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

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  I eased back onto the road and headed toward Auburn.

  “PI work means a lot of driving,” Lucy commented a little while later.

  That was an understatement. “I’m ready to go hybrid.” My gas bills were outrageous.

  “Oh, yes! Green all the way. I can’t wait till the MINI Cooper goes hybrid.”

  A while later I pulled off the freeway into Old Auburn. The curved roads, old trees, and quaint architecture gave Old Auburn a welcoming atmosphere, sort of a snapshot of an idyllic Midwestern town—in Northern California. With Gold Rush history.

  The Brenda Dawson Center for Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation was situated in Old Town, in an ancient-looking brown-shingled building that looked like a throwback to the Old West. I’d spent ten minutes of the drive briefing Lucy. We’d brainstormed how to play it, and we were ready.

  “You have to be convincing,” I said, throwing up a prayer and crossing my fingers that she could pull it off.

  She took out her barrette and scrambled her fingers through her hair, creating a completely disheveled mess. She worked her face muscles, edging the ends of her lips down into a sagging pout, fluttering her eyelids. “I’m a born actress. How else could I have hidden my misery and suspicion from my husband?”

  I frowned at the mention of her marriage but watched in fascination as Lucy transformed herself from wholesome earthy to wasted hippie. Her eyelids drooped to half-mast, and she mussed her hair one last time.

  I took off my shawl, straightened my T-shirt, and pulled my ponytail through the back hole of the Old Navy cap I’d brought with me, pulling the bill low over my forehead. It was my version of a disguise, and it was plenty for this outing.

  “We’ll talk about your misery later. I’m working on a plan for that.” She halfheartedly fought me as I pulled her from the car—just in case anyone was watching from inside the treatment center.

  “What the hell are you doing?” She snapped away from my grip.

  I stared at her, completely in awe. Jekyll and Hyde. Man, she was good. People gave us a wide berth, skirting around us on the sidewalk. Lucy had missed her calling. She was the female Robert De Niro.

  “I am not going in there.” Her menacing scowl was tempered only by her puppy-dog eyes. It was hard to take her pissed-off attitude seriously when she had the stoned look pat. And yet the package worked.

  “Oh, yes, you are.” I grabbed hold of her again and dragged her toward the center. She fought me every step of the way.

  Finally, I pulled open the door and guided Lucy inside. Sadly, the reception area of the center was vacant. Our Oscar-winning performances had gone on without an audience. We kept it up anyway. Lucy flailed her arms as I pulled her toward one of the straight-backed chairs. She managed to escape my grasp again. “What the hell, dude—” She wheeled around on me, bitch-slapping the air in front of her.

  Dude? I dodged her crazed attack and used my best cajoling voice. “We’ll just see what it’s about. That’s all. No commitment.”

  Her energy expended, she slumped into a chair and tilted her head back to look at me through slivered eyes. “You can’t make me do this.”

  “It’s for your own good,” I said, cringing at the clichéd words. “You need help.” I winked at her.

  Lucy extended her legs and aggressively tapped her Birkenstocked feet against the floor, her passive act of defiance muted by the carpeting. She shrugged her shoulders. “Who are you to say I need help, huh? Miss Goddamned Perfect.” Her eyes fluttered closed.

  Miss Perfect? I arched an eyebrow. “Miss Perfect?”

  I could see her eyeballs skittering around under her closed lids. She folded her arms over her chest and deepened her frown. “You heard me. No problems, perfect life…” She cracked open one eye and scanned me up and down. “Just look at you. Freaking perfect.”

  I straightened the bill of my cap and kicked Lucy’s foot. Her eyelids drifted partway open to their halfway state. “Where’s this coming from?” I whispered. Was her improv reality-based?

  The smallest fragment of a grin graced her lips just as someone behind me said, “Hello—can I help you?”

  I jumped, but Lucy didn’t move a psuedo-stoned muscle. She lounged on her chair, legs outstretched, looking wasted, evidence of her smile vanquished.

  I turned and smacked a pained smile on my face. I was clearly an abused woman trying to help her drugged-out friend. We shook hands, and I introduced myself. “Magda Falcón,” I said.

