Mother-Daughter Murder Night(76)

Ramirez nodded. “I knew you were observant. Listen, when we’re inside”—the detective put a hand on Jack’s forearm—“just keep calm and tell the truth. That’s all I’m asking you to do.”

“Is your partner in there?”

Ramirez eyed the girl closely. “He is. But he won’t bother you. I promise.”

Jack gulped a swallow of air. “Okay. I’m ready.”



As Jack expected, the back room was a disaster. Or rather, half a disaster. Two officers wearing gloves were picking through a jumble of life jackets and paddles, excavating one layer at a time, while a third photographed each item before stacking it neatly on the other side of the room.

Detective Nicoletti was overseeing the operation from a cleaned-out corner, his linebacker body squeezed into a brown, nubbly suit. He gave a tight nod to Ramirez and Jack, as if their presence in the overstuffed room was just as reasonable as the sixty-four-pack of vegan energy drinks they’d just unearthed.

“Jacqueline runs inventory for Mr. Hanley,” Ramirez said. “Anything you’d like her eyes on?”

Nicoletti scanned the room. “I assume this level of disarray is typical?”

Jack grimaced. “I’ve tried to tell them life would be easier for all of us if we kept it neat. But the guys don’t listen. At the end of a long day, it’s easier to just throw stuff in here and not think. And I just fix it at the end of the month anyway, so—”

“Anything here you don’t recognize?”

Jack scanned the room. First aid kits. Old time cards. A trash bag of empty chip bags and granola bar wrappers, the kind that wreaked havoc on sea turtles. The grungy cot Paul slept on sometimes. A Styrofoam cooler. A stack of boating catalogs, shiny Hobie Cats spraying water off the covers.

Nothing was in place, but everything fit. Except one item, leaned against a wall behind a mountain of life vests.

“That.” Jack pointed, and the young officers scrambled to pull the life jackets away. “No one keeps bikes in here. Store policy.”

Once unearthed, the bicycle was a nice specimen. It was a road bike, green, with drop handlebars, skinny tires, and the kind of gears you had to lean over the frame to shift. There were cages on the pedals and a black storage bag snapped to the left side of the back wheel. The tires were full of air, and the chain didn’t grind when the officer wheeled it into the middle of the room.

“Could it belong to Mr. Hanley?” Nicoletti asked.

“No. He doesn’t trust bicycles. Something about his disks. But I think”—Jack walked toward the bike, until the physical bulk of an officer stopped her from proceeding further—“I’ve seen it before.”

She turned back to the detectives. “That Saturday, February fourth. The day before we found Ricardo Cruz.”

“You sure?” Nicoletti looked skeptical.

“I biked here early that morning. It was propped up against the fence. I remember thinking it was weird that someone left their nice bike there without a lock or anything.”

“What time did you get here that Saturday?”

“Eight. You can check my time card.”

“Did you say anything about the bike to anyone?”

“No, I . . . I just assumed it belonged to Travis or maybe someone visiting Paul.”

“Paul have a lot of visitors?”

Jack shook her head. “No, I mean, I don’t know. I try not to get involved with all the . . .” Jack resettled her focus on Ramirez’s warm eyes. “I’m just here for the job.”

The two detectives shared a look. Ramirez spoke. “Just a couple more questions, Jack. About the bike. Are you sure the first day you saw it was Saturday? Not Friday?”

“I don’t work Fridays. If it was here then, I didn’t see it. But it would be seriously weird for a decent bike not to get stolen if it was outside for more than a few hours.”

“Can you think of a reason it would end up back here?”

Jack considered the question. It didn’t make sense.

“Maybe Paul knew who it belonged to and was holding it for them?” She shook her head. “But it’s been almost three weeks. Whoever it was would probably want to get it back right away.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Most bikes that get abandoned are total trash. We get them in the marina every once in a while. Flat tires, rusted-over chains, sometimes the seat is missing. This bike isn’t like that. Even the pannier—that storage bag. It looks brand-new.”

“That’s good, Jack. Thanks.” Ramirez smiled at her. “Do you have any idea where Paul might be now?”

The girl shook her head. “You think he was involved?”

Nicoletti was still looking at the green bike. “Keep your eye on the local news. We’ll inform the public when I get it all buttoned up.”

“When we get it buttoned up,” Ramirez said. “Jack, let’s go.”



Jack waited until they got back to the fence before she spoke up.

“Your partner’s a jerk,” she said.

Ramirez said nothing. The detective scanned the chain-link fence, as if there was some secret buried there. But it looked the same as always to Jack.

“You know, there is one place Paul could be.” Jack leaned way down over her bike lock and dialed in the combination slowly, one digit at a time. “He leases some land on the north bank of the slough. It’s part of the Rhoads ranch, technically.”