some of those papers aren’t real, well, you can’t blame me for that. I did what I was supposed to.”
Sam barely resisted a snort. If Ed Lawrence was the man he thought, any false papers had probably been obtained at his behest, thereby covering his ass while leaving everyone else out to hang.
When Lawrence took a noisy breath, Sam grabbed hold of the pretext for his call. “Everyone was fully cooperative, Ed. They lived up to your expectations.”
“Good, good. So...the dead guy—I mean, the victim. Ruben says it was Evan Carlyle. Well, actually, what he said was that they found him at the Carlyle house. Was it Evan?”
Bracing the phone between his shoulder and ear, Sam picked up a thick pile of messages and ruffled the edges. Milagro had intimated that Lawrence didn’t encourage familiarity with his employees. He doubted Evan Carlyle had, either.
“You know I can’t confirm that. An official announcement will be made once the next of kin have been notified.”
“But you can confirm that his throat was cut, can’t you?”
Sam sighed. In the reality of crime scenes, there was no such thing as private information versus public. Too many people saw the body: in this instance, the lawn service crew, the police, the crime scene investigators, the ambulance and fire crews, the team from the medical examiner’s office. And everyone talked. Lois, Ben and Simpson had surely told other officers what they’d seen. Ruben and the rest of his crew had likely told their families or friends, and hopefully Milagro had told her grandmother.
“Officially, I can’t confirm anything. When Detective Little Bear has information to share, he’ll contact the media.”
Lawrence’s chuckle held a hint of disappointment. “Aw, Chief, you know everyone shares a few tidbits with their buddies.”
“I know, but as chief, I don’t have that luxury.” Before the wheedling could continue, Sam asked, “How was Ms. Ramirez this morning?”
“Who—oh, Maria. She was fine.” His tone clearly said he’d paid no attention to her. How long had she worked there that her boss still didn’t know her name? Happy Grass wasn’t a large company. Even if Lawrence did nothing more than sign her paycheck every two weeks, he should know her name.
Thankfully, someone in the background shouted for Lawrence’s attention. With a remark about how he never could catch a break, he hung up, and Sam heaved a sigh of relief. He made a mental note to check with Milagro in another few weeks. With Lawrence now acting like they were buddies, she’d damn sure better get paid for her few hours off.
* * *
Mila liked to think she didn’t spook easily, but midmorning on Thursday, when she had to walk into the first fenced-in backyard, she’d hesitated so long that Ruben had come over and led the way. The second time Alejandro had accompanied her and then Mario.
None of them had mentioned yesterday’s discovery. None of them had teased or scorned her hesitancy. They hadn’t said much of anything at all, but she’d appreciated their actions. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with simple courtesies, and today they’d made her throat swell and her eyes sting.
She stood up from the bed she was weeding, arched her back and grunted as a soothing crack sounded in her spine. You’re making old woman sounds, Gramma warned her. I’m the one who should be creaking and popping.
Gramma had come straight to her house after yesterday’s phone call, making the five-minute drive in two and a half minutes. She’d burst through the front door, greeted Poppy, then wrapped her arms around Mila and rocked her back and forth, stroking her hair, calling her baby and sweet girl and whispering that everything was all right now.
And everything had been all right, because Gramma was there. She was the rock in Mila’s life. Once, when Mila had told her she was her hero, Gramma had laughed and said, Except the tights are support hose these days, and the cape looks more like a hairdresser’s than a superhero’s.
Having Gramma in her life made Mila the luckiest person in the world.
“Milagro.”
Her startle reflex was sharper than usual, though an instant after the surprise, she recognized Mario’s voice. He stood just inside the gate, his brows raised in question. She nodded and began gathering her tools, along with the pop-up mesh tub that held the weeds. She would be the first drop-off today, a fact she appreciated since they’d already worked an hour longer than usual. Poppy would be even more excited than usual, both with her greeting and her need to get outside.
Most of the equipment was already loaded in the trailer. Ruben secured his weed trimmer while she stuffed her tools into their spot, then they both climbed inside the truck and headed out of the neighborhood. The silence was comfortable, she realized with surprise. She’d always lived mostly in silence, and she’d always been acutely aware that it wasn’t exactly normal. But the crew wasn’t quiet because they were angry or suspicious or plotting. They were tired, thinking about a shower and dinner and a good night’s sleep, just as she was. It was familiar. Normal.
When Ruben turned the old pickup onto her block, he glanced her way. “Huh.”
She looked at him, then ahead. A white pickup truck with police department markings was parked across the street from her house. Chief Douglas. Huh, indeed.
Her mouth went dry, her stomach clenching hard. Did he have more questions? Pretty much everyone involved with a murder was looked at closely. Had they looked at her? Had they found out that Milagro Ramirez had formed out of thin air fifteen years ago, that before then she hadn’t existed? Did they wonder what she was hiding and if it had anything to do with the dead man she’d discovered?
Ruben pulled up to the curb opposite the police chief. She got out of the pickup, holding the door so Alejandro could move from the back seat to the front. Before letting go, she managed an action that was more grimace than smile and said, “Thanks, Ruben. Goodbye.” She didn’t look to see if all three men were staring at her. She’d never said thank you, goodbye, hello or anything else voluntary to them.
No wonder they were never chatty with her.
She wanted to go straight inside her house and lock the door, but it would be futile. If Douglas could be put off that easily, he wouldn’t be police chief. With a deep breath to control the queasiness in her stomach, she turned to face his truck. The engine was shut off, the windows rolled down to let in the stifling heat, stirred only by the occasional rustle of wind. The sun was at just the right angle to shine in the driver’s side window, making the cab significantly warmer than the outside air, enough to make sweat glisten on his forehead.
It wasn’t a bad look on him.
He got out, closing the door with a thud, and crossed the street to join her.
“You should have waited on the porch. At least you would have had shade and a breeze,” she said, not realizing until after she’d spoken that a greeting of some sort would have been polite.
Being polite had never been one of her goals, regretfully. Not being noticed had always been far more important to her—and to her survival.
“I would have, but my going on the porch and knocking on the door made your dog crazy. I figured if I didn’t go away, he was going to come right through the door.”
“She,”
