Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet Read online

  “What? No. I’m talking about a client.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And does this client have brown hair and gold eyes and talk to dead people?”

  “Subtle. Don’t make me yell into this phone,” I said with an evil smirk. Twelve margaritas would make that thought very unappealing.

  “Oh, for the love of God, please don’t.”

  “Okay, then focus. It’s not for me. Really. How easy is it to diagnose in a child?”

  “Well, unless the patient doesn’t remember anything that happened to him or her, then it’s pretty easy. I mean the symptoms are fairly universal, although each case is a little different. No matter what happened, it should be fairly straightforward. Anything from a car accident to a natural disaster to soldiers exchanging fire on the battlefield can cause it.”

  I decided to take a stab in the dark. “What if something happened to a young child, but she didn’t remember what it was? Or maybe she saw something? Or heard something? Can that cause PTSD?”

  “Absolutely. But that happens even to adults. I once had a case where a woman was in a car accident and couldn’t get to her crying son. She couldn’t see him, but she could hear him. And before help could arrive on scene, he passed away. She heard his last cries.”

  “Okay,” I said, interrupting her. “I don’t like this case.”

  “I didn’t either, but I have a point.”

  “Fine, then, but make it quick.”

  “Afterwards, she had what is referred to as hysterical deafness, or psychosomatic hearing loss.”

  “Like the guys who go off to war and go blind for no apparent reason.”

  “Exactly. Their minds can’t absorb the horrors they’ve seen, so the brain refuses to process visual information. The visual cortex shuts down. It’s completely psychological. But those are pretty extreme cases. PTSD is usually much less blatant, so oftentimes people don’t even realize they have it. Like, say, a PI who was held captive and suffered great physical and emotional trauma.”

  “Are we back to this again?”

  “Charley, let me hook you up with a friend of mine.”

  I straightened. Now she was talking my language. “Is he cute?”

  “She is a very good psychotherapist. One of the best in the city.”

  “Wait,” I said as another thought occurred to me.

  “No more waiting.”

  “What if this happened decades ago? Would it have been harder to diagnose PTSD back then?”

  “Possibly. PTSD has been around since the dawn of man, but it only gained notoriety as a diagnosis around the eighties. Then it took a while to catch on.”

  “Thanks.” That might explain how Dr. Penn had missed it. Why she looked so hard at other causes of Harper’s illness. I had to find more about what happened to Harper during her parents’ honeymoon.

  * * *

  I decided to do a quick drive-by at Pari’s place to check on Harper. The shop wasn’t open yet, it was still early for a tattoo parlor, but Tre was there looking at Internet porn. He had good taste.

  “Where’s Pari?” I asked him.

  He shrugged and I sensed a jolt of hostility. “She’s out.”

  Uh-oh, trouble in paradise. He seemed really bummed. Not enough to hold my attention, though. I looked past him at the pictures of clients Pari had on her wall and pointed. “Hey, those are the Bandits.”

  I stepped closer to the pic of the ragtag team of bikers. They owned my favorite mental asylum, for some bizarre reason, and the picture was of my favorite three bikers ever: Donovan, Eric, and Michael. They were showing off their tats, each of them posing like bodybuilders, but something about them clicked in the back of my mind. I’d seen them out of context recently, in another situation, another environment. It was odd. Something about their shape. Tall, medium-tall, and just plain medium.

  “Okay, well, I’ll just be back here.”

  Tre shrugged, his acknowledgment barely noticeable.

  I wondered about the Bandits as long as my ADD would allow me to, then moved on to my childhood dream of being an astronaut and how I would’ve tried to save the world if a comet were headed toward Earth. I concluded that the human race was doomed.

  “Hey, Harper,” I said, ducking into her closetlike room.

  She’d been looking out a window the size of a business card and turned to me. “Hi.”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Really?” she asked, indicating her surroundings with her upturned palms.

  “Right,” I said. “I hope Pari is treating you well.”

