Bare-Naked Lola (A Lola Cruz Mystery) (13 page)

Victoria fielded their hysteria while my gaze met Manny’s.

“What happened?” I mouthed.

His face was grim, his mouth drawn in a hard line. He spoke to the group, but I knew he threw in the extra details for my benefit. “She was found in the arena parking lot. Strangled with a scarf from one of the dance costumes.”

¡Ay, caramba!
So it
was
murder.

Selma drew in a sharp breath, pushing the question away. The color drained from her normally rosy-cheeked face. “Strangled, as in killed? Oh God,” she wailed, “then the threats are real.”

Victoria stood tall, but I could see her quivering. And she’d wanted to handle things in-house. Not that having me around had stopped someone from killing a dancer. A cold chill swept over my body. I’d failed—and Jennifer had paid the ultimate price.

A rumbling started and rapidly grew louder as the women slowly realized what Selma meant. If Jennifer’s death was related to the notes, then any one of them could be next.

Part of me wanted to jump up, take charge of the women, and get them to calm down so I could start grilling them for information, but I couldn’t dare blow my cover. Camacho & Associates had been hired to ferret out the truth without revealing I was a detective. I had to stay in character. I flashed a reproachful look at Selma, the only one left—aside from Lance and Victoria—who knew I was a detective. She seemed to understand and quickly averted her eyes from mine.

I felt my expression turn grim as I met Manny’s gaze again. He flicked his chin, almost imperceptibly, and I took his meaning. When we were done, we’d meet back at the office.

Nicole glanced at Victoria and voiced what I was sure all the dancers were thinking now. “Do you think whoever’s writing the notes killed Jennifer?”

Victoria’s eyes pooled. She swiped away the tears. “I think so,” she finally said. Victoria shared a few other details about Jennifer. She’d been found next to her car and there was evidence of a brief struggle. Several of her acrylic nails had been broken and her blouse had been torn, but otherwise the evidence seemed minimal. Her own costume scarf, pulled tight around her neck, had been the weapon. The forensic team was already on the scene, and I assumed Manny had made contact and would hear of any developments.

My first thought was whether or not Mrs. Michael Brothers could have done it, but that didn’t make sense. Killing Rochelle, yes. But Jennifer? No.

A short while later, I excused myself from the group, leaving them to grieve with one another while I hightailed it to Camacho’s. Selma’s terrified eyes were imprinted on my mind. The heaviness in my gut grew. Jennifer had died while I was supposed to be finding the letter-writer, who was now a potential killer. What kind of private investigator was I?

I somehow managed to push my doubt aside and focus on the situation in front of me. I had only two questions:
Why had Jennifer been killed, and would someone else be next?

Chapter Eleven

The darkness outside pressed in on me as I drove back to Camacho’s. The brightness of the office was a welcome reprieve. Manny sat at the head of the conference table, the office ablaze with fluorescent ceiling lights. “This isn’t good, Lola.
¿Qué tienes?
What have you got so far?”

I grimaced. “
Nada.
Selma got a letter at the game tonight. It’s not a death threat, though.” I pulled a plastic baggie from my purse and slid it to Manny. “This is the one from tonight.”

Manny slid the envelope from the plastic, knocked the letter free, and, using the back of a pen, unfolded the paper to read it.

I continued, frustration over my failure gnawing at my insides. “I saw the players’ locker room but the trainer was treating an injured player. There’s never a time when nobody’s around and there doesn’t seem to be a single clue in plain sight.”

For a mentor, Manny was on the quiet side. He didn’t offer a pep talk. He didn’t scold. All he said was, “You carrying?”

This was an area of contention between us. I didn’t like guns. Most detectives didn’t, actually. Too many opportunities for the weapon to be turned against you. “No.”

He grimaced, shaking his head like he was disappointed, but he dropped it. We’d been round and round about my stance, and he hadn’t worn me down yet. “We’re meeting with the detective in charge in the morning. I’ll meet you at the office, seven a.m. sharp.”

