Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS
.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

LIVING THE VIDA LOLA
. Copyright © 2009 by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ramirez, Misa.

Living the vida Lola : a Lola Cruz mystery / Misa Ramirez.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-38402-9

ISBN-10: 0-312-38402-5

1. Women private investigators—California—Sacramento—Fiction.   2. Sacramento (Calif.)—Fiction.   3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction.   I. Title.

PS3618.A464L58 2009

813’.6—dc22

2008030428

First Edition: January 2009

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

To Caleb, Sam, Sophia, AJ, and Jared.
You’re pretty decent kids. Okay, great kids.
Seriously, you rock! Don’t ever change.

It’s commonly said that life is about the journey. Ain’t that the truth! My writing journey started years ago—as did Lola’s journey—and so I’ll start there and work my way to the present (as this is my first novel, I have to give props to all!).

Lola was born during Monday night writing sessions with Elena Soto-Chapa. We were both itching to escape home even if it was for just a few hours. Dude, you rock! Thanks to Kim Weber and Cory Hollingsworth, who later joined our Monday nights and saw Lola through the first draft and me through the mechanics of writing a book.

Thanks to Carol McLeroy Loo, through whom I connected with Pat Teal, the first industry person to believe in me and love Lola.

A raucous shout-out goes to the Scarlets: Susan Hatler and Virna de Paul. You two are the best crit partners a writer girl could have and I could not—literally
could not
—have done this without you.

Fellow SVR member Brenda Novak, as well as being an inspiration in writing, has shown me how valuable and supportive the writing community is. Her annual online auction to raise money for research to cure diabetes brought us
together. Here’s to the forthcoming Texas connection for the auction!

Through Jenny Bent, I was able to make the most valuable and wonderful agent connection with Holly Root. I heartily thank them both for believing in me. Holly has been Lola’s champion from the start, and I love her for that and for her enthusiasm.

Of course this leads me to Toni Plummer, my amazing editor at Thomas Dunne Books. I know how difficult it is to make that first sale and how essential it is to have an editor who loves your book and characters. Toni’s encouragement, editing, and insight, and love for Lola and her crew is more than I ever dreamed of. She’s the best!

The art department has created the most amazing cover for this book, and the behind-the-scenes people at St. Martin’s, as well as Eliani Torres, have helped make it what you see here. I am so grateful to them for giving their all to this book.

Without my friends to laugh and cry with, and to have girl time with, life wouldn’t be nearly as complete. Here’s to Gloria, an inspiration and a more loving sister than any real sister could be; to Paige, the truest best friend and 5:30
A.M.
“wogging” buddy a girl could ask for; to Christy, who has taught me so much about myself, fashion, and the appeal of Wal-Mart; to Katie, a future Texan and amazing friend—I wanna dance like you!; to Kim, who makes me try harder, reach deeper for meaning, and gets my sarcasm even when it’s about our kids; to Marilyn Bourbon, another future Texan and the person who knows me best and always will, and the best mom a girl can have; again to the Scarlets S and V, who went from writing partners to best friends; and to the Book Babes because y’all are my gals, even from Texas!

Finally, to the family. Unless you’re a writer or a creative mind, it’s hard to understand the degree of passion we writers
often have for our craft. But my husband, Carlos, despite his occasional puzzlement at my obsession, has always cheered me on, reminded me when I’m down that I love writing, and he will always be the one to keep me grounded. To my kids for their understanding when mom just wouldn’t get off the computer and for being okay with a “whatever” dinner… again. And to mom and dad for their unwavering support and love. You’re the best!

W
hen I was fourteen years old, I snapped pictures of Jack Callaghan doing the horizontal salsa in the backseat of a car with Greta Pritchard. That’s when I knew for sure I’d grow up to be a private eye.

I’d stooped to low levels in order to spy on him: disguising myself as a substitute custodian and pushing a mop cart into the boys’ locker room as the team dressed for baseball practice; borrowing my uncle’s car and following Jack at a safe distance as he went to work at the music store where he gave guitar lessons; and even calling him up, pretending to be a girl he knew, and making a fake date with him at an outdoor café.

I had one goal: to surveil and take photos of Jack for my own personal enjoyment.

It had taken a month of steadfast determination, and at least four rolls of film, before I’d captured images of Jack that were still burned into my memory: him, messing around—no, having sex—with Greta while he was supposedly dating Laura something-or-other. My mother called him
un mujeriego
—a player. I didn’t care. I just wanted him to do to me what he’d done to Greta.

Back in high school, Jack and my brother, Antonio, made
their way through the cheerleaders, then the Future Female Leaders of America. But Jack didn’t give me, little Lola Cruz, the time of day.

