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

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  “Sergio—,” I started to say, breaking off the second I heard my voice start to crack.

  “What about him?” he asked stiffly.

  I willed away the tears that were starting to pool at the bottom of my eyes. “I went to see him. He has my grandmother’s rosary.”

  He pushed me back and looked me up and down, taking in my torn blouse. “He did this to you?”

  “What happened?” Antonio was by our side, grabbing my arm.

  I shook him off. I’d been manhandled enough for one day.

  “He wanted to relive old times. I didn’t.”

  Antonio bolted forward and shouted, “¡Cabrón, hijo de puta!”

  Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Son of a bitch.”

  I sank down on the couch. Jack knelt in front of me, resting his hands on my knees. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded.

  Jack looked at me—as if he could see straight into my soul—before he stood up again and walked over to Antonio. They whispered together, and my brother’s goateed face turned grim, his already dark skin growing darker before my eyes. “Yeah,” Tonio said.

  Jack grimaced. “Right now.” There was absolutely no smile lurking anywhere near his face.

  They flicked one quick short nod at each other; then Jack came back to me. “I’ll be back, okay?”

  Mi amor. “Where are you going?”

  He knelt down in front of me again and I could sense, almost see, his barely contained rage. He ran his hand down his face. “Wait for me.”

  “Vámonos,” Antonio called from the kitchen, and Jack was gone.

  Their plan hit me like a frying pan to the head. I jumped up, raced to the kitchen window, and stared openmouthed as they climbed into Antonio’s forest green Mustang. Oh no, they were not going to fight my battle!

  ¡Dios mío! The engine revved and they tore down the street.

  How could they have the misguided notion that I was a damsel in distress? I’d managed to fight off Sergio just fine. I didn’t need my brother and my—what was Jack to me, anyway? My… my friend Jack—to defend my honor.

  I charged to my room, shed my damaged blouse, and grabbed a shirt from the bureau. Twenty seconds later, I was speeding down Forty-second Street. I’d intercept them, stop them in their tracks, and then I’d get my grandmother’s rosary back.

  Indignant thoughts scrambled through my brain. Knights in shining armor. Pfft. Did they think we were in the Middle Ages or something? Obviously my sparring session with Jack a few weeks ago hadn’t convinced him of my Xena, Warrior Princess, capabilities. My black belt in kung fu should have been enough to prove it to him. I’d have to fight him again to show for once and for all that I was a force to be reckoned with.

  I arrived at Sergio’s dilapidated apartment building in time to see Jack and Antonio already on foot, rounding the corner, and headed straight for 3A. It was too late to stop them. I suddenly remembered Pancho peeking out from the back bedroom. What if he or Sergio had a weapon? Careening out of my car, I sprinted across the parking lot.

  “Wait!” I shouted. The heels of my boots clacked against the cement floor. I caught Jack’s arm with my hand as his knuckles hit the door. Too late.

  “Let us handle it, Lola.” Antonio’s loud whisper carried.

  “Don’t do this,” I hissed.

  “Go home.”

  I gave up on my thickheaded brother and turned to Jack. “Sergio’s friend is in there. Pancho,” I added in a whisper.

  “Who the hell’s called Pancho anymore?” Antonio muttered, shaking his head. “Stupid nickname.”

  Jack nodded at me—acknowledgment that I’d spoken—but he still stepped back to wait.

  A moment later, Sergio yanked open the door. He stood with his legs spread, looking ready to rumble. Damn, he’d recovered from the knee-to-the-groin move I’d pulled on him. Now he looked like a pissed-off bull, the sneer on his face crinkling his nose.

  “What the hell do you want, Callaghan?”

  Jack’s hand shot out, gripping Sergio’s undershirt. He jerked him out of the apartment as Antonio reached around the door and pulled it shut behind them.

  “What the fu—!” Sergio stopped short when he saw me. “Christ.” He notched his chin at me. “She came to me.” He gave me a lascivious leer. “Looking like she does—can you blame me? She’s good.” He shot a searing look at Jack, then slurped, licking his lips. “You know you want what I already had, Callaghan.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Jack ground out as he drew back his arm.

