Page 105 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“No,” Lana admitted.

“Anyone else we should be talking to? A girlfriend? A business partner?”

There was one person. But Lana wanted to talk to him first. She shook her head. “I really don’t know him very well.”

“Understood. Well, thank you for your time.” Ramirez moved toward the door. Nicoletti unfroze himself and turned to follow her out.

“Oh, and Detective Ramirez?” Lana said.

“Yes?”

“If Paul is the murderer, I’ll do everything I can to help you find him.”

“I appreciate that. If he contacts you, call me. Lord knows you have my number.”

“Is everything okay?” Jack tiptoed out of the back bedroom and curled up next to Lana on the couch.

“I’m fine. You?”

Jack pulled at the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “It’s just a lot. Do you think Paul murdered Ricardo Cruz?”

“No. I had considered him a possibility before, but I honestly doubt if Paul ever even met Ricardo. There’s no motive. There’s no BATNA. Paul has something going on up by that creek, for sure. But I think someone’s setting him up to take the fall, the same way the sheriffs say he tried to set you up.” Lana looked up at the ceiling. “I wonder how that button got there.”

“Maybe someone hiked it down to the creek?”

“Maybe.” Lana yawned.

“Did my mom tell you when she’s getting home?”

“Eleven, she said.” It was only nine, but Lana already felt like it was way past her bedtime.

“I guess we should go to bed.”

“I guess so.”

Neither of them moved.

“There’s a Law and Order marathon,” Jack said.

“On it.” Lana grabbed the remote. “Can you get my legal pad?”

Chapter Forty-Six

Victor sounded delighted to hear from Lana, or as delighted as a person could be to receive a phone call on a Saturday at eight in the morning. He would love to see her, of course, as soon as possible. He was in Monterey County that morning, conducting a site tour of a heritage apple farm east of Elkhorn with some volunteers. She was welcome to meet him there.

Lana pulled herself out of bed and raided the crate where Beth kept her hiking gear. If Victor really was the murderer, she didn’t want to meet him empty-handed. Underneath a lightweight backpack and clunky boots, there was a pocketknife she couldn’t get open and a slim bottle of bear spray with a clip on the handle. She attached the bottle to the waistband of her pants, concealing it under an oversize blazer. Perfect.

An hour later, Lana was following the path from Victor’s BMW up into the orchard. The morning was crisp, her low heels were more than adequate, and she had a fresh Diet Coke in her hand. If it weren’t for the invisible vise squeezing her lungs, Lana might have enjoyed the walk. She passed a gaggle of volunteers in jeans and flannel jackets, hammering what looked like oversize birdhouses to the fence line. Witnesses. She waved. They waved back. Good.

The orchard ran up a long hillside, the apple trees standing in stately rows fifteen feet apart. Their trunks were painted a soft white, as if they were wearing knee socks. Every dozen trees, Lana stopped to catch her breath and look out over the valley from which she’d ascended. She could see for miles. The thin sheet of morning fog was lifting, and below her, cultivated farms gave way to bright, winding estuaries that poured into the bay.

In the third row over, Lana spotted a glimpse of black-and-gold boots on a broad-backed man reaching into the crown of a tree. She straightened her blazer.

“Señor Morales!”

Victor straightened up, and as he turned, Lana got the impression he was fixing his face, cycling rapidly from surprise to concern to something approximating pleasure.

“Ms. Rubicon.” His full lips formed an uncertain smile. “You are healed, I hope?” He stood a respectful distance from her, his eyes searching her face for bruises, or answers, or both.