“The car?”
“That’s how we nailed him for his father. Your daughter introduced me to a group of vigilante nursing home residents who were running their own visiting service on Mondays at Bayshore Oaks. The day Hal Rhoads died, a tall man made an unauthorized fifteen-minute visit via a side door. The old lady who manned the door wasn’t sure it was Martin—he was wearing a hat and gave her a fake name. But she identified the Maserati with one hundred percent certainty.”
“And that was enough to prove he did it?”
“The lady spent the entire time Martin was inside taking photos of his car for her grandson. We’ve got time stamps and everything. As soon as we showed those to Martin, he folded.”
“I still can’t believe he killed his own father.”
“I’m not sure he could either. The whole time he was confessing, he talked about it as if he was forced to do it. I think he killed Ricardo in a jealous rage, and then that fury dragged him like a runaway train through the rest of it. He had to hit Ricardo with the cattle brand to save his family. He had to smother his father with a pillow to keep control of the ranch. He had to set the land trust on fire to destroy any paperwork about the project. That’s what he kept saying, that he had to.”
Lana remembered the desperation on Martin’s face in those final moments in the barn, his twisted attempts to justify his actions, to cast himself as the victim even as he threatened them. It wasn’t his strength that had made him dangerous. It was his self-loathing, and his fear.
“Why didn’t you storm into the barn as soon as you saw the bike pannier?” Lana asked.
“I was on my own, remember? And by the time I got to the barn, Martin already had that gun. He was waving it around, erratic. It wasn’t safe. I had to pick my moment.”
“So you could snowblow us with chemicals. My pores were unbalanced for a week.”
Ramirez put her hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Next time I’ll consider the consequences,” she said. “Before I save your life.”
Lana leaned down and pulled the enormous box off the bench beside her. She slid it across the table. “I got this for you. As a token of thanks.”
“Ms. Rubicon, I can’t accept gifts—”
“Just open it.”
Teresa Ramirez lifted the top off the box to reveal a pale blue skirt suit. She pulled out the jacket. The label was in Italian. She ran her hand over the baby-soft wool, admiring the flecks of peach and cream woven into the blue.
“I heard about your promotion,” Lana said. “I figured a senior investigator deserves a wardrobe upgrade.”
Ramirez folded the jacket carefully, placing it back in the box.
“I can’t accept this,” she said.
“What if it’s a gift from a friend?”
“Are we friends now?”
Lana stretched an arm out across the table.
“Call me Lana,” she said.
“Teresa.” The younger woman shook her hand. “But I can’t take it.”
“Why not? You’re a terrific detective, Teresa”—Lana looked up to make sure the name was well received—“but your choice of apparel doesn’t quite match your skills.”
Teresa laughed. It was a warm, throaty sound. “Do you know why I dress the way I do?”
The older woman shook her head.
“You have a lot going for you, Lana. You’ve got money. Class. People listen to you.”
“Right. Because I dress like this.”
“Wrong.” Teresa looked her in the eye. “There are things about you that will never be true about me. If I show up in gray and lilac, you know what happens? I become invisible. The disappearing good girl, assigned to get coffee and not much more. But when I wear this”—Teresa stepped out of the booth and turned a lazy circle that flared her yellow blazer out around her tight black jeans—“everyone pays attention.”
The fishermen at the bar certainly were. Poor Fredo looked about to slide off his stool, taking his bourbon with him.
“Not for the right reason,” Lana countered.
“The reason doesn’t matter. They make up their own reasons. You did, even. I can’t control that. All I can do is make you see me. If you see me, I can’t be invisible.”
Teresa Ramirez was still standing, blue fingernails pressed to the table, face flushed. Serious.
Lana thought about what she saw. A great detective. In a yellow blazer.
“Fair enough,” Lana said. She slid the box back onto the bench. “I guess you know what you’re doing.”