  “What an unusual name.”

  “I know, everyone’s so creative with names these days.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Falcon.” She didn’t even try to use the accent, so it came out sounding like the bird. “I’m Hannah Dawson.” Her Southern drawl stretched out her name.

  I absorbed her features. Hannah Dawson had short brown pixie hair, wore neatly conservative clothes with a hip flare to them, and looked very pulled together. Her chunky jewelry gave her just enough flash and pizzazz to make her interesting. “How can I help you?” she asked.

  Sweeping my arm out to introduce Lucy, I froze. She looked like she’d passed out.

  Chapter 13

  Hannah Dawson felt Lucy’s pulse, pried open an eye to check her pupils, looked in her mouth. It was like a horse exam. I just hoped Hannah wouldn’t accidentally touch a tickle spot. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with her,” she declared a minute later.

  “It doesn’t seem to be an overdose. We should move her, though. Wouldn’t do to have her stay out here in this condition.”

  Lucy was in full improv mode—passing out was a stroke of genius—but who knew how long we’d be able to fool our Southern belle.

  “I’ll take her feet,” I said to her. “You get her arms.” We took hold of Lucy’s extremities and lifted. Whoo. Dead weight. I tightened my grip.

  “What kind of drugs… does your friend… do?” Hannah asked as we walked.

  I recalled the scenario Lucy and I had come up with in the car. Moms doing their kids’ Ritalin. “She’s got a child with ADHD and she, er, kind of borrows his meds sometimes.”

  Hannah’s perfectly penciled brows pulled together. “Interesting.”

  It certainly was. What wouldn’t the suburban woman do to get high? “She won’t admit it, but I think she’s taking some other stuff, too.”

  “Seems that… way,” she panted.

  I repositioned my hold on Lucy’s feet as Hannah kicked open a door behind her. “Just on the bed there.”

  I grunted, and we swung Lucy like a sack of flour, heaving her onto the hospital mattress. Hannah, with her back to us, pulled the blinds open. “Whew!” I swiped my hand across my forehead. “She doesn’t look that heavy.”

  Lucy cracked open one eye, just barely, and scowled—quite an accomplishment, considering her face muscles never moved. Payback for the Miss Perfect jab, my smile said.

  “When they’re drugged out, their bodies seem so much denser.”

  “Mind if we talk?” I asked after Hannah had Lucy situated the way she wanted her. Tucked snug as a bug in a rug… in the stiff sheets and scratchy blanket.

  “For a few minutes. Maybe she’ll wake up on her own.”

  I could promise her that, but I kept my mouth shut. I followed Hannah out to the reception area, and we sat on the cushioned chairs, facing each other. She exuded compassion.

  “So sad when healthy young people turn to drugs,” she said.

  I jumped at the opening. “It sure is. I had a friend who came here. Said you worked miracles. Maybe you remember her? Dolores Cruz.”

  Hannah folded her hands in front of her, the epitome of class and decorum despite Lucy’s comatose state in the other room. “Hmmm. The name seems familiar.” She rose, gliding across the lobby, returning a moment later with a medical folder, my name neatly typed across the tab. “She was here more than a year ago.”

  “That’s right.” I could barely keep my excitement under wraps. My drug rehab record was in the woman’s hand
s! Open it up, I willed. Reading upside down wasn’t my best skill, but I could give it a go.

  It was like we were on the same wavelength, or like Rosie was right here, making sure I got the information I needed to avenge her murder. Hannah opened the folder and flipped through the pages. “Ah, yes. I remember her.”

  I caught a glimpse of a photograph—un poquito diferente from the one Detective Seavers had shown me. Rosie looked healthy, if you discounted the pasty, drug-infused skin and bloodshot eyes. “Really? You have an excellent memory.” More flies with honey, and all that…

  Hannah smiled. “Well, I remember how nervous her boyfriend was. He was the fidgety type. Couldn’t keep still. I’d bet my life that he was on speed,” she concluded, her drawl making it sound like she was offering me afternoon tea instead of relaying drug behaviors.

  “Her boyfriend?” I put my index finger to my cheek, musing. “I don’t remember her having a boyfriend.”

