Mother-Daughter Murder Night(25)

“No one at the Kayak Shack?” Lana asked. “Or no one at all?”

Nicoletti turned to her. “And you are . . .” His eyes scanned down from her perfectly bobbed hair to the hemline of her skirt.

“We’ve met.” She gave him half a smile and subtly angled her left hip in his direction. “Only last time, I was wearing a bathrobe.”

Ramirez cut in. “Ms. Rubicon. What a surprise. How is Jack?”

“She’s getting her feet back under her. No thanks to you.” Lana glared at Nicoletti. “I left a message, you know.”

“We’ve been busy, ma’am. Trying to catch a murderer.”

“Does this mean Jacqueline is no longer a suspect?”

“Your granddaughter is still a person of interest. As is Mr. Hanley here. Sir?”

“What do you want?” Paul asked. His eyes were cautious.

“Perhaps we could talk in private? In your office?”

“I’m not letting you snoop around in there. I’ve got rights, you know.”

“This is a voluntary interview, Mr. Hanley. Would you prefer to sit down at our station?”

Paul looked around wildly, as if he were casting for a better option. “Fine. We can talk at the Kayak Shack. Just let me clean it up first, so we all have a place to sit.”

Nicoletti stepped between Paul and the most direct path to his shop. “I’ll come with you.”

Lana could see the panic on Paul’s face. Maybe he did have something to hide. She considered what Paul had said at lunch, plus the three beers he’d had for each martini she’d put down. Murderer or not, the guy was in a bind.

Lana took a single step forward, letting her hip bump gently into Paul’s.

He looked down at her, perplexed. Then grateful.

“Fine,” Paul said. “But I want Lana to be there with me.”

She nudged him one more time.

“Otherwise, I have to take her home before I can talk with you.”

Lana smiled up at him. Despite his obvious deficiencies, Paul Hanley was a fast learner.

“Ms. Rubicon?” Ramirez looked at Lana doubtfully. “Are you two . . . related?”

Lana frowned back at her, willing her throbbing head into submission. “You said this is a voluntary interview. My friend Paul here has volunteered his interest in my presence. Are you going to grant his request?”

The two detectives looked at each other, then at Paul, who had placed a proprietary hand on Lana’s shoulder.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Lana let the fresh burst of adrenaline carry her to the Kayak Shack. When they reached the door, she hung back to dig into her purse for a pill bottle and a bobby pin. She dry-swallowed two aspirin as she jabbed the hairpin into her wig, shoving aside her headache, her doubts, and a misplaced strand of synthetic hair in one brusque motion.



The shop was worn, with whitewashed wood floors, bright blue walls, and plexiglass displays of stuffed otters, sunglasses, and keychains. Hanging above their heads, high-end kayaks and paddleboards formed an undulating ceiling, as if they were sitting underwater.

Lana insisted on the one real chair, a designer knockoff mesh office number with squeaky wheels. She sat a full six inches above the others, her forearms resting on the desk where tourists signed their waivers. The two detectives and Paul slumped in front of the desk in orange canvas camping chairs, trying not to bump into towers of water bottles and eco-friendly sunblock.

Nicoletti scooted forward on his chair as far as he could go, giving Lana a view of the sweat pricking the back of his cheap dress shirt. He narrowed his eyes at Paul, ignoring both Lana and his partner.

“Let me get this straight. Last Friday evening, you get a call from Ricardo Cruz booking himself on the Saturday sunset tour. You write it down”—he gestured at the logbook on the table—“here.”

Nicoletti pressed his finger to the words “RICARDO CRUZ 831-555-4923 PAID,” underlining them with his fingernail. “That’s your handwriting?”

Paul nodded.

“Saturday comes, it’s time for the tour, and Ricardo isn’t here. You aren’t here. One of your employees . . .” He snapped his fingers at his partner.

“Travis Whalen,” Ramirez said.

Nicoletti nodded. “Travis is working in the office. He checks in all these other people for the sunset tour.” The detective ran his finger down a series of eleven checkmarks in blue ink.

“But no Ricardo.” He dug his fingernail into the logbook again. “And the procedure would be, if someone doesn’t show up for a tour, Travis would call, see if they’re running late.”

Paul nodded.

“So when we get Ricardo’s phone records, we should see this cancellation call, right? From this office number to his phone, Saturday around four p.m.?”

Paul looked nervous. “I mean, I can’t guarantee it. That might not even be Ricardo’s number, for all I know. I never met the guy.”

“But it’s the number he used when he made the booking on Friday.”

“I guess.”

“And he gave you a credit card number when he booked the tour.” Nicoletti’s fingernail outlined a circle around the word “PAID” in red next to Ricardo’s name. “Did you run the card?”