Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola (2 page)

Breathing deeply and pushing the wayward thought away, I mustered a smile and glanced at the wall clock. The minute hand clicked up to ten o’clock. I felt my eyebrows pull together, and I pressed my fingers to my forehead to smooth the creases away. “Right on time, actually.”

His jaw was set, and I could tell he was clenching his teeth, holding his tension deep in his bones. He held out a file folder to me. Something about me bugged him—I just didn’t know what.

I took the folder from his grasp and slipped into a vacant chair at the conference table. Truth was, I didn’t really want to know.

Sadie sat directly across from me. As usual, her strawberry blond hair was styled to perfection, a precise work of casual messiness. “Dolores,” she said. “You really should arrive a few minutes early for meetings.”

Okay, so today was a cold day for Sadie. God, she acted like she owned the place. Why did Manny put up with it? I flashed her an
eat shit
smile and then opened my file folder.

The agency’s standard information sheet was secured to the folder with metal prongs. I looked at the photo that was clipped to the top and ticked my observations off in my head. Female, mid to late forties, dark brown hair with a tuft of gray springing from her temple, deep eye sockets with nearly
translucent irises that hinted at the color of sand, full pink lips, pale skin. Despite her tired look, she was still stunning. Exotic.

Manny sat down and slid a pile of papers to the center of the table. I snatched the last sheet from the table as he said, “Missing person.”

I shifted my focus back to the file folder.

“Emily Diggs, age forty-two, mother of three: daughter Allison, twenty-one years; son, Garrett, eighteen; son, Sean, six. Last seen on the morning of August twenty-third.”

My heart thumped. A missing mother. Getting emotionally involved in a case was Manny’s number-one taboo. It was also the first rule I always broke. After five seconds, this woman was just Emily, no last name needed. Her haunting face burned behind my eyelids.

Neil grunted before asking, “The client? Police?”

He tended not to speak in complete sentences. I’d learned to fill in the blanks in my head.
Who’d hired us, and are the police involved?
Two very good questions. Neil was always on top of things.

Manny gave a succinct nod. He read between the lines, too. “The police are working the case but have zero so far. Their immediate reaction is that she bolted. Walter Diggs, the brother, and our client, has temporary custody of the boy.”

Neil shifted his linebacker body in his chair. “Anything else?”

“Mother and son left their P Street rental house around seven
A.M.
last Tuesday. Kid was stranded after school with no pickup. Emily Diggs never showed for work that day.” Manny tapped his index finger against the table, ready to field the next question.

“Kindergarten or first grade?” I asked, wanting to get in the game.

“First.” He had no need to double-check the information. He’d already committed it to memory. What a pro.

“Maybe drugs—,” Sadie began.

I shook my head. She always thought the worst about people.

“Yup, could be into something bad,” Neil said.

Okay, maybe thinking the worst came with the profession. I just wasn’t jaded yet. Give me another ten years.

“Too soon to tell. Our client says his sister shut everyone out of her life after her youngest son was born. They stayed in contact, but he didn’t see her often. She wanted to keep the boy to herself.” Manny looked at each of us, pausing for a second when he got to me.

I bristled under his scrutiny and studied the folder more intently. He was waiting for me to make a brilliant comment, I realized. “Have they always lived in Sacramento?”

“According to our client, yes, but they recently moved. The address in the file is the most recent residence.”

What would make a woman distance herself from her family? I couldn’t, even if I tried. They’d hunt me down. “How old is the photo?”

“Two months,” Manny said. “Client said it was taken last time they all went to the zoo.”

“She looks sad to me, not addicted.”

“Hard to tell from a photo,” Sadie said.

I ignored her. “Her kids must be devastated.”

No response. I had to stop myself from sliding down in my chair.

“I’ve broken down assignments,” Manny said, pulling out another sheet of paper.

Don’t pair me with Sadie,
I willed. We’d worked the firm’s last surveillance gig together, and I was still decompressing.

“Status quo with our active cases,” he continued. “Lashby. Status?”

Neil lifted his head up from his laptop. “Two weeks, sealed tight.”

Manny nodded. “Behind the scenes here, as needed.”

Neil nodded his square head quickly and just once. “Yup.”

