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

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  She let out an unearthly moan and stepped back, swatting me with her rosary. “¿Por qué eres un detective?” She dropped her voice to a graveyard whisper. “You will die.”

  My blood ran cold, as much from her words as from the fact that my grandmother had spoken in English. I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  Jack tightened his grip on me. “Listen to her, Lola.”

  I turned on him. “Oh no. Not you, too.”

  His jaw pulsed. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

  I shrugged my arm free. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not dead! This doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Private investigator? Daughter of Mexican immigrants?” Jack grimaced. “Maybe someone wants you dead. Have you thought about that?”

  I blinked. “Okay, Mr. Newspaper Reporter. Who’d want me dead?” I came up with possible answers in my head. Had I cut someone off on the Capital Freeway? A little road rage? Could Mrs. Zimmerman and the überyoga guy be on to me?

  “Any number of people you’ve probably crossed during investigations.”

  The front door slammed shut and a baby cried.

  Another mourner. My focus remained on Jack. “I’m telling you, it’s a mistake—”

  “Christ. Lola. You’re alive!”

  My mouth snapped shut and my body jerked—almost in a convulsion. I recognized that voice.

  Jack’s expression turned to stone. His words from earlier came back to me. I’d be happy if I never see him again. Looks like he recognized the voice, too, and he wasn’t happy about it.

  Sergio Garcia. Could this night get any worse?

  Chapter 2

  It had been three years since I’d laid eyes on Sergio. I turned slowly to face him. The man had gone downhill. Unshaven. Half a cup of gel slicking back his dark brown hair. A ribbed wife-beater under an unbuttoned gray guayabera. I cringed inside. God, what had happened to him? He’d been muy caliente once upon a time.

  My emotions somersaulted, a flood of anger crashing over me. “What are you doing here?” I breathed out, barely containing my animosity. “This is a private memorial.”

  He ignored me, gripping my shoulders and pulling me into a stifling hug. The smell of his Aqua Velva clouded my nostrils and my brain. “I can’t believe you’re alive!”

  I clawed myself free from Sergio and gritted my teeth. A layer of sticky hair gel was smeared across my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, grimacing. “What do you want?”

  Again, he ignored me. He turned around and spoke to the guy who trailed behind him with a young child, no more than a year or so, on his hip. “Mira, Pancho. Lola’s alive!”

  Pancho gave a pained nod and quickly melted back into the crowd. My entire family was dead silent and watched us like we were in a live telenovela.

  Sergio’s eyes scraped over me. I barely resisted slapping him and grabbing his cheeks to force his gaze on my face instead of my body. “I heard the news,” he started.

  “It was a mistake.” I threw my hands out wide. “See? I still have a heartbeat.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Jack looking strained with fury. If he’d had a sack of poisoned darts, he’d be throwing them, one by one, straight at Sergio’s heart.

  Sergio leaned close to me and said, “You left a teddy behind at my apartment. Why don’t you come by and pick it up sometime?”

  The air in the room changed. “Son of a bitch,” Jack said with a hiss. His hands balled into fists.

  Sergio smirked and dropped his voice to a for-my-ears-only whisper. “I have a box of your stuff, también.” He stretched his arm around my waist. “We could relive old times, if you know what I mean.”

  I knocked his arm away. I knew exactly what he meant, and it would be a cold day in hell before I ever did that again with him. “Esto se acabó, Sergio. There are no old times to relive. It’s been over between—”

  “The teddy’s right next to your rosary where they’ve been for—”

  Rosary? And just like that, Sergio’s voice became a hollow echo somewhere in the back of my mind. Was he talking about the prayer beads my father’s mother had given me before she died? The ones I thought I’d lost years ago? I snarled at the mere thought of Sergio even touching something so sentimental to me. But right now I had my death to deal with. I’d have to get the rosary another time. “You have to go. Ahorita.”

  His mouth sank into a frown. “I just came to express my consolations—”

  “Condolences,” I corrected automatically.

  “Condolences,” he said. “Es la verdad. I came to pay my respects.”

  I studied Sergio’s thick face. I was pretty sure he didn’t know the meaning of truth. “¡Quítate!” I said.