  Hannah looked at me curiously. “He’s the one who brought her in.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Maybe you should ask her.”

  I sensed Hannah starting to doubt me. I stepped up my game. “I wish I could,” I said, letting a sad frown tilt my lips down, “but she died last week.”

  The statement had the right effect. Hannah’s spine almost crackled. “An overdose?” she immediately asked.

  “Honestly,” I said. “I don’t know.” It was the truth. As far as I knew, there was not evidence of drug use. Someone had shoved Rosie into that Dumpster. Acute head injury was the official cause of death.

  A lightbulb clicked on behind Hannah’s eyes. Had she seen the story on the news? Seen the photo of me that the stations had run as the real Dolores Cruz, detective? Yikes.

  “What’s his name?” I peered at the file. Caught the glimpse of an address. I knew that street. It was right off of Franklin Boulevard. It was probably the same apartment I’d been in with Jack just days ago.

  Breaking and entering at Rosie’s, retrieving my rosary from Sergio. I’d be happy to avoid South Sac for a good long time.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Dolores’s boyfriend.”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential.” She snapped the file shut. Yep, the jig was up. “We should check on your friend.” She stood, holding Dolores Cruz’s rehab information close to her side.

  There was no way to warn Lucy. Hannah burst in the room, catching Lucy midturn on the bed. “So glad you’re feelin’ better, dear.”

  Lucy’s face drained of color. “Oh, y-yes. M-much better. Wh-what happened?”

  “If you’re feeling better, we should go,” I said, throwing my eyebrows up and notching my head to the side. Code for let’s scram!

  Lucy practically fell out of the bed. She slipped on her Birkenstocks, and we followed Hannah, our repressed Southern rehab queen, back to the lobby. She held out a glossy brochure for me. “Communication is the key. She needs to know you’ll love her no matter what and that she’s safe.”

  Ah, so she wasn’t going to confess that she recognized me. She was a pro. “I understand.” And I did. Get out while the getting’s good. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Dawson.”

  “My pleasure,” she drawled.

  I smiled, unconsciously mimicking her posture and hand position, the brochure interrupting the full effect. I couldn’t quite bring myself to say, Call me Magda. Instead, I commented, “You’re doing such a wonderful thing here.”

  “Well, thank you. We are certainly tryin’.”

  Her accent softened the letters in her speech and made me crave biscuits and gravy, but there was a finality to her words.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, who is the Brenda Dawson in the Brenda Dawson Treatment Center for Drug and Alcohol Abuse?”

  Hannah’s posture stiffened, her jaw tightening under the pristine façade. “My daughter was a victim of drug abuse and addiction. She died when she was twenty-one. Unfortunately, I learned the signs too late.”

  “I’m so sorry. But what an amazing way to honor her life.”

  “I think so. We’ve been able to help a good many people. Alas, not your friend.”

  Lucy was slouching next to me. She jerked. “Not you. My other friend. Dolores Cruz,” I said with a pained smile.

  Hannah turned toward Lucy. “My dear, I do hope you’ll think about comin’ back to us. I know we can help you.”

  Lucy pried her eyes open and struggled to stay upright. Swaying slightly, she dropped her eyelids a centimeter and slurred in monotone. “To get help, you need a problem. I ain’t got a problem. ’Cept meddlesome so-called friends.”

  Lucy waved her hands dismissively and slowly moved toward the door. “See you around. Not.”

  My shoulders slumped and I frowned, but inside I was cheering. Lucy had planned our escape. “Thanks again,” I said from the door. I gave Hannah a wave, piled Lucy into the car, and sped away.

  Once we were on the road, I patted Lucy’s leg. “You were amazing. And you saved us.”

  She straightened up in her seat, a self-satisfied smile pasted on her lips, her stoned sensibilities instantly vanishing. “Yeah, but she was on to us. Am I right? Did you get anything?”

  “Just that Rosie had a boyfriend who checked her into rehab. But no name, no address, nothing concrete.”

  She switched topics faster than my mother could. “Can I be your partner?” she blurted.