Manny looked at Sadie next. “You go undercover tomorrow?”

“Grocery store checker at Laughlin’s.” She gave him a steely look. “Training’s this afternoon.” She paused. “Dolores should take it.”

No way. I was the only one without an active case. It was my turn. And I’d earned it after my last success. Club Ambrosía was Sacramento’s salsa-dancing hot spot. A month ago, the co-owners had hired Camacho and Associates to flush out some women they suspected were using the club as a call girl meet-and-greet. I’d landed the assignment, gone in undercover, gleaned evidence of the prostitution service, and managed to infiltrate. It had taken two weeks, and some close calls, but I’d gotten one of the women to talk about how they ran their business, on tape, and the police had been able to shut them down, though sadly, the madam had escaped. Still, Club Ambrosía was free of prostitution—thanks to me.

Manny narrowed his eyes at her, looked at me, and then back to her. “You stick with Laughlin’s. Dolores will be the primary on the Diggs case. We’ll shift for backup if needed.”

Color rose on Sadie’s face like a helium balloon slowly filling. She pressed her palms against the table. “But this is a missing—”

Manny’s hand flew up, his palm facing her.

She didn’t listen—to the unspoken command or to the hand. “I’ve done dozens of missing persons—,” she started.

“Decision’s made,” Manny interrupted, his voice tight. Then he scribbled something onto the paper he had in front of him.

Sadie snapped her mouth shut. I could almost see her blood simmering.

“Questions, Dolores?” Manny asked.

I shook my head. “No. I’m clear.”

“Explícamelo.”

I stifled the thread of anger that wound through me. I was a professional. I’d been working my ass off, first as an assistant under his license while I earned the mandatory PI hours for the state of California, and for the last two years as a full-fledged associate. He always questioned everything—with everyone—but at this moment, it irked me. I didn’t want to explain myself in front of Sadie. “I’m going to investigate the disappearance of Emily Diggs,” I said, sounding a bit too much like a regurgitated line from my worn PI manual.

Sadie leaned back and folded her arms, looking smug. “Right, but what’s your first move going to be, Veronica Mars?”

Oooh, she was
ice
-cold today. My left eye started to twitch. I sat up straight in my chair and, making my voice strong and clear, looked straight at Manny. “I believe I’ll start with the last known address, talk to some people she knows, and go from there.” I wasn’t about to give away all my secrets. Anyway, a good part of investigation was intuitive, and I had to see where the clues led.

Sadie frowned. I could tell she wanted to keep me on the hot seat, but Manny said, “Fine. Report directly to me—”

Of course. Who else would I report to? But I looked at him and notched up the corner of my mouth.
“Por supuesto,
Manny,” I said, forcing my face to stay impassive when I heard Sadie hiss. She hated when Manny and I spoke Spanish to each other almost as much as I hated her juvenile nicknames for me. But it made the world go round.

“I’ll keep you up to date on the police investigation.” He gathered up his papers and stood. “That’s all.”

We were dismissed. The minute hand on the wall clock
clicked up a notch. Ten forty-five. I scooted my chair back and headed out to search for Emily Diggs.

The heat outside pressed against me like a wall of fire. Shimmering panes of glass seemed to stretch across the asphalt, and the air rippled and distorted before my eyes. Flowers in the yard wilted, my hair drooped even more, and sweat dripped from my temples. Another glorious summer day in Sacramento.

I quickly cocooned myself in my car and turned up the Juanes song,
“La Paga,”
until it roared out of my speakers. Dancing. It was at the top of my wish list—with or without a
rico suave
guy to partner with. It was a short drive to downtown, and I spotted Emily’s house right away, nestled under a canopy of leafy branches. Even lock-your-car areas of Sac, like this one, had spectacular trees. I found one, parked under it, and turned off my car. Juanes would have to wait.

Emily Diggs’s residence blended in with all the others on the block—a little run-down with ancient geraniums sprawled in the border. I picked my way up to the old wooden door and knocked. A moment later, a small arched cutout in the door creaked open and two lifeless eyes stared at me.

“Hi.” I held my business card up to the cutout. “My name’s Dolores Cruz. I’m investigating the disappearance of Emily Diggs. Do you have a few minutes?”

