Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola (15 page)

Neil lumbered by. “Yo.”

I translated his greeting to mean “What’s up?” but responded in Neil lingo.

“Yo,” meaning “nothing.” Unfortunately.

“The case—copacetic?”

Wow. I was impressed he knew how to use
copacetic
in an almost-complete sentence. I gave him a thumbs-up. “A-plus.”

He gave me a single nod and continued on his way.

My cell phone broke into song, and I picked up before the second verse of “La Bamba” started. “This is Lola.”

“Hey
chica,
can you play tomorrow?” my cousin’s wife, Lucy, bubbled.

If you considered following leads playing—which I did—then yes, I could. But I was afraid Lucy wouldn’t like my kind of play. “Not really…”

“You sure?” Her voice fell flat. “Zac’s taking the day off to spend with the kids.”

“Oh, wow. The whole day without kids?” How could I turn her down? “I guess—”

“Is that a yes?” She perked right up again. “What should we do?”

“You don’t have anybody to wax or massage?” Lucy was a killer aesthetician.

“I canceled everyone. I
never
get to have any fun. I need a day off!”

“Shopping?”

“The mall,” she agreed. “I want some new Birks.”

That was one thing about Lucy and me. Our styles were completely—and I mean 100 percent, 360-degrees, flower child–to–Sarah Jessica Parker—opposite.

But we both had a passion for shoes. Maybe I’d go for some pink heels with a frilly bow. Ooo-la-la. In case Jack asked me out on a
real
date that included dressing up.

Lucy and I agreed to meet the next morning, and we hung up.

I relegated shopping to a back compartment of my brain and returned to my case. With a blue dry-erase marker, I penned key phrases and words from Emily’s notebook onto a
large rectangular whiteboard on the wall. The woman didn’t appear to have had a rhyme or reason to her journaling. But I persevered. She had to have left me a clue—something that would lead me to her killer. Or at least help me understand why she was killed.

The words ran like ticker tape in my mind:
INFECTION, FUNERAL, JUST BECAUSE, MY PLACE, SEAN
’
S FATHER
 . . . Practically everything was printed in caps and written very neatly.

My mind screeched to a halt, and I backtracked. Just because, just because what?

Something knocked around my brain. I closed my eyes, and a minute later, the drive out to Sloughouse, the farm where my father had always bought his produce for the restaurant, popped into my mind. Highway 50 to Bradshaw to Jackson Road. Weren’t there bars along Bradshaw with unusual names? My mind went blank.

I flipped open my cell phone and called my brother.

It rang twice before his voice came over the line. “Yep?”

I rolled my eyes. “Mom lets you answer the phone like that, Tonio?”

“Yep,” he said again. “What’s up, Lola? Need some old film developed?”

“You’re hilarious. And I want those pictures back,” I said, jabbing my finger in the air as if he were right in front of me.

“Not going to happen.”

That’s what he thought, but I dropped it and got to the point of my call. “What’s the name of some of those bars on the way to Sloughouse?”

I heard a bang, the phone dropped, and Antonio cursed. “I don’t know,” he said after he recovered the phone. “Why, feel like getting sloshed with the alcohol enthusiasts?”

“No, it’s for a case. There are a couple of bars out there in the country. They have weird names… .”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. There’s The Office, the Why Not, Just Because.” His voice took on a Southern drawl. “Hey, baby, I’m stayin’ late at the office.” He chuckled, and I heard metal bang against metal as he worked in the restaurant kitchen. “Whoever named those places was a genius.”

“Thanks, Tonio.” It seemed like a long shot, but sometimes long shots paid off. It was possible that when Emily wrote
JUST BECAUSE
, she’d been referring to the bar. “I have to go out tonight,” I said. “Want to come?”

He was silent for a moment. “See, this is what I was talking about. You gotta go out with
other
people.”

“Yeah, but I love your company
so
much.” I rolled my eyes again. Why’d he make everything so hard? “Come on. Papi’s working Abuelita’s tonight, right?”