  I stared straight ahead, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Uh, I don’t—”

  She drumrolled her hands against her thighs and let out a riotous laugh. “Relax, Magda. I was just kidding.” Her smile drooped. “If I’m getting divorced, I’m going to need job security. Guess I’m destined to wax hairy backsides.”

  “You’re not getting divorced.”

  She kicked off her sandals and pulled her leg up onto the seat. “Well, if I’m not, I doubt Zac would want me working as a detective. I don’t think he’d want me to be in danger all the time. How does Jack feel about that?”

  “It doesn’t matter what Jack feels. And I’m not in danger all the time! Look what we accomplished. We confirmed Rosie was a patient there.” And that I had a drug rehab record. Not only had Rosie messed with my credit, but she’d also messed with my strait-laced reputation.

  Lucy wrapped her arms around her legs and gave me a forlorn smile. “Zac wouldn’t believe it.”

  “About that,” I said, bringing the conversation back to Lucy and her problem. “Why don’t you just sit down and have a heart-to-heart?” I felt my eyes glass over. “He loves you. You have to talk.”

  “With the kids and their schedules? We never seem to have the time. Or energy. Mia ends up coming into our room most nights. We don’t even get time alone when we’re in bed.”

  That was a problem, but I wasn’t giving up. “You have to find your spirit again, Lucy. You have to find that person Zac fell in love with and you need to find the Zac you fell in love with. Sabes, rekindle that old flame.”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Easier said than done.”

  After dropping Lucy at home, I headed back to Abuelita’s. The parking lot was nearly deserted. I parked right in front and walked up to the wall of windows. Cupping my hands over my eyes, I peered into the restaurant. Dark. Half the interior lights dimly lit the dining room, but no one was in sight. A note taped on the door said, Back at 3:00. I rapped on the door, hoping someone would come to let me in. Nadie.

  Then I checked my watch—two thirty. Huh, the probable explanation for the early closure was that Antonio’s I don’t grocery shop gene must have finally caught up with him and he’d needed to make a quick trip to the market in between lunch and dinner.

  I sat down on the bench out front to wait. My hands rested on the slats of wood and, as if it were a time machine, it took me back. Splintered pieces of memories pricked into my brain. Antonio, Jack, and I had sat on this bench when we were teenagers. I’d seen the photograph of us framed and sitting on Jack’s dre
sser the same night I’d discovered the Trojans.

  What had we been doing? The memory was foggy. Jack hadn’t been an active part of my life then. More like a person on the periphery—always there with Antonio, but not really connected to me. Sure, he’d been the reason I’d taken up surveillance (the photographic evidence of which was now tucked safely in my wig box).

  But why had we been on the bench? Who’d taken the picture? I thought and thought, trying to remember, and finally the fog cleared. It had been my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary. Jack, Antonio’s best friend, had met us at the restaurant. He’d been an honorary member of la familia Cruz back then, using us as a temporary replacement for his own disintegrating family.

  The three of us sat on the bench in front of Abuelita’s waiting for my sister, Gracie, and brother Ray so we could drive to the party together.

  I closed my eyes, remembering the moment as if I were reliving it. Sergio Garcia, a guy a year ahead of me in school, had leaned against a car just in front of the restaurant.

  “Take a picture of us, man,” Antonio said. He reached over me, pulled Jack’s camera from his hands, and held it out to Sergio.

  “Sure.” Sergio’s tan pants were crisply pressed, his oversized collared shirt left untucked. He looked mysterious, and more than a little frightening.

  Antonio leaned back while Jack draped his arm across the bench, behind my back. I tilted my head and curved my lips in a warm smile for the camera. My eyes opened a fraction more when Jack’s hand grazed my shoulder.

  Sergio readied the camera. “That’s right, Lola,” he said, winking at me. “Looking good.” He snapped the picture and handed the camera back to Jack, but his gaze stayed on me. “How ’bout I drive you to the church?”

  Alarms went off in my head. Alone in a car with Sergio Garcia—scary.

  I crossed my legs, and my skirt hiked up my thigh. A prickling of cold slipped onto my shoulder, a sudden absence where something had just been. Jack had moved his hand away, I realized.

  Sergio lounged against the door to the restaurant and cocked his head as he looked at me. “Come on. Just you and me, baby.”