Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola (11 page)

“I’ve been thinking about that.” He shook his head. “Do you have a picture of her? I don’t remember the name, but—”

I held up my index finger, told him to wait, and raced upstairs. Three minutes later, I returned, out of breath, my file of Emily in my hand. “Right here,” I said, opening it up and passing it over so he could have a look.

He started. “Her?”

That looked like recognition to me. “Have you talked to her?”

He nodded slowly. “I have. She showed up at the newspaper kind of belligerent. Security took her out, but I gave her my card before they got her out the door. I’d forgotten.”

My ears perked up. “When was this?”

He thought as he took another drink. “Two weeks ago?”

“She never called you?”

My mother piped up. “It is Sunday, Dolores. Stop this.”

Jack held his palm out. “It’s fine, Mrs. Cruz.” He turned back to me. “No. She never called.”

Antonio leaned against the counter, sipping his drink. Papi rifled through the refrigerator and Mami glared.

“Do you know what she wanted?” I asked. “Any idea?”

“Not really. I asked security. Something about her son. That’s all I got.”

I finished my drink and refilled my glass. Something about her son. Which son? And why go to the paper?

“Can we have dinner now?” Mami asked, staring me down.
“Por favor.”

I took the file back from Jack and put it with Emily’s notebook on the counter. “Sure, Mami.”

She handed me an industrial pair of shiny silver tongs to pick chicken out of the stockpot. Standing over the stove, steam billowing around my face, I imagined I looked a little like an amber-skinned Cinderella, but deep down I knew I was Xena. What kind of girl did Jack want? I suspected that it was the dainty princess—and I didn’t want it to be.

The smile he flashed at me as he refilled his glass melted my insides a little. Well, shoot. I could be Cinderella or Snow White if that’s what he wanted—at least for a day.

Get a grip, Lola.
I turned and downed another shot of tequila. Hell no, I couldn’t be Snow White. Maybe Mulan.
That Disney character had it going on. And so did I. I couldn’t pretend otherwise.

“You enjoy the
mole,
Jack, yes?” my mother asked from the stove.

“Oh yeah, Mrs. Cruz.” He kept his eyes glued to me. “Sweet and savory. Love every last bit of it.”

A shiver shimmied up my spine. I swallowed, flipped a tortilla, and then stirred the contents of the blender with blinding focus. I jumped a mile when the phone rang. We all turned to stare at the wireless unit. Saved by Ma Bell.

Mami cleared her throat. “Excuse me,
por favor.
I am expecting a call.”

I cocked a brow at her back. She was
expecting
a
call
? From who? The pope?

She picked up the handset.
“Bueno.”
She listened for a moment then slipped into Spanish, her tone formal.
“Bien, gracias. ¿Y usted, señor?”

Okay, so she really
was
expecting a call. I tuned her out, concentrating instead on finishing my margarita. If Jack’s words and vague innuendos could make me shiver, what would touching him, and having him touch me, make me feel?

My mother thrust the phone at me with a glare.
“Para ti.”

I took the phone. “Hello?” My lips felt heavy, and gravity pulled my eyelids into slow blinks. Man, good tequila worked fast.

“Dolores? It’s Manny.”

My eyelids flew open. “Manny.” Why was he calling here? I bent at the knees and carefully set my glass on the wavy counter. Throwing my shoulders back, I stood up as straight as I could. I was professional and alert. “Is shomething wrong?” I slurred, my mouth working a step behind my brain. Okay, not so alert. I waited for Manny’s explanation, my fingertips tapping my forehead. Damn, I shouldn’t have had that last shot.

“I have a situation. Are you available tonight?”

What kind of situation? “Available? Tonight?”

I looked over my shoulder and caught Jack’s expression. It was a combination of heady lust and disappointment.

Exactly what I was feeling.

“I need your help with a case,” Manny said.

My heart did a double somersault. I didn’t want to leave now. I
really
did not want to leave now, but this was my job. No man would get in the way of that. Flapping my hand at them, I made a serious face, pointed to the phone, and slurred loudly, “It’s my bossh.
Mi jefe,
” I said to Mami, although she’d answered the phone and already knew it was Manny. I sidestepped past them and into the living room.

“Dolores?” Manny barked.

I nodded.

“Dolores?” he said again.

