Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola (14 page)

He nodded. “I was.”

“Do you miss it?”

He paused for a beat too long, and there was a vague change in his expression. “Not much.”

My Spidey senses went on alert. There was something he’d left unsaid. “How long were you there?”

“A little more than ten years.”

Ten years and he didn’t miss much? He’d left behind his job, friends, and the life he’d established. That he was indifferent didn’t seem right. “What about your friends?” I prompted.
Or girlfriends,
I thought, wishing I could just cut to the chase. “There must be
something
you miss.”

He considered for a few seconds. “The ocean. The drive along the coast. And the mountains, I guess. There’s definitely something about the beauty of that place.” He looked out the window as he took a sip of his water, the sparkle gone from his eyes. “But sometimes home is the best medicine. Too many obligations…”

Medicine for what? “Obligations?”

He looked at me again, and I felt the intensity of his gaze as if the light inside him could somehow illuminate my soul. Was he talking about obligations he’d left behind, or ones he’d returned to? It was crazy to think that I was one of those obligations, but my mind went there anyway. Tonio had said Jack had wanted me back in high school when I was off-limits. In my wishful thinking, I wanted to believe he’d come back to find me after all these years.

“I had to leave,” he said.

Oh. The way he said those four little words, and the unspoken heavy meaning underlying them, made my fantasy that he’d come back for me vanish. He’d left something behind; that seemed clear. But what it was, and his seeming conflict over it, was what I wanted to know.

He cocked his head and smiled, the wistfulness I thought
I’d seen in him gone. “I didn’t realize there was so much here to miss.”

“Right. Like Greta Pritchard. She’s still here, isn’t she?”

He laughed, choking on the water he’d just taken a sip of. “What is it with you and Antonio and Greta Pritchard? I haven’t thought about her in years. God, how long ago did we even date?”

“Fourteen years,” I blurted.
Six months, ten days…

He laughed. “You have the memory of an elephant.”

When it came to Jack, I sure did. “The beach and the mountains sound nice,” I said to change the subject. “I’d even move if these hundred-and-five-degree days keep up.”

He gave me a skeptical smile, the faint outline of his dimple in his cheek. “You’ll never leave your family, Lola.”

“You’re probably right. I actually like fall in Sacramento—and it’s coming.” I shrugged. “I’d probably get tired of the beach anyway.”

“There’s more than weather and topography to consider about where you live.” He propped his elbows on the table, and his face grew serious, his dimple flattening out until it disappeared, the line of his jaw creating a strength in his face that seemed to define him. He was a man to take seriously, despite the playful side I’d glimpsed. “Grass and sky aren’t enough to keep a person happy.”

Jack had been a staff writer for the
Bee
for the past six months or so. The first time I saw his byline, I knew something big had brought him back to Sacramento. “You’re not going to tell me why you came back, are you?”

He slipped his chopsticks out of the paper wrapper and broke them apart. “Nothing to tell.”

“I don’t believe it.”

He shrugged. “Everyone’s entitled to a few secrets, right? Lola, PI?”

My heart skittered at the way he looked at me, as if he knew every last one of my deep, dark secrets. The fact that my biggest secret was that I had pictures of him—of which I was no longer in possession—was one I hoped he’d never learn. Once I wrung Antonio’s neck and had those photographs back in my hands, I was going to dispose of them, pronto. Or at least I’d hide them better. The fact that I’d been a voyeur and had snapped those pictures was a secret I’d take to my grave.

“I guess,” I said, grateful when Helen popped up out of nowhere and delivered a plate of paper-wrapped chicken and two bowls of steaming soup.

Jack ignored the food, watching me instead. “You’ve changed.”

I didn’t know if he meant that in a good way or not, so I chose not to respond.

He didn’t seem to notice, instead digging into the food, unwrapping the foil triangles and effortlessly manipulating his chopsticks to pop the chicken into his mouth.

He pushed the plate toward me, and I couldn’t resist taking a triangle. I was not one of those girls who ordered only salad for lunch. No way. I’d earned my size 8—sometimes bordering on 10—and I wore my curves with pride.

Helen returned with the rest of our lunch, and we ate in silence.

