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

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  “You’re here early.” His dark eyes peered at me, and I swallowed a self-conscious breath.

  My hands absently straightened my skirt, and I stood up straighter. I filled Manny in on my case, giving him the same information I’d given Seavers the night before and paying close attention to his demeanor. Nothing out of the ordinary. “I’m thinking she may have been the victim of domestic violence.”

  He looked at my notes and gave a curt nod. “You have to either prove it or disprove it.”

  That was the extent of Manny’s words of wisdom. Prove or disprove my hypothesis. The rest was up to me.

  He sauntered into his office, his alligator-skin boots tugging at the threads of the carpet as he walked. Either I was a terrible detective, Manny was a brilliant actor, or he felt less than nothing for me. I decided to go with the third option. Manny was my boss, nothing more, and at best, he seemed indifferent toward me.

  I was mildly distracted by the fact that Reilly’s chair was, once again, empty. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep my mind on my case. Finally, after twenty-three minutes, I caved to my snooping impulse. I checked over my shoulder to make sure I was still alone, then quickly tiptoed over to Reilly’s desk.

  My spy skills were second to none. I’d been practicing on Jack since I was fourteen years old, after all. I scoured every nook and cranny of her desk in a matter of minutes. Nothing seemed to be missing. All her J.Lo CDs were tossed haphazardly in the bottom left drawer. Her favorite shades of lipstick—all bright to match her hair—were lined up in the top drawer right next to nine sharpened pencils.

  I moved to the surface of the desk and looked at her daily calendar of happy, smiling fruits and veggies. The top page was two days old.

  Red flag. Reilly had a thing for calendars and she always ripped off the day’s sheet before she left the office. I’d never known her to miss this ritual. I looked at the other things on her desk, zeroing in on her calendar blotter. Appointments and notes were written all over in her loopy writing. How she kept it all straight, I had no idea. There didn’t seem to be rhyme or reason behind what square she put random information in. I scanned the notes, stopping short at the square with today’s date:

  11:00 Dr. Burke

  1:30 Fair Oaks and Howe—Jokowski

  • • •

  Two appointments. That would explain her absence today, but Reilly wasn’t one to keep secrets. If something was ailing her, she would have told me; I was sure of it.

  I did what any good friend would do. I dug for more information. The rest of Reilly’s desk yielded nothing, but an Internet search gave me answers just like that. Dr. Burke was… a pediatrician. And Jokowski, located in an office building at Fair Oaks and Howe Avenue, was a family law attorney.

  The plot of one of my sister’s favorite romance novels came to mind. Secret baby. Oh. My. God. Had Reilly been keeping a child from me all these years? Had a moment of passion gotten the better of her and now she had a child she was fighting to get custody of?

  No, that couldn’t be the answer. Reilly had never even hinted at being a mother, and she could not keep a secret. I sank into a chair at the conference table and tried to formulate another answer, but nothing came to mind.

  She was definitely up to something; at least I knew that. I’d puzzle it out eventually. Or maybe I’d just ask her when I saw her next.

  I spent the rest of the morning researching identity theft and calling the credit card companies I’d found information on at Rosie’s apartment. She hadn’t opened up any accounts in my name with the companies I called, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others I didn’t know about yet. I had to bide my time until the credit reports I’d ordered came in.

  I spent the lunch hour at Abuelita’s training Sylvia. By the time three o’clock rolled around, I was ready for my facial with Lucy. I parked in her driveway and walked through the drought-resistant, lava-rocked yard, thinking again how I much preferred lush landscaping. A stop by the McKinley Rose Garden on my way home would counteract the negative effects of Lucy and Zac’s Spartan desert, the theft of my identity, and artificially endowed redheaded interns. The season was waning, and the roses were beginning to fade. Still, a few lingering scents and buds were sure to soothe my mind.

  The front door flung open before I had a chance to ring the bell. “Lola!” The sheer volume of Lucy’s voice ricocheted off the bonsailike trees that lined the walkway.

