Ramirez said nothing. The detective scanned the chain-link fence, as if there was some secret buried there. But it looked the same as always to Jack.
“You know, there is one place Paul could be.” Jack leaned way down over her bike lock and dialed in the combination slowly, one digit at a time. “He leases some land on the north bank of the slough. It’s part of the Rhoads ranch, technically.”
“What does he use it for?” Ramirez kept her eyes on the fence, her voice low.
“I’m not sure. It’s called Fruitful. My grandma—she’s the one who discovered it. We think it’s close to where Ricardo Cruz went into the water. Maybe. We’re still working on it.”
“That woman. She does not give up.”
Jack could have sworn she heard a hint of admiration in the detective’s exasperated voice. She pulled on her helmet. “Well, um, good luck.”
She was surprised to find the detective’s hand on her shoulder, stopping her from leaving.
“Jack, this isn’t a game. If you have information to share, or if you ever need help”—Ramirez fished a business card and a pen out of her pocket, scrawling as she spoke—“here’s my cell phone number. Call me anytime. Really.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
When Jack got home from the marina, she found her grandma at the table, talking on the landline. It was Lana’s work voice, but sweeter, as if she’d dipped her vocal cords in honey. And as far as Jack could tell, she was lying her butt off.
“Yes, it is a tragedy. But we hope your wonderful project might live on. In tribute to them.”
There was a brief pause.
“More people are involved now with the future of the estate. If you could please send a digital set through . . .”
Lana winked at Jack.
“Now? That’s wonderful.” Lana spelled out her email address and hung up the phone.
“Who was that?”
“The architectural firm that did the drawings for the Verdadera Libertad project, the ones Hal and Ricardo were planning to review the Friday Ricardo was killed. Apparently no one told them their clients are both dead. They were more than happy to help. And now we’ll get to see what all the fuss was about.”
“How did you figure out which architect it was?”
“Your mother, of all people. She sent the name to me earlier today, from the return address on a package sent to Mr. Rhoads.”
“Did Mom know you were going to lie to them?”
Lana waved it off. “She helped us. Let’s focus on that.”
*
Within minutes, Lana was pulling up the drawings on her laptop. She half expected to see Diana’s wellness ranch, or another version of it, women and horses communing on the rolling hills above the slough. But this project was another animal entirely.
Lana zoomed in on the first document, which listed disclosures and notes about the Verdadera Libertad project in a microscopic font. The two men were listed: Hal as the client, Ricardo as project manager. Lana didn’t recognize any other names on the lists of contractors. No Diana. No Martin. No Victor.
She scrolled through watercolor sketches of commercial kitchens, a cold storage facility, and a retail operations center, surrounded by a mosaic of five-acre square plots of farmland.
“They’re calling it an indigenous farm incubator,” Lana said. “Offering below-market leases to women and disadvantaged entrepreneurs.”
“Below market?” Jack asked.
Lana nodded. “It means they’ll charge less than what a farmer would ordinarily pay.”
“Verdadera Libertad,” Jack said. She picked up a drawing of two dark-skinned women stripping nopales of their thorns at a stainless-steel counter. “Like, liberating who can have a farm. That’s cool.”
“Hal and Ricardo certainly thought so,” Lana murmured. She scanned the drawings, recalling Lady Di’s opulent, exclusive wellness ranch. The two projects couldn’t have been more different.
“Do you think someone killed them to stop this project?” Jack asked.
“It’s possible,” Lana said. “They all want the land, that’s for sure. Victor wants it for conservation. Diana wants to build a spa. And Martin wants the money.”
“What about Paul?”
“He’s the odd man out. Paul doesn’t have a claim on the ranch like the others. There’s that scrap of land he’s leasing. But it can’t be worth much. Unless he has a secret out there he’s protecting.”
“Could it be something else?” Jack said.
“What do you mean?” Lana said.
“It just seems weird that Ricardo got killed first. I mean, if Diana wanted control of the ranch, she could kill her brother and her father and she’d have it. For Martin, it would be his sister and his father. And for Victor, maybe all three Rhoadses. Or just the kids, I don’t know. There’s got to be a way Ricardo is central to all of this. But I don’t see how.”
Lana looked up from the drawings, puzzled. “You’re right, Jack. Ricardo’s death started this whole thing. And we still don’t even know where he died.”
“Oh!” Jack checked the time on her phone. “I have an idea about that. Can we go for a quick drive? With your binoculars?”
When they got to Kirby Park, the Lexus bumped up over the train tracks, past the graffitied retaining walls and around the shattered beer bottles. Lana followed Jack out of the car, watching her step. She didn’t want to lose another good pair of heels to broken glass.
After sidestepping rusted beer cans and a dead snake, they walked onto the boardwalk flanking the south bank of the slough. Giant fronds of feather grass slapped their legs in the swirling wind, and mud and algae creeped up the outer edges of the wobbly, wood-slatted path.
They followed the boardwalk out to the water, and Jack raised the binoculars. They stood there for ten minutes. Twenty. The wind shot through Lana’s jacket, and she longed for her robe and her bed. “I appreciate the nature tour, Jack, but it’s getting late, and—”
“Look!” Jack handed the binoculars to Lana and pointed across the slough, toward the mass of mud and otters on the other side. “Left of the big rock.”
Lana squinted through the lenses and adjusted the focus. She could see the outline of something boxy, bright red.
“Is that . . .”
“My life jacket.” Jack sounded triumphant. She looked at her phone to confirm. “Right where those tourists found Ricardo. Exactly thirty-two hours after I dropped it in the creek where the kayak guy was.”
“I thought you did that to stay hidden.”
“It was a twofer.” Jack shrugged. “It’s not conclusive, I mean, I didn’t weigh it down, and there could be other spots that would let out to the mud flats in the same way. But still.”
“Nice work, Jack.” Lana kept her eyes sealed to the binoculars. “Now let’s get back in the car before my cheeks freeze off.”
They sat in front, watching the sun descend toward the water, waiting for Lana’s seat warmers to kick in. Jack took out her phone and started dialing.
“Who are you calling?”
“Detective Ramirez. She should hear about this.”
“Jack, that sheriff’s phone tree is where good information goes to die.”
“She gave me her cell number today. Said I should call anytime. Oh, shh—Hi, Detective Ramirez? It’s Jack Rubicon . . . Yeah . . . Good. Thanks. Listen, I’m out here at Kirby Park with my grandma? Remember how I told you we were . . .”
Lana watched her granddaughter in fascination.
“. . . yeah, well, I’m pretty sure the body was dropped at or near that land I told you about that my boss leases. On the Rhoads ranch. Not the land trust . . . What? . . . You should talk to my grandma about that. Hold on.”
Jack handed the phone to Lana.
“Hello?” Lana was still getting over the surprise of the detective taking Jack’s call.
“What can you tell me about this ranch?” Ramirez’s voice sounded serious, focused. Lana tried to match it.