Sixth Grave on the Edge Page 13

“He allegedly beat a guy to death in a fit of rage. When he realized his girlfriend was still in the house and saw the whole thing, he tried to kill her, too. She barely escaped and is now in WITSEC.”

  “Witness protection? What the hell? What makes these guys think I can find out where she is? WITSEC is tighter than my skinny jeans.”

  “I don’t know, but I do know that the person in charge of the case is your friend Agent Carson. Seems the FBI had been investigating him for a while on separate charges. They can’t make anything stick, so they’re trying to get a conviction on this murder.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “They don’t have a body.”

  “Oh, wow. That makes it difficult. Okay, anything else?”

  “Yep. I’m not sure if you want this now, but the Fosters’ son has moved back home and is living with his parents while he finishes up his master’s degree at UNM.”

  “Really? He’s there? Did you find a picture of him?”

  “Sure did. Several, in fact. He’s on Friendbook.”

  “Perfect. And?” I asked, curiosity burning inside me. Either that or I’d already had too much coffee.

  “He looks nothing like him,” she said, the disappointment in her voice undeniable. “Seriously. Like there’s not even the slightest resemblance. Are you sure the Fosters didn’t adopt this guy? He’s really … white.”

  I burst out laughing. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I mean like albino white without the actual condition. Which is fine, normally. I just expected him to be more Reyes-like. Have you seen pictures of the Fosters?”

  “Well, no. That’s why I really wanted to get a glimpse.”

  “This is a big fat disappointment, I don’t mind telling you. I mean, he’s nice looking. He’s just not Reyes. Not even close.”

  “Look at it this way: You can see Reyes all the time now that he’s in our building. And sometimes you can even see him naked. As can your twelve-year-old daughter.”

  She let a forlorn sigh slip through her lips. “That’s true. I’ll send you the Friendbook link.”

  “Perfect,” I said, holding back a giggle. “Thanks.”

  “Sure. Anything else?”

  “How’s your escort?”

  “Cute and married.”

  I chuckled out loud that time. “I need to go talk to Special Agent Carson and get the lowdown on Sleazy Car Guy. I think I’ll head that way.”

  “I think that’s a good idea. So, about the pizza—you were kidding, right?”

  “I was kidding. I’ll be a while. Grab lunch when you can.”

  “Will do. Reyes is making his famous green chile chicken quesadillas.”

  Damn him. “Enjoy.”

  I hung up and clicked on the link.

  With the noon hour fast approaching, my stomach decided to do its gurgle-and-growl thing. I watched Captain Eckert in my rearview for a while. And as entertaining as that was, I needed to go see a good guy about a bad guy and figure out why Sleazy Car Guy thought I could help him find his ex, the woman who allegedly saw him commit murder. Sucked when that happened. Lunch would have to wait.

  But I still couldn’t figure out why the Men in Black thought I could find her. The only connection to the case was my friendship with Agent Carson, but that was a pretty slim connection. It wasn’t like we hung out socially or anything. How would anyone know we were connected?

  I dialed her number. Got her voice mail. Waited for the beep. Then I did my best creepy kidnapper voice. “This is a ransom demand,” I said, my voice raspy. Kidnapper-y. “Deliver one hundred boxes of Cheez-Its to the unmarked—ignore the license plate—cherry red Jeep Wrangler sitting in your parking lot by noon today, or you will suffer the consequences.” I paused to cough. Raspy was hard on the esophagus. “They will be dire.”

  I hung up. That was my way of letting Agent Carson know to expect a visit. She could have been out of the office, but I’d just have to take that chance. She usually ignored calls when she was in meetings, which meant she should be at the FBI headquarters. Thus, with sound logic guiding me, I headed that way.

  Much to my surprise, however, she called me back almost immediately.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” I said in lieu of hello, hoping it would bring us closer.

  “You might want to block your number when making ridiculous ransom demands.”

