Mother-Daughter Murder Night(58)

“Could it be triggered from inside the building?”

“Sure. Or a vehicle parked nearby.”

“Like my Lexus?” A spike of pain flashed across Lana’s forehead. “Are you kidding me? First you go after my granddaughter, and now this?”

“Ms. Rubicon”—Choi put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture—“your car was processed. It’s clean. No black powder. No remote control.”

Lana said a silent thanks that Beth never had given her a clicker for the garage. Then she remembered something. “There was a rusted Toyota in the parking lot . . .”

Choi nodded. “We checked it.”

“And the BMW parked on the street?”

“It belongs to Mr. Morales.”

“Was it clean?”

“Do you have a concern about Mr. Morales?”

“Detective, do you know why I was visiting the land trust?”

“Mr. Morales told us you were inquiring about Ricardo Cruz. He was quite eager to hear about your recovery.”

“I’ve been looking into Ricardo’s work on a property near the slough. Near where his body was found.” Lana attempted a small smile in Ramirez’s direction. “Not to step on your toes, of course. Just, my granddaughter, well . . . I want her to be safe.”

“So you threw yourself out of a burning building,” Ramirez said. The detective’s eyes were firm.

“I told you, I was trapped. And I’m just wondering—what if I was the intended victim of the fire? Because of my . . . investigation?”

Ramirez raised her hand to her mouth and covered a strangled cough. Lana had the impression she was trying to hide a snort of laughter, or disdain. She couldn’t tell which.

Choi reached over and put a reassuring hand on Lana’s forearm. “If that’s the case, ma’am, I’d say they failed miserably.”

Lana straightened up. “When will you know who did this?”

“Arson investigations take time. It might be a few weeks before we have anything concrete.”

“A few weeks? Do you need my car for all that time?”

“No, ma’am.” Choi put a xeroxed flyer on the table. “You can retrieve your car anytime at the impound lot in Santa Cruz. Call this number. They can give you the specifics.”

“That’s fifteen miles from here. How am I supposed to—”

Ramirez stepped forward. “Ms. Rubicon, I’ll take you there.”

Lana craned her neck around. “Couldn’t Detective Choi drive me?”

“He’s busy,” Ramirez said flatly.

Lana made a point of taking her time getting up from the table, shaking Choi’s hand, and putting on her jacket. She left a note on the counter before following Ramirez out the door.



Ramirez opened the passenger door of the Buick and gestured to Lana.

“You don’t want me in back?” Lana asked.

“Would you prefer that?” Ramirez’s politeness sounded strained. Lana decided not to push it.

They drove the first few miles in silence, Lana squirming in the sunken seat. She could feel the broken springs poking the bruise on her right hip. She pushed herself forward and touched a finger to a colorful, lumpy string of beads hanging from the rearview mirror.

“Rosary?” Lana said. “I always wished Jewish women had a wearable accessory. Smart of the Catholics to think of the whole necklace thing.”

Ramirez kept her eyes forward. “It’s an art project,” she said. “My niece made it at preschool.”

They drove in silence for another minute, Lana idly fingering the lumpy beads, Ramirez watching the traffic. Then the detective erupted.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Lana pulled her hand back from the beads. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“What are you doing sniffing around my case?”

Lana straightened up in the seat as best she could. “I’m just trying to protect my family,” she said.

“By inserting yourself? Getting trapped in a burning building? Do you have some kind of death wish?”

Lana wondered for a moment how much her daughter had told Ramirez about her medical condition. “I’m just curious. And persistent. Traits I’d imagine someone like you might appreciate.”

“Someone like me?”

“A detective.”

“Right.” Ramirez’s hands were clenched tight around the steering wheel. “I’m the detective here. The first woman, the first Latina, to work a murder in Monterey County. It’s hard enough for me to get taken seriously by my colleagues. I don’t need someone’s grandma getting in my way.”

Heat rushed to the bruise under Lana’s stitches on her cheek. She could feel it throb, as if all her frustration, her hot, congealing blood, was trapped in there.

“In my experience,” Lana said, articulating each word with precision, “women who blame other women for their problems have their own deficiencies to deal with.”

It was a risk, saying this in a moving vehicle. But Ramirez just shook her head.

“That’s what you think this is? You think I’m threatened by you? More like exasperated by you. Worried about you. That I’m going to be on the brink of cracking this case and I’ll have to come rescue you from some hole you’ve dug yourself into.”