Ramirez opened the passenger door of the Buick and gestured to Lana.
“You don’t want me in back?” Lana asked.
“Would you prefer that?” Ramirez’s politeness sounded strained. Lana decided not to push it.
They drove the first few miles in silence, Lana squirming in the sunken seat. She could feel the broken springs poking the bruise on her right hip. She pushed herself forward and touched a finger to a colorful, lumpy string of beads hanging from the rearview mirror.
“Rosary?” Lana said. “I always wished Jewish women had a wearable accessory. Smart of the Catholics to think of the whole necklace thing.”
Ramirez kept her eyes forward. “It’s an art project,” she said. “My niece made it at preschool.”
They drove in silence for another minute, Lana idly fingering the lumpy beads, Ramirez watching the traffic. Then the detective erupted.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Lana pulled her hand back from the beads. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“What are you doing sniffing around my case?”
Lana straightened up in the seat as best she could. “I’m just trying to protect my family,” she said.
“By inserting yourself? Getting trapped in a burning building? Do you have some kind of death wish?”
Lana wondered for a moment how much her daughter had told Ramirez about her medical condition. “I’m just curious. And persistent. Traits I’d imagine someone like you might appreciate.”
“Someone like me?”
“A detective.”
“Right.” Ramirez’s hands were clenched tight around the steering wheel. “I’m the detective here. The first woman, the first Latina, to work a murder in Monterey County. It’s hard enough for me to get taken seriously by my colleagues. I don’t need someone’s grandma getting in my way.”
Heat rushed to the bruise under Lana’s stitches on her cheek. She could feel it throb, as if all her frustration, her hot, congealing blood, was trapped in there.
“In my experience,” Lana said, articulating each word with precision, “women who blame other women for their problems have their own deficiencies to deal with.”
It was a risk, saying this in a moving vehicle. But Ramirez just shook her head.
“That’s what you think this is? You think I’m threatened by you? More like exasperated by you. Worried about you. That I’m going to be on the brink of cracking this case and I’ll have to come rescue you from some hole you’ve dug yourself into.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I do have to worry about you. I went to bat for your granddaughter, and this is how you repay me? Sneaking behind my back to meddle in my case?”
“Please. You sat there while your partner practically called Jack a whore.”
“Not every battle is fought in the open,” Ramirez said as she pulled into the impound lot. Her voice came in low and fast. “You’re a smart woman. You know that. If it weren’t for me, Nicoletti would still be breathing down Jacqueline’s neck.”
Lana locked her eyes on the front windshield. “Are you telling me I can’t look into this case anymore?”
“You have a right as a private citizen to do whatever you want, Ms. Rubicon. I just wish you’d do it farther away from me.”
Ramirez walked up to the entry kiosk at the impound lot on her own. Lana sat in the Buick like a surly teenager while the detective talked to an officer with a clipboard and a lollipop sticking out from under his mustache.
Ramirez returned to the car with Lana’s keys. The two women drove silently through the lot, winding past smashed sports cars and ash-speckled minivans with the windows blacked out.
“Mobile meth labs,” Ramirez said, when she saw Lana looking. “They steal ’em from soccer moms, rip the seats out, and start cooking. I found one last week in Royal Oaks.”
Lana knew a peace offering when she heard it. It might be wise to reciprocate.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about that kayak tour booking,” Lana said.
The detective looked at Lana, her eyes wary.
“Ricardo signed up for my granddaughter’s Saturday sunset tour,” Lana said. “You showed us the registration book. Paul took the call. It said ‘paid’ and everything. But that call happened on Friday afternoon.”
“So?”
“So did Ricardo even make that call?”
Ramirez smiled. “Good one. Nicoletti didn’t spot it right away. You’re correct. The booking was made at five p.m., when Ricardo Cruz was already dead.”
Lana was disappointed she hadn’t given the detective new information. But at least they were talking again.
“Was it Ricardo’s phone that made the booking?”
“Yes.”
“Someone murdered him, took his phone, and booked a tour?”
“That’s right. We’re still waiting on the historical cell location data, so we can find out where the call was placed. Hopefully there’s something useful there.”
Lana wondered who might have been close enough to Ricardo to know the passcode to unlock his phone. She resisted the urge to ask more questions. “Sounds like you’ve got it covered,” she said.
“I like to think so.”
Both women got out of the Buick and stood in front of Lana’s Lexus, facing each other.
“I want you to be successful,” Lana said. “If there’s any way I can help . . .”
“The best thing you can do is to stay out of it.”
“We both want the same thing,” Lana insisted. “Justice for Ricardo Cruz.”
Lana felt the younger woman’s eyes sweep over her. It had been a long afternoon. Her wig itched, her bruises ached, and she could feel the liquid foundation she’d slathered over her stitches sliding down her face.
“Are you sure justice is what you want, Ms. Rubicon?”
Lana stood and watched in silence as Teresa Ramirez adjusted her badge, got back in the Buick, and drove away.
Chapter Thirty
“Beth! Quick!” Lana shouted as the front door slammed. “Can you help us with something?”
Beth dropped the Chinese food on the counter and rushed into the back bedroom. “Are you okay?”
“Is this straight?”
Jack was standing on top of her old desk, holding an enormous corkboard up against the wall. Lana was watching from the doorway. She had one of Beth’s hand-knitted beanies on her head, a lavender one with a fluffy pom-pom. There were nails in Lana’s mouth and a hammer in her hand. The stitches on her cheek were covered by a Wonder Woman Band-Aid. If she didn’t look so deranged, it would be kind of cute.
“What are you—”
“Is it straight?” Lana demanded.
Beth could see Jack’s shoulders trembling. “It’s fine.”
“Good!” Lana bounced forward with the hammer, Jack ducked out of its path, and the corkboard clattered to the floor.
“Shit. Well. Third time’s a charm.” Lana gave Jack an upward nod, and the teenager climbed back onto the desk.
Beth looked around the bedroom. The desk was stacked with Lana’s books: The Art of War, The Emperor’s Handbook, and one featuring a woman with big hair and shoulder pads under the title They Can Kill You but They Can’t Eat You. The bedspread was buried under a pile of printouts: contracts, maps, and blurry photographs. It was clear they’d been at it—whatever it was—for a while.
“What’s going on here?”
“Prima found a lot of good stuff at the land trust.”
Beth looked back at the papers on the bed. “You stole all these?”
“Of course not.” Lana was lining up an army of pushpins on the corkboard. “I took photographs with my phone.”
“I see.”
“And I used the printer at the library after school,” Jack added.
“Uh-huh.”
“We’ve been going through it, and Mom? It’s pretty interesting.” Jack held her breath and prayed this wouldn’t turn into a fight.
“Well . . . good. I brought dinner. Maybe you and the Zodiac hunter can tell me about it over fried rice.”
“I’ve decided to recalibrate my approach,” Lana said. “To focus on finding evidence. Not apprehending the murderer.”