“What made you get into private investigation?” Jack asked after all our lunch had been decimated.

I sucked in air, trying to expand my bloated stomach over my suddenly too-tight jeans. Size 10 would definitely have been better to be wearing at the moment. I longed to stand up and stretch so gravity could help suck the food in my gut down to my toes. “I’m good at it. Ever since—” I swallowed, stopping myself from revealing the surveillance I’d done on
him. “—I realized I like snooping and spying, it’s been my dream.”

“You were always reading mysteries in school.”

I nodded, my eye twitching as a cramp gripped my gut. “You were a senior when I was a freshman. How do you remember that?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I used to see you go into Mr. Chow’s classroom at lunch. You were always there with a book.”

I shook my head, stunned to realize that maybe Antonio hadn’t been pulling my leg, that Jack’s apparent attraction to me wasn’t new—and that mine wasn’t one-sided. “Guess you have an elephant’s memory, too.”

“Why’d you and Sergio break up?”

“Jeez. That was so long ago. You know, we grew apart.”

“I never thought you grew together in the first place.”

“You weren’t even here when we were together.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his bicep flexing. Mmm, he had great arms. “I heard things.”

Muy interesante
. Had he been keeping tabs on me? I shifted in my chair, trying to loosen my waistband. Fact was, I was the detective and had tried to keep tabs on him. And had failed. Jack’s past after high school was a big fat blank. “I take it you’re single?”

“Oh yeah.”

That was a little too enthusiastic, but I let it alone.

“What’s the deal with your boss?” he asked.

“No deal.” Except for the sudden nicknames and his desire for me to show him my moves. “He’s good at his job, is a total professional, and dates models.” I threw in that last tidbit to drive home the point that Manny and I weren’t dating. At all.

“He hired you, so he must be smart.”

My pride swelled at that. It was a nice compliment, I
thought, but my smile faded as he continued with, “Dangerous line of work, though.”

Here it came—the inevitable criticism and doubt about my ability to be a private investigator. “Look, I’ve been doing this for four years. I’ve done the required training, I’ve been licensed for a couple years now, and I’m pretty good.”

His gaze was unnerving. “Uh-huh.”

“I deduce and follow leads that unravel a muscle—um, I mean puzzle. I find it stimulating.” I pressed my fingertips to the space between my eyebrows. Did I seriously just say
stimulating
?

He stifled a smile. “Is it really safe, though? What if those two last night had had guns?”

Not this again. “I can handle myself.” I felt a wall creep up, and my voice tightened. I got enough of being doubted by my family. I didn’t want to hear it from my hot lunch date. “What about investigative reporting? You’re digging around where people don’t want you. Can
you
take someone out in one move?”

“Can you?” When I nodded, he arched a brow in disbelief. “Right.”

I bristled. I could knock him flat on his back in mere seconds. “Hey, I’ll show you right now if you don’t believe me.” Might as well get it over with. Find out if he wanted Buffy or Susie Homemaker.

He looked skeptical. “What, you want me to attack you so you can bust a move?”

“I wouldn’t be busting a move.” I wagged my finger at him. “I’d be kicking your ass.” Standing up, I ignored my bloated stomach, grabbed his arm, and yanked him out of his seat. “Come on.”

He threw up his hands in protest. “I believe you, Lola.”

“No, you don’t. We’re doing this.” I spotted Helen. “We’re going into the banquet room for a sec.”

She giggled and nodded, obviously misreading my intentions.
I didn’t care. I pulled Jack with me, out of the dining room and into the huge deserted back room reserved for large parties… and sparring.

Jack let himself be dragged. “This should be interesting,” he said.

I pushed a table out of the way and turned to face him.

He looked intimidating—all six muscled feet of him. He crossed his arms, a smile tugging his lips. “What do you want me to do?”

“Attack me. Come at me.” I stood with my arms limp at my sides.

“Lola—”

“You’re not going to hurt me.” I bent my body at the waist, held my arms out, palms up, and wiggled my fingers. “Come on, Jack,” I taunted. “Are you chicken?”

He lunged, darting toward me like a hungry wolf. He caught me around the waist, pinning my arms to my sides.