  He threw his hands up. “I still care about you. Is that a crime?”

  “Get out,” Jack said with barely contained restraint just as Antonio moved in next to Sergio.

  I lowered my voice and jabbed my finger at his chest. “You are a thief. You stole from my parents,” I hissed so only he could hear. “How dare you come here and act like you care about me. Or any of us.” I clamped my hand on his arm and steered him toward the door. “Quítate. ¡Ándale!”

  “You’re kicking out a grieving friend?” Sergio looked hurt, but I thought I detected a hint of anger in his voice.

  Jack took a menacing step toward him. “You heard her. Get the hell out.”

  I was a black belt in kung fu, Jack was a pissed-off sort-of boyfriend, and Antonio was a protective older brother. Against us, Sergio didn’t stand a chance. We closed in on him.

  I notched my fingers down in a wave. “Chao, Sergio.”

  A sudden hush fell over the house. My family stood like a roomful of statues, their mouths agog. Hospitality was the cornerstone of my mother’s existence. She’d never close the door on a guest. The room tensed as my mother sniffed up her strength, patted down her dark housedress, and marched slowly toward us.

  Come on, Mami. I prayed she wasn’t going to revert to her early mothering tactics and grab me by the ear for my disrespect to a guest.

  She stopped less than a foot from Sergio and locked her eyes on his. “You heard mi hija. You are not welcome here, muchacho.”

  My tías gasped. “What did she say?” one of them whispered. “¿Qué dices?”

  “She is turning him out,” another answered.

  I stood up taller, bolstered by Mami’s support. My father straightened his slightly hunched shoulders and crossed his leathery arms over his chest. Antonio flanked my other side, next to Jack. ¡Viva familia!

  One by one, the people who were crammed into my parents’ house edged toward Sergio.

  Pancho inched toward the front door. “Vámonos, dude. Let’s go.”

  “Just wait a minute, eh?” Sergio turned on me, his voice harsh. “What did you tell them?”

  I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Solamente la pura verdad.”

  Sergio’s eyes blazed, but Jack grabbed his arm. “Get the hell out of here, Garcia.”

  “You with this loser now, Lola?” Sergio pulled away from Jack and jutted his face next to mine, hissing, “He’ll dump you faster than he can screw you. He’s just like his old man.”

  A pained guttural sound came from Jack. I thought I saw his shirt buttons pull as his chest broadened, Hulk-style. I touched his shoulder to calm him down. The last thing we needed was a brawl. With a scowl, Sergio turned and headed to the door, grabbing his buddy’s arm on the way and dragging Pancho and the baby out. He threw me a disdainful glance before slamming the door.

  Jack had regained his composure—mostly. He rested his hand on my lower back, but I could sense the tension that oozed from every one of his pores. “I can’t believe you were ever with that asshole,” he muttered.

  That made two of us. And I didn’t want to think about him anymore. I hugged my parents, then whispered to Gracie, “I’m going to call Manny. Stay with them.”

  Chely char
ged toward me, hanging on to me like a scared child. “Don’t go!” A hundred eyeballs stared at us.

  Gracie circled her arms around us. “It’s okay, Chely. Lola’s okay.”

  I ran my hand through my cousin’s hair before extracting myself from the hug and heading toward the laundry room door.

  Jack fell into step beside me just as Abuelo angled his cane at me with a shaky hand. “No mas con el pinche cabrón cholo de Sergio.” He slowly moved his cane so it pointed at Jack. “Quédate con el güero,” he said in his whispery, old-time mobster voice.

  I opened my mouth to tell Abuelo that I wasn’t with Sergio and that I’d take Jack any day of the week, but Mami spoke before I had a chance. “¡Cállate, Papá!”

  As if on cue, there was another collective sucking in of breath. Abuelo snapped his mouth shut. Only his daughter could tell him to hold his tongue and live to see another day.

  He gave her a defiant look and then turned his blazing eyes back to me, mumbling, “Escuchame. El güero te va a hacer feliz.”

  If Abuelo were the Godfather, he’d be kissing both of Jack’s cheeks, welcoming him into the family. I wasn’t stupid. He had his agenda, and I knew just what it was. He was angling for more grandchildren, and suddenly Jack, who’d defended me, was an excellent prospect.

