“Nice work, Jack.” Lana kept her eyes sealed to the binoculars. “Now let’s get back in the car before my cheeks freeze off.”
They sat in front, watching the sun descend toward the water, waiting for Lana’s seat warmers to kick in. Jack took out her phone and started dialing.
“Who are you calling?”
“Detective Ramirez. She should hear about this.”
“Jack, that sheriff’s phone tree is where good information goes to die.”
“She gave me her cell number today. Said I should call anytime. Oh, shh—Hi, Detective Ramirez? It’s Jack Rubicon . . . Yeah . . . Good. Thanks. Listen, I’m out here at Kirby Park with my grandma? Remember how I told you we were . . .”
Lana watched her granddaughter in fascination.
“。 . . yeah, well, I’m pretty sure the body was dropped at or near that land I told you about that my boss leases. On the Rhoads ranch. Not the land trust . . . What? . . . You should talk to my grandma about that. Hold on.”
Jack handed the phone to Lana.
“Hello?” Lana was still getting over the surprise of the detective taking Jack’s call.
“What can you tell me about this ranch?” Ramirez’s voice sounded serious, focused. Lana tried to match it.
“Hal Rhoads was the longtime owner. In his eighties. He was working with Ricardo Cruz on a project, a vision for the future of his ranch as a nonprofit farming incubator. Ricardo was supposed to visit Hal at his nursing home in Carmel the Friday he died, to bring him the first renderings of their project. I’m not sure if he made it. Have you determined Ricardo’s exact time of death?”
Ramirez ignored Lana’s question. “How do you know Mr. Cruz was visiting Mr. Rhoads that day?”
Lana hesitated. She wasn’t yet ready to tell the detective she had a corkboard full of notes and emails from the land trust.
“My . . . daughter told me,” Lana said. “Mr. Rhoads was her patient. He was looking forward to seeing Ricardo.” Shit. Now she was lying to a cop.
“Surely Mr. Rhoads would know if Mr. Cruz visited him?”
“Well, yes. But he died, just three days after Ricardo. I actually think it might be connected. That they were both killed because of their shared project.”
“There were no other murders that weekend in Monterey County.” Ramirez’s voice had shifted from curious to brusque, her interest flatlining.
“It’s a theory I’ve been working on,” Lana said quickly. “I didn’t want to waste your time until I had something concrete, but there’s a lot of evidence and—”
“Would your daughter know if Mr. Cruz visited the nursing facility that Friday?”
Lana sighed. This was as far as she was going to get today.
“Of course,” Lana said. “I’ll ask her. Would that be helpful?”
“Verified information about Mr. Cruz’s movements is helpful, Ms. Rubicon. Other theories, well, why don’t you just keep those to yourself.”
Chapter Forty
As Beth drove away from Bayshore Oaks, her eyes kept sliding to the manila envelope protruding from her messenger bag on the passenger seat. She knew she should bring it to the Rhoads family. She could hand it off to Martin at the yacht club tonight. Easy.
But there was another option too. She could bring the envelope home to Lana first, just for a peek. It would be a prize, an olive branch. A gift to the investigation, which, she had to admit, was getting more comprehensive by the day. It would also be illegal, or at least unethical. Mr. Rhoads had been her patient, and she had responsibilities to him, even in death.
She drove north and west, weighing her options. It was past seven, and the sun had already fallen below the horizon line of the ocean. Ahead of her, the safety lights on the decommissioned power plant outlined two ghostly smokestacks, towering over the water and the artichoke fields. As she got closer to the slough, an enormous flock of seagulls, hundreds of them, rose from the marsh in a dizzying swirl of white against the darkening sky.
She looked one more time at the envelope and made her decision, swinging her wheel to the left to go across the bridge.
The marina was quiet. No boats being washed, no fishermen coming in late. The fluorescent lamps in the parking lot were shot through with salt, casting weak pools of light on the handful of cars outside the yacht club. One lonely cop car idled outside the Kayak Shack. Beth shrugged on her jacket, grabbed her messenger bag, and headed to the club.
From the minute she stepped into the yacht club, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. The dining room was as empty as the lot and twice as gloomy. Three fishermen on their stools were arguing about the Warriors, and in the corner, a sour-faced woman was drinking the harbormaster under the table. Beth scanned the dark-wood tables and spotted Martin at a velvety booth, alone. There was a glass of amber-colored liquid in front of him. From the overlapping, wet halos on the table, it looked like it wasn’t his first drink.