In the third row over, Lana spotted a glimpse of black-and-gold boots on a broad-backed man reaching into the crown of a tree. She straightened her blazer.
“Se?or Morales!”
Victor straightened up, and as he turned, Lana got the impression he was fixing his face, cycling rapidly from surprise to concern to something approximating pleasure.
“Ms. Rubicon.” His full lips formed an uncertain smile. “You are healed, I hope?” He stood a respectful distance from her, his eyes searching her face for bruises, or answers, or both.
Lana realized the last time she’d seen him, she’d been brandishing a metal-spiked stiletto.
She took a small step toward him, keeping one hand on the bottle of bear spray. “I wanted to thank you for the flowers.”
“It was nothing,” he said. He gave her a smile, a real one this time. Still, he kept his hand tightly clenched around the small object he had pulled from the tree. “I feel terrible about what happened. If there’s anything I can do for you . . .”
“What’s that?” Lana asked, pointing at his hand.
Victor opened it to show a green apple with a cratered side. “The birds keep eating them,” he said. “That’s why volunteers are here.”
“Setting off shell crackers?”
“Bird bombs? Those things are dangerous. Perhaps older farms use them, but none of the properties we manage. Our volunteers are putting up nesting boxes for hawks and owls instead. They repopulate predators and control the pests all at once.”
“Nature takes care of itself,” Lana said.
Victor winked. “With a little help from its friends.”
Lana decided this was as warmed up as Victor was going to get.
“I have a confession to make,” she said. “I didn’t come here to talk birds.”
“I hoped as much.” His brown eyes twinkled in the dappled light.
Lana gave him an enigmatic smile, inviting him to lean in.
“It’s about Ricardo Cruz.”
Victor’s eyes lost their twinkle.
“I know how much you cared for him,” Lana continued, ignoring his stiffened posture. “And since you have so generously offered to do anything you can for me, I’d like to ask a few questions. Please.”
Lana smiled again, more girlish this time. She kept her arms by her sides, her eyes wide, in her best attempt to look nonthreatening.
“When I said that, I didn’t—”
“It would mean the world to me if you could help.”
Victor rolled out his shoulders and neck, like a retired boxer headed back into the ring. “Okay, Ms. Rubicon. I’ll give you three questions.” His voice was playful, but there was a hint of an edge to it.
“How about five?”
“Three.”
“Fine. As far as I understand, Ricardo was not at work the day that he died. May I ask where you were that day?”
Victor eyed her carefully. “I was away that Friday. And Saturday. At a wildlands conservation conference in Santa Barbara.”
“You stayed overnight.” Lana made sure not to phrase it as a question.
“Yes, I stayed over. It is not so far away that I could not have come home.” He kept his eyes steady on Lana. “But a free hotel room by the ocean is nothing to sniff at. You are welcome to call and confirm my reservation. The detectives have already done so.”
She nodded. “Question two. When you visited Hal Rhoads earlier that week, that Tuesday afternoon, did he tell you about his change in plans for the ranch?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Victor said.
“You promised to help me,” Lana countered.
They locked eyes, sizing each other up. The experience was not altogether unpleasant. Finally, Victor spoke. “Se?or Rhoads had many creative ideas for how we might best preserve the legacy of his land. That last week, he said he and Ricardo hoped to have a more fulsome discussion about the future with me soon. Sadly, that future never came.”
“Did you sense he was going to back out of your agreement?”
“This is your final question?”
“Just a clarification.”
“I cannot presume to speculate on what he was planning to do.”
Victor stepped in, closing the gap between them. Lana could feel his breath on her cheek.
“You have one more question.”
Scattered half thoughts floated before her, dancing with the dust motes in the sun. Lana didn’t want to ask directly about the fire, or the fight between Victor and Ricardo, or Verdadera Libertad. He’d just lie, or get angry, or tell her what she already knew. But she realized her whole theory rested on one piece of information. Something for which she didn’t have ironclad proof.