Mother-Daughter Murder Night(21)
Lana wrote down what she knew. It wasn’t much. Ricardo Cruz was murdered. He died sometime between Friday evening, when he made a kayak tour booking for Saturday, and Sunday midday, when Jack found his body in the slough.
She racked her brain for more. There was the strange man with the wheelbarrow. Lana heard the detective’s voice in her head telling her she was a day early and a mile off. But she didn’t care. She’d seen him on the north bank of the slough, the same side where Ricardo was found. It was something to write down.
She looked at the legal pad in frustration. Half of what she’d written down was common knowledge, and the other half probably wasn’t relevant. She turned to a fresh page and made a list of important questions. Murder questions. The detective had said there was more than one way for someone to die in the slough. If Ricardo hadn’t drowned, how was he killed? Was there a weapon involved? Who exactly was Ricardo Cruz? Was his death related to the water sample testing he’d been doing a couple months ago? How did he get to the slough the day he died? Was his car still nearby? Had he been out with a girlfriend or a wife or a buddy who killed him?
By mid-afternoon, Lana’s page was full of questions and her head was cooperating. She got a fresh Diet Coke and, as she’d promised Beth, called a criminal defense attorney, an ex of hers who had retired in San Francisco. He offered to put her in touch with a good lawyer in Monterey. Lana ignored the follow-up texts he sent, providing names, numbers, and an awkward string of winking and kissy-face emojis. She could deal with all of that later. She had other calls to make.
Lana dialed the Central Coast Land Trust, where Ricardo had worked. A perky young woman answered the phone. She expressed a feathery desire to help and an iron unwillingness to do so. No, the director wasn’t available. No, she didn’t know when he would be back in the office. No, she couldn’t discuss the terrible thing that had happened to Ricardo. No, she couldn’t give Lana anyone else’s number. Yes, she could take a message . . . but by then Lana was so exasperated she just hung up.
The sheriff’s office was no better. The number on Detective Ramirez’s business card just rang and rang. The same was true for Nicoletti. Lana tried the main line and reached a clearinghouse of operators who passed her from extension to extension, each voice more doubtful she had useful information to offer. She ended up listening to a prerecorded, gruff-sounding man inviting her to leave a detailed message on the tip line, and if she was playing a prank to PLEASE HANG UP NOW before she did something she would regret because providing false information to police officers was a SERIOUS CRIME for which one could be SEVERELY PUNISHED. When the signal came, Lana politely asked the detectives in the Ricardo Cruz case to please call her back as soon as they could.
They didn’t.
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, Lana caught a break.
Beth had to be the only person under seventy with a landline. Lana couldn’t understand it. Her daughter refused to pay to get her eyebrows waxed, but she’d drop fifty dollars a month for the privilege of a direct connection to every robocaller on the West Coast.
Lana shuffled to the kitchen and snatched up the receiver.
“Hello?” she said.
“Is Tiny there?” It was a man’s voice.
“Who’s calling?”
“It’s Paul, from the Kayak Shack.”
Lana felt a flicker of excitement. If anyone had the ability to clear Jack—or make things worse for her—it was her boss.
“Hello, Paul. As you may be aware, it’s ten thirty on a Wednesday morning, so . . .”
Nothing. His brain must be waterlogged.
“She’s in school,” Lana said, enunciating each word.
“Oh. Right. Sorry, who’s this?”
“I’m Jacqueline’s grandmother. Lana Rubicon. From Los Angeles. Are you calling about Ricardo Cruz?”
“What? No. I mean . . . can you just have Tiny call me?” He sounded stressed. Maybe the detectives had squeezed him too, about Jack, or his own involvement. Either way, Lana wanted to know more.
“Paul, you’re asking me to ask a fifteen-year-old girl to call you about a dead body she found wearing your life jacket while working for your kayak hut. I think I’m owed some assurance before I—”
“It’s not a hut.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not a kayak hut. It’s a kayak shack.”
Lana rolled her eyes at the decoupaged cupboards.
“Paul, I don’t care if it’s a kayak jetport. Why do you want to speak with my granddaughter?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it with a stranger over the phone.”
“Then let’s change that.” Lana lowered her voice, her words padding softly over the line. “Let’s have a drink.”
“At ten thirty in the morning?”
“I don’t accept same-day invitations.” There was silence on the line, and Lana caught a whiff of the familiar scent of a man aroused by his own confusion.
“But I can tell you feel some urgency, Paul.” Her voice held his name and stroked a lower part of his brain. “And I’d like to help. Let’s meet in a few hours. For lunch.”
“Uh . . . okay. I’ll meet you at the yacht club.” He paused. “How will I know what you look like?”