Ramirez returned to the car with Lana’s keys. The two women drove silently through the lot, winding past smashed sports cars and ash-speckled minivans with the windows blacked out.
“Mobile meth labs,” Ramirez said, when she saw Lana looking. “They steal ’em from soccer moms, rip the seats out, and start cooking. I found one last week in Royal Oaks.”
Lana knew a peace offering when she heard it. It might be wise to reciprocate.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about that kayak tour booking,” Lana said.
The detective looked at Lana, her eyes wary.
“Ricardo signed up for my granddaughter’s Saturday sunset tour,” Lana said. “You showed us the registration book. Paul took the call. It said ‘paid’ and everything. But that call happened on Friday afternoon.”
“So?”
“So did Ricardo even make that call?”
Ramirez smiled. “Good one. Nicoletti didn’t spot it right away. You’re correct. The booking was made at five p.m., when Ricardo Cruz was already dead.”
Lana was disappointed she hadn’t given the detective new information. But at least they were talking again.
“Was it Ricardo’s phone that made the booking?”
“Yes.”
“Someone murdered him, took his phone, and booked a tour?”
“That’s right. We’re still waiting on the historical cell location data, so we can find out where the call was placed. Hopefully there’s something useful there.”
Lana wondered who might have been close enough to Ricardo to know the passcode to unlock his phone. She resisted the urge to ask more questions. “Sounds like you’ve got it covered,” she said.
“I like to think so.”
Both women got out of the Buick and stood in front of Lana’s Lexus, facing each other.
“I want you to be successful,” Lana said. “If there’s any way I can help . . .”
“The best thing you can do is to stay out of it.”
“We both want the same thing,” Lana insisted. “Justice for Ricardo Cruz.”
Lana felt the younger woman’s eyes sweep over her. It had been a long afternoon. Her wig itched, her bruises ached, and she could feel the liquid foundation she’d slathered over her stitches sliding down her face.
“Are you sure justice is what you want, Ms. Rubicon?”
Lana stood and watched in silence as Teresa Ramirez adjusted her badge, got back in the Buick, and drove away.
Chapter Thirty
“Beth! Quick!” Lana shouted as the front door slammed. “Can you help us with something?”
Beth dropped the Chinese food on the counter and rushed into the back bedroom. “Are you okay?”
“Is this straight?”
Jack was standing on top of her old desk, holding an enormous corkboard up against the wall. Lana was watching from the doorway. She had one of Beth’s hand-knitted beanies on her head, a lavender one with a fluffy pom-pom. There were nails in Lana’s mouth and a hammer in her hand. The stitches on her cheek were covered by a Wonder Woman Band-Aid. If she didn’t look so deranged, it would be kind of cute.
“What are you—”
“Is it straight?” Lana demanded.
Beth could see Jack’s shoulders trembling. “It’s fine.”
“Good!” Lana bounced forward with the hammer, Jack ducked out of its path, and the corkboard clattered to the floor.
“Shit. Well. Third time’s a charm.” Lana gave Jack an upward nod, and the teenager climbed back onto the desk.
Beth looked around the bedroom. The desk was stacked with Lana’s books: The Art of War, The Emperor’s Handbook, and one featuring a woman with big hair and shoulder pads under the title They Can Kill You but They Can’t Eat You. The bedspread was buried under a pile of printouts: contracts, maps, and blurry photographs. It was clear they’d been at it—whatever it was—for a while.
“What’s going on here?”
“Prima found a lot of good stuff at the land trust.”
Beth looked back at the papers on the bed. “You stole all these?”
“Of course not.” Lana was lining up an army of pushpins on the corkboard. “I took photographs with my phone.”
“I see.”
“And I used the printer at the library after school,” Jack added.
“Uh-huh.”
“We’ve been going through it, and Mom? It’s pretty interesting.” Jack held her breath and prayed this wouldn’t turn into a fight.