  Sergio’s voice dropped to a menacing rasp. “Sloppy seconds shouldn’t bother you. You’re just in it for the—” He broke off and flicked his tongue at me like a lizard.

  He was demented. There was no other explanation.

  Jack’s arm flew toward Sergio’s face. “¡Basta!” I yelled, grabbing Jack’s biceps and pulling back. “He’s not worth it! He’s baiting you.”

  His muscles were hard and pulsing under my grasp, but the forward motion stopped. Finally, he relaxed, lowering his arm.

  Gracias a Dios. I didn’t think Jack’s boss at the Sacramento Bee would be pleased at an assault-and-battery charge against his new star columnist.

  I edged in front of Jack, my arm cocked behind my back, my fingers brushing against his stomach. “Where’s my rosary, Sergio?”

  Sergio’s face had turned tomato red, the tendons on his neck straining. But he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the rope of white beads.

  I took it from him. All this for a string of plastic. But relief washed over me. En el cielo, my grandmother was smiling down at me.

  Jack was breathing steadily again. “Stay away from her, Garcia, or you won’t be so lucky next time.” He sounded menacing, but his touch was gentle as he took hold of my arm and steered me down the hallway. Antonio followed behind us.

  I half expected Sergio to pounce, but when I glanced over my shoulder, he’d already retreated back into the safety of his apartment.

  Chapter 10

  Jack cornered me once we got back to my flat. “You have to spend some time doing stuff for yourself. Between this situation, the restaurant, and now Sergio, you’re a little stressed.”

  “I can’t sit back and relax while there’s a little boy missing.”

  “The police are working on it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing, Lola. You’re in too deep. One of the first questions you asked was, Did Rosie die because of something she did, or was she an innocent victim because it was you who was supposed to be killed? You have a lot of theories about Rosie at this point, but what happened to eliminating the idea that you were the intended victim?”

  “I have thought about it, thank you very much. Just an FYI, you’re not privy to every thought I have.” Thank God. That might be a touch scary for him. “Not a single clue points to the idea that it was supposed to be me instead of Rosie. No one has an ax to grind with me. I’ve been working an adultery case, but it’s only just finished up, and Rosie turned up dead before I’d gotten anything incriminating against the wife. Unless I have a rogue family member who’s out to get me, I was not the intended victim.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Okay, so Rosie was, but you still don’t know why she was killed.”

  “Like you said, I have a million theories.” More like two or three, but it took only one motive to make a murder.

  “Let’s hear ’em.”

  I loved this about Jack. He was like a wall I could bounce ideas off of, and he interacted with me, whereas Manny just nodded grimly and said, “Prove it.”

  I’d changed my clothes into comfy lavender sweats and a T-shirt. Now I was settled back against the couch, my legs tucked under me, Jack next to me. “Her son is missing,” I said, thinking out loud. “That’s the most significant detail. Who has him? Could the father have wanted him and been willing to kill Rosie in order to get him?”

  Jack nodded. “That’s a possibility.”
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br />   I didn’t pause to think before I launched into another theory. “Rosie was abused and the domestic violence got out of hand.” This one had been front and center in my mind for quite a while, and it was troublesome. It would explain her need to steal someone else’s identity, and it would explain the violence of her death.

  “And the fight that killed her happened in an alley behind the mall?”

  I shrugged. “Her husband or boyfriend or whatever he is could have followed her there. I don’t think there’s a foolproof set of rules for how domestic violence goes down. And the dad could have taken the kid.”

  “Any other ideas?”

  The drug pamphlet we’d found in Rosie’s apartment came to mind. “Overdose? Maybe it was an accident. A drug deal gone bad.” That didn’t explain where the child was, but nothing could be ruled out.

  Antonio walked in from the kitchen. “It’d be pretty hard to hit your head on the corner of a Dumpster like that accidentally. She had to be fighting with someone.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t pushed with intent,” I said, “but was accidentally flung against the Dumpster.”

  “It’s possible,” Jack agreed. “So what’s next?”