  “She’s kind of different.”

  “That she is.”

  “Did you talk to Art?”

  “Yes, and he’s definitely not our guy.”

  “Oh, I know that. I was just hoping he might have figured something out.”

  “Well, he did have some pretty interesting comments,” I said, my clever meaning disguised in a subtly subversive way. “He seems to think something happened to you while you were staying with your grandparents.”

  She stood again, her jaw set in frustration. “It always comes back to that, but I just don’t remember. For some reason, by the time my family got me into therapy and I’d started to analyze what could have happened, I’d completely forgotten that week. It’s not all that unusual. I mean, how much about your childhood do you really remember?”

  She had a point. Even my childhood was pretty spotty, and I could recollect anything if I wanted to. I couldn’t imagine how much a normal kid would forget.

  “But he said you’d changed after you came back.”

  She looked at me, confused. “He hardly knew me. My parents dated and got married before we knew what happened. Let’s just say we were not brought into the loop on that decision.”

  “That’s weird. I wasn’t brought into the loop with my parents’ marriage either.”

  “Really? How old were you?”

  “Twelve months.”

  She giggled. “I can’t imagine why they didn’t ask your opinion.”

  “I know, right? Well, if you don’t have anything, I guess I might have to actually do some investigative work.”

  She grinned. “Isn’t that what you do?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Right.” I nudged her with my elbow. “I am a PI, after all.” Telling her I could talk to the dead and often used them to help me solve crimes might be awkward at this juncture. It would be best if she thought I had my crap together instead of scattered from here to Timbuktu, like, say, the crap on a cattle ranch. “Have you checked out Tre? He’s well worth the effort.”

  Her shoulders raised in modesty. “Not yet.”

  “Well, see that you do, missy. Hard manly flesh like that shouldn’t go to waste.”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  * * *

  I stepped out of Pari’s shop just as my phone rang.

  Speaking of whom, “Hey, Par.”

  “Where the heck are you?”

  I stopped and looked around. “Right here. Where are you?”

  “You’re here?”

  “Here where?”

  “Charley.”

  “Pari.”

  “You’re supposed to meet my dates.”

  “Oh, right. That’s where I am. I’m almost there.”

  “Are you sure? Because we’re on a pretty tight schedule.”

  “Positive.” Knowing it’d take me forever to get a parking space, I took off in a full-out sprint. I may not look good when I got there, but I’d be damned if I was late. Or, well, later.

  Fortunately, the Frontier was a mere two blocks away. I thought about ordering a carne adovada burrito and a sweet roll before sitting with Pari and—did she say dates? As in more than one? But she might hurt me. Still, their sweet rolls were a thing of beauty.

  The Frontier was an odd sort of place just across from the University of New Mexico. It ran the length of several partially divided rooms. I finally found Pari and her dates in the very last one. There weren’t many peopl
e in that part. Several students were having a Bible study group in one corner, and a homeless man named Iggy sat at a booth off by himself. Pari and her dates—literally, as there were three men sitting with her—were stashed in the farthest corner.

  This wouldn’t be awkward at all.

  She brightened when she saw me and motioned me over, looking only mildly ridiculous in her sunglasses, knowing I would be there.

  “Hey, you!” She stood for a hug. “I haven’t seen you in forever. How weird that we’d run into each other here.”

  Oh, okay, we were playing that game. I wished she would’ve filled me in. I thought we were playing the I-have-trust-issues game. Why else would she want me to sit there and measure their honesty while she grilled them?

  “This is Mark, Fabian, and Theo. Guys, this is Charley. She sees dead people.”

  I rolled my eyes. I closed them first so no one would see, but the minute my lids locked down, my eyes did somersaults.

  She laughed and patted my back hard enough to dislodge my esophagus. Maybe she was perturbed that I was late. “Just kidding.” She waved a dismissive hand at them. “Nobody can see dead people. You should join us.”