  She and I were polar opposites. The only things we had in common were our family connection and our love of yoga. It was enough. She was completely free and uninhibited, and liked being my sidekick—when I needed a sidekick. I hated being here under false pretenses, but the idea that Lucy might be cheating on Zac was a worse scenario.

  She hugged me, then led me into her spa room, complete with tinkling chimes and a mini waterfall feature. “I can’t believe you’re here! It’s been forever since I gave you a facial. This one’s on the house,” she added.

  “It is not.” Paying for my facial somehow made my real intent a little less manipulative.

  She waved away my protest. “No worries,” she said with a wink. “I give a free facial to all my clients who come back from the dead.”

  “Lucy.” I prepped myself for an argument, but her frown stopped me.

  “What’s the 411?” she asked.

  I laughed. She was a California girl through and through, right down to her bleached blond hair and golden skin. She and Zac had been married eleven years, had three kids, and always seemed happy. Could she really be cheating? “No 411. Just 911. Blackhead emergency,” I elaborated.

  Her face relaxed, and mine tensed. Mentirosa. But calling myself a liar didn’t make me fess up. I was on a mission of discovery.

  “You look great,” I said. “Love the skirt.” The thin rayon fringy number and the snug navy T-shirt fit Lucy’s sun-worshipping earthy style to perfection.

  “No, you look amazing! Look at that skirt and those boots. Fabulous!”

  My suede skirt hit my legs just above the knees, leaving a five-inch gap between it and my brown boots. I was celebrating a season that hadn’t hit Sacramento yet. A little overzealously, since it wasn’t likely to hit for another month and a half, at least.

  “I could never wear that. It’s too sophisticated for me,” she continued. She sucked in a sharp breath, a sudden knowing expression spreading onto her face. “You’re in love, aren’t you?” I shook my head emphatically, but she kept on. “Yes, you are! You’re in love… . Ooooh, tell me everything.” She thrust a wraparound towel at me. “But change into this first, and I’ll be right back. I’m going to push back my next appointment so we can have lots of time to talk. Then you can spill it.”

  She flew out of the room, and I stripped out of my clothes, quickly wrapping the strapless towel around my body and pressing the snaps together. I placed my neatly folded clothes on a divan and arranged myself on the special salon chair, pushing the knot of my hair up so I wouldn’t lie on it.

  It was a cinch to eavesdrop; Lucy’s boisterous voice shot through the thin walls. “Honey, push it back a half an hour. That’s all. We’ll have plenty of time.” I chewed my cheek. Honey? Who was she talking to?

  She blew back into the room like a whirlwind. “All set? Great.”

  “Was that a client on the phone? You don’t have to cancel an appointment for me.” So nonchalant. Brava, Lola.

  “What? Nah.” She dismissed the idea. “He’s a regular. He has flexible hours.”

  He? And why did Lucy know her client had flexible hours? I cleared my throat. “You must get to know your clients pretty well.”

  “Nah,” she said again. “Just some people like to talk. They share everything, you know?” She patted my shoulder. “That guy? His wife hates his back hair, so he comes in once a month and I wax it. Brutal, but it makes her happy. The things people do for each other.”

  “Yeah.” I thought about Zac wanting me to investigate his wife. I swallowed guiltily. “The things p
eople do.”

  Lucy pressed a button on a small stereo in the corner, and the sound of tinkling New Age music filled the room. She settled in on the swivel stool behind my head. “Now spill it. It’s that Jack Callaghan, right?”

  I opened my mouth to say, Pfft, not Jack Callaghan, but I couldn’t do it. “Yes,” I said. “It’s Jack Callaghan. But it’s not love.” Not yet anyway.

  She stared down at me. “Uh-huh.” She began cleaning the light layer of makeup off my face, wiping my skin in a circular motion with a cotton pad. Lucy had a gentle touch that was totally at odds with her booming voice and personality. She had hidden layers. “Love is a good thing. You need a man.”

  “I don’t need a man, Lucy.” I might want one, but I didn’t need one. “Last time I had a man for any length of time, he cheated on me and stole from my parents. I’m fine by myself.”

