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

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  ¡¿Otra vez?! Was this guy serious? “For the second time, no!”

  Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a snapshot of the dead woman, handing it to me with his nail-bitten fingers.

  I gulped as I took it, thinking fresh air in my lungs might ward off the nausea that was bubbling in my stomach. Being a PI didn’t mean I was immune to the trauma of seeing dead people. Especially one named Dolores Cruz with my address on her ID and a fatal blow to the head.

  I took the photo. And blinked. The woman looked nothing like me. I had brown hair, olive skin, and green eyes. The dead woman’s black hair was kinky and created a jagged outline around her pale face. A wet mass seemed to mat her hair down on one side.

  I patted my head. No blood. Just straight, full hair that fell several inches past my shoulders. God, was I lucky.

  I looked at the picture again. The woman’s chubby cheek was smeared red. My red cheeks were artificially enhanced with MAC bronzer, not blood. I gulped down another lungful of air. This woman was dead. Hysteria bubbled toward my brain. Will the real Slim Shady, er, Dolores Cruz, please stand up?

  I could feel Detective Seavers’s scrutiny. Jack wrapped his arm around me, his hand squeezing my shoulder, and the hysteria subsided. I shook my head and handed the picture back. “I’ve never seen her. How would she have gotten a copy of my driver’s license?”

  Seavers pocketed the picture. “It’s not a copy. It’s her photograph on the license.” He cleared his throat. “If she didn’t get the particulars she needed from you to get a duplicate made…”

  He left the sentence hanging, like I’d miraculously fill in the blank. Wishful thinking, buddy. I didn’t have the foggiest idea who this woman was or where she’d gotten her information.

  “Identity theft is still the fastest-growing crime in America,” Seavers finally said. “I’ll give you a Web site you can refer to for help.” He ran his fingers over his unibrow. “If that’s what’s going on here, then you’ll need to take care of your accounts. Check the activity. Post a fraud alert on your credit report. The usual.”

  I fought the spine-tingling chill that wound through my body. A woman had stolen my identity, and now she was dead. No matter how I looked at it, this situation was anything but usual.

  It was well after 1:00 A.M. by the time Jack led me upstairs to my flat. We sat at the kitchen table across from Antonio. Jack sipped a bottle of beer and watched me. No smile. No bedroom eyes. He’d been all over me in front of Camacho’s, and had offered me true support since we’d gotten back to my parents’ house. Now, nada. Apparently the dead woman had zapped his libido.

  “Unbelievable,” my brother said as I filled him in on the conversation with Detective Seavers.

  “That’s an understatement.” After I’d narrowly avoided death during my last case, one question was bugging me: Was I the one who was supposed to be in the morgue right now?

  I considered the other possibility—that the dead woman had taken on a new identity to hide from something. Or someone. If that was the case, the plan had bombed big-time.

  I couldn’t do anything until morning, so I caught Jack’s eye and leaned forward. The wispy fabric of my dress slipped off my shoulder.

  Maybe he’d walk me to my room. Talking through a case usually gave me clarity, and talking through it with Jack might give me the added benefit of comfort. Which, at the moment, I really wanted.

  His gaze flicked to the bare skin of my shoulder, but he went back to his conversation with Antonio, cataloging the dangers of my job. Which, if I thought about it, was very sweet. And protective.

  I changed tactics, waggled my eyebrows at Antonio, and jerked my head to the side, trying to signal to him to leave.

  Finally, Mr. Subtlety looked at me and stopped midsentence. “Something in your eye, hermana?”

  With my palms flat on the table, I blinked at him. “No, hermano. There’s not.”

  Antonio nodded. “You’re on overload. You should go to bed.”

  Argh! My brother was Mr. Rico Suave. Couldn’t he figure out that I wanted alone time with Jack?

  I thought about speaking in Spanish, but Jack had a pretty good recollection of his high school foreign language. Finally, I just gave up. “I’m going to sleep,” I announced to the room at large.

