Now Lana looked at her daughter and wondered, not for the first time, if she’d made the right decision.
“I don’t want you to jeopardize your work, Beth. I just wanted to bring you a nice lunch. To thank you for your efforts. I’m sorry I asked.”
Beth’s face softened.
Lana realized it was the second time she’d issued an apology this week, even if this one was halfway disingenuous. She made a mental note not to make a habit of it. Then again, she saw it was a helpful tactic when used sparingly.
Beth threw her a bone. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Ma? Anything that doesn’t violate federal health and privacy laws?”
Lana looked up and down the hallway. No one. She leaned in. “Can you tell me about his visitors?”
“Um . . .”
“Just for the week before he died.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Ricardo Cruz was supposed to visit Mr. Rhoads on February third. I’m wondering if he made it here before he was murdered.”
“Friday, February third? One sec.” Beth swiveled the computer monitor in front of her. “Nope. Diana was here that morning, but not Ricardo. The only people who signed in to see Mr. Rhoads the week before he died were Martin, Diana, and Victor.”
“Victor Morales?”
Beth nodded. She clicked a few more keys and spoke again. “Interesting. It looks like over the two months Mr. Rhoads was here, there was a consistent pattern. Martin came Friday afternoons and Sunday mornings. Lady Di came Tuesday and Thursday mornings.”
“But that final week was different. You said—”
“Right. That last week, Diana came Tuesday and Friday instead. And Martin came on Saturday. He told me that, remember? He was stuck in San Francisco the night before.”
“And Victor?”
“It looks like he was less consistent. He came once in December, twice in January. The last time was that Tuesday afternoon, January thirty-first.”
“What about Ricardo Cruz? In those two months, did he ever visit?”
Beth squinted back at the screen. “Only once. Seven weeks ago, on January fourth. A Wednesday.”
A doctor day.
“Can you write the dates down for me? For that final week?” Lana asked. “Wait. Hal Rhoads died on a Monday. Did anyone visit him that day?”
Beth grabbed a notepad and started scribbling. “There are no visitors allowed on Mondays.”
“Why’s that?”
“We’ve been down to one front-desk person for almost a year. Budget cuts. She has to have at least one day off. And since weekends are busy with visitors, Monday made the most sense.”
“You usually don’t work Mondays either.”
Beth nodded. “It’s our lightest day.”
“What if someone is dying? Can a visitor come in then?”
“If there’s an emergency, we make exceptions. But no one knew Mr. Rhoads was going to die that day.”
Lana looked around the empty hallway. The fluorescent lights gave the beige walls a bluish cast. “There were so many people at his wake. What a shame to have so few visitors in the final weeks of his life.”
Beth looked at Lana. “He was a proud man, Ma. He might not have told many people where he was or what was going on.”
Lana felt a brief flash of guilt for not responding to André’s last three texts, let alone Gloria’s calls.
“Gotta go,” Lana said, shaking it off. “See you tonight?”
“I have to cover the first part of Rosa’s shift,” Beth said. “I’ll be home around eleven.”
“I’m glad I brought two sandwiches. Have a good day, Beth.” Lana put a hand on her daughter’s arm. “And thank you.”
Lana turned and marched back the way she’d come in, her hips swinging, high heels tapping out precise parallel lines all the way to the double doors.
Once she escaped the building, she reparked under the grove of pines behind Bayshore Oaks and dialed the number she’d copied from Jack’s phone. It went straight to voicemail. But at least this time she knew it would reach her intended recipient.
“Detective Ramirez, it’s Lana Rubicon. I wanted to tell you right away. I’ve confirmed that Ricardo Cruz did not make it to Bayshore Oaks on the day he died.”
Lana realized it wasn’t nearly as impressive a message as she’d imagined.
“I hope your investigation is going well,” she improvised. “Okay. Bye.”
Lana hung up, feeling deflated and oddly sheepish. She looked down at her lap, at the note Beth had scrawled about Mr. Rhoads’s final week of visitors.