Hasta la vista, Lola! : a Lola Cruz mystery
معرفی کتاب «Hasta la vista, Lola! : a Lola Cruz mystery» نوشتهٔ Ramirez, Melissa Bourbon، منتشرشده توسط نشر Minotaur Books در سال 2010. این کتاب در 2 صفحه، فرمت epub، زبان انگلیسی ارائه شده است.
When Lola comes home to her parents’ house to find a horde of relatives mourning her death, no one is more surprised than she is. The news had reported that one Lola Cruz, PI was found murdered in an alley, causing great alarm in the Cruz family.Before Lola can say “boo,” a cop comes to the house. It turns out the dead woman had a driver’s license with Lola’s information.Between avoiding an unsavory ex-boyfriend, sorting out mixed signals from the very interested but not yet committed Jack Callaghan, and filling in as a waitress at her parents’ Mexican restaurant, Lola tries to find out who the woman was and why she stole her identity. Was the woman hiding from someone who meant her harm, or is there someone out there who wants Lola dead?This follow-up to Bourbon’s debut novel, Living the Vida Lola, is a red-hot, fun-filled mystery. Lola, a black belt in kung fu who loves to salsa dance, makes for a sexy, unique, and vivacious detective. Chapter 1
I can’t even begin to count the number of times my grandmother told me that she would die a happy woman if only I’d join the Order of the Benedictine Sisters of Guadalupe and live a chaste and holy life. To which I always nodded, smiled, and said, “I want you to die happy, Abuela, pero I’m not going to become a nun.” There were several problems with me and a pious life. If you asked my mother, she’d say I’d sinned over and over and over again, beginning with premarital intercourse (which she suspected but had no actual proof of), and ending with my job. In my mother’s eyes, being a detective necessitates questionable actions and an “ends justifies the means” philosophy.
Which is not actually my philosophy. I do things by the book, and let my conscience be my guide. I was God-fearing, so I tried to toe the line, but I was also a driven, independent woman walking a tightrope between modern American culture and my parents’ old-fashioned male- oriented panish culture, so my conscience didn’t always know which way to go when I hit a fork in the road.
Case in point. It was a brisk Friday night, downtown Sacramento was lit up with twinkling white lights, I was all dressed up, and even though I had no one to go salsa dancing with, joining those crazy Benedictine Sisters still never entered my mind. The nuns might enjoy their celibacy, but I was 100 percent positive that I wouldn’t embrace a lifetime of abstinence. Hell, I’d just spent the better part of two hours photographing acrobatic sex in a back alley (which had left me un poquito hot and bothered)—all in the name of being the best private investigator I could possibly be—and I was okay with my decision.
I was almost to Camacho and Associates, the small PI firm where I worked. I dialed Reilly Fuller, the Jill-of-all-trades secretary of the office—and my homegirl. I wanted to go out dancing tonight, and I knew I could count on her to have my back.
She picked up on the third ring, breathing heavy and almost out of breath. “Lola!”
“Hey, chica. How’d you know it was me?”
“Call waiting.”
I frowned. The phone company had effectively destroyed kids’ innocent prank call fun—not to mention obsessed stalker-girls calling and hanging up on a guy just to hear his voice (not that I’d had any experience with that type of juvenile behavior).
“Lola, I’m in the middle of something,” she said. She panted. “I’ll call you back, okay?”
I’d never known Reilly to willingly break a sweat, so I was curious. I checked the time. 8:40. An odd time to be using the treadmill— if that’s what she was up to. “Are you exercising?”
But electric-blue-haired Reilly couldn’t answer me, because she’d already hung up.
Huh. My long night loomed ahead of me, and dancing wasn’t going to be part of it. Looked like it was going to be me, a container of mapo tofu from Szechwan House (my favorite restaurant of all time, coincidentally right next door to Camacho and Associates), my camera hooked up to the office computer, and a whole lot of sex pictures uploading. One at a time.
I turned onto Alhambra and immediately spotted my boss’s truck in the parking lot. I slid my little red CRV into a space right beside it.
Apparently Manny Camacho didn’t have plans for Friday night, either. Hard to believe. He was puro Latino machismo Greek God material—dark and brooding and scary in an I-could-do-things-to- you- and- make- you- scream- for- mercy kind of way.
