Second Grave on the Left Read online

  And Mistress Mari was really helpful. She had a list of demon-detecting tricks, from throwing salt in their eyes—which firstly required my seeing them and secondly held the faintest hint of lawsuit when I inevitably blinded some poor schmuck I thought was possessed—to keeping a careful eye on plants when a questionable individual walked into a room. Apparently, a demon’s presence would wilt the poor suckers before they knew what hit them. I glanced around my apartment. Damn my love of fake dying plants. Maybe I could get a cactus.

  The one thing M&M didn’t talk about was the fact that no one could actually see demons. In the end, she was about as much help as a BB gun in armed combat.

  Just as I went to exit out of the site, two words caught my attention. There, in the middle of a mundane paragraph about a demon’s supposed allergy to fabric softener, was a highlighted link that said grim reaper. Me! Well, this was exciting. I clicked on the link. The page that popped up had only one sentence just above an Under Construction warning, but it was an interesting sentence.

  If you are the grim reaper, please contact me immediately.

  Okay. That was new.

  Chapter Eight

  IS IT SEXY IN HERE OR IS IT JUST ME?

  —T-SHIRT

  I woke up at four thirty the next morning—also known as five minutes past ungodly—and lay in bed, wondering why in the name of Saint Francis I’d woken up at four thirty in the morning. There were no dead people hovering over me, no global catastrophes looming near or clothes being thrown at my face, yet my reaper senses told me something was wrong.

  I listened for the phone. If anyone had the cojones to call me before seven, it was Uncle Bob. But no one was calling. Not even nature.

  With a sigh, I turned onto my back and stared up into the darkness. With both Janelle York and Tommy Zapata dead, I got the feeling whoever was behind the murders wasn’t looking for information. In fact, if I had to take a slightly educated guess, I would say information was exactly what the killer wanted suppressed.

  Something happened at Ruiz High twenty years ago, something other than underage drinking. And at least one person wanted it kept quiet. So much so, he was willing to murder to keep it that way.

  Reyes was consuming a good portion of my random access memory as well. Could he really be the Antichrist? ’Cause that would just suck. Maybe he was right. Maybe everyone had it wrong. Admittedly, it was a tad hard to get past the fact that he was the son of the most evil being ever to exist. But that didn’t make him evil. Right? Would he really lose his humanity if his corporeal body died? Nobody said he had to follow in his dad’s footsteps. But the thought of him dying, now, after all this time.

  At some point, I had to stop and ask myself why I was so intent on finding his body, and the answer was ridiculously simple. I didn’t want to lose him. I didn’t want to lose any chance of having a life with him, which was rather moot, since he’d have to go back to prison and all. But there it was in all its glory. The truth. In many ways, I was as callous and self-serving as my stepmother.

  Wow. The truth really did hurt.

  Regardless, I had to find a new pool of resources. My dead friends were not really helping. He did have a sister, sort of. And he had a very good friend. If anyone knew where Reyes would stash his body, surely it would be one of them.

  I decided to give up on the lure of a decent night’s sleep, get some coffee, and contemplate what to do next in my unending quest for the god Reyes. Mayhap I would query Mistress Marigold, ask her WTF?

  Having been born a grim reaper, I was quite used to the departed popping in and out of my life at any given moment. I’d grown rather accustomed to the momentary jolt of adrenaline their sudden presence elicited, especially when a fifty-foot-drop-to-solid-concrete popped in for marital advice. But for the most part, my fight-or-flight response tended to hang back, blend into the background, and let me decide for myself if I should resort to fisticuffs or run screaming. So when I dragged my half-asleep body out of bed to seek the elixir of life often referred to as java, the fact that two men were lounging in my living room barely registered on my Richter scale.

  I did pause, however, giving them a once-over, then a twice-over—mostly because they weren’t dead—before heading for the coffeepot. I definitely needed a kick start before dealing with two men I highly suspected of breaking and entering. A third guy who resembled André the Giant stood barricading the front door. If my best friend Cookie came barreling through it anytime soon, he was going to have one hell of a headache.