He sighed. “Maybe I have a date.”

“You do. With me.”

“What, to one of those bars?” he asked slowly; I heard the suspicion in his voice.

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like a blast. Now tell me why.”

“I’m checking a lead on my case.” He didn’t need to know more than that. Besides, my logic was a stretch, at best. If I told him I was basing the whole trip on connecting
JUST BECAUSE
in Emily’s journal to a bar on the way to Sloughouse, he’d hang up on me.

As it was, he hemmed and hawed.

I sweetened the deal. “I’ll buy the drinks… .”

Antonio was easy, so I knew the next pause was just to torture me. Finally he said, “What time?”

I heaved a sigh of relief for his benefit and looked at my watch. It was 3:05 now. “Six?”

He agreed to meet me at Abuelita’s. For all his faults, I
knew I could depend on him when it counted. Family was family, after all.

I went back to my scrutiny of Emily’s notebook and was on the verge of having a revelation—a thought tickling at the edge of my brain, just out of reach—when Manny called me into his office. He leaned back in his chair, propped his boots up on his desk, and looked at me. “What’s your hypothesis?” His MO was to form a hypothesis and then prove or disprove it. Easier said than done.

“I’m still working on it.” I frowned and tucked my hair behind my ears. Something about this case was just off my radar… .

Manny folded up the newspaper that he’d been reading and tapped it against his knee. Distorted newsprint faces stared back at me.
¡Dios mío!
My spine stiffened. Case. “Assemblyman Case,” I murmured.

“What about him?”

My foot shook under the chair as excitement surged through me. “Emily wrote ‘R. Case’ in her journal. She could have been referring to the assemblyman.”

Manny nodded, looking satisfied. “Get on it and report to me when you have something.”

I practically skipped out of his office. Justice for Emily. I was on my way. I looked up the address of Assemblyman Case’s office and headed out.

It took me all of ten minutes to locate the reelection headquarters for the assemblyman, a storefront office three blocks from the capitol. Just a hop, skip, and a jump from George Bonatee, I noticed, recalling the address from the lawyer’s business card. At least the guy’s office would be easy to find tomorrow.

It took me another fifteen minutes to find parking, my adrenaline pumping with anticipation. One big break. That’s all I needed. Maybe this would be it.

I pushed open the door of the office, expecting to see a bustle
of activity like election central in any movie or TV show. This was not
Taxi Driver,
and a fresh-faced Cybill Shepherd was not poised primly behind a desk.

The closest thing to a fresh face was a sporty girl pushing desks and boxes around. Light-brown hair pulled into a ponytail, running shorts, tank top, shiny watch, diamond earrings. And a dour face. Poor thing. I wouldn’t want her job either.

“Excuse me?” I said, walking with my arm outstretched.

She wheeled on me, startled, holding a box like she might hurl it at me and bolt. A split second later, she relaxed. “Yes?”

I dropped my arm. “Sorry—”

“Joan.” A woman’s sharp, tinny voice echoed in the space. “This bottle is empty. You have to keep the prescription filled—” She stopped when she saw me, dropping a small plastic container into her jacket pocket. Her voice turned harsh. “Who’s this? You know I don’t want your friends here.”

The girl, probably in her early twenties, curled her lip up. “I don’t know her.”

Guess I didn’t look like a big money campaign donor. Still, I was a voter. Didn’t I warrant some respect?

I turned my attention to the older woman, a Nancy Reagan clone, right down to the powder blue suit. “My name’s Dolores Cruz. I’m looking for the assemblyman.”

“What about, may I ask?”

Well, she just did ask, so now I was forced to answer. I went for shock value, holding my gaze steady to gauge her response. “Emily Diggs.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t bat an eye. Damn, she was good. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” she said in full bitch mode.

Since I didn’t know who she was, I didn’t know if the name was supposed to mean anything to her. “I’m sorry, you are—?” I prompted.