I couldn’t help sneaking a quick peek in the rearview mirror. Low-cut filmy dress, Victoria’s Secret Ipex cleavage, clear olive skin, salon-highlighted copper strands framing face, MAC O lips. I would not be put out to pasture because of a roguishly sexy reporter who disappeared for days on end and whom I did not want to think about right now.
I grabbed my cell phone, the Nikon, my notepad with the Zimmerman case information, and my new favorite accessory—courtesy of eBay—my Sexy Señorita drawstring bag. Shoving the notepad into the coral-colored purse, I headed toward the offi ce.
In your face, Callaghan. I had options. Dark and brooding suddenly held a new appeal.
Just as I reached the office, Manny pushed open the door. “Dolores?”
My wedge heels teetered on a crack in the sidewalk. Maybe appeal was the wrong word. Dark fascination? Sadistic curiosity?
Fact is, Manny fl ustered me without even trying. Not many people could do that. I’d solved my first big case as primary investigator a few months ago. I chided myself. It was way past time to get over the nerves that shot through me when I was around him.
He looked at his watch, then back at me. “¿Que onda? Are you working?”
I nodded. “The Zimmerman case.”
He held the door, apparently waiting for me to continue.
I held up my camera. “Got some great pictures.” Especially if I had contacts at Playboy or Pent house, which, unfortunately, I didn’t.
“Pictures of—?”
“Of Mrs. Zimmerman, um, making out with her personal yoga instructor.” Making out might have been understating Mrs. Zimmerman’s activities, but it was the safest answer.
“How’d you get them?”
“I followed them after yoga class.”
Manny’s eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. “Are you supposed to be undercover?”
My dress was a far cry from yoga-wear, but there was nothing wrong with looking good on a surveillance job. “They changed after class then went to dinner. Lucky for me I’m a yoga junkie and very fl exible—” Maybe not as fl exible as Mrs. Zimmerman, but her sexual creativity was in a class by itself. “—and have decent cargo room in my car.”
Manny seemed to ponder this, his expression unreadable. “And the photos?” he fi nally asked.
“After dinner they went around the corner from the restaurant.” Totally classless. Who screwed—er, got down and dirty—out in public? “I was across the street. Excellent telephoto capabilities on this camera, by the way.”
He let the door to the office close while I accessed the pictures on the digital camera. I froze when his arm brushed against my back. The touch had been as light as a breath, but any physical contact from Manny Camacho could send a woman into premature orgasm. He moved behind me to look over my shoulder. A zing shot through my body, and I gulped. Looking at X-rated pictures with my boss was muy uncomfortable.
I tried not to think about how fl exible he might be and whether his slight limp or his cowboy boots would interfere with the Kama Sutra position in photographs three, twenty-seven, or thirty-one.
When we’d gone through all the pictures, I stepped away, trying to ignore the charged silence. “Open and shut,” I said. “She’s clearly cheating on her husband.”
“Good work.” His voice sounded strained. I shoved aside the idea that it might be because of the photos, particularly what Mrs. Zimmerman had been doing in shots ten through eighteen.
My PI gene kicked in. Why didn’t he have plans on a Friday night? He had the hottest girlfriend this side of the Rio Grande. Maybe this side of anywhere. Her only competition was the phantom ex- wife nobody had ever laid eyes on.
Neither were in sight. “You’re here late,” I said casually. “Where’s Isabel?” I pronounced the name in Spani
Continues...
Excerpted from Hasta la Vista, Lola! by Ramirez, Misa Copyright © 2010 by Ramirez, Misa. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
دانلود کتاب Hasta la vista, Lola! : a Lola Cruz mystery
I can’t even begin to count the number of times my grandmother told me that she would die a happy woman if only I’d join the Order of the Benedictine Sisters of Guadalupe and live a chaste and holy life. To which I always nodded, smiled, and said, “I want you to die happy, Abuela, pero I’m not going to become a nun.” There were several problems with me and a pious life. If you asked my mother, she’d say I’d sinned over and over and over again, beginning with premarital intercourse (which she suspected but had no actual proof of), and ending with my job. In my mother’s eyes, being a detective necessitates questionable actions and an “ends justifies the means” philosophy.