  My grandfather hobbled out of the room. Abuela followed him, still praying on her rosary as she looked over her shoulder at me. “Fantasma,” she muttered. “¡Fantasssma!”

  “I am not a ghost!” I yelled after her. My hands shook as I dug in my purse and pulled out my cell phone. Damn. It was after eleven, too late to call Manny. What if he’d decided to hook up with his mujer after he’d left me? I couldn’t fathom the idea of interrupting him and Isabel in the throes of passion.

  I dialed the office instead. There was nothing he could do tonight anyway. His don’t-mess-with-me voice came on the recorded message saying, “You’ve reached Camacho and Associates Private Investigation. Leave a message, and your call will be returned.” The machine beeped.

  I cleared my throat. “Manny, it’s Dolores.” When Jack scowled, I turned my back to him. “You may have seen the news tonight. I’m calling to let you know it wasn’t me and that I’m fine.” I snapped the phone shut and dropped it back into my purse.

  I turned to my family. They stared at me expectantly. Time for a speech? I opened my mouth, but meaningful words were beyond me. “Gracias por venir.” Oh, I was good. Thanks for coming. Those were deep words of wisdom.

  My mother wrapped her arm around me. “My daughter is alive!” she announced with dramatic flair. “We will celebrate Sunday después de la Misa.”

  Suddenly in a flurry, my aunts circled around my mother to plan the fiesta. Just as quickly, Jack grabbed my arm and pulled me into the laundry room. He closed the door to the Falcón–Cruz mob and turned, his face grim, any sign of playful dimples long gone. “This is insane.”

  All I could do was nod. Now that I was out of the limelight, I felt myself crashing. The heat from his touch lingered on my skin. My feet wobbled in my high-heeled sandals, and I leaned against the washing machine for support.

  I draped my arms around his neck, and he wrapped me up in a hug. Home. He felt like home—warm, safe, and holding me like he’d never let me go. I melted into him. “Thank God it wasn’t you,” he said softly.

  A shiver swept up my spine. “She had my name. My identity,” I muttered. “Who was she?”

  Of course, he couldn’t answer me. A minute later, I felt his body tense. “Why’d you call Camacho?” he asked suddenly, and just like that, the moment froze, our molten bodies turning to ice.

  “He’s my boss. I didn’t want him to think I was dead.”

  “It couldn’t have waited until morning?”

  I let my arms drop to my sides, and he stepped back. “No, it couldn’t. Wouldn’t you have wanted me to call you? Let you know I wasn’t dead?”

  “I’ve known you since grade school.” He frowned at me. “I think I warrant more priority than Camacho.”

  I leveled my gaze at him. “Like I warranted a phone call from you when you left on your”—I made air quotes again—“‘emergency’?”

  He chose to ignore my sarcasm. “And Garcia? Christ, Lola. You need some female friends. Call Coco. Or Reilly.”

  Sergio was so not worth fighting about. I slung my purse over my shoulder. “It’s not like I invited him. He thought I was dead.”

  He caught my arm. “He’s full of shit, you know.”

  My hand covered his, my voice soft. Reassuring. “I know.” And deep down, I did. Jack had recently told me in no uncertain terms that he’d never cheat on the woman he loved. His father, on the other hand, had left his mother—and his children—for another woman. Maybe some men just couldn’t help it. How strong did you have to be to resist temptation? Or the past?

  Jack raked his hands through his hair and turned away from me. “Son of a bitch.”

  An alcohol-like haze settled on my brain. My thoughts became fuzzy and jumbled. I wanted to go to my room in the flat upstairs and curl up in my bed. Jack would be by my side. I’d confess all my secrets, if he’d confess his.

  I shook the vision away. There was a Dolores Cruz dead in an alley. Scratch that. She was probably in the morgue by now. I gathered up my strength and thought about what I had to do. “Forget about Sergio,” I said to Jack’s back. “I need to go to the police station. Let them know it’s not my body they found.”

  He turned back to me, still looking frustrated. “I’m going with you.”

