I continued on with my line of thinking. What if Rosie was being sued for custody? If she didn’t have the money, she may have been pushed to the limit of desperation. That explained the motive for the identity theft. If she couldn’t fight legally, maybe she’d planned on vanishing—and reemerging as Dolores Cruz.
And if the boyfriend or husband, aka Francisco, had figured out Rosie’s plan, there was his motive for killing her.
The only other scenario for Rosie’s murder was one I didn’t want to think about. I—me, Lola Cruz—was the only other realistic suspect if anyone cared to look that hard. Rosie had stolen something of mine, so I clearly had motive.
As soon as Neil and his sugarplum were finished, uh, talking, I’d get the number for his contact with the department of justice. I ought to be able to find out if Rosie Gonzales was party to a custody battle over Junior.
The door to Manny’s office jerked open. He marched out, glancing at my board. “Anything?”
His bark made me jump. “Working on it,” I said.
“New client coming in tomorrow. You’ll be back on the roster.”
Translation: My free ride was over. I had to solve my case. Pronto.
The heavy air was jarred by my ringing cell phone.
I flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Yeah. You called my house.” The deep voice came barreling at my ear.
A quick look at the caller ID screen told me it was Bill Johnson, Mrs. Zuniga’s neighbor. “Right. Mr. Johnson. Hello! I appreciate the callback.” Though I hadn’t expected it.
“What’s this about?”
“Mr. Johnson, I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the death of Rosie Gonzales. I understand you had an exchange with her at a birthday party the day she died.”
The very minimal pleasantness I thought I’d heard in Bill’s voice gathered in a tornado and blew clean away. “I had an argument with some lady,” he confirmed, “but I don’t like the implication of what you’re saying. She died?”
I trotted out some benign words to calm him down. “Yes, sir. Ms. Gonzales was found dead in an alley behind Florin Mall. There’s no implication. I’m just trying to tie up some loose ends.”
“I heard about that woman, but that wasn’t her name. That was a detect—Wait a second.” He let out an audible breath. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Dolores Cruz. And you’re right. They did say it was me. Ms. Gonzales had an ID with my name.”
“No shit.”
Yeah, no shit. “I’d like to know what you and Ms. Gonzales argued about at the party.”
“This is like a bad TV movie,” he said.
The way Manny was watching me almost prompted me to tell Mr. Johnson that this whole situation, with all its subplots, was more like a bad telenovela with English subtitles. “Look,” I said, “the woman’s child is missing. I’m trying to find him, that’s all. If you can help at all, I’d appreciate it.”
“You’re trying to find him?”
“That’s right.”
His voice softened. “Okay, but I don’t think it’ll help.”
“You never know.”
The line was silent for a minute, like he was trying to figure out where to start. “She got all worked up ’cause I talked to her kid,” he finally said.
“What did you talk to him about? Why’d she get upset?”
“I pointed out my kids to the boy. Thought maybe they’d like to play, you know? No crime in that,” he said. “But she flipped out.”
“How many kids do you have?”
“Three. They were all at the party. But this lady wouldn’t let her kid play. Wouldn’t let him leave her side.”
I rubbed my temples, trying to make a connection with something, anything. I saw zero. “So what happened then?”
“Nothing.” He was quiet for a few seconds, and I felt him slip into the memory. “He looked lost. Perfect little face. Perfect hair, just like—” He paused again. “I felt sorry for the little dude.” He snapped back to the present. “She yelled at me again, so I got my kids and left. That was it.”
Ay, caramba. Bill was certainly on edge. “Was she there by herself?” I asked. Of course, I knew she wasn’t, but maybe Bill could give me some insight.
“She was there with some guy.” The answer had come quickly, like everything about that day was still fresh in his mind.
“Did you catch his name?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, practically foaming at the mouth. “Francisco.”
That was the one flaw in my custody theory. If Rosie and Francisco were together, it didn’t seem likely that she was running from him. “Did she talk to any women? Any other friends at the party?”
“Not that I saw. She kept to herself.”
“Can you tell me anything about Francisco?”