  “That demand was not ridiculous. Have you ever thought about changing your name to AC? Or SAC since you’re a special agent.”

  “Charley—”

  “We could call you Sack.”

  “I’m kind of the middle of something.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. I just have one question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you have any friends in the Secret Service?”

  She hesitated before saying, “No.”

  “Darn it. I was hoping you could smooth things over a bit. I seemed to have ruffled some feathers. They’re very sensitive.”

  I could hear her run a hand down her face. She did that a lot when I was around. “What’d you do now?”

  “Nothing, I swear. They just get really nervous when you butt-dial the president. Over and over. Like seventy-eight times. These jeans are really tight.”

  “Charley, is this conversation going anywhere?”

  “I hope so or I’m wasting my gas for nothing. Can we meet for coffee?”

  “Sure. Meet me at the Flying Star on Paseo.”

  “Paseo?” I asked. “As in Paseo del Norte? What are you doing up there?”

  “I am a field officer, Charley. I go out into the field and investigate.”

  “Oh, right.” I scratched that whole “she should be in her office” thing and did an amazing seven-point U-turn. Not many appreciated my driving prowess. Or the fact that I stopped the flow of traffic in several lanes. “A woman’s life is at stake here!” I yelled out my window. Or I would have if it’d been down.

  * * *

  I walked into the café, ordered my usual fare, which often had the word mocha in it, a tuna melt with sweet potato fries, and a slice of their salted caramel cheesecake—because YOLO—then sat down with my almost good friend.

  No. My soon-to-be good friend.

  No! My nigh good friend.

  I seemed to have a lot of relationships at the moment in that very fragile “nigh” stage.

  Meeting in a public place was a good idea. If I were being followed—by someone other than the captain—no one would see me walk right into the FBI field office. It worked out beautifully.

  “Hey, Sack. Can I call you Sack?”

  “No.” She sipped her coffee, her short brown bob perfectly coiffed, her navy business suit perfectly pressed. I felt very slobbish next to her. Oh, well.

  She was reading the paper, completely ignoring me. It was awkward.

  “So, how’s work?”

  “Great.” She closed the paper. “Did you look into that case?”

  The Foster baby abduction case. How did I tell her I knew exactly who and where that baby was? I didn’t. Not yet. I needed a little more info before I cast that stone and caused any lasting ripples in the universe. Tossing out the fact that I’d known all along where that missing baby ended up could crack our fragile bond. But if I went to her with irrefutable proof of her dad’s suspicions—mainly that there was more to the case than met the eye—our bond would be cemented like that time I accidently superglued my fingers together. That was an awkward week. One never appreciates opposable thumbs until one no longer has them.

  “Sure did,” I said, taking a sip myself. “I still am, actually, but I have a strong lead.”

  Though her pretty expression remained impassive, her emotions spiked inside her. She really wanted to solve that case for her father. And I wanted that for her, but I had a more pressing case at the moment.

  She was reaching for her coffee again when I said, “Emily Michaels.”

  She paused and looked up at me, but before she could say anything, a server brought
my food over.

  “Aren’t you eating?” I asked her.

  “No. I didn’t know you were eating.”

  “I’m eating. You should order something.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Tuna melt.”

  “Is it good?”

  “Emily Michaels,” I reminded her. I felt like she was changing the subject on purpose.

  “Why do you want to know about Emily Michaels?”

  “Because.”

  Her lips thinned. “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you. The man who held a gun to my head said no cops.”

  Her mouth dropped open. I totally considered tossing a fry into it just to see if I could, but this was probably not the best time.

  “Can I talk to her?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Can you set up a meet?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me where she is?”

  “No.”

  Damn, she was tough. The FBI probably taught her how to withstand interrogation. I’d never met such resistance. Such pure determination. Maybe if I asked nicely.

  “I won’t actually use that information,” I said, as though that would help. “I just need it as a backup. They said they are going to kill a friend of mine if I don’t get it.”