But the muddy eyes just peered at me, obviously not impressed by my bright professionalism.

I regrouped, smiled, and tried again. “I’m a private investigator. Is there someone here I could talk to about Emily?”

After a few more seconds, the cutout in the door slammed shut. I stood on the stoop, slack-jawed, threw my arms out in disbelief, and stared at a lone snail clinging to the wall. “Great,” I said to it. I’d been thwarted already. “So what now?”

The snail didn’t move.

“Kick the door open?” I suggested, but then shook my head. I’d worn strappy sandals, and I was pretty sure Camacho’s wouldn’t cover the damage. “No can do.”

Still, the snail didn’t budge.

“I know,” I admitted, “Kung fu isn’t the answer to everything.”

The door squeaked open, and my hope returned. A twenty-something black woman stood there looking more refreshed than a person had a right to in this heat. “Can I help you?”

She was not the same person who’d peered at me a minute ago. Their skin had a similar brown tone, but this woman’s eyes were bronze, and they sparkled like a tiger’s.

Putting my game face back on, I said, “I’m investigating the disappearance of Emily Diggs.” I stuck my hand out to her. “My name’s Dolores.”

The young woman recoiled. Her eyes darted to my hand then back to my face. I wavered, almost pulling it back. Was offering a handshake totally uncool? Had I committed a Generation X (or was it Y?) faux pas?
Dios mío,
at twenty-eight, was it possible that I was no longer hip?

I swallowed and persevered, my hand dangling like a dead fish for what felt like an hour. Finally, she took it in a limp grip, gave it a quick shake, and pulled her arm back to the safety of her own space.

“And you are?” I prompted with a lilt. Ick. I sounded perky, like I was selling magazine subscriptions for the cheerleading squad.
Rein it in, Lola,
I told myself.

“Mary Bonatee,” she said with a touch of angst-ridden teenager.
What the hell’s it to you?
her tone screamed.

A name to go with the face. It was progress. “Mary, nice to meet you. Do you mind if we step inside? I’m melting out here.”

It was no lie. I was on the verge of looking like the Wicked Witch after Dorothy threw water on her. My blouse stuck to my body, my palms were sweaty, and even my sandaled feet were sticky.

I edged forward, hoping to ease into the house, but Mary pulled the door close to her side, blocking my entrance. “I don’t know—”

Once again I contemplated kicking the door in, but I wouldn’t get very much information if Mary were sprawled out on the floor. I smacked my tongue against the roof of my mouth searching for any sign of moisture.
Nada.
Dry as the desert. I tried another tactic. “I understand Emily has children. They must be terrified.”

A flicker of emotion passed over Mary’s face, but it was gone so fast that I couldn’t be sure it had been there at all. Suddenly, however, she opened the door and let me pass. Relief washed over me the second I hit cool air inside.

I barely resisted the impulse to rush to the nearest sink and start guzzling from the faucet.

“How’s that working for you?” Dr. Phil asked from behind curved glass. I didn’t see anyone watching the TV, but I felt a lurking presence. I cranked my head around and searched.
Nadie
. No one. Zip.

Mary led me to the kitchen. She was skeletal, but I envied the crispness of her appearance. She filled a glass of water from the tap and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I murmured, my sandpaper-tongue thick. I gulped it down, finally able to shake the wooziness out of my brain and focus on Mary. She stood with her bony arms crossed in front of her and leaned against the kitchen counter. Classic defiance. I went on alert. What did she have to hide?

“Can you tell me anything about Emily? Has she disappeared before?”

“The police were already here.” She frowned. “Why don’t you talk to them?”

“I don’t work for the police. I was hired by Emily’s brother.”

Mary stared out the window and blinked heavily. “Just like I told them,” she said. “I don’t know anything. She just didn’t come home one day.”

“Was that unusual for her?”

Mary shrugged her shoulders. “Yes.” She shifted her chin, kind of rolling it, as if she were loosening a tight collar around her neck. Guilty behavior. Maybe
she
was involved in Emily’s disappearance.

“How long have you known Emily?”

She looked off to the side, as if she was counting back days and hours. “She’s lived here a little more than a month and a half,” she said after a few seconds. “She moved in right around the Fourth of July.”