“
Bueno
,” I said to his back as he retreated to his office and closed the door. I turned to the whiteboards and wrote down the names of all the dancers and the number of letters they’d each received.

Jennifer 3

Tammy 2

Carrie 2

Selma 1

Vanessa 1

Geneva 1

Cassie 1

Rochelle 1

Tara 1

Nicole 2

Gina 1

I stood back and thought about what else I knew. Who had Jennifer been meeting? I thought I recognized him as Number 51. Had she been breaking her own rule and going against the contract she’d signed as a Courtside Dancer? So was there a disgruntled wife in the background?

And who was the “civilian” Cassie thought Jennifer had been seeing? Were the other dancers targets, too?

There were more questions than answers, and I went home with my head still pounding and an overwhelming feeling that I was experiencing an epic fail in my life as a detective.

…

The night passed slowly, the details of Jennifer’s death circling in my mind while I tried to sleep. Finally, I drifted off to the comforting wheeze of Salsa’s snoring, but morning came way too soon.

After a quick shower and a banana, I released my boxer to the backyard, slipped a suede jacket over my blouse, and headed out. Manny was in his office behind his desk. Another man sat in one of the wood-framed chairs opposite him. “Detective Bennett. Dolores Cruz, one of my investigators,” Manny said as I walked in. “Detective Bennett is investigating Ms. Wallace’s death.”

I held out my hand, taking in the detective’s features. He was young, probably mid-thirties, had short, dark-brown hair, and a strong, square face.

“After seeing you on the big screen last night, I almost feel like I know you.” He shook my hand, lingering for an extra, uncomfortable beat and studying me with his piercing, small black eyes.

I tamped down the embarrassed heat I felt rising up my neck. “So you’re a Royals fan?”

He winked. “Season tickets.”

I pulled my hand free. “Great.”

After the pleasantries—if you could call them that—were over, he started tossing out questions. “What do you know about Ms. Wallace?”

My gaze met Manny’s for a split second until he gave me the go-ahead to answer the detective’s questions. I turned back to Bennett, perched on the edge of the chair next to his, inwardly grimacing that I had to confess I knew next to nothing. “She was the leader of the team. She was waiting to meet someone just before she was killed—”

“How do you know that?” Bennett interrupted.

“I talked to her as I was leaving the arena.”

“Any idea who?”

I thought about the people I’d seen in the corridor. The place had been crawling with potential “civilians.” “Not really. She did talk to one of the ballplayers. But I’m not sure which one.”

My hunch that it was Number 51 was just that—a hunch. I’d tell Manny after the detective was gone, but without proof, I decided not to mention it. I couldn’t, in good conscience, throw someone under the bus without evidence.

“Did she ever sleep with any of the players?”

I felt my eyes grow wide. The guy was blunt. “I didn’t know her that well. You should ask the other girls.”

“I’m asking you.”

Huh. I didn’t know what to say to that. “It’s against the rules. All the girls sign a contract that says they won’t fraternize with the players. She told me she was seeing someone. Not a player.”

Bennett had been jotting down notes as I spoke. Now he lifted his dark eyes to me. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you sign a contract?”

I glanced at Manny. He sat perfectly still, considering me as I spoke with the detective. “No. My contract is with Camacho & Associates. We were hired by the owners of the dance team and I’m undercover.”

“Uh-huh.” Bennett wrote something in his notepad. “So you’re free to do what you like.”

Like sleep with giant athletes? Not my cup of tea. “I’m free to investigate the case I’m working,” I shot back.

He moved on, not missing a beat. “And have you seen the other girls fraternize?”

“I know Rochelle Nolan did. She left the team. So far, I haven’t seen any other…
fraternizing
.” And I’d been looking for it. “But I’ve only been with the team for two games now. I need more time.”

He flashed another smile, but it lacked sincerity. “I’ll give you more time, Ms. Cruz. As long as you still have a client, you’ll have leeway from the department, but if Victoria and Lance Wolfe cut you loose, you’ll back off. A warning: don’t get in our way.”

