“If Paul is the murderer, I’ll do everything I can to help you find him.”
“I appreciate that. If he contacts you, call me. Lord knows you have my number.”
“Is everything okay?” Jack tiptoed out of the back bedroom and curled up next to Lana on the couch.
“I’m fine. You?”
Jack pulled at the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “It’s just a lot. Do you think Paul murdered Ricardo Cruz?”
“No. I had considered him a possibility before, but I honestly doubt if Paul ever even met Ricardo. There’s no motive. There’s no BATNA. Paul has something going on up by that creek, for sure. But I think someone’s setting him up to take the fall, the same way the sheriffs say he tried to set you up.” Lana looked up at the ceiling. “I wonder how that button got there.”
“Maybe someone hiked it down to the creek?”
“Maybe.” Lana yawned.
“Did my mom tell you when she’s getting home?”
“Eleven, she said.” It was only nine, but Lana already felt like it was way past her bedtime.
“I guess we should go to bed.”
“I guess so.”
Neither of them moved.
“There’s a Law and Order marathon,” Jack said.
“On it.” Lana grabbed the remote. “Can you get my legal pad?”
Chapter Forty-Six
Victor sounded delighted to hear from Lana, or as delighted as a person could be to receive a phone call on a Saturday at eight in the morning. He would love to see her, of course, as soon as possible. He was in Monterey County that morning, conducting a site tour of a heritage apple farm east of Elkhorn with some volunteers. She was welcome to meet him there.
Lana pulled herself out of bed and raided the crate where Beth kept her hiking gear. If Victor really was the murderer, she didn’t want to meet him empty-handed. Underneath a lightweight backpack and clunky boots, there was a pocketknife she couldn’t get open and a slim bottle of bear spray with a clip on the handle. She attached the bottle to the waistband of her pants, concealing it under an oversize blazer. Perfect.
An hour later, Lana was following the path from Victor’s BMW up into the orchard. The morning was crisp, her low heels were more than adequate, and she had a fresh Diet Coke in her hand. If it weren’t for the invisible vise squeezing her lungs, Lana might have enjoyed the walk. She passed a gaggle of volunteers in jeans and flannel jackets, hammering what looked like oversize birdhouses to the fence line. Witnesses. She waved. They waved back. Good.
The orchard ran up a long hillside, the apple trees standing in stately rows fifteen feet apart. Their trunks were painted a soft white, as if they were wearing knee socks. Every dozen trees, Lana stopped to catch her breath and look out over the valley from which she’d ascended. She could see for miles. The thin sheet of morning fog was lifting, and below her, cultivated farms gave way to bright, winding estuaries that poured into the bay.
In the third row over, Lana spotted a glimpse of black-and-gold boots on a broad-backed man reaching into the crown of a tree. She straightened her blazer.
“Se?or Morales!”
Victor straightened up, and as he turned, Lana got the impression he was fixing his face, cycling rapidly from surprise to concern to something approximating pleasure.
“Ms. Rubicon.” His full lips formed an uncertain smile. “You are healed, I hope?” He stood a respectful distance from her, his eyes searching her face for bruises, or answers, or both.
Lana realized the last time she’d seen him, she’d been brandishing a metal-spiked stiletto.
She took a small step toward him, keeping one hand on the bottle of bear spray. “I wanted to thank you for the flowers.”
“It was nothing,” he said. He gave her a smile, a real one this time. Still, he kept his hand tightly clenched around the small object he had pulled from the tree. “I feel terrible about what happened. If there’s anything I can do for you . . .”
“What’s that?” Lana asked, pointing at his hand.
Victor opened it to show a green apple with a cratered side. “The birds keep eating them,” he said. “That’s why volunteers are here.”
“Setting off shell crackers?”
“Bird bombs? Those things are dangerous. Perhaps older farms use them, but none of the properties we manage. Our volunteers are putting up nesting boxes for hawks and owls instead. They repopulate predators and control the pests all at once.”
“Nature takes care of itself,” Lana said.
Victor winked. “With a little help from its friends.”
Lana decided this was as warmed up as Victor was going to get.
“I have a confession to make,” she said. “I didn’t come here to talk birds.”
“I hoped as much.” His brown eyes twinkled in the dappled light.
Lana gave him an enigmatic smile, inviting him to lean in.
“It’s about Ricardo Cruz.”
Victor’s eyes lost their twinkle.
“I know how much you cared for him,” Lana continued, ignoring his stiffened posture. “And since you have so generously offered to do anything you can for me, I’d like to ask a few questions. Please.”
Lana smiled again, more girlish this time. She kept her arms by her sides, her eyes wide, in her best attempt to look nonthreatening.
“When I said that, I didn’t—”
“It would mean the world to me if you could help.”
Victor rolled out his shoulders and neck, like a retired boxer headed back into the ring. “Okay, Ms. Rubicon. I’ll give you three questions.” His voice was playful, but there was a hint of an edge to it.
“How about five?”
“Three.”
“Fine. As far as I understand, Ricardo was not at work the day that he died. May I ask where you were that day?”
Victor eyed her carefully. “I was away that Friday. And Saturday. At a wildlands conservation conference in Santa Barbara.”
“You stayed overnight.” Lana made sure not to phrase it as a question.
“Yes, I stayed over. It is not so far away that I could not have come home.” He kept his eyes steady on Lana. “But a free hotel room by the ocean is nothing to sniff at. You are welcome to call and confirm my reservation. The detectives have already done so.”
She nodded. “Question two. When you visited Hal Rhoads earlier that week, that Tuesday afternoon, did he tell you about his change in plans for the ranch?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Victor said.
“You promised to help me,” Lana countered.
They locked eyes, sizing each other up. The experience was not altogether unpleasant. Finally, Victor spoke. “Se?or Rhoads had many creative ideas for how we might best preserve the legacy of his land. That last week, he said he and Ricardo hoped to have a more fulsome discussion about the future with me soon. Sadly, that future never came.”
“Did you sense he was going to back out of your agreement?”
“This is your final question?”
“Just a clarification.”
“I cannot presume to speculate on what he was planning to do.”
Victor stepped in, closing the gap between them. Lana could feel his breath on her cheek.
“You have one more question.”
Scattered half thoughts floated before her, dancing with the dust motes in the sun. Lana didn’t want to ask directly about the fire, or the fight between Victor and Ricardo, or Verdadera Libertad. He’d just lie, or get angry, or tell her what she already knew. But she realized her whole theory rested on one piece of information. Something for which she didn’t have ironclad proof.
“Did you know about Ricardo’s . . . dealings with Diana Whitacre?”
“You are full of surprises.”
Lana waited, holding her ground.
“Before he died, my father told me it takes a man forty years to learn how to listen to women. To take seriously their power, how ruthless they can be. I’m afraid Ricardo didn’t grow up with a father to teach him these lessons.”