Lana insisted on the one real chair, a designer knockoff mesh office number with squeaky wheels. She sat a full six inches above the others, her forearms resting on the desk where tourists signed their waivers. The two detectives and Paul slumped in front of the desk in orange canvas camping chairs, trying not to bump into towers of water bottles and eco-friendly sunblock.
Nicoletti scooted forward on his chair as far as he could go, giving Lana a view of the sweat pricking the back of his cheap dress shirt. He narrowed his eyes at Paul, ignoring both Lana and his partner.
“Let me get this straight. Last Friday evening, you get a call from Ricardo Cruz booking himself on the Saturday sunset tour. You write it down”—he gestured at the logbook on the table—“here.”
Nicoletti pressed his finger to the words “RICARDO CRUZ 831-555-4923 PAID,” underlining them with his fingernail. “That’s your handwriting?”
Paul nodded.
“Saturday comes, it’s time for the tour, and Ricardo isn’t here. You aren’t here. One of your employees . . .” He snapped his fingers at his partner.
“Travis Whalen,” Ramirez said.
Nicoletti nodded. “Travis is working in the office. He checks in all these other people for the sunset tour.” The detective ran his finger down a series of eleven checkmarks in blue ink.
“But no Ricardo.” He dug his fingernail into the logbook again. “And the procedure would be, if someone doesn’t show up for a tour, Travis would call, see if they’re running late.”
Paul nodded.
“So when we get Ricardo’s phone records, we should see this cancellation call, right? From this office number to his phone, Saturday around four p.m.?”
Paul looked nervous. “I mean, I can’t guarantee it. That might not even be Ricardo’s number, for all I know. I never met the guy.”
“But it’s the number he used when he made the booking on Friday.”
“I guess.”
“And he gave you a credit card number when he booked the tour.” Nicoletti’s fingernail outlined a circle around the word “PAID” in red next to Ricardo’s name. “Did you run the card?”
“If it says ‘paid,’ I ran the card. And it went through.”
“On Friday Ricardo paid, on Saturday he didn’t show, and if Travis was following procedure, he called to check on him.”
“Did you ask Travis?”
“We did.”
“And?”
“He says he called him. Says it went to voicemail, and that Kayak Shack policy is not to leave voicemails.”
Paul nodded. “If they don’t pick up when they see us on their caller ID, we figure they aren’t rushing to get here. If they decided to go hit golf balls instead of kayaking, we call it good. We don’t want to get into a game of phone tag about a refund.”
Ramirez scooted forward, her chair tipping precariously. “So Travis calls Ricardo,” she said. “And Jacqueline, your granddaughter”—she pointed her chin across the desk at Lana—“she runs the Saturday sunset tour. Eleven people. Two women. Nine men. No Ricardo.”
Lana was listening carefully from behind the desk. No Ricardo. They believed Jack about that. Good. She wished she had her legal pad.
Ramirez continued talking. “Sunday morning, Jacqueline comes back to work. You still aren’t there. She sets up the nine a.m. tour, works the office, and then leads the eleven a.m. tour. The group goes out farther than usual, all the way east to Kirby Park. And in the mud flats across the slough from the park, two tourists find Ricardo’s body. Wearing a Kayak Shack life jacket.”
“We talked about all this when you were here on Monday.”
“I’m aware of that, Paul. And I’m sure you’re aware there are two questions we asked you Monday that we still don’t have answers to.”
Ramirez ticked them off on her sparkly purple fingernails. “One. Where were you Saturday night? Two. Why was Ricardo Cruz wearing your life jacket?”
Lana watched as Paul tried to cross his legs, almost tipped over, and settled for a low crouch on the edge of his chair. Everyone was staring at him. Ramirez looked eager. Nicoletti looked annoyed. And Lana was evaluating, finding him wanting.
Paul waded in. “I don’t know why he had a Kayak Shack life jacket. But I might have a guess on how he got it. Someone could have loaned it to him.”
“Someone?” Ramirez asked. “An employee?”
“Not necessarily.” Paul stood up and started pacing as he talked. “I have two hundred and fifty or so life jackets here at the shop. It’s not like they’re some precious resource under lock and key. When they get faded, or the fabric gets a tear, I throw ’em in the storeroom. If a buddy needs one for a boat trip, I give him an old one. Technically, I can’t resell used life jackets—there’s too much liability with safety equipment. But I can loan them out as long as they’re functional. And I’m not banging down anyone’s door to get them back.”