  Before I could answer, she shoved me into the nearest chair. This was going to be the worst dates I’d ever been on. Though she had good taste, I’d give her that. They all had varying degrees of dark hair and tan skin. Mark and Fabian were Hispanic, and Theo was Caucasian with something else thrown in for good measure. Possibly Asian.

  “So, Mark,” she said, sitting beside me, “have you ever been arrested for kiddie porn?”

  Oddly enough, my forehead dropped into the palm of my hand.

  But Mark was good-natured enough to laugh it off. “Well, so far nobody’s found my stash.”

  After an appreciative laugh, she turned to Theo. “How about you?”

  Theo was a little less accepting. “Am I being interrogated?”

  Pari snorted. “What? Absolutely not. But have you?”

  After an hour of the guys pretending they weren’t on an interview and me pretending I was just there to eat despite the fact that I never got any food, I came to one, noticeable conclusion: Pari was a big fat liar.

  “So?” she asked after they’d left. I was exhausted. Trying to read every emotion while wading through hers was like trying to sprint in five feet of water.

  “So?” I asked in return.

  “Sooooo?” she asked again, believing that drawing out the O would make me spill quicker. She raised her brows and waited for my answer.

  “Pari, the only one who lied throughout this entire conversation was you.”

  She balked. “You were reading my emotions?”

  “Par, I can’t weed through them like you obviously think I can. I can’t pick and choose. It’s an all-or-nothing kind of gig.”

  “Oh. So?” She raised her brows expectantly.

  “Well, I did manage to figure out three things.”

  “Wonderful.” She shimmied in her chair and settled in for the telling of my great and mighty insights.

  “You’re afraid of squirrels. You’ve never been to Australia. And you’re a convicted felon.”

  Her face fell. “I could’ve told you that.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t. Now, why is that?”

  With a defensive shrug, she said, “It was a long time ago. I was really young.”

  “How young?”

  “Twenty. Okay? Now, what did you think about—?”

  “What were you convicted of?”

  “Chuck, we aren’t here about me. So, which one did you like?”

  “They were all three pretty great, though I’m having a hard time seeing you with an investment broker. But you have good taste, I’ll give you that. So, what were you convicted of?”

  “Fine,” she said, grinding her teeth. “In a word, hacking.”

  I could not have hidden my surprise if someone had paid me to.

  “What? I was young.”

  “You’re a computer whiz?”

  “Was. Was a computer whiz. Now I’m not allowed near a computer. It’s the terms of my probation.”

  “So, that means you’ve been on probation for almost nine years.”

  “Yeah. I got ten years’ probation for hacking into a federal vault and funneling money to my mom’s bank account. I thought it would be funny. And it was until I got caught.”

  “You funneled money?”

  “Eighteen dollars.”

  “Wow.” Apparently everyone knew how to funnel money but me. I was so behind the times. “I just never knew. But really? Only eighteen dollars?”

  “That’s why I only got probation. Like I said, I just thought it would be funny.” Her shoulder lifted into an innocent shrug. “And I’d get bragging rights. You have no idea how addictive bragging rights are in the hacking world.”

  “Obviously. But you have a computer in your office.”

  “I can have one for business purposes.” She raised a finger to make sure I knew she was serious. “No Internet of any kind.”

  “But you do have Internet. I saw Tre looking at porn on your computer.”

  “What?” She seemed appalled.

  “Like you don’t do the same thing.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t work for me. He does.”

  “That’s why you were trying to rewire everything,” I said, the truth hitting me like a brick.

  “He was looking at porn?”

  “You were trying to hide the fact that you have Internet.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, growing annoyed. “It’s so frustrating. I can’t even have a computer with a modem. So I have to work around that.”

  “I am so in awe of you right now. I always wanted to be a computer whiz, and I would’ve been if not for Paul Sanchez.”

  Her brows rose in question.

  “He told me computers were alien technology and they used them to track us.”

  “Weren’t you abducted by aliens once?”