“Ooh, good move, Callaghan.” He smelled like soap and musk and evergreen trees. I could get used to that scent. I was torn between the urge to burrow into him—my head fit perfectly into the crook under his neck—or drop him to the ground. But my instincts, and the challenge of taking him down, took over, and I twisted. I could have kneed him, immobilizing him in an instant—but if we did end up, uh, snuggling—I didn’t want that part of him damaged.

I forced my arms up through his, breaking his lock on me. Then I shot my arm forward and up, stopping short just under his chin.

He took a step back, and I dropped my arm. “Impressive,” he said.

“I could make you beg for mercy if I wanted to.”

“I’m sure you could make me beg—” He gave me a scorching look. “—but not for mercy.”

My legs started to turn to Jell-O. Fighting him felt like foreplay.

We went back to the table, and Jack plucked a twenty and a ten from his wallet. “I really hate to cut this short, but I have an appointment.”

I checked my watch. It was one thirty. “I need to get back to work, too.” I had a murderer to catch. “We can go dutch,” I said, reaching for my purse.

“No, I got it.” He laid the money on the table. “And for the record, I’d like to do this again.”

My insides warmed. “So you like Xena.”

“What?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Never mind.”

His voice took on that low, smooth timbre again. “What other secrets do you have, Dolores Cruz?”

I threw my arms open. “I’m an open book.” Almost.

“I bet it’s a good read.”

We walked out to the sidewalk. I only had to go next door, so we stopped in front of his car. “Oh, by the way,” he said, “I looked through my notes this morning. I got a message from a woman last week who wanted me to write an article about her son.”

I leaned against his sedan—a sporty Volvo. It mirrored him. Solid, safe, and sexy. “Uh-huh.”

“She gave me her son’s name, but hung up before she left hers.”

My curiosity was piqued. “And?”

He unlocked his car and pulled a narrow notebook from a dark leather satchel. “The son’s name is Garrett Diggs.”

I inhaled sharply, furious that he’d waited until now to tell me this tidbit. Luckily reason kicked in. The truth was, I’d been so wrapped up in our lunch and our sparring that I
hadn’t followed up with him about Emily Diggs. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure. I write down my messages—”

“All of them?”

He nodded. “That’s where half my stories come from. I get a call with a lead or a tip. Someone wants to meet me and give me confidential information—”

“Sounds very Deep Throat.”

He cracked a suggestive grin. “What do you know about Deep Throat?”

“Nothing.” I felt my face heat from the innuendo. “Never mind. What did she say?”

“According to my notes, not much. Something about her son and wanting me to write an article about him.”

“He died,” I said.

“Ah, too bad.” He flipped the notebook closed. “So she may have just been grieving.”

It was possible, but I doubted it. My instincts were telling me that Emily had been looking for answers, not condolences.

He checked his watch again. “I really have to go.”

I nodded. “It was good to see you, Jack. Thanks for the tip.”

The corner of his mouth inched up. “You bet.”

I ran my fingers through my hair, tucking it behind my ears, and smiled. “So, I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Definitely,” he said, and he gave me that dangerous half smile.

A few seconds later, I was staring at Jack Callaghan’s taillights as he drove away.
Ay, caramba
. I fanned myself with my open palm. There was no doubt in my mind: The idea of seeing more of Jack was going to give me sleepless nights.

A
t the conference table at Camacho and Associates, I snapped open the
Sacramento Bee
and went straight to the obituaries. Emily Diggs’s name was listed under the death notices. I looked for an expanded entry on her.
Nada
. No picture, no information, no memorial. Not a word written about her. I felt a tug of sorrow. Did nobody care?

I decided then and there to make it known that when my number came up, I wanted a full-on celebration, complete with mariachis and bottomless margaritas. As I watched life unfold from heaven, I wanted to know that I’d been loved.

I flipped back to the front page of the Metro. There was a too-big picture of local Assemblyman Ryan Case and his family. Of course, election year meant mondo coverage. I spent a few minutes perusing the rest of the paper—nothing by Jack Callaghan today. A nagging feeling pulled me back to the front page. I scanned the articles again, but couldn’t put my finger on what was bothering me.