Page 139 of Don't Say a Word
“She and Bill are in the library,” Manny said.
Ramos poured Uncle Rafe a glass of red wine in a rounded stemmed glass, and I accepted the offered water.
I heard my mom’s laugh and she stepped into the great room with Bill Borgas, the councilmember who had been friends of the family since before I enlisted in the Army.
We made small talk, which would have driven me up a wall except I was too preoccupied trying to figure out how to tell Ramos about the trouble at his business. He was a genuinely interesting guy who—other than the house—didn’t seem pretentious.
I asked about the house; how long he’d lived here and if he’d done the work himself.
“I’ve been here for more than thirty years,” he said. “My dearly departed wife and I moved in after we married. It was a much smaller house then, but we loved every inch. Would you like a tour?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I followed him through the great room, down a hall past thedining room—where he said he never ate except when he had company—and into the kitchen.
“My Uncle Tom would kill for this space,” I said as we stopped in the middle of a huge kitchen glistening in white and stainless steel. The smell of Mexican spice filled the kitchen. It would have felt sterile, except for the amazing hand-painted tile wall done primarily in turquoise, burnt orange, and yellow. I stared at it.
“My wife commissioned the wall. I thought it a bit extravagant, but she had seen the artist’s work and wanted a touch in our home.”
“It’s amazing.”
“It truly is.”
He looked sad, and I knew he was a widower, so asked, “How long has she been gone?”
“Seven years in November. I still miss her every day. She was the love of my life.”
We walked down a wide corridor. A library. Guest rooms. Downstairs was a family room, a second kitchen and bar, and two more guest rooms. A wall of photos of all different spaces and sizes had been put up rather haphazardly but it worked. “Your family?”
“Extended,” he said. “Marisol and I were blessed with only one daughter. She’s in college now. But I have a brother and three sisters, they all have many children.”
I did a double take when I saw John Brighton in a group picture with a bunch of young men fishing.
“This guy—he works for you.” I pointed to Brighton. I didn’t want Ramos to know that we had run him—not yet, at any rate. I was surprised to see him on the wall.
“John, yes, my nephew. He started working for me three years ago when he graduated from college. Smart young man. I didn’t know you knew him.”
“I don’t. I just recognized him,” I said vaguely and hoped he didn’t ask how.
Did this change how I approached Ramos about his Hatcher store? Maybe not. But if his nephew was involved in a crime, would that change the way he handled the situation?
Almost certainly. Damn. I had to walk on eggshells.
And I really wanted to talk to my mom about it. She would have a more diplomatic approach.
We went back upstairs just as Ramos’s housekeeper announced that dinner was ready.
Ramos must have known my uncle well, or he also practiced meatless Friday, because dinner was tilapia ancho chili, new potatoes, and an amazing salad with chunks of tomato and mozzarella drizzled with a spicy ranch-style dressing.
We ate, made more small talk, and I kept glancing at my mom. I wanted to get her the information about John Brighton, but we hadn’t had time alone.
Wing it, I thought.
My phone buzzed as Ramos suggested we have coffee in the library. I excused myself and went out onto the deck to take the call. It was a lovely evening, and the sunset was spectacular.
“Hello?” I answered the unfamiliar number.
“Um, Margo? The PI?”