  “Like Sergio counts. That was a lifetime ago. Whatever. I’m just glad you’re here.” She smiled at me upside down. “That death scare was too much.”

  My eyes glazed. Lying to further a case was one thing. Lying to my cousin-in-law was something else entirely.

  The volume of her voice dropped, but was still commanding. “Did you find out who the woman in the alley was? I couldn’t believe it when Antonio called that night.”

  I let my eyes drift closed as I listened to Lucy’s train-of-thought recollections.

  “Zac answered the phone. He knew something was wrong right away—Antonio could barely get the words out.”

  My breath became shallow as Lucy told me how she and Zac had gathered up their kids and rushed right over to be with my parents.

  “When you walked in, it was surreal. Like an old Twilight Zone episode.”

  “I felt the same way!”

  Lucy’s fingers tapped against the edges of my scalp, pinpointing my temples. “So who was it? Who died?”

  “Her name was Rosie Gonzales. I didn’t know her, and I haven’t come up with a reason why she might have been killed. All I do know is that she stole my identity.”

  Lucy’s hands clamped down onto my shoulders. “No way!”

  “Yes way. Unbelievable. Jack and I found her apartment and—”

  “Whoa, back up. Jack went with you? To her apartment?”

  Shoot. She was right—her table was like a therapist’s couch. I hadn’t meant to spill that tidbit. “He works for the Bee. He looked up addresses for me, and, uh, he’s writing an article… .”

  “Ahhh. I see.”

  I popped open one eye and peered up at her.

  “So you are dating.” She ran a warm towel over my face and began applying something else. “I knew it!”

  “No, we’re not.” Who was on a mission to get information here? I wanted to get off Jack and onto Lucy and Zac. “We had one hot, incredible…” My voice got trembly. “. . . frustrating date.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That guy is smokin’. And hot, incredible, and frustrating are not bad qualities, I want you to know.”

  Lucy was married, and she’d noticed Jack. The woman at Rosie’s apartment complex noticed Jack. The damn intern with a life-preserver as a chest noticed him. Hijo de su madre, he was smokin’, and I was gone for him.

  “He’s got some baggage,” I said.

  She patted my shoulder as she began to exfoliate, sloughing my skin free of dead cells. “Ah, well. No relationship’s perfect.”

  An opening, finally! “You and Zac are pretty close to perfect.” I spread my arms wide. “You have a faithful husband, great kids, a house, a job you love. And Zac’s, uh, sorta smokin’.”

  Saying it all out loud, I realized it did sound good. Lucy seemed to have it all.

  “No, not perfect. When we have date night—which is never—hot, incredible, and frustrated only describes the food and the restaurant bill.”

  I sat up and turned to look at her. “Don’t you have happily ever after?” I was asking for myself, as well as for Zac. I wanted to believe that marriage and kids could be fulfilling. But the risks I took as a detective gave me a rush, and the satisfaction I felt at doing my job and doing it well was an even bigger thrill. Could a marriage and family compete with that?

  She shrugged her bony shoulders, smiling at me. “Zac’s great, you know? Good provider. Good father. But the roller-coaster ride’s over. We’re on the merry-go-round now.”

  I frowned. She hadn’t said Zac was a good husband. “Does there have to be a roller coaster? Isn’t marriage supposed to be stable?” I thought of my parents, plodding through their lives with their four kids, their restaurant, their home, each other. It wasn’t exciting, but it was normal.

  “I’m thirty-five.” Her voice was matter-of-fact and tinged with melancholy.

  “You make it sound like that’s over the hill. Most women want the merry-go-round with the dependable husband who’s still in love with them. It’s the happy ending.”

  She propelled me back down onto the chair. “But isn’t there more? I mean, you have your job. Your life will never be dull, even with all the other stuff. Being a skin aesthetician isn’t thrilling, you know? I mean how many hairy backs and furry lips can a person look at before everyone becomes Wolverine? Only it’s not Hugh Jackman, it’s Wolfman Jack.”

  I frowned. Too many Jacks.