  “Dinner.” Antonio grabbed a handful of the back of Jack’s shirt. “The Pizza Joint’s calling.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” I said. “I have to swing by Abuelita’s and talk to los Mafiosos.”

  Antonio cocked an eyebrow at me. “Why?”

  I couldn’t share the details of Zac’s situation. “I’m helping Abuelo with something.” I winked, making light of it so he would drop it. “It’s personal.”

  “Personal, huh? I’ll go with you. Gotta check on things.”

  Antonio was flaky in many ways, but he was on top of the restaurant. “Okay, but I drive.”

  Jack pushed himself off the couch. “We can all go.”

  “No,” I said. “If my grandparents see you, they’ll rope you into eating with them and promising them your firstborn in exchange for saving my soul.”

  There was a twinkle in his eye. “Does your soul need saving?”

  “According to them it does.”

  “Okay, I’ll go order the pizza.”

  We agreed to meet up in half an hour. I snatched the mail off the entry table and shoved it in my purse; then we headed off in our separate directions. Ten minutes later, Antonio was in the kitchen and I stood in front of my grandparents’ table at Abuelita’s. “¿Cómo estan?”

  “Fine, fine.” Abuelo dismissed the greeting with a wave of his hand. That was it for the small talk. He went straight for the jugular. “How good a detective are you? Any news of Zacarias y su esposa?”

  Sucking in my cheeks, I tried to strike a model pose, but with hair falling from its makeshift bun and my casual clothes, I couldn’t quite pull it off. “Lucy gave me a facial. I feel five years younger.” Not that I wanted to move backwards on my time line. I was twenty-nine and looking forward to my fourth decade.

  My grandfather glowered at me, chin to chest.

  I glowered right back at him. I’d learned from the best. He’d taught me everything I knew about attitude.

  “Dolores,” he said in his best mob whisper.

  I sighed and gave up on trying to lighten his mood. “No news yet. I’m still working on it. I have to tell you, though,” I said, wagging my finger at him disapprovingly, “I don’t like nosing around in their private life. Marriage is supposed to be sacred.”

  He looked at me, waiting.

  It was too hard to get a meaningful point across in a language he didn’t fully understand. “Sagrado,” I translated. “Privado. None of our business.”

  “No.” He pulled his thick lips into an amazingly thin line, the stern look meant to be intimidating. “Nothing is, how do you say, sacred, in this family.”

  Wasn’t that the truth. I blew them both a kiss, turned, and ran smack into Sylvia. Her rag-doll hair was pulled back into a barrette, a basket of warm chips and a molcajete of salsa in her hands.

  “Hey, there—how are things going?” I asked.

  “Great!”

  “Antonio’s not giving you a hard time?”

  “I think he wants to, but I won’t let him.” She laughed. “No, seriously, he’s been a perfect gentleman.”

  Huh. I’d never known my brother to be a perfect gentleman. Still, I heaved a sigh of relief. “Great!” I said to her, but silently I pleaded, Please don’t quit, Sylvia.

  I caught a glimpse of Antonio in my peripheral vision. She must have, too, because her posture straightened, and if her hands hadn’t been full, she would have primped.

  She flicked her head to my grandparents’ table. “I even like los Mafiosos.” With that, she sashayed off to deliver the basket of chips and salsa to a man and his three kids. I watched her as she stayed, ruffled one of the kids’ hair, and laughed. She was a good waitress, friendly and able to connect with the customers.

  And she even liked my grandparents. Qué milagro. I liked them, but it was in my job description as their granddaughter. I had no choice. I tried to look at them as an outsider might. Yeah, I thought, I guess they were sort of endearing—in a threatening kind of way.

  Being free of my waitressing duties would give me the time I needed to work on my family case with Lucy and my personal case with Rosie. Add to that the mysteries of Camacho and Associates interoffice politics, and I was juggling three huge balls.

  And juggling was not my greatest strength. Jack was right. I was stressed. Pizza and beer sounded perfect.

  Antonio sidled up beside me. “Do you think Sylvia would go out with me?”