Which is not actually my philosophy. I do things by the book, and let my conscience be my guide. I was God-fearing, so I tried to toe the line, but I was also a driven, independent woman walking a tightrope between modern American culture and my parents’ old-fashioned male- oriented panish culture, so my conscience didn’t always know which way to go when I hit a fork in the road.
Case in point. It was a brisk Friday night, downtown Sacramento was lit up with twinkling white lights, I was all dressed up, and even though I had no one to go salsa dancing with, joining those crazy Benedictine Sisters still never entered my mind. The nuns might enjoy their celibacy, but I was 100 percent positive that I wouldn’t embrace a lifetime of abstinence. Hell, I’d just spent the better part of two hours photographing acrobatic sex in a back alley (which had left me un poquito hot and bothered)—all in the name of being the best private investigator I could possibly be—and I was okay with my decision.
I was almost to Camacho and Associates, the small PI firm where I worked. I dialed Reilly Fuller, the Jill-of-all-trades secretary of the office—and my homegirl. I wanted to go out dancing tonight, and I knew I could count on her to have my back.
She picked up on the third ring, breathing heavy and almost out of breath. “Lola!”
“Hey, chica. How’d you know it was me?”
“Call waiting.”
I frowned. The phone company had effectively destroyed kids’ innocent prank call fun—not to mention obsessed stalker-girls calling and hanging up on a guy just to hear his voice (not that I’d had any experience with that type of juvenile behavior).
“Lola, I’m in the middle of something,” she said. She panted. “I’ll call you back, okay?”
I’d never known Reilly to willingly break a sweat, so I was curious. I checked the time. 8:40. An odd time to be using the treadmill— if that’s what she was up to. “Are you exercising?”
But electric-blue-haired Reilly couldn’t answer me, because she’d already hung up.
Huh. My long night loomed ahead of me, and dancing wasn’t going to be part of it. Looked like it was going to be me, a container of mapo tofu from Szechwan House (my favorite restaurant of all time, coincidentally right next door to Camacho and Associates), my camera hooked up to the office computer, and a whole lot of sex pictures uploading. One at a time.
I turned onto Alhambra and immediately spotted my boss’s truck in the parking lot. I slid my little red CRV into a space right beside it.
Apparently Manny Camacho didn’t have plans for Friday night, either. Hard to believe. He was puro Latino machismo Greek God material—dark and brooding and scary in an I-could-do-things-to- you- and- make- you- scream- for- mercy kind of way.
I couldn’t help sneaking a quick peek in the rearview mirror. Low-cut filmy dress, Victoria’s Secret Ipex cleavage, clear olive skin, salon-highlighted copper strands framing face, MAC O lips. I would not be put out to pasture because of a roguishly sexy reporter who disappeared for days on end and whom I did not want to think about right now.
I grabbed my cell phone, the Nikon, my notepad with the Zimmerman case information, and my new favorite accessory—courtesy of eBay—my Sexy Señorita drawstring bag. Shoving the notepad into the coral-colored purse, I headed toward the offi ce.
In your face, Callaghan. I had options. Dark and brooding suddenly held a new appeal.
Just as I reached the office, Manny pushed open the door. “Dolores?”
My wedge heels teetered on a crack in the sidewalk. Maybe appeal was the wrong word. Dark fascination? Sadistic curiosity?
Fact is, Manny fl ustered me without even trying. Not many people could do that. I’d solved my first big case as primary investigator a few months ago. I chided myself. It was way past time to get over the nerves that shot through me when I was around him.
He looked at his watch, then back at me. “¿Que onda? Are you working?”
I nodded. “The Zimmerman case.”
He held the door, apparently waiting for me to continue.
I held up my camera. “Got some great pictures.” Especially if I had contacts at Playboy or Pent house, which, unfortunately, I didn’t.
“Pictures of—?”
“Of Mrs. Zimmerman, um, making out with her personal yoga instructor.” Making out might have been understating Mrs. Zimmerman’s activities, but it was the safest answer.
“How’d you get them?”
“I followed them after yoga class.”
Manny’s eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. “Are you supposed to be undercover?”