Ah, revelation. He couldn’t hear my nod. “Mmm-hmm. I’m here.” I slapped my cheek, trying to knock the alcoholic blur out of my brain.

“Sadie can’t make her shift at Laughlin’s.” His voice was tense. “I need you to fill in.”

My stomach gurgled in panic.
Shit!
I forced my eyelids wide again and looked around. At least I could focus. I just had to ignore the haziness and soft edges around everything. “Right.” I articulated so I wouldn’t slur. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Laughlin’s was close by. Down the street. I could walk—since there was no way in hell I was getting behind the wheel of my car right now. I might be tipsy, but I wasn’t stupid.

“Why are you shouting? Are you all right?”

Was I yelling? I lowered my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m fine, Manny. I’m on the job. I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll pick you up. Five minutes.” The line went dead, and that
was that. Manny was on his way, and I was holding a dead phone.

Eight eyes were staring at me when I rushed back into the kitchen. I forged through the gawking crowd. “Something’s come up. I have to go.” I looked longingly at Jack. I really didn’t want to leave him, but work was work. “See you later,” I said.

The faint indentation of Jack’s dimple taunted me, and I imagined squeezing his cheeks together as my mother had done to Antonio. There was a magnetic draw to it—to him—that I’d never understood. Even after fourteen years, it hadn’t ebbed.

“¿Ahora?”
My mother looked horrified. “You are leaving now?”

I spoke slowly, working hard to enunciate my words. “I have to. Manny’s picking me up. I’m going to do some—” I dropped my voice again, whispering seriously, “undercover work.”

“What kind of covers are you and your boss going to be under?” Antonio murmured.

Apparently Jack heard; his smile faded.

“Today is Sunday,” my mother objected. “Your sister,
the teacher,
does not work on Sundays.”

“Actually, she’s probably doing lesson plans or grading papers, Mami. That’s why she’s not here.”

Mami scowled and went back to sipping her margarita.

“What is this undercover work?” my father asked, his jaw set.

“A case. It’s no big deal.”

Jack set his drink down and leaned against the counter. His folded arms pulled at the palm trees that decorated the bottom of his shirt. He looked as disappointed as I felt, but I’d chosen my career. And I was a team player. Manny needed me; I was there.

“I’ll be fine, Papi.” I gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s just Laughlin’s, and Manny’ll be there.” Then with a wave good-bye to the group, I flew out the door and zipped upstairs to change.

I
 pulled on low-rise black jeans  and Sketchers,  then tucked my hair  up under a wig from my growing collection—a shoulder-length redheaded bob. With a pair of black-framed prescription-free glasses, the disguise was complete. I looked in the mirror. Not half bad.

Manny’s white Dodge Ram pulled to the curb just as I headed back outside. It was a lifted four-by-four, complete with sunroof and matching camper shell—an extension of his machismo but not exactly an inconspicuous undercover car.

I looked around as I raced down the stairs, wondering what kind of car Jack drove. Too many parked on the street to venture even a guess.

Inside the truck, I avoided looking at my parents’ window. Guilt was second nature to me, what with my Mexican Catholic upbringing and all. A good daughter would have stayed and had dinner and helped clean up afterwards. A good daughter would not have become a detective. A good daughter would have put her mother first.

Apparently I was not such a good daughter.

Manny gave me a slow once-over as I tucked a stray strand of my hair under the wig. He raised a quizzical brow.

“People might recognize me at Laughlin’s,” I said.

He revved the engine and took off, the midtown houses flying by in a blur. Ten seconds later, he looked at me again. “Been drinking?”

My head skirted around a nod and a shake. “A few margaritas.” And a couple shots of tequila. “I’m fine.” I considered segueing the conversation to Isabel—just for the hell of it—but didn’t have the mental deftness to tackle a subtle change of topic. “Where’s Sadie?” I asked instead. “She’s not going to like me taking her gig.” Not that I cared.

Okay, I cared a little. Even if Sadie had wanted the Diggs case but was stuck at Laughlin’s, our cases were our cases, and I knew she’d be pissed if the perps showed up tonight while I was working her turf.

“She’s stuck out of town. She’ll relieve you at seven.”