  I turned on one of the low-wattage lights under my counter so as not to blind myself—thus giving my adversaries an unfair advantage—and headed for my date with Mr. Coffee. André was staring at my derriere. Probably because I was wearing boxers that had JUICY written across the ass. I could have thrown something on, but it was my apartment. If they wanted to enter uninvited, they’d have to deal, same as everyone else who entered my little slice of heaven uninvited.

  I scooped coffee into the filter as my guests watched, pushed the ON button, then waited. My new maker brewed much faster than my old one, but it would still be an awkward three minutes. I rested my elbows on the snack bar to study my visitors.

  One of the men—I assumed he was the higher-up—sat on my club chair, his jacket off, gun in plain sight. He looked about fiftyish with graying brown hair, a crisp cut neatly combed, and dark eyes to match. He was busy studying me with a genuine curiosity lining his face.

  The man beside him, however, the dangerous one, didn’t seem to have a curious bone in his body. He was about my height with black hair and the youthful, sand-colored skin of his Asian ancestry. He stood on guard, almost at attention, his muscles taut, ready to strike should the need arise. I couldn’t tell if he was a colleague or a bodyguard. He wore no shoulder holster like his friend, which meant he didn’t need a gun to protect himself or his colleagues. A fact I found oddly disturbing.

  André just looked like a big bear. I was certain he needed a hug, but he had a gun as well. All this muscle and metal for little ole me. I felt important. Illustrious. Majestic. Or I would have, had my ass not said “Juicy.”

  In contrast, my visitors were quite the dapper gentlemen. Dressed for success, and well suited to charcoal gray. I thought about suggesting they steer clear of anything in a rouge, but not everyone took kindly to fashion advice from a chick in a T-shirt and boxers.

  After lacing my coffee with just enough cream and sugar to turn it the color of melted caramel, I strolled to the overstuffed sofa across from boss man, sank into it, then leveled my best death stare on him.

  “Okay,” I said after taking a slow, gratifying sip, “you got one shot. Make it good.”

  The man tipped his head in greeting before allowing his eyes to drop to the letters on my T-shirt. I hoped the saying didn’t give him the wrong impression of me. NERDY didn’t quite encompass the image I wanted to project. Had it said BADASS INCARNATE …

  “Ms. Davidson,” he said, his voice sure, calm. “My name is Frank Smith.”

  That was a big fat lie, not that it mattered. “’Kay, thanks for coming. Come back when you have more time to catch up.” I rose to show them out. The deadly one tensed, and I had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t only there to protect boss man. Damn. I hated torture. It was so torturous.

  “Please sit, Ms. Davidson,” Mr. Smith said, after staying his man with a gesture.

  With an annoyed sigh, I obeyed, but only because he said please. “So, I know your name and you know mine. Can we get on with this?” I took another slow sip as he studied me.

  “You have an amazing sense of calm.” His expression turned serious. “I have to admit, I’m a bit impressed. Most women—”

  “—have enough sense to lock themselves in their bedrooms and call the police. Please don’t mistake an underactive sense of self-preservation with intelligence, Mr. Smith.”

  The deadly one worked his jaw. He didn’t like me. Either that or my use of big words intimidated him. I deci
ded to go with that.

  “This is Mr. Chao,” Smith said, noting my interest. “And that’s Ulrich.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Ulrich nodded. All things considered, they were quite cordial. “And you’re here because?”

  “I find you quite fascinating,” he answered.

  “Um, thanks? But really, a text would have sufficed.”

  With a slow grin, he took note of every expression, every gesture I made. I got the distinct feeling he was studying me, assembling a baseline so he would later be able to tell if I was deceiving him or not.

  “I’ve done quite a bit of research on you,” he said. “You’ve led an interesting life.”