  Emergencies aside, Jack was a standup guy. He might not be willing to tell me all his secrets, but I knew he’d be a sounding board for me as I tried to figure out what to do next. Because the only thing I could think about was figuring out why the dead woman had my name, but I had no idea where to start. “Okay.”

  He guided me toward the door, a good idea, since I was still shaking in my wedges.

  A sudden pounding echoed the thumping of my pulse in my temples. “Lola,” Antonio called just as I opened the laundry room door. He took a step back. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” Jack replied.

  Antonio looked at me, his concern touching. I knew I’d better enjoy it while it lasted. He’d be back to normal tomorrow. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine. We’re going to the police station.”

  “No need,” he said. “There’s a detective here.”

  Jack and I looked at each other. Well, wasn’t that convenient? The police had come to me.

  Chapter 3

  A man in a rumpled suit stood on the small tiled area just inside the front door. His dome-wrap looked particularly haphazard, his skin extra pasty, and from his scowl, I concluded he was in a really bad mood. Detective Seavers.

  “So you really are alive.” His voice oozed gruffness.

  “Alive and kicking.” The detective had a knack for stating the obvious. He was a friend of Manny Camacho’s, and we’d crossed paths once or twice. He’d been less than thrilled with how things played out with my last case, and it didn’t look like his attitude toward me had improved.

  Seavers droned on. “I spoke with the detective in charge when I heard the victim ID. Once I read the description, I knew it wasn’t you.”

  He licked his hand and ran his damp palm over his thin hair. “She had a driver’s license that said she was Dolores Cruz. Her photo, your name and address.”

  A vise clenched my heart. Hearing the detective say it aloud made it so much more real. Someone had stolen my identity. “How? Why?”

  “Good questions,” he said, his voice tinged with irritation. “ Immigration issue, perhaps. Have you shared your personal information with anyone lately?”

  My blood boiled at the veiled accusation. “Excuse me? You think I’m helping an illegal?”

  He looked over my shoulder, his eyes scanning the people in the house. I turned to see my family staring back, once again completely enraptured as the melodrama of my l
ife unfolded before them. Subtlety was not their strong suit.

  As I met my grandmother’s eyes, she reached a shaky hand out toward me. “Fantaaaasmaaaa,” she moaned.

  “Ay, caramba,” I muttered. Then I spoke up. “I am not a ghost!”

  The detective leaned toward me and said in his throaty cop voice, “Let’s step outside, Ms. Cruz.”

  Good idea. Then I could chew the man out for asking if I had anything to do with my own death. He had some nerve! Before I opened my mouth, I reminded myself that he was only doing his job. I gave my parents a half wave, then stepped outside. Jack followed before the detective could close the door on him.

  Seavers gave him a once-over followed by a lift of one heavy caterpillar eyebrow. “Callaghan, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Camacho said you flew solo,” he said to me. To Jack, he said, “You always around, or what?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said tightly as I muttered, “Not always.”

  “Ah.” The undertones of the word made it seem as if Seavers understood everything perfectly. There was a wink in his voice. “So you’re friends…” He trailed off, but the with benefits was implied.

  Not yet! I wanted to scream, but it’s not for lack of trying!

  “Yeah, good friends.” Jack glanced at me, and I forced my eyes to be steady. His voice didn’t sound all that friendly at the moment.

  Seavers’s forehead gleamed under the porch light. He wiped a bead of sweat away with a torn tissue that he shoved into his coat pocket. Game time was over. “Since you’re not dead,” he said to me, “we’re left with somewhat of a hole in our investigation. Who is dead, and why did she have your name?”

  My thoughts exactly. “I did not give anyone permission to use it,” I said, responding to his earlier question.

  Jack crossed his arms over his chest. My fingers itched to run through his oak-colored hair and take comfort from his warmth. “What are you going to do about it?” he asked the detective.

  I nudged in front of Jack. This was my gig, and I could ask the questions. “You have no idea who she is?”

  Seavers cocked a bushy eyebrow. “We’ll do an autopsy. Check fingerprints and DNA. Dental if we have to. We’ll ID her, but it may take a while. I’ll say it again, though.” He eyed me suspiciously. “It would go a lot faster if you have a bone to throw me. Did you give someone permission to use your name, Ms. Cruz?”