“Wish I could,” he said, some inexplicable anger coloring his tone. “Mexican dude, five ten, on the thin side. The woman was calling the shots. She told him they were leaving as I was herding my kids out.”
Bill’s description of Francisco didn’t give me anything concrete, unfortunately. There wasn’t a section in the phone book for five-foot-ten thin Mexican men. That described practically every man in my family, with the exception of Antonio, who was pushing six feet for some inexplicable reason.
“One last question,” I said, reaching for straws.
“Shoot,” he said, but I could tell from his tone that he was done being Mr. Helpful.
“Did Rosie drink at the birthday party?”
“Alcohol, you mean?”
“Right. Sometimes birthday parties have drinks for the adults.” I could call back Juana Zuniga to ask her, but if Bill could answer the question, I wouldn’t need to.
“Let me think,” he said. I pictured him closing his eyes as he tried to recall. “I seem to remember she had a bottle of beer.”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Johnson.”
“Let me know about the boy,” he said before we hung up. Really, whether or not Rosie drank had no bearing on anything, I finally realized. Her alcohol might have already been packed by the time Jack and I were at her apartment. And just because a person drank, it didn’t mean they couldn’t hold their alcohol. Beer had nothing to do with Rosie dying, I decided.
I was back to square one. And frustrated as hell.
Neil’s contact at the Sacramento County Courthouse confirmed that there was no custody battle going on with anyone resembling the stats of my Rosie Gonzales. I hunted through profiles on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, and every other social network I could find. There were plenty of Rosie Gonzaleses, but none who seemed to be my Rosie Gonzales. I couldn’t find a single friend in whom she might have confided her secrets.
By seven forty-five that night, I was at Abuelita’s helping out, and by nine o’clock Antonio was locking the door, flipping the open sign to closed, and ordering the staff’s dinner. “Tonight we have caldo and mole con pollo,” he announced.
Sylvia cheered. “I’m starving!” she said. “And I love mole.”
Antonio sniggered. “Lola tambien. It’s one of her favorites.”
I grimaced, rising to the bait only enough to snap, “Cállate.”
Antonio just smirked. “Speaking of Jack—”
“We weren’t speaking of Jack,” I interrupted.
“Now we are. He said he was coming over.”
My heart pitter-pattered in my chest. Seeing Jack Callaghan would be the perfect ending to a relatively crappy day. I had things to tell him. Feelings to confess.
We hadn’t seen each other or talked since our babysitting night, and I was going through Jack withdrawal, far worse than the Chinese food withdrawal I suffered occasionally when I had to tighten my budget.
My mother walked into the dining room, her arms weighed down with plates and bowls. I grabbed a few to lighten her load. “Anything new with the break-in?” I asked, after giving her a quick kiss on her cheek.
“Nada, mi’ja. I cannot
figure it out. Nothing was taken.”
Except maybe my address book. Sergio popped into my mind again. Inexplicably, I kept coming back to him.
A tapping on the restaurant’s glass door made the thought vanish. Jack. I let out a long, slow breath. I felt like I was living The Secret—I’d wished for Jack, put it out there into the universe, and now he was right outside.
The other possibility, of course, was that I knew he was coming since Antonio had just told me.
I liked my cosmic theory better.
Jack looked tired but fabulous. I wanted to greet him with a kiss and forgo dinner con la familia, but my common sense prevailed. We’d have plenty of time to talk later.
My grandparents had closed their table for the night and were parked on their couch watching their telanovelas. My parents, Antonio, my fifteen-year-old cousin Joey who washed dishes, his brother Miquel who helped out in the kitchen, Chely, Sylvia, Jack, and I would be eating dinner. I smiled hello to him, then got busy pushing two tables together, setting the places, and retreating to the kitchen to help carry out the serving bowls of steaming food.
Once we were in our places, my father muttered a prayer, all of us finishing with “Amen” and signing the cross from forehead to breastbone, left shoulder to right. “Buen provecho,” Papi proclaimed.