  My nostrils instantly flared, and my breath started coming in spurts like an agitated bull. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He watched her as she passed through the dining room. “She’s kind of pretty. A little different, no?”

  As Sylvia delivered two plates of steaming soup to an elderly couple, I gave her a good once-over. She was pretty in a nontraditional way—full-figured but fit-looking, freckly-faced and wiry-haired. Definitely not my brother’s usual type, but I’d seen that look in his eyes too many times to doubt its meaning. He was on the make.

  I glared at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

  He leaned toward me until we were practically nose to nose. “Sounding a little mafiosa, Lola. Abuelo would be so proud.” His gaze continued to follow Sylvia as she moved efficiently around the dining room, a small grin tickling his lips. He continued as if we hadn’t just had a mob moment. “I think she’d be fun.”

  “She’s got three kids and an ex-husband, Tonio. She put her kids’ pictures up in her locker. That’s a lot of baggage, not a lot of fun.” I couldn’t see my brother getting involved in such a complex relationship. I’d had to manipulate him into one date with Reilly, and he still hadn’t forgiven me for that one. Of course, Reilly had a slight stalker side to her, but she’d been in love with Antonio, so I couldn’t fault her for her passion.

  “I’m great with kids,” Antonio said. “They love me.”

  I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. “Yeah, because they can relate to you as one of their own kind. Are you great with ex-husbands, too?”

  He smiled his trademark Cheshire cat grin. “I’ll let you know.”

  Something in his tone made my stomach plunge. I might as well have been talking to a pot of beans, telling the water to boil already. “Antonio, don’t. We need Sylvia to stay.”

  “No, you need her to stay. I need somebody new to date. And me dating her doesn’t mean she’ll quit. Have a little faith.”

  “I have faith you’ll break up with her.” I pleaded with him. “Please, stay away from her.”

  “I’ve been in a slump.”

  “What, for a day? Sylvia’s not one of your brainless twenty-year-olds. She’s a mom, Antonio. Grow up. She needs this job. And you’re manager here. You do need her to stay. In fact, we should establish a policy banning workplace romance.”

  He just scoff
ed, so I tried a different tactic. “Please. She’s been hurt enough.”

  But he’d stopped listening. Sylvia glided by, her hands and arms loaded with steaming plates. Antonio watched her deliver plates to the same table she’d brought chips and salsa to a moment ago.

  Antonio’s expression grew serious. Watchful.

  Oh, boy. I’d have to have a chat with Sylvia, just to help the girl keep her wits about her. Pobrecita. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Antonio had made up his mind. She didn’t stand a chance.

  The Pizza Joint was a cavernous room that made me think of a medieval dungeon—except for the electricity and the bright lights of the video games along the back wall. My pupils dilated, and I headed for the restroom while Antonio went in search of our table. When I came back out, my brother bellowed my name from across the room. “Lola! ¡Ven aquí!” He waved from a corner booth.

  I could barely make out the dark shape of someone sitting next to Antonio. Jack. I’d seen him just a half hour ago, but I already missed him. But why was Antonio sitting next to him in the booth? That should have been my spot.

  Antonio clearly couldn’t see my irritation in the darkness. He looked like an air traffic controller the way he was waving me into the seat across from him. “Sit, sit!”

  I darted my eyes from him to the empty side of the booth, hoping he’d get the message from my expression and move to the other side. Which he did. “Tonio—,” I started to say, but stopped short when I got a better look at him.

  It wasn’t Jack.

  It was a woman. A quick assessment of her told me that she was not just any woman. She was Antonio’s dream girl, with her perfectly curled and flipped strawberry hair, her revealing clothes, and her manufactured tan. I suddenly felt frumpy instead of comfortable. My hand skimmed my messy bun, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The question was, where had she come from?

  Antonio’s eyes were glued to the girl by my side, and I kept mine averted. No need to rub in how I was feeling at the moment. But as she leaned forward to say something to him, her balloon breasts rested on the table, Antonio looked like a feral cat in heat, and queasiness filled my gut. I’d seen her before.