“I’ll never get to do that with him!” I’d wailed to my sister, Gracie, when I showed her the pictures I had of him and Greta.

She’d looked longingly at the photos. “Yeah,” she sighed heavily. “But at least you can look at him whenever you want and imagine.” Then she got serious. “And, more importantly, you discovered what you’re good at. Now you won’t be stuck working at Abuelita’s for the rest of your life.”

Gracie was right. If it hadn’t been for my relentless pursuit of Jack Callaghan, I might never have discovered my proclivity for surveillance and undercover work.

My favorite picture of Jack, taken that fateful night, still had a place in my dresser drawer, fifteen years later. He stood bare-chested, his business with Greta done, a look of contentment on his face. The edge of his mouth lifted in the smallest smile. He was just seventeen years old, and his smoky blue eyes seemed trained directly on me, as if he were staring straight through the shrubs to where I was hidden.

I was pretty sure Jack Callaghan didn’t know I’d been a teenage stalker, and even though I still had a secret longing to feel him pressed against me, my embarrassment at invading his privacy and my anger that I’d never be anything more to him than Antonio’s little sister had kept me far, far away from him. I avoided him at all costs so that I wouldn’t break down and confess in a moment of guilty Catholic repentance.

I’d been in and out of relationships, but those old photos of Jack reminded me of what I’d lost, even though I’d never had it. Or him. He was still my favorite fantasy, as well as a reminder of how I’d gotten to where I was now.

Still, while Jack—and his untamed libido—had never given me an orgasm (well, at least not person-to-person), he had done something earth-moving for me. I was Dolores Cruz, aka Lola, PI. Thanks to him, I’d answered my calling.

C
aliente.
Hotter than hell. There’s no other way to describe Sacramento summers. I checked my reflection in the window as I approached Camacho and Associates, the small PI firm where I worked. I frowned and flicked at a stringy strand of hair. What the hell. Being a black belt in kung fu did not, apparently, prevent me from completely wilting. Nothing—not my ability to kick ass or even my eighty-five-dollar coppery salon highlights—could withstand triple-digit valley temperatures. And it was barely ten in the morning.

An alarm beeped as I opened the front door. Inside the office, I wiped the dust from a leaf of the sad little artificial palm that sat on the floor against the wall. It looked shabby, which was no small feat for a plant that didn’t need sun, water, or tender love and care. After four years, I would have thought my ritualistic token of attention would spruce it up.

It hadn’t.

I waved to the camera that was mounted in the ceiling corner. It was no secret that my arrival had been monitored. Neil Lashby was the video go-to guy of the operation. He owned more cameras than I did Victoria’s Secret lingerie. Sorta frightening when you thought about it.

I walked through the lobby—which really wasn’t a lobby—and passed into the main conference room. Reilly Fuller, our six-hour-a-day secretary and a full-fledged—not to mention full-figured—J. Lo wannabe, had a little table in one corner of the conference room where she spent her time typing reports, transcribing tapes, filing, and doing whatever other menial jobs the associates handed her. Being a licensed PI, I was above her on the food chain. But I liked to type my own reports and do my own filing, and as a result, she liked me. Important, since Neil Lashby, one of the agency’s associates, was a nonverbal, ex-football player, ex-cop Neanderthal-type PI; Sadie Metcalf, the second associate, was hot and cold toward me and I hadn’t yet figured out a rhyme or reason to her temperature changes; and the boss, Manny Camacho, was, well, he was just plain dangerous—hot in a dark, sinister, attractive-to-every-woman-with-a-pulse kind of way.

Reilly was a good ally.

I raised a questioning eyebrow at her as I passed her desk—as much a reaction to her newly dyed blue hair as to get the scoop on the new case we were meeting about. “Hey, Reilly.”

She did a complicated maneuver at me with her own mousy brown brows and mouthed something. I peered at her, but try as I might, I couldn’t decipher her silent words.

She bugged her eyes, clamped her mouth shut, and went back to her computer when Manny walked out of his private office. He approached the conference table, a brown file folder clutched to his side. His mouth was drawn into its typical tight line, his square jaw interrupted by a slight vertical cleft. Manny’s crew-cut hair was the color of dark roast coffee, which pretty much described his personality, too. He wasn’t quite bitter, but he wasn’t smooth either. Even the scalp that showed through his close-cut hair was burnished. He was intense
and needed a bit of cream to mellow the flavor. Unfortunately, he and his cream had divorced.

And that’s all I knew about his personal life.

The associates had already gathered around the conference table. “Morning,” I said, nodding to all two of them.

He checked his watch. “Cutting it close, Dolores.” His deep voice held the hint of an accent. The way he said my name—low, gravelly long
o
and rolling
r
—made my legs wobble. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would sound like if he called me Lola instead.