My dress was a far cry from yoga-wear, but there was nothing wrong with looking good on a surveillance job. “They changed after class then went to dinner. Lucky for me I’m a yoga junkie and very fl exible—” Maybe not as fl exible as Mrs. Zimmerman, but her sexual creativity was in a class by itself. “—and have decent cargo room in my car.”
Manny seemed to ponder this, his expression unreadable. “And the photos?” he fi nally asked.
“After dinner they went around the corner from the restaurant.” Totally classless. Who screwed—er, got down and dirty—out in public? “I was across the street. Excellent telephoto capabilities on this camera, by the way.”
He let the door to the office close while I accessed the pictures on the digital camera. I froze when his arm brushed against my back. The touch had been as light as a breath, but any physical contact from Manny Camacho could send a woman into premature orgasm. He moved behind me to look over my shoulder. A zing shot through my body, and I gulped. Looking at X-rated pictures with my boss was muy uncomfortable.
I tried not to think about how fl exible he might be and whether his slight limp or his cowboy boots would interfere with the Kama Sutra position in photographs three, twenty-seven, or thirty-one.
When we’d gone through all the pictures, I stepped away, trying to ignore the charged silence. “Open and shut,” I said. “She’s clearly cheating on her husband.”
“Good work.” His voice sounded strained. I shoved aside the idea that it might be because of the photos, particularly what Mrs. Zimmerman had been doing in shots ten through eighteen.
My PI gene kicked in. Why didn’t he have plans on a Friday night? He had the hottest girlfriend this side of the Rio Grande. Maybe this side of anywhere. Her only competition was the phantom ex- wife nobody had ever laid eyes on.
Neither were in sight. “You’re here late,” I said casually. “Where’s Isabel?” I pronounced the name in Spani
Continues...
Excerpted from Hasta la Vista, Lola! by Ramirez, Misa Copyright © 2010 by Ramirez, Misa. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
When Lola comes home to her parents’ house to find a horde of relatives mourning her death, no one is more surprised than she is. The news had reported that one Lola Cruz, PI was found murdered in an alley, causing great alarm in the Cruz family. Before Lola can say “boo,” a cop comes to the house. It turns out the dead woman had a driver’s license with Lola’s information. Between avoiding an unsavory ex-boyfriend, sorting out mixed signals from the very interested but not yet committed Jack Callaghan, and filling in as a waitress at her parents’ Mexican restaurant, Lola tries to find out who the woman was and why she stole her identity. Was the woman hiding from someone who meant her harm, or is there someone out there who wants Lola dead?
This follow-up to Ramirez’s debut novel, Living the Vida Lola, is a red-hot, fun-filled mystery. Lola, a black belt in kung fu who loves to salsa dance, makes for a sexy, unique, and vivacious detective.
Publishers Weekly
Romance overshadows the crime solving in Ramirez’s saucy second mystery to feature Sacramento, Calif., PI Lola Cruz (after 2009’s Living the Vida Loca). Lola returns home one evening to find all the members of her close-knit Mexican-American family overjoyed to see her alive. A little earlier, they heard on the news that her body was discovered in an alley behind the Florin Mall. The victim, who suffered a fatal head blow, turns out to be an identity thief, Rosie Gonzales. Lola and her Sacramento Bee journalist boyfriend, Jack Callaghan, learn that Rosie posed as Lola for six months and had even enrolled in Lola’s alma mater, Sacramento State. Rosie also left behind a missing child Lola’s determined to locate. Also disturbing is a possible link to Lola’s slimy ex-boyfriend, Sergio Garcia. Ramirez insightfully explores one of today’s more pervasive crimes, identity theft, but hopefully she’ll beef up the action in the next installment. Author tour.(Feb.)
When Lola comes home to her parents house to find a horde of relatives mourning her death, no one is more surprised than she is. The news had reported that one Lola Cruz, PI, was found murdered in an alley, causing great alarm in the Cruz family. Before Lola can say boo, a cop comes to the house. It turns out the dead woman had a drivers license with Lolas information. Between avoiding an unsavory ex-boyfriend, sorting out mixed signals from the very interested but not yet committed Jack Callaghan, and filling in as a waitress at her parents Mexican restaurant, Lola tries to find out who the woman was and why she stole her identity. Was the woman hiding from someone who meant her harm, or is there someone out there who wants Lola dead? Formats : EPUB ϡ쯦랠