—except for the fluorescent green bubble we were in. “Damn.”
“Sorry.” Reilly pulled over, her hands shaking as she held them against her cheeks. “How can you do this every day? I’m a wreck!”
I didn’t have time to answer. My phone rang. I jumped, grabbed it from my lap, and slammed it against my ear. “Manny, what’d you get?”
A low, raspy voice came over the line. “Are you following me?”
My heart thrashed. It was my threatening phone caller. The same person who was in the car with Bonatee. Or maybe it was Bonatee on the line. “Not anymore,” I said, sounding way more calm than I felt. I thought my heart might spontaneously combust any second.
“Your brother was a mistake. Drop this case, or next time, there won’t be any mistakes.” And the line went dead.
“Who the hell are you?” I yelled at the phone.
As if answering, the phone rang again. “What?”
“This is how you answer the phone?” My mother. “We have to work on the favors.”
Shit. I banged the heel of my hand against my forehead and heaved a frustrated sigh. I couldn’t do quinceañera business right now. Reilly needed a pep talk to keep going. The killer had just threatened me again. I didn’t have time for mesh bags and chocolate Kisses!
Then I remembered my car parked at the restaurant. If a killer could drive a smashed-up car, why couldn’t I? I was the good guy—and I needed my wheels. “I’m on my way, Mami.”
Chapter 20
An hour of making party favors turned into two. I silently brainstormed my case the entire time, but wasn’t any closer to a plan or an answer than I’d been before I began shoving silver Kisses into the little bags.
I managed to avoid conversation with my mother, however. She was too busy worrying about whether or not to refry her frijoles and if we’d have enough guacamole to discuss my job or late-night activities. Finally, with the promise that I’d be at the hall to decorate bright and early Saturday morning—if I lived that long—I left.
Camacho and Associates’ gang of three was gathered around the conference table when I made it to the office. Manny’s expression was dark. Apprehension settled in my gut. Something was going on.
Neil sat with his back to me, his neck completely sunk inside his shirt. His fingers flew across his laptop computer. I pulled up a chair next to him and sat down, nodding my
head in one communal greeting.
“Dolores,” Manny grunted. He cleared his throat. “Muriel O’Brien is dead.”
I nearly fell off my chair. What happened to buttering a person up before the blow? “You’re kidding.”
“Died yesterday afternoon.”
Yesterday. That meant she couldn’t have rammed Antonio last night. Which meant someone else had. I rubbed my temples. Poor Muriel. She’d been nothing more than a puppet, and now she was dead. I came back to the same potential puppet masters I’d been considering from the beginning: Assemblyman Case; Bonatee; the ice queen, Mrs. Case; and Zod.
Neil growled, but the tap-tap-tap of his fingers striking the keys never let up. “Cause of death?”
“Mixture of drugs and alcohol,” Manny said.
“Accidental?” Neil asked.
Manny closed the folder he’d had open in front of him. “Doubtful. Bottle of codeine next to a bottle of blood pressure meds and cough syrup.”
“Just like Emily,” I muttered.
Manny nodded. “All washed down with one too many bottles of beer.”
A sound came from deep within my throat. Muriel wouldn’t touch beer. She’d said it herself—she was a Myers’s and Coke broad. I took a deep breath and faced Manny. The bodies were piling up, and it was past time to spill my secrets. “I was almost run down outside My Place on the night I went to see Muriel. And I was locked in a freezer at the florist, although I’m pretty sure it was Muriel who did that, and then my brother was hit while he was in my car—”
Manny and Sadie both slammed their hands down on the conference table at the same time. “What?” she shouted, while he barked, “¿Cómo?”
My eyebrows pulled together as I looked from one to the other. “And then I got a call a while ago saying to drop the case. Or else.” I rubbed my temples again. It was so cliché, but it had me on edge. “Muriel ran My Place and Tattoo Haven. I think she was probably working for one of the suspects or was being blackmailed into doing their dirty work.” It was the only thing that made sense. “If the killer was feeling threatened…” I trailed off, not wanting to say aloud what I was thinking. As long as I kept investigating Emily’s death, I was a threat to the killer, and I could be next.
Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola Page 24