Page 63 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“Dynamite?”

Choi suppressed a smile. “You’d be half-deaf if that was the case.”

“I heard a noise that sounded like a car backfiring—”

He made a note. “That could have been it. It was a black powder device, probably stuffed in a cardboard box with rags and accelerant. We believe it may have been one of those shell crackers orchardists use to scare away birds.”

“Shell crackers?”

Choi nodded. “They look like this.” He showed her a picture of a small, plasticky black-and-orange gun. It looked like a toy. Lana wondered whether the land trust had trouble with birds on any of the reclaimed farms they managed, and, if so, what they used to flush them out.

Choi was still explaining. “But bird bombs can also be in the form of cartridges that are activated remotely. Which is what we believe happened in this case.”

“Is that complicated?” Lana thought of Martin and his tiny robots.

The detective shrugged. “Not particularly. Lots of farmers have remote systems for pest control.”

“Could it be triggered from inside the building?”

“Sure. Or a vehicle parked nearby.”

“Like my Lexus?” A spike of pain flashed across Lana’s forehead. “Are you kidding me? First you go after my granddaughter, and now this?”

“Ms. Rubicon”—Choi put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture—“your car was processed. It’s clean. No black powder. No remote control.”

Lana said a silent thanks that Beth never had given her a clicker for the garage. Then she remembered something. “There was a rusted Toyota in the parking lot . . .”

Choi nodded. “We checked it.”

“And the BMW parked on the street?”

“It belongs to Mr. Morales.”

“Was it clean?”

“Do you have a concern about Mr. Morales?”

“Detective, do you know why I was visiting the land trust?”

“Mr. Morales told us you were inquiring about Ricardo Cruz. He was quite eager to hear about your recovery.”

“I’ve been looking into Ricardo’s work on a property near the slough. Near where his body was found.” Lana attempted a small smile in Ramirez’s direction. “Not to step on your toes, of course. Just, my granddaughter, well . . . I want her to be safe.”

“So you threw yourself out of a burning building,” Ramirez said. The detective’s eyes were firm.

“I told you, I was trapped. And I’m just wondering—what if I was the intended victim of the fire? Because of my . . . investigation?”

Ramirez raised her hand to her mouth and covered a strangled cough. Lana had the impression she was trying to hide a snort of laughter, or disdain. She couldn’t tell which.

Choi reached over and put a reassuring hand on Lana’s forearm. “If that’s the case, ma’am, I’d say they failed miserably.”

Lana straightened up. “When will you know who did this?”

“Arson investigations take time. It might be a few weeks before we have anything concrete.”

“A few weeks? Do you need my car for all that time?”

“No, ma’am.” Choi put a xeroxed flyer on the table. “You can retrieve your car anytime at the impound lot in Santa Cruz. Call this number. They can give you the specifics.”