  I nodded. “Exactly why I stopped going around them. By the time I figured out Paul was wrong, I’d sailed past my prime. Now, thanks to him, I can hardly program a universal remote.”

  She blinked. “So, about my dates?”

  “You can do better.”

  I looked up into the eyes of the bartender Dad had hired, only she was looking at Pari, and the invitation dripping off her in spades was like looking at a waterfall of sin and sensual degradation. A fact that was not lost on Pari if the dreamy expression on her face was any indication.

  “I’m Sienna—” She slid a card across the table toward Pari. “—if you want to interview me.”

  One corner of her mouth lifted into a wickedly dimpled grin before she turned and started out the back door.

  “So,” Pari said, gathering herself in a rush of emotion, “you’re just going to walk away?”

  Sienna flashed a gorgeous smile and walked back to us. And I was so not doing the interview thing again.

  “I have to get something to eat before I die. And I need a mocha latte. Do they have those here?”

  Pari shrugged, suddenly very disinterested in anything I had to say.

  “Thanks for caring, Par.”

  “What do you do, Sienna?”

  The woman sat in my seat when I stood, making it clear I was not welcome. I felt so appreciated. I strolled to the front and ordered a carne adovada burrito, a sweet roll, and a café mocha. Then I had to figure out how I was going to pay for it. I pulled out my cards. Three of them. Everything I had left.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to cipher in my head, “put three twenty-seven on this one.” I handed it to her. “And two fifty on the flowery one.” I handed her the flowery one, too.

  The girl took the cards from me and rolled her eyes. I could’ve knocked the shit out of her. She’d have good reason to roll her eyes then. But knocking the shit out of rude people wasn’t my style. Heckling them every chance I got was. Hopefully she’d screw up soon. I didn’t have all day.


  “And four whatever is left on the blue one that looks like a camel died on it.” She went to take it from me, and after snatching it back, I leaned in and said, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  She gritted her teeth and said, “Not at all,” before jerking it out of my hand. Then she mouthed the word loser as she swiped it and punched in numbers. Oh, yeah, this girl was going down. She had no idea who she was messing with. And, sadly, she didn’t seem to care.

  I hoped her drawer came up short at the end of her shift. Karma’s a bitch.

  She pushed the sales key on the register, and an alarm went off. Damn it. Did my card not go through? Maybe I mixed them up. But why would an alarm go off? Didn’t the little machine just decline the card and go on its merry way?

  The manager, a twenty-something guy who would forever look like he’d just gotten his braces off and was late for a chemistry exam, ran over with a humongous smile on his face.

  “You won!” he said, his enthusiasm more than I could bear at the momen—

  Wait. I’d won?

  “It’s our anniversary, and your order has been randomly chosen as today’s lucky winner,” he said, squealing like a kid on a roller coaster. He clapped his hands together, his excitement suddenly infectious.

  The surly girl’s mouth dropped open, and I couldn’t help the smug expression I offered her. Oh, the agony of it all. The anguish. The torture! In your face, girlfriend.

  No. No, I had to be the bigger person. It wasn’t her fault she was born a loser. I mouthed the word. It was infantile, but I did it anyway. She rolled her eyes again.

  I turned to the manager with an expectant smile. Maybe I’d won a cruise. Or a yacht. Or a small island. “I won?”

  “You won,” he said. Everyone around me started clapping. Except for Iggy, the homeless guy in the corner. He didn’t seem to care. But everyone else was super-excited for me. “You won a year’s supply of our famous sweet rolls.”

  I stilled. This … this couldn’t be real. A year’s supply? “No way!” I shouted. This was so much better than a yacht. Especially since I lived in a desert.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He hurried to the back, then reappeared with a booklet of some kind and a camera. After the surly girl took pictures in which I was fairly certain she cut off my head, I walked to the back room again to wait for my burrito and was congratulated by a few customers as they passed by my table. I felt like a celebrity. Like I’d won the lottery. Or an Academy Award.