Mole was like spaghetti to the Cruz family. I speared a piece of boiled chicken from the serving plate, topped it with a ladleful of mole sauce, added rice and beans to my plate, and took a fresh flour tortilla from the heavy plastic warmer. With a broken section of tortilla, I scooped up a piece of chicken smothered in the mole sauce and shoved it in my mouth.
The table was still. I peered up through my eyelashes. Sixteen eyes stared at me. I swallowed heavily. “What?”
“You are hungry, eh?” my father asked, a smile in his voice.
My mother’s expression had no lightness. “Dolores,” she hissed. “Where are your manners?”
Antonio smirked. “You have manners?”
I shot daggers at him. In a manners competition between him and me, I’d win hands down.
I took another bite, chewing slowly and deliberately. Jack caught my eye, his amused grin interrupted when he pulled his vibrating cell phone out of his pocket. “As a matter of fact,” I announced, “I am hungry. I’ve had a busy day.”
Jack punched a button, then put his phone away. Guess that call could wait. ¡Bravo!
Antonio scoffed at me. “You wanna hear about a stressful day?”
My mother ladled soup into her bowl. “¿Que pasó, mi’jo?” she asked, her voice heavy with concern.
Por supuesto. Her concern was always for her Tonito. Argh!
Sylvia cleared her throat. “Nada, Señora Cruz. It’s just my ex-husband. He’s… he’s been acting crazy lately.”
“¿Porqué?” Now my mother’s sympathy was directed soundly at Sylvia. She was the one woman Antonio had dated whom my mother seemed to approve of completely. I didn’t know if she was Catholic, and she was divorced, but she was a hard worker, was a Latina, and loved her children. The pros outweighed the cons and blurred the lines for Magdalena Cruz.
Sylvia looked at my parents. “Esta loco. He thinks our baby is alive.”
I’d taken another bite, but stopped midchew. That was more than crazy. That was delusional.
“Why would he think that?” I asked after I’d swallowed my next bite.
Her mouth twisted as she tried to hold in her tears. She threw a pleading look at Tonio. “He’ll be here soon.”
Antonio grumbled under his breath.
Joey wiped the brown sauce from his mouth and turned to Sylvia. “That’s your husband that drops you off? He sure likes to hang around.”
Antonio tightened his lips. “Ex-husband, muchacho. Ex-husband.”
Sylvia flicked her eyes around the table. My mother ran her hand up and down Sylvia’s back, clucking with her tongue and mumbling in Spanish. “Pobrecita,” she cooed.
Sylvia gave a heavy shrug. “He seems better for a while, then he gets crazier than ever.” She flicked her wrist in front of her face. “He’s bringing the kids—”
Antonio shook his head. “Pendejo loco. How can he not see how much harder he’s making this for you?” He scooted his chair back and led Sylvia into the kitchen. “And for your kids.”
I stared after them. Antonio’s concern was probably as new for him to experience as it was for the rest of us to see.
I felt the weight of Jack studying me. His fork and spoon lay on the napkin, his food untouched. He was just as concerned about me, I realized.
With Tonio and Sylvia gone, conversation had moved on. I pushed around the chicken on my plate with my fork and listened to the comfortable prattle of my family. Chely laughed shrilly. “No me gusta Arasely, Tío,” she said to my father. “Me gusta Chely. Mi nombre es Chely.”
My mother spoke up, her voice like a warm, soothing blanket. “Pero mi’ja, Arasely es un nombre bonito.”
Chely nodded. “Esta bien, pero I like Chely better. Without a Spanish accent, Arasely, like, doesn’t sound right. I like Chely.” She slurped her soda.
“Most people have some sort of nickname,” Jack said.
“Even you,” I said playfully.
He gave me a warning look, and I threw back a wink and a coy smile. Jackie, I mouthed.
“De veras,” said my father. He was Gregorio, but my mother called him Gregorito.
Antonio and Sylvia had slipped back into their seats. “Sylvia doesn’t,” Antonio said, a sloppy grin on his face.
Sylvia’s eyes were still glassy. “Well, some people call me Syl,” she said. Then with her own flirtatious grin, she added, “Tonito.”