I bristled, but before I could react, Manny stood. “Thanks for your help, Bennett.”

“Yep.” They shook hands.

Biting my tongue, I offered my hand next. Bennett took it, holding it loosely.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said, wanting nothing more than to give a good shake, twist his arm until he spun around, and crank it up in the back to show him that I was a whole lot more than the skin he’d seen at the game.

But I didn’t.

“Oh no,
I’ll
be in touch. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cruz.”

I gave a half nod. And no smile. He was smarmy, and I suddenly missed Detective Seavers—who was not my biggest fan, but who didn’t leave me feeling like I needed a shower.

Neil lumbered in as Manny and I headed out the door of the firm. Reilly was maneuvering herself out of her lime-green Volkswagen Beetle. So Neil went in first, then Reilly. Trying to deflect suspicion that they’d arrived at the same time. Smooth, but from the expression on Manny’s face, not smooth enough. Nothing got past
el jefe
, as Reilly called our boss.

But whatever he may have suspected, he kept it to himself. Reilly had helped him keep his secret—
una poquita
Camacho who was about ten years old—so it seemed he had her back.

I drove separately, following him to Jennifer’s apartment. She lived in Natomas, a suburb of Sacramento close to the arena. We followed West El Camino to the decade-old complex, a series of buildings, each two floors, eight apartments per building.

Jennifer had lived in a downstairs unit. It was a one-bedroom with a U-shaped kitchen, small living space, and back bedroom. There was hardly any furniture, dishes for two, and no pictures.
Híjole
. Had she even lived here?

Manny shadowed me as I perused the apartment, making me feel like he was babysitting me after the shoddy job I’d done on the dance team.

“I can do this,” I said.

He stopped short for a beat, but then retraced his steps to the living room. I went ahead to the bedroom. If the furniture was sparse in the living room, Jennifer had made up for it in the bedroom. A queen-size four-poster bed straight out of an Ethan Allen showroom took most of the space. The matching floral bedspread and curtains complemented the dark wood. A vanity table with an oval mirror and a sheer negligee hanging from the corner completed the bedroom’s plush style. I ran my fingers over it. It would be small for me, so snug on Jennifer, too, but then again, anyone wearing it wouldn’t be wearing it for long.

Rifling through her belongings was more difficult than I thought it would be. I hadn’t known her well, but she’d been the first dancer to let me into the group. I pushed away my sadness at her death and plowed ahead.

If Jennifer kept a journal or diary, it wasn’t in the nightstand. There was an array of creams tucked into the drawer, along with sleeping pills and a bottle of pain reliever. A box of tissue discreetly hidden in a Victorian tissue holder and a wireless handset telephone sat on top of the nightstand.

I threw back the bedspread, searching for what, I didn’t know. The police had come and gone, and Bennett had given Manny permission to search, but I couldn’t imagine they’d left anything for us to find.

Dropping to my knees, I searched under the bed. There was a long, flat plastic box. It had already been rifled through, most likely by the police, but I pulled it out anyway. I froze at the familiar colors of the Sacramento Royals.

I moved the blouses aside and pulled out the first team jersey. Number 63, Rogers. After laying it next to me, I took out the next one. Number 11, Christof. There were five in all, two current players and three I recognized as players who’d been traded from the last two seasons.

“Manny,
ven aquí
,” I called.

He ambled into the bedroom, all of four long strides, and stood beside me as I pointed to the jerseys. “Trophies,” he said without even pausing.

I stared at him. He was right. That had to be it, but the idea floored me. Jennifer didn’t strike me as the type to sleep around. I’d never seen her fawning over the players.
Y también
, she’d been the first one to tell me to stay away from them. Why? To protect her own territory? And who was the “civilian”? If she was into collecting the jerseys from the players she’d had flings with, the civilian boyfriend puzzle piece didn’t fit.