Nicoletti nodded. “Travis is working in the office. He checks in all these other people for the sunset tour.” The detective ran his finger down a series of eleven checkmarks in blue ink.
“But no Ricardo.” He dug his fingernail into the logbook again. “And the procedure would be, if someone doesn’t show up for a tour, Travis would call, see if they’re running late.”
Paul nodded.
“So when we get Ricardo’s phone records, we should see this cancellation call, right? From this office number to his phone, Saturday around four p.m.?”
Paul looked nervous. “I mean, I can’t guarantee it. That might not even be Ricardo’s number, for all I know. I never met the guy.”
“But it’s the number he used when he made the booking on Friday.”
“I guess.”
“And he gave you a credit card number when he booked the tour.” Nicoletti’s fingernail outlined a circle around the word “PAID” in red next to Ricardo’s name. “Did you run the card?”
“If it says ‘paid,’ I ran the card. And it went through.”
“On Friday Ricardo paid, on Saturday he didn’t show, and if Travis was following procedure, he called to check on him.”
“Did you ask Travis?”
“We did.”
“And?”
“He says he called him. Says it went to voicemail, and that Kayak Shack policy is not to leave voicemails.”
Paul nodded. “If they don’t pick up when they see us on their caller ID, we figure they aren’t rushing to get here. If they decided to go hit golf balls instead of kayaking, we call it good. We don’t want to get into a game of phone tag about a refund.”
Ramirez scooted forward, her chair tipping precariously. “So Travis calls Ricardo,” she said. “And Jacqueline, your granddaughter”—she pointed her chin across the desk at Lana—“she runs the Saturday sunset tour. Eleven people. Two women. Nine men. No Ricardo.”
Lana was listening carefully from behind the desk. No Ricardo. They believed Jack about that. Good. She wished she had her legal pad.
Ramirez continued talking. “Sunday morning, Jacqueline comes back to work. You still aren’t there. She sets up the nine a.m. tour, works the office, and then leads the eleven a.m. tour. The group goes out farther than usual, all the way east to Kirby Park. And in the mud flats across the slough from the park, two tourists find Ricardo’s body. Wearing a Kayak Shack life jacket.”
“We talked about all this when you were here on Monday.”
“I’m aware of that, Paul. And I’m sure you’re aware there are two questions we asked you Monday that we still don’t have answers to.”
Ramirez ticked them off on her sparkly purple fingernails. “One. Where were you Saturday night? Two. Why was Ricardo Cruz wearing your life jacket?”
Lana watched as Paul tried to cross his legs, almost tipped over, and settled for a low crouch on the edge of his chair. Everyone was staring at him. Ramirez looked eager. Nicoletti looked annoyed. And Lana was evaluating, finding him wanting.
Paul waded in. “I don’t know why he had a Kayak Shack life jacket. But I might have a guess on how he got it. Someone could have loaned it to him.”
“Someone?” Ramirez asked. “An employee?”
“Not necessarily.” Paul stood up and started pacing as he talked. “I have two hundred and fifty or so life jackets here at the shop. It’s not like they’re some precious resource under lock and key. When they get faded, or the fabric gets a tear, I throw ’em in the storeroom. If a buddy needs one for a boat trip, I give him an old one. Technically, I can’t resell used life jackets—there’s too much liability with safety equipment. But I can loan them out as long as they’re functional. And I’m not banging down anyone’s door to get them back.”
“How many would you say you’ve given out?” Ramirez asked.
“Over the five years I’ve owned this place?” Paul stopped and looked up at a stuffed harbor seal above his head. “Maybe fifty.”
Lana rubbed her temple. “So that life jacket could have come from anywhere.” She leaned across the desk. “Paul, where were you last weekend?”
Nicoletti twisted around in his camping chair. “Ma’am, this really isn’t any of your business.”
Paul kept his eyes fixed on Lana. “I already told the detectives,” he said softly. “It’s private.”
Lana leaned toward him and matched his tone. “Someone is dead, Paul. I don’t think that’s an acceptable answer at this stage.” They were almost whispering. It was as if she had cast a line in his direction, dragging his words out.
Nicoletti was about to barge in, but Ramirez knocked him back with a stare. The detective sank into his camping chair, his torso trapped in orange canvas.
“Jack told me you were with a woman, Paul.” Lana let a small pout cross her lips. “Who was she?”
Paul flushed. His hand shot up and back through his shaggy hair. “Just a sailor. Passing through.”
“You took her out? To the yacht club?”
“We went out on her boat. Saturday. I gave her a moonlight tour.”
“And a sunrise tour Sunday as well?”
Paul let out a low chuckle.
“Who was she, Paul?”
He looked over Lana’s left shoulder toward the tide chart on the wall, his eyes unfocused. “Tatiana,” he said dreamily.
Ramirez swallowed a snort. Nicoletti’s voice broke the spell. “Do you have contact information for this Tatiana?” he demanded.
Paul blinked and turned toward the older man. “I . . . uh, it was just a onetime deal.”
Nicoletti insisted. “Last name?”
Paul shook his head.
“She had a boat docked at the marina?”
“A seventy-footer. She was anchored out in the ocean, over by the old fuel dock they decommissioned last year.”
Ramirez grimaced. “Shit.”
Nicoletti looked at her.
“They don’t require registration for boats that drop anchor out there.”
Nicoletti turned back to Paul. “Did anyone see you with this Tatiana?”
“Sorry, man. It was just us, the dolphins, and the deep blue forever.”
Paul’s unkempt hair flopped over one eye. He struck Lana as a man-child, someone who could flash hot or cold but preferred to spend his time floating in a warm bath. What kind of secrets could he be hiding?
Before she had enough time to seriously contemplate the possibilities, the detectives ended their interview. They’d extracted a promise from Paul that he’d stay in the area, that he wouldn’t go out on any more strange boats with strange women without at least getting their phone number, and that he’d stop handing out old life jackets like candy. They told him he was cleared to reopen for business that Sunday, as long as he agreed to let Detective Ramirez come that day to observe the Kayak Shack in action.
Ramirez looked less than thrilled when her partner volunteered her for this assignment. She eyed the boats hanging overhead, patting her tight bun as if the wind had already started wreaking havoc on her hair.
“What if you accompany Jacqueline on her tours on Sunday?” Lana suggested. She curled a strand of wig behind her ear. “She’s Paul’s best guide. You’ll see how safe she is, how responsible. And I’m sure she’d feel more comfortable with an officer like you in her boat.”
“If you want, I can hook you up with a sweet discount on a new wet suit,” Paul said, motioning to a rack of hot-pink neoprene.
Ramirez pulled her blazer tight around her waist. “I’m good, thank you. See you Sunday.”
The detectives extracted themselves from their camping chairs, Nicoletti leaving his flipped on its side like a wounded animal.
“Wait,” Lana said, when they got to the door. “I’m sorry to impose, but could you give me a ride home?”
Everyone looked at her, the detectives in surprise, Paul in cool assessment.
“Only if you’re leaving now; I thought it might be easier for everyone.” Lana turned to Paul. “I’m sure you have work to do.” He nodded, saying nothing.
Ramirez gave her jacket a tug. “Fine. But no more questions about the case.”
“Of course.” All Lana wanted was a safe place to think about what had happened. And getting into Paul’s car alone no longer felt like the best option.
Chapter Sixteen