“Oooh, Tonito,” Joey mimicked. He made a loud smooching sound.
Antonio backhanded him on the arm.
Dios mío, those two had it bad.
“Me llamo Magdalena, pero mi amor me llama Magda,” my mother said thoughtfully. She’d been subtle, but she’d deftly redirected the conversation away from the lovebirds.
My youngest cousin spoke up. “Right now I’m Joey or Joe, but when I have a girlfriend, she can call me Joseph,” he said, a suggestive lilt in his voice.
“Right, dude,” his brother Miguel mocked. “Like you’re ever gonna get a girlfriend.”
They scowled at each other. One of their stomachs growled, and the boys dug back into their food.
“And how about you, Dolores?” Jack said. Him using my given name made me feel like we were strangers. And after the other night we were anything but. “How’d you get your nickname?”
I tilted my head, raising my eyebrows and smiling. “Lola just is the nickname for Dolores.” I had no idea where it came from. But considering Dolores came from Our Lady of Sorrows—and I was anything but sorrowful—I was all for Lola.
The conversations went on but I tuned it out. Could Jack become Jackie to me?
That nagging feeling circled in my gut, exploding to life in a fire-storm. Most people had nicknames. “He’s got a nickname,” I muttered. “Oh my God… Pancho.”
“What?” Jack said. He was tuned in to me 100 percent.
“Everybody has nicknames,” I repeated.
Joey nudged me with his elbow, his cheeks bulging. “Who’s Pancho?”
“¿Quien es Pancho?” Chely asked at the same time, her eyes shooting question marks off in Jack’s direction.
“Nobody.”
Everyone around me faded away. I spoke just to him, trying to process through my racing thoughts. “Pancho’s a nickname for Francisco.”
It came to me in a blast, all the puzzle pieces that had been floating around in my head settling loosely into place. I sucked in a mouthful of air, but it caught in my throat. Shoving myself back from the table, I stood up and leaned my hands on it, catching my breath. Jack bolted around to me, rubbing my back. “Lola,” he said in between my coughs. “Are you okay?”
Sweet. He’d thought I was choking. I pounded my chest with m
y fist. My coughing eased. “Pancho,” I repeated, as if I could spread my realization to everyone.
“Huh?” Antonio looked puzzled, his pinkie stroking his goatee.
“Dolores, what is going on with you?” my father asked.
I backed away from the table. “I have to go,” I said. “I have to see Sergio.” I snatched my purse from under the counter, pulled out my keys, and raced off.
Chapter 20
A hand clamped around my upper arm. I jumped, grabbing the wrist and wrenching it away from me, twisting around to face my assailant.
“It’s me,” Jack said, his voice sounding far away in my pounding ears.
I shook free of his grip. His face was shadowed in the dim glow of the streetlamps. “You scared me.”
“Why are you going to see Sergio?” If I’d had a knife, I could have sliced right through the thick anger in his voice.
“I… um… just need to… um… ask him something.”
He turned and walked away from me. A second later he was back, his hands on my arms, his scrutiny intense. “Be straight with me, Lola. What the hell is going on? One second we’re on your cousin’s couch… and the next second it feels like we’re strangers.”
I shifted my weight, looking down at my feet. Not being straightforward with Jack was beginning to feel like lying to a priest. Guilt pricked at my insides like a woodpecker. “I have a hunch,” I started, not even sure I could put into words the crazy thoughts I had. “But it’s such a long shot… .”
“Trust me, Lola.”
Three little words. Words I longed to hear. Words I longed to put into action. “Do you want to go with me?”
He gave one quick nod. I slid into the driver’s seat, plunged the key into the ignition, and cranked the motor over.
After he got in, I gunned it out of the parking lot.
My headlights hit the asphalt, and the street unfolded before my eyes—a metaphor for Jack’s and my relationship unfolding with exactly the same mystery as the road in front of me? I wasn’t one for signs—ah, who was I kidding? I was totally one for signs.
We rode in silence, watching Midtown shut down for the night. Jack’s voice cut through the dark. “So?”
Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 02 - Hasta la Vista, Lola! Page 24