Sixth Grave on the Edge

10

I used to be indecisive.

Now I’m not so sure.

—T-SHIRT

My reaction was instantaneous. Adrenaline spiked hard and fast. Sound ceased. Gravity let go. And time slowed to a stop. The blood pumping in my ears was replaced by a thick, odd feeling of pressure all around me like a vacuum.

I looked up. The sheet floated over my head as though it were rising instead of falling. I could just see Garrett as he stood at the window, holding the sheet, his expression severe. He’d cut his hand. Blood that had been dripping off his palms was headed back to where it came from as time not only slowed but reversed itself.

Amazement consumed me. I literally felt the shift of gravity. The pull of the earth beneath my feet became a soft, subtle push in the opposite direction.

I was flying!

Or, well, floating. But before I could get too happy and lose the precarious hold I had on the moment, I felt Reyes’s strength surround me like a force field, his hand wrap around my wrist as I took hold of the sheet.

“Ready?” he asked, but the moment he said it, time bounced back in place with a vengeance. It crashed into me in one giant wave. Sound rocketed through me and gravity staked its claim, jerking back toward the earth and almost wrenching the sheet out of my hand.

I slammed against the building and struggled to hold on as Garrett pulled.

“Hold on!” he said from between gritted teeth.

He didn’t need to tell me twice.

I tucked my errant hair behind my ears as Garrett walked up. “What the fuck was that?” he asked, raising my ire. “We had a guy waiting for him below. You didn’t have to go out the window.”

“I didn’t know you had a guy down there. Nor did I know Daniel over there was so paranoid that he disabled the fire escape. You might have shared your plan with me.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Except my fingernails hurt. How’s your hand?”

“It’ll heal. Especially when it’s holding a ten-thousand-dollar check. So, I guess it’s your turn: What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh, right, the Twelve. My sources say the Twelve are a group of imprisoned demons who escaped hell and are coming here to rip me apart.”

He stilled.

“No, wait, to rip me to shreds. I think that’s what he said.”

He leaned against the tailgate with me, testing the bandages on his hand. “Dr. von Holstein told me there were several mentions of the Twelve. I’ll ask him to look closer at that.”

“Sounds good. In the meantime, be really really really really careful.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Yeah, some men broke into my apartment and said I had to find this lady within forty-eight hours or my friend was dead.” I took out a photocopy Cookie made me of the picture. “The problem is, I have no idea which friend it is.”

“I didn’t think you had any friends.”

“I have you,” I said, petting his manly biceps. “You don’t happen to know her, do you?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. But I can look into it.”

“Thanks. And just so you know, I have no intention of finding this woman. It could get sticky.”

“Sticky works.” He put the folded picture in his back pocket. “So what happens when the Twelve get here?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, we all die a horrible, painful death. Or I could use the dagger you found. I figure I’ll just talk them all into throwing themselves on it, one at a time.”

“Your plans suck.”

“People keep telling me that.”

“I had a thought recently,” he said.

“Just one? Don’t strain your brain.”

“I think we should work together.”

Another partner. First Aunt Lil, now Swopes? Was there something going on I didn’t know about?

“You have a job,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but I want to broaden my horizons.”

Well, I already had Aunt Lil on board. We could be a threesome, I guessed. We could be the Terrific Trio. It could work.

“I’ll think about it. Do you have any references?” I asked.

“None that would really impress you.”

“Hmm, we can work around that.”

“We should grab a bite. Talk about it.”

A woman in a yellow halter and cutoffs walked around the corner, took one look at the plethora of cop cars and the ambulance, and turned back the way she’d come. I wondered if she was the girl sent by Crystal. “What about Muffy?” I asked Garrett.

“Who’s Muffy?”

“Daniel’s Yorkie.”

“Well, okay, but only one. I’m not that hungry.”

“She needs a home.”

“Don’t look at me,” he said, horrified I’d looked at him.

“Swopes, I can’t take her. I’m never home.”

“And I am?” When I glared, he said, “Fine, I think I know someone who will take her. But you’ll owe me. Again.”

I snorted. “I don’t owe you. Just because I got you shot a few times and sent to hell doesn’t mean I owe you.” He didn’t answer. We were at a stalemate. An impasse. A standoff. I caved first. It never took long. “Fine. What do you want?”