  “Don’t mash your face like that. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.” I unscrunched, and she covered my eyes with lavender-scented pads and clicked on a bright light to scrutinize my pores. “Let’s talk about something else.” Her voice tried to be upbeat. “Your skin is gorgeous! Not a single blackhead.” She squeezed moisturizer onto her palms and began massaging it into my face.

  I was bothered by Lucy’s disillusionment with her life. Had she turned to someone else for comfort? I knew that George Clooney topped her strip list, but maybe she’d gone for someone totally out of character. Maybe someone with a shaved head? No hair would appeal to her.

  My eyes popped open, dislodging the pads. “What do you think of Bruce Willis?”

  Lucy replaced the scented pads. “Eh,” she said. Then she stroked my face and neck, working her magic, easing all my tension out, but giving me nothing more about herself or her marriage.

  Chapter 9

  By Wednesday morning, the weather of late summer had finally shifted. Gray clouds peppered the sky, dimming the blue with a vast muggy haze. My phone beeped with an incoming text message. I glanced at the screen. It was from Reilly! God, how I missed that crazy girl. I read it, frowning. Doing a job for el jefe. Dying to give u the 411. So cool. Top secret. Over and out.

  My imagination ran wild. Doing a job for Manny could mean anything from picking up a new order of handcuffs or binoculars at a local spy store to… to… to… I drew a blank. What kind of job would Manny have Reilly do?

  I texted back. What kind of job?

  But she didn’t respond.

  At 9:45, I pulled into Camacho’s parking lot and slid my car into the slot next to the macho-machine: Manny’s beefy white truck. I marched past Szechwan House, turning my head away from the door. Not even the pull of a morning potsticker could deter me from my mission. If Reilly was a receptionist-on-special-assignment-as-a-detective, I was afraid she was in over her head. As her friend, I had a duty to help her.

  But despite the truck outside, the office was deserted. My mission was delayed. I poured myself a cup of coffee, stood in front of the whiteboard again, and contemplated my case. Not a single revelation came to me.

  A flash of reflected light from outside caught my eye. I peered through the tinted plate-glass office window in time to see Sadie zip her flashy red sports car into the parking lot. The passenger door opened, and Manny unfolded himself from the small space, stretching his lanky body into an upright position. Manny in Sadie’s sports car was like an oxymoron—or a scene from a slapstick cartoon. They just didn’t go together.

  Sadie popped out of the driver’s side, her spiky blond hair less perfectly coiffed than usual, her cheeks flushed, a red-lipstic
ked smile slapped across her face with smug satisfaction. I looked back to Manny. He had his back to Sadie, his chin dropped to his chest. Sadie walked up beside him, flicking her red-tipped fingernails against his sleeve. He jerked, retracting slightly, and she dropped her hand, the smile on her face pulling tight.

  Manny turned to her and spoke, his lips barely moving. Sadie stood, frozen, and he ambled toward the office.

  I scooted into the back room, half of me wishing I were a fly on the wall in the conference room so I could keep watching them, the other half wanting to scrub my eyes with soap to erase the image of them from my mind. The fly-on-the-wall half of me won. I was like a lookie-loo at a car accident—I had a twisted, horrified desire to know all the gory details of the Manny-and-Sadie drama. I poked my head around the corner to peer into the conference room, wishing my chismosa Reilly were here to share the moment with.

  I held my breath as Manny rounded the corner from the lobby into the conference room. Everything about him, from his rock-hard body to his wood-stained scalp and crew cut, screamed dangerous. His eyes flicked to Sadie as she breezed in behind him. Even from my hidden position, I could smell the heavy perfume trailing in her wake.

  She touched his arm again, and he looked down at her. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” she said.

  Manny’s expression was odd. It was like he was in the midst of an inner battle between anger and resignation, and neither side was ready to admit defeat. Finally, his eyes narrowed with wariness. “Yes, it does.”

  Sadie dropped her arm to her side and took a step back. “She needs—”

  “No!” he snapped.

  My mind raced through the possible meanings of their conversation. Who needed what? A new client? Was it someone they knew? Someone they had a personal relationship with?

  Manny shook his head. “Not like this.”