  “I like to think so.” I decided to hide behind my cup, to obscure part of my response to his questions. While the eyes gave away a lot, the mouth betrayed even the best liars. This way, he would only be able to tell if I was half-lying. That’d teach him.

  “College, the Peace Corps, and now a private investigations business.”

  I counted on my fingers. “Yep, that about sums it up.”

  “And yet everywhere you go, things—” He looked up, searching for the right words before returning his gaze to me. “—tend to happen.”

  I consciously stilled, tried to dilute my response, to muddy the waters, so to speak. “That’s the thing about things. They tend to happen.”

  An appreciative smile crept across his face. “I would expect nothing less from you, Ms. Davidson. As you, by now, would expect nothing but brutal honesty from me.”

  “Honesty is nice.” I glanced at Mr. Chao. “Though brutality is unnecessary.”

  With a soft laugh, he crossed his legs and sank farther into his chair. “Then honesty it is. It seems you and I are looking for the same person.”

  I let my brows arch in question.

  “Mimi Jacobs.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Ms. Davidson,” he said, casting a shameful glance from underneath his lashes. “I thought we were being honest.”

  “You were being honest. I was being professional. I can hardly talk about my caseload. PIs have this weird code-of-ethics thing.”

  “True. I commend you. But might I add that we’re on the same side?”

  I leaned forward, making sure my point was clear. “The only side I am ever on is that of my clients.”

  He nodded in understanding. “So, if you did know where she was—”

  “I wouldn’t tell you,” I finished for him.

  “Fair enough.” He inclined his head to the side, indicating average, dark, and deadly with a nod. “But what if Mr. Chao were to ask?”

  Damn. I knew it would come down to torture. I tried not to clench my teeth, tried not to let my eyes widen even that fraction of a millimeter that constituted an involuntary reflex, but it happened anyway. He had me dead to rights. He knew I was concerned. But I also had a few tricks up my sleeve if it came to that. If nothing else, I would go down swinging.

  I looked at him and said, matter-of-fact, “Mr. Chao can bite my ass.”

  As if made of stone, Mr. Chao’s expression remained utterly blank. I got the feeling he would enjoy torturing me. And call me sentimental, but damn it, I liked bringing joy to the world.

  “I’ve upset you,” Smith said.

  “Not at all. Not yet, anyway.” I thought about Reyes, about how he seemed to show up anytime I was in danger, but would he now? He was mad at me, after all. “If there is one thing I can promise you, it’s the fact that you’ll definitely know when I’m upset.” I eyed him a moment then asked, “Am I lying?”

  Smith studied me a long moment then raised his palms in surrender. “I told you, Ms. Davidson. I’ve done my research. I was hoping we could be friends.”

  “So you break into my apartment? Not a good start, Frank.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and chuckled. I was really beginning to like him. I would probably go for the groin, bring him to his knees before Chao got to me. Then I’d be toast, but like I said, I would go down swinging.

  After he sobered, he leveled a pointed gaze on me. “Then may I insist that you drop your investigation? For your own safety, of course.”

  “You certainly may,” I said, flashing my biggest, brightest smile. “Not that it’ll do you any good.”

  “The organization I work for will not take your sparkling personality into consideration should you get in their way.”

  “Then perhaps I should show them my darker side.”

  He seemed almost regretful as he watched me. “You are a unique creature, Ms. Davidson. I just have one more question.” It was his turn to lean in, a mischievous grin widening across his face. “Are you nerdy or juicy?”

  I needed a new wardrobe.

  A loud thud had us all turning toward Ulrich. But he turned as well and looked over his shoulder. The door swung open again and slammed into his rock-solid back, eliciting another loud thud. Then another, and another, on and on until Cookie finally stopped and shouted, “What gives?” Then we heard grunts as she tried to push past the obstacle that was blocking her entrance.

  Ulrich looked back at Smith in question. Smith, in turn, looked at me.

  “It’s my neighbor.”

  “Ah, Cookie Kowalski. Thirty-four. Divorced. One child, female,” he said, his way of letting me know he had indeed done his homework. “Let her in, Ulrich.”