  Salsa immediately perked up from her corner, but it was Jack’s eyes, locked with mine, that I focused on. The room—and my sleepiness—melted away for a moment. I looked longingly at him, willing him to sweep me into his arms and carry me off. “Good night.” Breathy voice. Very alluring. Good job, Lola.

  I waited, sure he’d pick up the signals, but he didn’t budge. Damn. Maybe he’d decided I was too high maintenance. My shoulders sagged. I couldn’t blame him. “Hasta luego, Callaghan,” I said. “Teveo mas tarde.”

  I slowly stood, gave a little wave, and walked through to the living room. Once I was out of sight, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. Jack’s face floated in the darkness behind my eyelids. A second later, he’d morphed into the dead woman from the picture Seavers had shown me.

  What a mess of a night. And to top it off, I’d never even done the notes or uploaded the photographs for the Zimmerman case.

  A low, rumbling voice interrupted my thoughts. “You okay?”

  My eyes flew open. Jack leaned against the wall next to me. I hadn’t even heard his approach. Some PI I was. “Of course I’m okay.”

  I heard a soft click. The back door closing. So Antonio did have a sixth sense of when to skedaddle, bless his heart. Longing settled in the pit of my stomach. Alone with Jack. No one to interrupt us.

  It wasn’t the romantic buildup I’d anticipated—especially when I forced myself to remember his recent disappearing act—but part of me didn’t care. There was something innate in Jack that made me feel safe and secure. He was like an old blanket that you just couldn’t go to sleep without. What I wanted with him went far beyond the orgasms my body ached for.

  Jack cocked his head and grinned. “What’s going through that wicked mind of yours?”

  If he only knew. The R word that sent men screaming from a room. Relationship. I smiled and shrugged. “Nada.”

  He moved a little closer, and his voice took on a chastising tone. “There’s never nothing going through your mind. You, Cruz, are a schemer and a thinker. And,” he added, “you’re doing that on purpose. You know what it does to me.”

  My grin was innocent… though I knew exactly what he was talking about. “¿Qué?”

  “Like I said, schemer. Hablando español.”

  He had me dead to rights. I batted my eyelashes and gave him a hint of my best seductress smile. “Te quiero volver loco.”

  He trailed his fingertips along my arm, and my knees went weak. “Is that what you want?” Either he’d been brushing up on his Spanish or he’d read between the lines.

  I swallowed. “It’s crossed my mind.” Like a thousand and one times.

  His azure eyes seemed fathomless. “It’s crossed my mind, too. Every day for the last ten years or so.”

  Give or take the four years he’d spent in a relationship with Sarah.

  And minus the last seven days when he’d disappeared.

  With his shoulder still against the wall, his fingertips lightly touched my outer thigh. I held my breath. The blood rushed from my head downward. All it took was that smoldering look and his sensual touch, and the tables had turned. He was in control, and I was putty in his hands.

  He moved closer to me, casually gathering up the fabric of my dress with his hand. “Have I told you how amazing you look?” His bedroom voice was like a vacuum sucking me in. “You need to start a collection of dresses to wear just for me.” He tugged on the fabric. “This one’s top of the list.”

  I swallowed, trying to focus on his eyes, his mouth, anything but the feel of his knuckles pressed against the flesh of my thigh. The warmth of his skin against mine was almost enough to send me into an orgasm right here and now. “This
old thing?” I said with a choked laugh.

  While his left hand still dangerously caressed my thigh, he lifted his right hand to the bodice of my dress. “It’s dangerous. You’re dangerous,” he amended, and then he tucked his fingers under the fabric and ran them down the V of my neckline. Goose bumps popped up on my flesh as the backs of his fingers followed the curve of my breast.

  My heart beat faster, and I leaned the back of my head against the wall, my eyes closing to half-mast. “I’ll remember that. Maybe a nun’s habit…”

  “Mmm. That might do the trick… .” He trailed off as his open hand slid over my breast. I held my breath as his palm brushed torturously over my suddenly perky nipple. “Then again,” he breathed, “it doesn’t matter what you wear. Or what you do. Who your ex-boyfriends are. I just want to be with you.”

  Bésame, I willed. I wanted to forget about the night, the dead woman, how tired I was. I wanted to forget about everything except Jack’s lips on mine.

