Of all the times to ask him that question, why now? They were almost within earshot of Ricardo. “I learned about chocolate because you love it.”
Ricardo caught sight of them. He sat back on his haunches and regarded them with a friendly expression.
“Hi,” Zander said. “Are you Ricardo Serra, by chance?”
“I am.” He removed a slim cigar from his mouth and clambered to his feet.
“I’m Caleb Kingston.”
“Adele,” Britt supplied.
“Nice to meet you.” Ricardo shook hands with them both. “What can I do for you?”
Zander pushed his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. “We knew James Ross.” If by some chance Ricardo didn’t know that James Ross had taken the identity of Frank Pierce, then Zander had no intention of telling him.
Surprise hitched Ricardo’s brows upward. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”
“Unfortunately, James passed away recently,” Zander said. “After his death, we discovered some things about him we hadn’t known before. One of those is that the two of you were friends. We were hoping we could ask you a few questions.”
“We’re trying to fill in gaps so that we have a more complete picture of him,” Britt added.
Gray streaked the dark hair that Ricardo wore long around his face. The lines marking his olive skin gave evidence of his sixty-five years. His body, however, was lean and fit. He’d dressed in a collared golf shirt, battered jeans, and flip-flops. “I’m sorry to hear that he died.” Ricardo and James had once attended a down-on-its-luck high school in urban Chicago. Now Ricardo looked rich and well-traveled, like someone who’d feel right at home at a five-star resort in Bali. “What happened to him?”
“He had a heart attack,” Zander answered.
“Ah.” The syllable carried a somber note. Ricardo took a pull on his cigar. “How did you find out that James and I were friends?”
“I spoke with some of James’ siblings,” Zander answered. “One of them mentioned that the two of you met in high school and were friends for many years after that.”
“And how did you find me?”
“Computer address search.” Zander hoped his nonchalant tonemade it sound as if Ricardo’s address had been easy to pinpoint. In fact, it had taken veteran researcher Nora days.
“We decided to drive over when we saw that you live nearby,” Britt said. “We’re in Seattle.”
Ricardo took another drag on his cigar, assessing them with pleasant interest as he exhaled sweet smoke. “I’m happy to answer questions, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to help you much. James and I were young when we knew each other.”
“What was he like back then?” Britt asked.
“We were both a couple of punks.” Ricardo’s mouth curved with nostalgia. “We drank and smoked and got ourselves into fights as often as we could. We were trying to convince everyone how tough we were.”
“We learned that James was convicted of robbery,” Zander said, “and served time.”
“That’s right. James and I both.”
“Shortly after he was released, James moved to Washington.” As always, charm flowed from Britt. She was confident, which gave everyone else confidence in her. “Did you move here around that time, too?”
“Yes. James and I drove west together, actually, in my old Volkswagen van.”
“When was that?” Zander asked.
“The spring of 1984.”
“Why did the two of you choose Washington?”
“We were in need of work, and we’d heard that the job market here was good. Plus, my mother’s sister lived here. We moved in with her until we got our feet under us.”
“You both moved in with her?” Zander asked.