She narrowed her already beady eyes at me. “Beverly Case,” she finally said. “The assemblyman’s wife. And I’m afraid we can’t help you.” She started toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

I stood my ground. “Is the assemblyman expected anytime soon? Can I make an appointment?”

“No,” Beverly Case said. “He doesn’t take appointments here.” She went back to her paperwork, a silent dismissal.

Joan came up behind me, propelling me forward until I was out on the sidewalk. Next thing I knew, she’d shut the door on me. Wow. That was a record. In four years, even tailing Sadie, Neil, or Manny, I’d never been so effectively handled. Beverly Case was
good
. Damn good.

What now? I put my hand back on the door handle, ready to try again, when the door suddenly pushed open. The girl, Joan, poked her head out. “Sorry about that.”

Oh, an ally. “Joan, right?” I stretched my hand out to her, thrilled when she actually shook it.

“Joanie. Only my mom and—” She broke off. “Joanie’s fine.”

“Your mom’s not into chitchat?”

Joanie rolled her dull brown eyes. “She doesn’t like people.” She darted a glance over her shoulder and then turned back to me. Mommy dearest had her on a short leash. “You want to see my dad?” she asked.

I suspected that I had only a second before her mother ordered her back inside. “I do. Can you help me?”

She made a face, scrunching up her lips. “He’s probably at the capitol. Are you a reporter?”

“No, just a voter.”

“Who’s the woman you mentioned? Emily something?”

“She was a mutual friend. She passed on, and I thought Mr. Case would want to know.”

Joanie nodded, darting another look over her shoulder. “I’ll
tell him—” A muffled voice came from inside, and she jerked and looked behind her. She pulled back and started to close the door. “Gotta go,” she said.

“Wait!” I jammed my foot into the opening to block her, my brain scrambling to come up with a way to get her outside. “Your mom’s prescription!”

“What?” Joanie stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

I nodded enthusiastically. “I could go with you while you fill it, and we could talk some more.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She glanced over her shoulder before turning back to me. “I’ll let my dad know about Emily,” she said, and then before I could stop her, she slammed the door closed. My toes barely escaped amputation.

The lock turned, and that was that.

I waited, silently hoping she’d change her mind and reopen the door, but after two minutes, I realized I was dreaming. Damn.

I headed back to my car, passing business folks, moms and dads with strollers, a police officer or two, and assorted homeless people with their shopping carts of treasures piled high. Most of them had more goods than I’d seen in Emily’s room at the Bonatee rental—a sad fact, I thought. Poor Emily had died without much to her name. What had brought her to Bonatee’s, and what was it about her son that had her worked up enough to call a reporter?

I mulled this over on the drive home. I’d succeeded in gaining lots of questions, but had very few answers. For the time being, I shifted my thinking to the evening ahead of me. The fact that I had discovered a potentially vital clue from Emily’s journal bolstered my spirits. Maybe my big break was waiting for me at Just Because.

It was still light outside—way too early to be heading to a bar, in my opinion—when Antonio and I left Abuelita’s.

Antonio pulled his vintage Mustang into the gravel parking lot of the bar off Jackson Road. “Remind me to watch out for drunks on the way home.”

“Just Because,” I said, reading the red neon sign. The
B
was blackened, and the
c
flickered erratically.

Inside, my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit bar. Round tables ran around the circumference of the room. A small stage sat in one corner, and a long shellacked counter ran the length of one wall.

A tall, lanky man leaned his back against the mirrored backdrop behind the bar. Glass shelves held the top shelf liquor, the standard labels hidden in the well. The bartender’s cheeks were hollow, and his pumpkin-colored hair and mustache were straight out of the disco era, long and feathered.

“Like I said,” Antonio whispered, “an alcohol enthusiast.”

I looked at the guy more closely. Pasty skin. Bloodshot eyes. He took a long swallow from a lowball glass. “Seven and seven,” I muttered to my brother. “Maybe some speed to top it off.”