  He shoved off the wall and moved in front of me. With his hands on the sides of my face, his fingers spread through my hair. I gave him credit. He was getting good at this telepathy thing. And equally good at driving me wild. He gave as good as he got.

  Better, even.

  I was five-six, but even with heels on, I had to stretch to make our lips meet. But stretch I did, by God. His body pressed against me. “Does this count as seeing me later?” he whispered against my lips.

  So he had understood my Spanish. I melted inside. “Counts for me.”

  He worked his knee between my legs, his teeth nipping at my lower lip. I opened my mouth to him, resisting my need to drag him down to the floor that very instant.

  Salsa yelped, her bark carving into my brain. My lips froze. No! This was not happening again. No interruptions!

  But it was too late. The kitchen door slammed against the wall. Salsa charged across the linoleum, her doggy nails clipping against the floor.

  Jack and I pulled apart as my boxer raced up between us. Her droopy black cheeks and hangdog eyes seemed to ask me why I’d left her outside.

  Hijo de su madre. I batted Salsa out of the way and lifted my chin to Jack. “Where were we?”

  “Lola?” I heard my name at the same time I heard footsteps in the kitchen. A figure rounded the corner from the living room to the hallway, and my shoulders slumped. Chely. No, no, no!

  Jack backed up until he was leaning against the wall across from me. His eyes were glazed and feverish. Somehow I mustered a smile for my cousin. “What’re you doing here, prima?”

  Chely had a deep, worried frown. “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about you dead in an alley—”

  “Chely—”

  “My dad brought me back. He said I could, like, stay with you.” She eyed Jack, but quickly snapped her gaze back to me. “Is it okay? I mean, you’re not, like, busy, are you? It’s late, right?” She notched her head toward Jack. “He’s going home, right?” She looked at him again, all needy and indignant. “Aren’t you, like, going home now?”

  I frowned. Her mother would have been so proud.

  The forced smile on Jack’s lips barely masked his frustration. “Perfect timing, Chely. I was just leaving. She’s all yours.”

  I cursed inside—with a vengeance. I wanted so much with Jack. Wanted to talk with him, cuddle with him, launch fireworks with him. “Are you sure—?” I started, but the fear etched on Chely’s face stopped me cold. “Right.” I cocked my head in apology, as much for me as for him. My cousin needed me, and that was that.

  He pushed off the wall and lowered his head to kiss my cheek. “Things are never easy with you, Lola.”

  Was there a hint of a smile in his voice, or was that my imagination? “Easy is overrated.” I gave him a slow smile, heavy with anticipation. “Hasta luego, Callaghan.”

  He gave a wry grin, and I could tell he was digging the anticipation, too. “Oh, yeah. You better believe it, Cruz.”

  Chapter 4

  Saturday mornings were meant for sleeping in. Long jogs along the river. Hot showers. Sponges and Ajax. They were not meant for researching identity theft. But that’s exactly what I’d done for more than an hour, and the anxiety that had taken root in my body in the early-morning hours had multiplied. The damage to my credit could have been substantial if the woman who’d stolen my name hadn’t died. Small consolation, since she’d be six feet under soon and nothing about that was good.

  Of course, I had no idea how long she’d had my identity before she died, so I didn’t really know the extent of the damage she might have done.

  I went through the steps to protect myself, but my calls to my credit card companies led to recordings. Business hours were Monday through Friday. My hands were tied—unfortunately not by Jack and not to a bedpost.

  By ten thirty, I was readying tables for lunch customers at Abuelita’s. My obligation to the family restaurant quadrupled whenever we were short-staffed. Which was pretty much always.

  I’d take the reprieve from the drama of my life.

  Four long hours later, the lunch shift was winding down. I spent the last fifteen minutes refilling the tortilla chip warmer, topping off the hot sauce bottles on the tables, and folding red napkins into triangles for the dinner crowd.

