Mother-Daughter Murder Night(99)

“Jack, I was sorry to hear about your boss,” Martin said.

Jack looked at him quizzically.

“What are you talking about?” Beth asked.

“I saw a news alert an hour ago,” Martin said. “Apparently the sheriffs have a warrant out for Paul Hanley’s arrest. For the murder of Ricardo Cruz. And Hanley appears to be missing.”

Lana took a careful sip of her water. “I’m not sure I agree with the sheriffs about who killed Ricardo Cruz.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Diana’s jaw stiffen.

“This is hardly appropriate dinner conversation,” Diana said.

“You’re right, Di,” Martin said easily. He looked almost happy to have contributed to the unsettling of his sister. “So, Lana. I hear you have lung cancer?”

Diana almost choked on her wine.

Lana gazed up at the man neutrally, as if he’d asked her if she had enough salad.

“That’s correct, Martin.” Lana gave him a thin smile. “And if you’ll excuse me, I realize I left my pills in the car.”

Lana sauntered to the front door. Once outside, she strode over to Diana’s Jaguar. It was a sedan, fairly new, in an understated gray-green. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall seeing it before.

But the dusty pickup behind it did look familiar. The more she stared at the rusted old Ford, the more certain she was that it was the truck parked behind her at the land trust the day of the fire. It couldn’t have been further from Diana’s style—which made it perfect if she was trying to hide her tracks.

Finally. Concrete evidence. Lana wanted to shout or jump, but instead she took out her phone and photographed the truck from every angle. Then she headed over to her car to grab an old pill dispenser from the glove compartment and check that the photos were decent. Swiping through them filled her with energy. She was confident there was more to find that linked Diana to Ricardo. Maybe even the murder weapon. She wanted just enough time to get what they could, and then they needed to hand it all over before Diana realized what was happening. She fired off a text to Detective Ramirez.

Meet me at Rhoads ranch. 8 p.m. I promise Paul Hanley will be there.



She got out of the car and put one hand on the trunk to steady herself. She felt a soft flutter, as if the car were pregnant. She looked around. The closest greenhouse was dark, silent, the shadows behind it growing longer. She watched the world slip from twilight to night, hundreds of stars peeking out over the slough.

She was ready. Lana stepped away from the Lexus, considering the presentation ahead. She had to get Diana and Martin talking or arguing or both. She knew how to stretch out the negotiation if she had to. She walked around Beth’s Camry and past Martin’s Maserati to head back to the house.

Or rather, almost past. Her stride was broken by an aberration, a kind of stop sign slamming in her brain. For a moment, Lana was afraid she was going to have another fall. But then she realized it was something in Martin’s car that had caused her to freeze.

The convertible’s top was down, the seats packed with suitcases and boxes. It appeared to be a mix of his own personal items and things from the ranch—likely heirlooms Martin wanted to bring back to San Francisco. There was a weathered cane chair sandwiched in the passenger seat upside down, its stiff back creating a kind of cage for a set of antique farm tools laid out on a towel on the floor. A bag stuffed with file folders held the chair in place, settled on the underneath of the seat like an anchor.

It was the bag that stopped her. Glossy and heavy-looking, all black, with two thin plastic grooves running down one side.

She glanced back at the closed door to the house. She’d have to get back in there soon. She pushed aside the images in her mind of Diana Whitacre and Ricardo Cruz and tried to listen with another part of her brain, where a tiny bell was ringing about the bag.

Her concentration was broken by a buzz on her phone. A response from Ramirez:

Where is Hanley now?



Now? Lana hadn’t expected the detective to get back to her so quickly. The truck was good, but she needed more evidence. Lana weighed her options. She really didn’t want to lie to a sheriff’s deputy. Not again. At least, not in text.

She took a deep breath and dialed.

Ramirez picked up right away. The sound quality was terrible, making it seem like the woman was yelling at her. Or maybe she was yelling.

“WELL?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know what Paul Hanley’s doing at the moment.” Lana had some ideas. The possibilities were limited. But technically, she couldn’t be sure. “But I know he’ll be here at eight.”

The detective went into a long speech about the consequences of lying to a sworn officer, wasting government resources, harboring dangerous criminals, and so on. Lana pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the time: 6:38. She had to get back into the house.

“Reception here is terrible,” Lana shouted into the phone. “I can’t hear you. I’ll see you at eight.”

And then, despite her misgivings, Lana hung up.

The front door to the house opened, and Lana hopped sideways, trying to put as much distance as possible between her and the Maserati without it being too obvious. She dropped to the ground, pretending to adjust a nonexistent strap on her high heel. At the same time, she turned the phone in her hand, trying to fashion it into a blunt weapon.