  “Then give them a fake address and call me. I’ll have a team there to intercept. You can testify against these men. Wham bam.”

  “And then what? Go into WITSEC with Emily? No, thank you.”

  “Well, if you think there is even the slightest possibility that I’d give you that location, you’re wrong.”

  I figured as much. “Why did they choose me, though?” I asked aloud.

  “Probably because they know our connection.”

  “What connection?”

  “We’re friends, for one thing,” she said with a shrug.

  Score! “Right. Of course.” I knew we were friends. I could now die happy. “And for another?”

  “You’re a PI. They probably thought you could set up a lunch with me and just ask me to hand over that information.”

  I snorted. “Crazy people. Who would think such a thing?”

  “I wonder,” she said, her expression deadpan. “I do need to report this, Charley.”

  “You can’t. No cops, remember?”

  “Sorry. I can’t keep that kind of information to myself. If Brinkman’s men are getting that desperate, we’re getting close. We could use this to our advantage.”

  “What about my advantage? And my friend’s advantage they are supposedly going to kill, though I’m beginning to think they don’t really know who my closest friends are.”

  “Finish up,” she said, nodding to my sandwich. “I’ll need you to come to my office to make a statement.”

  “Sack! No way.”

  “I’ll sneak you in through the back. You can leave your Jeep here.”

  Son of a bitch. “I’m sorry,” I said, rising from the table, “but I can’t risk it. If they get a whiff of an investigation where this is concerned, things could go very south very quickly.”

  Her expression changed to one void of all emotion. “I’ll cuff you, Charley. I can arrest you on charges of obstruction of justice and hold you until you cooperate.”

  I sat back down. “And I thought we were friends.”

  “We are, which is why I’m going to get all the information on this that I can and investigate. It’s what I do. Let me help you for once.”

  Surely I had smoke billowing out of my ears. “You’ve always trusted me in the past, and I’ve solved a couple of pretty big cases for you. Or have you forgotten?”

  She rubbed her forehead. “Son of a— Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll make a preliminary report stating there is a strong probability of an attempt on Emily’s life. You have forty-eight hours.”

  I knew she’d let me do this my way. Hopefully things wouldn’t go south.

  “But if this turns south, we are doing it my way.”

  Sometimes I wondered if Sack could read my mind. Really good friends could do that.

  11

  It’s a beautiful day.

  I think I’ll skip my meds and stir things up a bit.

  —BUMPER STICKER

  After convincing one of my best friends on the planet to give me some time on the Men in Black case, I headed over to the Fosters’ house since I was on that side of town anyway. I was now as curious as Cookie about what they looked like. Were they fair skinned like their son? If so, how was Reyes so dark? So exotic?

  One possibility that came to mind was, naturally, did he look like his real father? Did he look like Lucifer? If so, and he’d chosen the Fosters to be his human parents on earth, did he not consider their fair coloring when choosing a potential family?

  Of course he did. Reyes was too smart not to.

  I pulled up to an empty house that was for sale and pretended to be a potential buyer, looking this way and that before settling in and checking my phone. There was also a yard sale a couple of houses up, yielding a steady flow of traffic, so I blended right in. I knew Mrs. Foster would be home soon, so I sat outside, checking my e-mail and doodling in my memo pad. My doodles turned to words that eventually turned to names. Charley Farrow, I wrote, liking the feel of it, the look of it. Charley Davidson Farrow. Or should I hyphenate it? What were women doing these days? Mrs. Reyes Farrow. Farrow. I could get very used to that name.

  I glanced up just in time to see a Prius pull into the Fosters’ garage. The door came down before I could see her, just like before, but I’d see her soon enough. I took out the case file Agent Carson had given me, the one of the kidnapping almost thirty years ago.

  I glanced at my sidekick and made a mental note to carve out some time to go see his wife, Mrs. Andrulis. The poor guy needed to be done with whatever it was he’d left unfinished. I couldn’t have him running around naked forever. It just seemed wrong.

