“Did you suspect him right away?”
“No. When you first told me about the Rhoadses, I was playing catch-up, processing the information you gave me about Diana and Ricardo. I tracked down that story about that suspicious death in England. But that young duke? His death certificate was kept from the press, but I was able to get a coroner’s report. He died of a brain aneurysm. There was no foul play.”
Lana felt a twinge of sheepishness for her mistaken casting of Lady Di as a black widow.
“So?”
“So you had it wrong about Diana Whitacre. But I was still interested in the Rhoads family. I found some old pictures of the ranch in the county archives. That cattle brand—I had a feeling it might be our missing murder weapon. The way Ricardo Cruz was struck, the pattern in his skull was more complicated than an arc. The coroner thought he was hit twice with the same object, a shovel maybe, but the pressure was identical for both impressions, which would be hard for someone to do, especially in the heat of the moment. I thought it was one blow, from one weapon with an unusual shape. And the corner of an R, of the right size, swung in the right direction—that would fit.”
“Why didn’t you go up to the ranch earlier to check it out?”
Ramirez sniffed. “No way some rich ranching family lets me in without a warrant. And Nicoletti was fixated on Paul Hanley. The longer Paul was MIA, the more intent Nicoletti became. He made me swear I wouldn’t do anything that didn’t have a straight line to finding Paul. So when you texted me about Paul, I saw my opportunity to check out the ranch.”
“A shame you couldn’t get there a little bit sooner.”
“Oh, I did. But the house was empty. You all must have been in the barn already.”
“Why didn’t you come in?”
“I didn’t know what I was walking into. I did a quick survey of the cars. Trying to guess how many I might be up against. And that’s when I saw it.”
“Ricardo’s bike pannier.”
Ramirez nodded. “It clicked. Of course we had to test it later. But I knew.”
“Me too,” Lana said.
“Great minds think alike.”
Lana breathed the words in. Held them.
“It was stupid of him to keep all that evidence,” Lana said.
Ramirez shrugged. “He might have felt safer that way. Or he was arrogant enough to think he was in the clear. Lots of criminals would rather hold on to evidence, keep it under their control. It certainly made life easier for us. Ricardo’s bike bag. The cattle brand. We also found traces of Ricardo’s blood and Martin’s skin cells on one of the wheelbarrows in the barn. That initial tip you gave us about a strange farmer dumping something in the middle of the night? We’re pretty sure you saw Martin, dropping Ricardo in the creek by Paul’s land. And then there was the car.”
“The car?”
“That’s how we nailed him for his father. Your daughter introduced me to a group of vigilante nursing home residents who were running their own visiting service on Mondays at Bayshore Oaks. The day Hal Rhoads died, a tall man made an unauthorized fifteen-minute visit via a side door. The old lady who manned the door wasn’t sure it was Martin—he was wearing a hat and gave her a fake name. But she identified the Maserati with one hundred percent certainty.”
“And that was enough to prove he did it?”
“The lady spent the entire time Martin was inside taking photos of his car for her grandson. We’ve got time stamps and everything. As soon as we showed those to Martin, he folded.”
“I still can’t believe he killed his own father.”
“I’m not sure he could either. The whole time he was confessing, he talked about it as if he was forced to do it. I think he killed Ricardo in a jealous rage, and then that fury dragged him like a runaway train through the rest of it. He had to hit Ricardo with the cattle brand to save his family. He had to smother his father with a pillow to keep control of the ranch. He had to set the land trust on fire to destroy any paperwork about the project. That’s what he kept saying, that he had to.”
Lana remembered the desperation on Martin’s face in those final moments in the barn, his twisted attempts to justify his actions, to cast himself as the victim even as he threatened them. It wasn’t his strength that had made him dangerous. It was his self-loathing, and his fear.
“Why didn’t you storm into the barn as soon as you saw the bike pannier?” Lana asked.
“I was on my own, remember? And by the time I got to the barn, Martin already had that gun. He was waving it around, erratic. It wasn’t safe. I had to pick my moment.”
“So you could snowblow us with chemicals. My pores were unbalanced for a week.”
Ramirez put her hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Next time I’ll consider the consequences,” she said. “Before I save your life.”
Lana leaned down and pulled the enormous box off the bench beside her. She slid it across the table. “I got this for you. As a token of thanks.”
“Ms. Rubicon, I can’t accept gifts—”
“Just open it.”
Teresa Ramirez lifted the top off the box to reveal a pale blue skirt suit. She pulled out the jacket. The label was in Italian. She ran her hand over the baby-soft wool, admiring the flecks of peach and cream woven into the blue.
“I heard about your promotion,” Lana said. “I figured a senior investigator deserves a wardrobe upgrade.”
Ramirez folded the jacket carefully, placing it back in the box.
“I can’t accept this,” she said.
“What if it’s a gift from a friend?”
“Are we friends now?”
Lana stretched an arm out across the table.
“Call me Lana,” she said.
“Teresa.” The younger woman shook her hand. “But I can’t take it.”
“Why not? You’re a terrific detective, Teresa”—Lana looked up to make sure the name was well received—“but your choice of apparel doesn’t quite match your skills.”
Teresa laughed. It was a warm, throaty sound. “Do you know why I dress the way I do?”
The older woman shook her head.
“You have a lot going for you, Lana. You’ve got money. Class. People listen to you.”
“Right. Because I dress like this.”
“Wrong.” Teresa looked her in the eye. “There are things about you that will never be true about me. If I show up in gray and lilac, you know what happens? I become invisible. The disappearing good girl, assigned to get coffee and not much more. But when I wear this”—Teresa stepped out of the booth and turned a lazy circle that flared her yellow blazer out around her tight black jeans—“everyone pays attention.”
The fishermen at the bar certainly were. Poor Fredo looked about to slide off his stool, taking his bourbon with him.
“Not for the right reason,” Lana countered.
“The reason doesn’t matter. They make up their own reasons. You did, even. I can’t control that. All I can do is make you see me. If you see me, I can’t be invisible.”
Teresa Ramirez was still standing, blue fingernails pressed to the table, face flushed. Serious.
Lana thought about what she saw. A great detective. In a yellow blazer.
“Fair enough,” Lana said. She slid the box back onto the bench. “I guess you know what you’re doing.”
Teresa tucked herself back into the booth. “And you, Lana? What are you doing next?”
“I . . . had a good scan last month.” The words were out of her mouth before Lana knew what she was saying. “The tumors are shrinking faster than expected. The doctors say I can stop doing chemotherapy, that I can switch to immunotherapy only now. One infusion every six weeks. And fewer side effects.”
“That’s incredible.”
Lana nodded. “I’m cleared to go back to Los Angeles, to my condo. To work, if I want.” She looked out the grimy window toward the sailboats.
“And?”
“I’m not sure I want to go back.” Lana hadn’t said this out loud yet, not even to herself.
“No?”
“No.”
“They must miss you in the big city,” Ramirez said.
“They might have forgotten about me.”
“I don’t think that’s likely.”