Oh, well, that sucked. I was giving up dinner with Jack for just a few hours? My shoulders slumped for a second, but then I bolstered my attitude. Manny’d called me in to do a job, and I was going to do it well. “I didn’t do—” A hiccup slipped out. “—the training,” I finished, darting a glance at him to see if he’d noticed.

He stared straight ahead, his face impassive. “You’re just bagging groceries. I’m sure you can handle it.”

“Do—I—get—a—Laughlin’s—shirt?” I enunciated each word, overcompensating for any alcohol-induced slur I might be harboring. I could feel him evaluating my behavior. Damn. PIs didn’t work under a tenure system. Would he fire me if he found out I hadn’t been straight with him about being tipsy? How long did a tequila buzz last, anyway? I wished I’d thought to down some water before I left. Or a quadruple espresso.

I popped a mint and muttered a nearly silent prayer that I’d be back to normal in no time. Meanwhile, I’d be extra cautious.

“Yes to the shirt. You can wear it on top of—” He paused, looking me over with a slow gaze. “—that.”

Manny’s silent appraisal of me was more than a little disconcerting. I tugged at the top I’d worn for Jack. Damn again. I should have changed it. Served me right for dressing all alluring for a man.

He dangled one arm out the window and turned his concentration back to the road.

“Are you going to fill me in on the job?” I had a rough idea from the last staff meeting, but details would be a little helpful. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

He pulled the brown file from under his seat and handed it to me. “It’s all in there.”

I opened the folder. The information sheet contained the standard data—minus a photograph. We were on the lookout for a man-and-a-woman team, both purportedly in their thirties. They’d robbed four grocery stores in the immediate area, always between the hours of five in the afternoon and nine at night, taunting the police with notes, daring anybody to catch them.

Keenan D’Angelo, owner of Laughlin’s, hadn’t been hit—yet. He was taking no chances. He didn’t want to risk his employees’ safety for the money in the tills. The police would offer only nominal patrols.

So far, there had been no injuries during the robberies, no evidence of a weapon. I thought D’Angelo was probably more concerned about losing his hard-earned dough than losing his employees. Oh, man! The tequila had zapped my optimistic attitude and made me a cynic like the Camacho Associates.
Not good, Lola, not good.

Trying to get my optimism back—and get focused—I went back to the file. The method was the same each time. The couple does a little shopping and waits in the line of a male
checker. After the groceries are bagged, the woman flashes the checker. While he gawks—as they all do, I mean they’re guys—the partner in crime jumps over the checkout counter, shoves the checker aside, snatches the money from the till, grabs the grocery bags, and then they both bolt. The checker is left speechless and his drawer penniless.

It was some high-class thievery.

Enter Camacho and Associates.

The one thing that all the robbery victims, and the surveillance cameras, could give as a description were the sunburst nipple shields and a spiral tattoo that started under the sunburst on the right breast and worked its way outward. I cringed. My head spun at the mere idea of a tattoo on the boob.

Not surprisingly, no one seemed to remember any details about the Bonnie-and-Clyde duo—except Bonnie’s boob jewelry.

“So our goal is to prevent the robbery if they come in to Laughlin’s?” Nothing wrong with a little clarification.

“And subdue the perps, if possible.”

Check. “You’ll be in the store?”

He shook his head. “Surveillance from outside.”

So how was I going to capture both Bonnie and Clyde on my own? Assuming they showed up tonight.

Manny seemed to read my thoughts. “How are you going to subdue them if they come tonight?” He looked at me with an annoying little smirk on his face. “Are you hiding a gun on your person?”

“You know I don’t believe in guns. All I need is a pair of handcuffs.” I’d given him my philosophy on guns more than once. “My body is my weapon.” My lip curled after the words left my mouth. That had sounded so much better—and so much less suggestive—when I said it in my head.

“You’re going to have to prove that to me,
sargenta,
” he said, his voice low and rumbling.

I jabbed my finger at him then grabbed the doorjamb to stop swaying. “Hey, I can subdue and restrain. You sure you want to go there?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Oh, we’ll go there.” His face was way too serious. “You’re going to show me
all
your moves one day.”

I swallowed hard and pressed the window button.
¡Dios mío!
I was suddenly roasting. “What’s with the
sargenta
bit?” I asked when I’d cooled down a degree. As nicknames went, being called sergeant was good. Strong and tough. But Dolores from him was just fine. Anything else sounded too personal.