  Ulrich stepped to the side, and Cookie came barreling through the door, her momentum too great to stop on a dime. After a near head-on collision with my snack bar, she screeched to a halt and looked around.

  “Hey, Cook,” I said cheerfully. When she only glanced from man to man, I added, “These are my new friends. We’re really hitting it off.”

  “They have guns.”

  “Well, there is that.” I rose and took the coffee mug out of her hands to fill it. Our mutual admiration for that little jolt of heaven every morning had helped us bond the moment we met three years ago. Now it was a staple. “I have to admit,” I said, looking at Smith, “I’m not convinced our relationship will be a lasting one.”

  Cookie had yet to take her eyes off them. “Because they have guns?”

  “We were just leaving,” Smith said, rising and shrugging into his jacket.

  “Do you have to go? For realsies?”

  He smiled, apparently choosing to ignore the sarcasm dripping from my every word, and nodded as he strode past.

  “You forgot to mention who you’re working for, Frank.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He offered an informal salute before closing the door.

  “He was nice looking,” Cookie said, “in a James Bondy kind of way.”

  “That’s it. I’m getting you a male blowup doll for Christmas.”

  “Do they have those?” she asked, intrigued.

  I had no idea. But the thought made me giggle. “Why are you here at this hour?” I asked, slightly appalled.

  “I couldn’t sleep, and I saw your light on.”

  “I guess we’ll get an early start, then.” We clinked our coffee mugs together, toasting God knows what.

  * * *

  Since we’d once again hit the showers before the butt crack of dawn—separately, of course, though I did have the company of Dead Trunk Guy, which was getting really, really old because it was difficult to shave my legs with goose bumps—Cookie and I found ourselves strolling to the office with the sun just barely peeking over the horizon. Oranges and pinks burst across the sky, winding around smoky clouds to herald the arrival of a new day. And it was going to be beautiful. Until I tripped and spilled coffee on my wrist.

  “Mistress Marigold?” Cookie asked as I bit back a curse. She seemed intrigued and a little repulsed.

  “I know, but she knows something. I know it. And when I know what she knows, we’ll all know a little more. Knowledge is power, baby.”

  “You’re doing that weird thing you do.”

  “Sorry. I just can’t seem to help myself. My brain is freaking ou
t. Two predawn mornings in a row. It doesn’t know what to think, how to act. I’ll have a talk with it later. Perhaps get it into counseling.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll have those class rosters this morning and I can start searching Mimi’s classmates, see if any of them have met with similar fates.”

  “You mean death?”

  “Pretty much,” she said.

  We took the outside stairs to the office. While I made a beeline for the coffeepot to prep for the day, Cookie checked the fax machine.

  “They’re here,” she said excitedly.

  “The class rosters? Already?” That was fast.

  Cookie turned on her computer and plopped down in front of her desk. “I’m going to do some hunting, see what I come up with.”

  The front door to Cook’s office opened, and a hesitant head popped in. “Are you open?” a man asked. He looked about sixty turned sideways as he was.

  “Sure,” I said, inviting him in with a wave. “What can we do for you?”

  He straightened and entered, followed by a woman about the same age. He wore a dark blue blazer and reminded me of a sportscaster, his gray hair perfectly combed. And she wore an only-slightly-out-of-date khaki pantsuit that matched her light hair. A cloud of grief, thick and palpable, followed in their wake. They were hurting.

  “Are either of you Charley Davidson?” the man asked.

  “I’m Charley.”

  He gripped my hand like I was humanity’s last hope. If that were the case, humanity was in a lot of trouble. The woman did the same, her fragile hand a shaking mass of nerves. “Ms. Davidson,” the gentleman said, his expensive cologne wafting toward me, “we’re Mimi’s parents.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “Please, come on back.” I gestured for Cookie to join us, then led them to my office. Ever efficient, she grabbed a notepad to take notes.