The sheriff’s office was no better. The number on Detective Ramirez’s business card just rang and rang. The same was true for Nicoletti. Lana tried the main line and reached a clearinghouse of operators who passed her from extension to extension, each voice more doubtful she had useful information to offer. She ended up listening to a prerecorded, gruff-sounding man inviting her to leave a detailed message on the tip line, and if she was playing a prank to PLEASE HANG UP NOW before she did something she would regret because providing false information to police officers was a SERIOUS CRIME for which one could be SEVERELY PUNISHED. When the signal came, Lana politely asked the detectives in the Ricardo Cruz case to please call her back as soon as they could.
They didn’t.
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, Lana caught a break.
Beth had to be the only person under seventy with a landline. Lana couldn’t understand it. Her daughter refused to pay to get her eyebrows waxed, but she’d drop fifty dollars a month for the privilege of a direct connection to every robocaller on the West Coast.
Lana shuffled to the kitchen and snatched up the receiver.
“Hello?” she said.
“Is Tiny there?” It was a man’s voice.
“Who’s calling?”
“It’s Paul, from the Kayak Shack.”
Lana felt a flicker of excitement. If anyone had the ability to clear Jack—or make things worse for her—it was her boss.
“Hello, Paul. As you may be aware, it’s ten thirty on a Wednesday morning, so . . .”
Nothing. His brain must be waterlogged.
“She’s in school,” Lana said, enunciating each word.
“Oh. Right. Sorry, who’s this?”
“I’m Jacqueline’s grandmother. Lana Rubicon. From Los Angeles. Are you calling about Ricardo Cruz?”
“What? No. I mean . . . can you just have Tiny call me?” He sounded stressed. Maybe the detectives had squeezed him too, about Jack, or his own involvement. Either way, Lana wanted to know more.
“Paul, you’re asking me to ask a fifteen-year-old girl to call you about a dead body she found wearing your life jacket while working for your kayak hut. I think I’m owed some assurance before I—”
“It’s not a hut.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not a kayak hut. It’s a kayak shack.”
Lana rolled her eyes at the decoupaged cupboards.
“Paul, I don’t care if it’s a kayak jetport. Why do you want to speak with my granddaughter?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it with a stranger over the phone.”
“Then let’s change that.” Lana lowered her voice, her words padding softly over the line. “Let’s have a drink.”
“At ten thirty in the morning?”
“I don’t accept same-day invitations.” There was silence on the line, and Lana caught a whiff of the familiar scent of a man aroused by his own confusion.
“But I can tell you feel some urgency, Paul.” Her voice held his name and stroked a lower part of his brain. “And I’d like to help. Let’s meet in a few hours. For lunch.”
“Uh . . . okay. I’ll meet you at the yacht club.” He paused. “How will I know what you look like?”
“You won’t have to guess.”
Lana didn’t have to see the man to know he was smiling.
“All righty then. Yacht club. One o’clock.”
“Twelve forty-five. Here, at the house. I assume you have the address. You’re picking me up. Until then, Paul.”
Lana fell into the couch, spent but satisfied, the way she used to feel after she landed a big client or crushed the competition at Pilates class. She jotted down a few questions for Paul about Jack, the murder, and how power flowed through Elkhorn Slough. Then she closed her eyes, just for a few minutes. Maybe she could swing this detective stuff after all.
Chapter Fourteen
Lana prepared for her lunch with Paul in the usual way. She pulled out a close-fitting skirt suit, one that made her look like a shark crossed with a kitten. She did her makeup with a subtle, smoky eye, smoothing out ten years without letting anyone think she was trying too hard. She fished out a jet-black wig she’d bought online and spritzed it with perfume. Then she downed her midday pills and grabbed her purse.
When Paul rounded the corner in his battered Mazda, Lana was sitting on the salt-bleached porch swing, back straight, legs crossed, black heels dangling just so.
Paul parked in front of the house. He sat in the car waiting, engine running, staring at her.