He looked at the activity around us as he spoke. “Do you remember that woman who kept coming over just to have sex? Marika?”

“Yeah, sure. You said she had a son. He might be yours.”

“Yeah, well, I want to know for sure.”

That should be easy enough. “You want me to ask her?”

“No. She put her husband down as the father. She’d never tell you the truth.”

“Ah, but that’s my specialty. I can tell when people are lying, remember?”

“Doesn’t mean she’ll give you the name of the father. And I don’t want her to know I’m looking into it. If someone starts asking around, she’ll get suspicious.”

“Okay, what, then?”

“I’ll let you know later,” he said as Javier walked up to us. “Until then, do you know any good Yorkie recipes?”

“That’s not even funny.”

“It’s a little funny. We should still grab a bite. Talk about our future together.”

“Don’t get any ideas about us, Swopes. I’m nigh affianced. And I only put out for coffee.”

“I read your status updates,” he said. “I know the score.”

I frowned. “I could cook you for dinner, instead. Roast you over an open pit of flames.”

One side of his mouth slid north. “Been there. Done that.”

I winced at the reminder.

After answering questions from the APD and taking a tongue-lashing from the owner of the apartment building, who was very particular about his fire escapes, I said my good-byes to Mr. Garrett Swopes and headed downtown, Mr. Andrulis and I driving until we came to an ever-familiar mental asylum. It wasn’t familiar because I’d spent time there or anything. This mental asylum had been abandoned in the ’50s and housed one of my favorite people on planet Earth, the Rocket Man.

The last time I saw him, I’d behaved very badly. I hadn’t been back since, mostly because I’d threatened to rip his little sister, who was five, to shreds if he didn’t answer my questions. Shame consumed me at the memory. I had driven here more than a few times in the last couple of weeks, and each time I couldn’t bring myself to go in.

I sat in front of the building for ten minutes before I realized I was not going in this time, either. Well, that and the fact that a car had followed me for several blocks and was now parked down the street doing the same thing I was doing. Sitting and waiting.

At first I thought it might be the guy from that morning with the camera, but it was a different vehicle and the driver had dark hair. I pulled out the telephoto lens I’d recently acquired from a guy selling telephoto lenses and Chia pets out of his trunk. I bought it so I could be a real PI and take photos from a distance instead of just on my phone. Way too many instances where I had to get really close for a money shot, only to be chased down the street by men trying to scam an insurance company for a neck injury that kept them from being able to walk at all. Those guys could book it. I took a few shots over my shoulder, trying not to scare the guy away. And/or convince him to come after me. Car chases were never as fun in real life as they looked in the movies.

When I scrolled through what I’d shot, mostly the inside of my Jeep, I picked up my phone and dialed the office.

“Davidson Investigations,” Cookie said. That sounded way more professional than my greeting, which often mentioned flavored lubricant.

“Yes, ma’am, can I get a pizza, thin crust, extra pepperoni?”

“No.”

Gah. Testy much? “I think someone is following me.”

“Is he in a white coat and carrying a butterfly net?”

Odd that she would say that while I was sitting in front of a mental asylum.

“No, but I know who it is. And I know who sent that cop to take pictures of me this morning.”

“A cop took pictures of you this morning?”

“Yes, I posed for the annual Daughters of the American Revolution dessert calendar. You’d be surprised at how good cupcake pasties look on me.”

“Doubt it.”

“You saucy minx. Actually, I think I’m being set up, and I just want it on the record that whatever it is they’re going to say I did, I didn’t.”

“Well, nobody can say life with you is boring.”

“Thank God.”

“Any idea who’s behind it?”

I glanced down at the camera screen again. “Sure do. He’s tall, wears a uniform, and seems to come out of nowhere.”

“Superman?”

“Captain Eckert.”

“The captain?” she asked with a soft gasp. “Why? What does he have to gain?”

“I’ll find out soon enough. I’ll be paying the captain a visit very soon. Until then, what do we have?”

“Okay, the woman in the picture is the sole witness to a murder by none other than Phillip Brinkman.”

“The car salesman?” I asked. “His commercials are ridiculous.”

“The word on the street is that the car dealership is a front and that he is really a drug kingpin.”

“Seriously? Isn’t there a TV show about that?”

“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.