“What what?”
“With what did he get hit in the head?”
“I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Something heavy. Metal, I heard.”
“That’s even worse.” And interesting. As far as she knew, there weren’t any heavy, metal objects just lying around the slough. Lana looked at the fork in her hand, willing herself to remember to jot down a note about the weapon later. Then she looked up at Paul, who was eyeing her with discomfort, as if his sandals were suddenly too tight for his feet. Which warranted one more push.
She shook her head. “A young man. On one of your tours. Violently attacked.”
“He wasn’t on a tour.”
“Oh, and you’d know. Because you were there. Except, you weren’t.”
Paul’s face flashed fierce for a moment, like an angry rodent flushed from its den.
Lana leaned back. She should have known better than to use sarcasm with a man. She gave him a weak smile and shifted her tone.
“Paul, I’m sorry. I’m just worried. I want to believe you, but until we know more about what happened or even who this Ricardo was . . .”
His face softened from concrete to clay. She kept going.
“So far, all I’ve heard is that he was a young man from Santa Cruz, some kind of naturalist, booked on one of your tours.”
“A naturalist?” Paul looked at her. “What kind of naturalist?”
“The detectives just said he worked for the Central Coast Land Trust.”
“Huh.” Paul shoved the last of the calamari into his mouth and squinted out the window, where a seagull was eviscerating a tray of half-eaten hamburgers. “I don’t like those guys.”
“The detectives?”
“The land trust. I know it’s supposed to be good, land trusts, saving trees and otters and all that, but around here all they do is make rules and stick their pollution monitors where they don’t belong. If it were up to them, no one would ever go out on the slough. Let alone make a living off it.”
Paul motioned to Scotty for the bill. “I’ve kept you out way past lunchtime, Miss Lana,” he said. “Tide’s coming in. Time to head home.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lana and Paul stepped out of the yacht club and stumbled across the parking lot toward his car. Lana held Paul’s arm and counted out slow, careful steps. The martinis and the blazing sun hit her in rapid succession, two sharp jabs warning of a massive headache to come. She just had to make it to his car. Then she could go home and lie down. Possibly forever.
At step fourteen, Paul dropped her arm. Lana wobbled, then looked up to see a Buick double-parked on the gravel. Beyond it, a man and a woman were peering into Paul’s car.
Paul stomped toward them. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Mr. Hanley.” Detective Nicoletti straightened up and adjusted his tie. “It’s nice to see you again. We’re here from the Monterey sheriff’s department . . .”
“I know who you are. When are you going to stop harassing me?”
Detective Ramirez stepped in. She was wearing a jacquard blazer with a pattern so loud it ticked Lana’s headache up a notch.
“Mr. Hanley, this is a murder investigation. When we visited you on Monday, you assured us you would give us your full cooperation. Has something changed?”
Paul looked peevish. “No.”
“Well, unfortunately, nothing has changed on our end either. We can’t figure out how the deceased signed up for one of your kayak tours and then showed up dead in the water two days later. It seems no one saw or heard from him between the time he registered Friday night and the time his body was found on Sunday.”
Lana stepped around the cop car and forced herself to speak. She could deal with her pounding head later. This was an opportunity she had to take.
“No one at the Kayak Shack?” Lana asked. “Or no one at all?”
Nicoletti turned to her. “And you are . . .” His eyes scanned down from her perfectly bobbed hair to the hemline of her skirt.
“We’ve met.” She gave him half a smile and subtly angled her left hip in his direction. “Only last time, I was wearing a bathrobe.”
Ramirez cut in. “Ms. Rubicon. What a surprise. How is Jack?”
“She’s getting her feet back under her. No thanks to you.” Lana glared at Nicoletti. “I left a message, you know.”
“We’ve been busy, ma’am. Trying to catch a murderer.”
“Does this mean Jacqueline is no longer a suspect?”
“Your granddaughter is still a person of interest. As is Mr. Hanley here. Sir?”
“What do you want?” Paul asked. His eyes were cautious.
“Perhaps we could talk in private? In your office?”
“I’m not letting you snoop around in there. I’ve got rights, you know.”
“This is a voluntary interview, Mr. Hanley. Would you prefer to sit down at our station?”
Paul looked around wildly, as if he were casting for a better option. “Fine. We can talk at the Kayak Shack. Just let me clean it up first, so we all have a place to sit.”
Nicoletti stepped between Paul and the most direct path to his shop. “I’ll come with you.”
Lana could see the panic on Paul’s face. Maybe he did have something to hide. She considered what Paul had said at lunch, plus the three beers he’d had for each martini she’d put down. Murderer or not, the guy was in a bind.
Lana took a single step forward, letting her hip bump gently into Paul’s.
He looked down at her, perplexed. Then grateful.
“Fine,” Paul said. “But I want Lana to be there with me.”
She nudged him one more time.
“Otherwise, I have to take her home before I can talk with you.”
Lana smiled up at him. Despite his obvious deficiencies, Paul Hanley was a fast learner.
“Ms. Rubicon?” Ramirez looked at Lana doubtfully. “Are you two . . . related?”
Lana frowned back at her, willing her throbbing head into submission. “You said this is a voluntary interview. My friend Paul here has volunteered his interest in my presence. Are you going to grant his request?”
The two detectives looked at each other, then at Paul, who had placed a proprietary hand on Lana’s shoulder.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Lana let the fresh burst of adrenaline carry her to the Kayak Shack. When they reached the door, she hung back to dig into her purse for a pill bottle and a bobby pin. She dry-swallowed two aspirin as she jabbed the hairpin into her wig, shoving aside her headache, her doubts, and a misplaced strand of synthetic hair in one brusque motion.
The shop was worn, with whitewashed wood floors, bright blue walls, and plexiglass displays of stuffed otters, sunglasses, and keychains. Hanging above their heads, high-end kayaks and paddleboards formed an undulating ceiling, as if they were sitting underwater.
Lana insisted on the one real chair, a designer knockoff mesh office number with squeaky wheels. She sat a full six inches above the others, her forearms resting on the desk where tourists signed their waivers. The two detectives and Paul slumped in front of the desk in orange canvas camping chairs, trying not to bump into towers of water bottles and eco-friendly sunblock.
Nicoletti scooted forward on his chair as far as he could go, giving Lana a view of the sweat pricking the back of his cheap dress shirt. He narrowed his eyes at Paul, ignoring both Lana and his partner.
“Let me get this straight. Last Friday evening, you get a call from Ricardo Cruz booking himself on the Saturday sunset tour. You write it down”—he gestured at the logbook on the table—“here.”
Nicoletti pressed his finger to the words “RICARDO CRUZ 831-555-4923 PAID,” underlining them with his fingernail. “That’s your handwriting?”
Paul nodded.
“Saturday comes, it’s time for the tour, and Ricardo isn’t here. You aren’t here. One of your employees . . .” He snapped his fingers at his partner.
“Travis Whalen,” Ramirez said.