  Stripping off my apron as soon as the minute hand reached the half hour, I ran upstairs to the break room to change into my plain street clothes—jeans and a flirty yellow blouse. Nothing flashy or too sexy. Even wore one of my plainer bras. Since I had no plans to see Jack, I had no need to wear the good stuff. Nothing exciting could possibly happen in a nude bra.

  I scooted through the restaurant kitchen on my way to the back parking lot. My father stood at the stainless steel counter dredging enormous stuffed green chilies in an egg batter. “See you later,” I called.

  “Whoa.” Antonio appeared out of nowhere and stepped in front of me, effectively blocking my exit. “Where’s the fire?”

  I wagged my finger in his face. “Hey, you don’t pay me enough to harass me about my plans. Oh, un momento, por favor.” I thunked my forehead with the heel of my hand. “You don’t pay me at all.”

  “I don’t have to pay you, Lola. It’s your family business, too.”

  “No. You’re the manager, and it’s going to be your restaurant someday. I work here on an as-needed basis. Now muevete. I’m going to Camacho’s.” My boss, the superdetective ex-cop, had more connections than the Godfather himself. Surely he’d be able to come up with some dirt on the dead woman. Plus I still had the Zimmerman case to finish up.

  I reached for the door, but Antonio didn’t budge. He had a peculiar look on his face.

  “What?” I curled up my top lip and ran my tongue over my front teeth. “Do I have some pico between my teeth? A piece of cilantro?”

  He gave a pronounced blink and a little shake of his head. “What? No.” He looked at my bared teeth. “All clear.”

  I frowned. The way he was studying me… it was like he was trying to—to memorize my face. My death was haunting me! “Tonio,” I said, trying to push past him, “move.”

  But my brother stood in front of the door like a soldier standing guard while his buddy got it on with a military groupie. His I-almost-lost-my-sister expression vanished and was replaced by an overdone managerial one. “Did you finish clearing your tables?” he asked, his voice serious.

  My eyes became slits. “Por supuesto.”

  “And the hot sauce bottles? All refilled?”

  I put my hands on my hips. I could take him out right now, if I wanted to. A swift jab to the underside of his chin, he’d be down, and I’d be on my way. I exercised patience instead. “Filled, cleaned, and replaced.”

  “Chips all set?”

  I spoke through my clenched teeth. “Yes.”

  “What about the napkins for tonight?”

  That did it. “I’m alive, Tonio!” I tapped my hand against my arm, then my head. “See? Alive! You can’t keep me hostage in the restaurant with
extra waitress duties.”

  His shoulders slouched, but he recovered a split second later. “Hostage? Lo,” he said, laying his hand on my forehead, “are you feeling okay? Maybe you should take some time off. I’m sure—” He hesitated, just barely. “Camacho’ll give you a sick day.”

  I jerked my head back at the contempt in his voice when he said Camacho. Looked like Jack’s feelings toward my boss were rubbing off on my brother. “Manny would give me as many sick days as I needed,” I shot back. “If I was sick. Which,” I added, “I’m not.”

  I reached for the door again, using my hip to shove Antonio out of the way this time. “Todo está finito. Now, I have a job to go to—one that pays me. Not to mention I have to find out who killed me last night. Would you please hire that new waitress you interviewed already?”

  And with that, I plowed into the back parking lot, yelling over my shoulder, “And don’t make a move on this one, because I’m done filling in!”

  The trip to Camacho and Associates took ten minutes. It was at the tip of one side of the triangle that made up the three most prominent places in my life: the PI firm, the restaurant, and my parents’ house, aka home.

  I parked my car in the small lot the agency shared with Szechwan House, my all-time favorite restaurant (a fact I’d go to my grave with, since admitting that my mother’s cooking came in second place was akin to sacrilege). Pushing through the door of Camacho’s, I ticked my fingers against the wispy leaves of the solo artificial fern that decorated the so-called lobby. “¿Como estás, planta?”

  Sadly, my conversation with it didn’t perk up the dreary fake foliage.

  I walked through the open doorway at the end of the wall and entered the main conference room. It wasn’t much to speak of. There was a long rectangular table, a desk and computer off in one corner, filing cabinets, and two computers on a long table against the wall for the associates to use.