  “I’m having a hard time not looking at your penis.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  I jumped in response to the voice coming from my backseat and slammed my memo pad closed. Reyes popped in, very hot and very … corporeal. He seemed more solid now than he used to be. Less incorporeal. The departed were always solid to me, but they didn’t look solid. And while Reyes had always had more color than the actual departed, he was still incorporeal. Not quite flesh but not quite spirit. Something in between. Lately, however, he was leaning toward the flesh.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I was going to a yard sale. I’m in need of a new yard and—look! There’s one for sale.”

  He looked across the street straight at the Fosters’ house. “Okay,” he said, and I felt a tinge of anger rise in him. “So, what are you waiting for?”

  “I’m scoping out the situation,” I said, hoping he’d believe me but knowing deep down inside I’d lost the game before it ever began. With my plans foiled, I decided to go to the yard sale anyway. I’d show him.

  I climbed down from Misery and shut her door, leaving my nigh fiancé in there to simmer and stew.

  Three women who’d been arguing were still arguing when I walked up. Their disagreements seemed to center around the items in the yard sale. Two were dressed to the nines in mid-twentieth-century apparel. I guessed them to have died in the 1950s or ’60s. The third one, and the smallest, was in a fluffy pink robe with a V embroidered on the chest and tiny house slippers.

  “Oh, I remember that music box,” she said, looking on as a young girl picked it up and opened the lid. “Daddy made it. He gave it to you, Maddy, on your sixteenth birthday.”

  “No, he didn’t, Vera,” the tallest of the three said. “He gave it to Tilda on her twelfth birthday.” She gestured to the third woman, who nodded in agreement.

  The first one, Vera, was having none of that. “Madison Grace, I remember that box, and I remember the day he gave it to you.”

  “He gave Maddy a picture frame on
her sixteenth birthday,” Tilda said.

  “No, he gave me a picture frame on my fifteenth birthday.”

  “Was it your fifteenth?” she asked, looking skyward in thought. “I thought that was the year you were sent to your room for sneaking a kiss with Bradford Kingsley in the broom closet.”

  “I never kissed Bradford Kingsley,” Maddy said, appalled. “We were just talking. And besides, he liked Sarah Steed.”

  All three heads dropped in unison, apparently remembering their friend fondly.

  “Poor girl,” Vera said. “She had such bad breath.”

  They all nodded sadly before Tilda added, “If only she could’ve outrun that rooster, she and Bradford may have eventually married.”

  I watched the three reminisce with no one the wiser. The tiny one, Vera, seemed to be the oldest, with Tilda second and Maddy bringing up the rear. Watching them was kind of like watching a sitcom. And since I rarely had time for TV anymore, I stood back and took complete advantage of the entertainment.

  They started arguing again about a paint set as the little girl took the box she’d found to her mother. The woman’s eyes sparkled with interest. “How much is this?” she asked a man sitting in a lawn chair.

  “I’ll take two and a quarter.”

  “Two and a quarter?” Vera yelled, rocketing out of her melancholy. She shook a fist at the man. “I’ll give you an even five square in the jaw. How’s that?”

  “Don’t get your hackles up,” Maddy said, eyeing her elder sister.

  Vera cupped her ear and leaned forward. “What?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Vera Dawn, you can hear me just fine, now. We’re dead.”

  “What?”

  Tilda shook her head and looked over at me. “She does that to annoy us.”

  I laughed softly and scanned the small crowd to make sure no one was paying too close attention. “Would you like to cross?” I asked them.

  “Goodness, no,” Maddy said. “We’re waiting for our sister. We all want to cross together.”

  That was new.

  “That sounds nice. You know where I’ll be when you’re ready.”

  “Sure do,” Vera said. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

  I spotted an old piece of equipment sitting lopsided on a card table. “What is that?” I asked, my eyes glossing over in fascination.