Third Grave Dead Ahead

Chapter 2

I took a quick shower, pulled my hair into a ragged ponytail, and dressed in a pair of comfortable jeans, a loose black sweater, and a pair of killer boots I got off a biker for a lap dance. He was pretty darned good, too, after I got past my aversion to back hair.

“I’m leaving the whole shebang in your hands, Mr. Wong!” I shouted as I gathered up my paraphernalia. Mr. Wong had come with the apartment and acted as part roommate and part creepy dead guy hovering in the corner. I’d never actually seen his face. It was difficult to see with his nose buried in the corner day after day, year after year. But his plain, gray clothing suggested he’d likely been an immigrant from the 1800s or even a Chinese prisoner of war. Either way, I liked him. I just wish I knew his real name. I called him Mr. Wong because he looked more like a Mr. Wong than a Mr. Zielinski. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Cookie had taken her daughter, Amber, to school then walked the thirty-something feet to work earlier. Our business was on the second floor of Calamity’s, my dad’s bar, which sat right in front of our apartment building. The short commute was nice and rarely involved rabid raccoons.

I strolled to the office, my thoughts wandering, as they always did, to Reyes Farrow. The moment I closed my eyes, he was there, and it seemed like neither of us had any control over that fact whatsoever.

I was smack-dab in the middle of reviewing our last encounter in my mind, my girl parts tingling at the mere thought of him, when a wave of sadness drew me out of my musings. As a reaper, I could feel emotion radiate off people, but normally the emotions of the everyday person didn’t interfere with my thoughts. I’d learned long ago to block them out, like white noise, unless I purposely wanted to read them, to study the aura of someone I was investigating. Today, however, the heart-wrenching emotions emanating from a car across the street caught my attention. Oddly, they seemed to be directed my way. I glanced over. An older-model Buick sat idling half-obscured by a delivery truck, and I could just make out a woman with dark hair and large sunglasses as she watched me cross the parking lot. The reflection of the early morning sun made it impossible to gather any specifics.

While I normally entered through the back entrance of the bar and took the interior set of stairs to my office, today I decided to go around to the front in hopes of a better look at her.

I was doing my best nonchalance, glancing to the side as much as the next person would, when the woman shifted into drive and took off. The sadness and fear she’d left in her wake saturated the air around me, and I couldn’t help but breathe it in.

I paused on the sidewalk and felt inside my pocket for a pen to write down her license plate number on my palm. Alas, I had no pen. And I’d already forgotten several of the six digits. There was an L, I think. And a 7. Damn my short-term memory.

Without giving it another thought, I hiked up the stairs to the office. The front door led directly into the reception area, fondly referred to as Cookie’s God Danged Office so Keep Your Dirty Feet off the Stinkin’ Furniture. Or CGDOSKYDFOTSF for short.

“Hey, hon,” she said without looking up from her computer.

I hoofed it to the coffeepot that resided in my own little slice of official heaven. The offices of Davidson Investigations were a tad dark and dated, but I had high hopes wood paneling would come back into style eventually. “The oddest thing just happened to me.”

“You remembered the night you lost your virginity?”

“I wish. There was a woman parked in the street watching me.”

“Hmmm,” she hmmed, only slightly interested.

“And she reeked of sadness. It just consumed her.”

Cookie looked up at last. “Do you know why?”

“No, she took off before I could talk to her.” I scooped enough coffee grinds into the filter to give it the taste and texture of unrefined motor oil.

“That is strange. You know your dad’s going to figure out you’re stealing his coffee. He was a detective for over twenty years.”

“See this?” I asked, showing her my pinkie between the doorways. “I have that man wound tight around this baby. So don’t sweat it, chiquita.”

“Don’t expect me to visit you in prison.” A tinkling bell sounded as the front door opened. “Can I help you?” Cookie asked as I walked into the reception area for a look-see.

“Yes, I need to talk to Charley Davidson.” A nice-looking man with light hair and pale blue eyes walked up. He wore a white doctor’s lab coat with a sky blue shirt and navy tie and had an expensive briefcase in one hand. With my super-sleuth powers of deduction, I decided he could be the very doctor Garrett had told me about.

“I’m Charley,” I said, but I didn’t smile in case I was wrong and he was really there to sell me magazine subscriptions. I didn’t want to encourage him.

He reached out his hand. “I’m Dr. Nathan Yost. I got your name from Garrett Swopes.” For a man with a missing wife, his innards were oddly panic-free. His emotions were in turmoil, just not the kind of turmoil one would expect from a man with a missing wife. A missing dog maybe. Or a missing eyebrow after a night of debauchery, but not a missing wife. Still, his hair was mussed and unkempt and his eyes were lined with fatigue and worry, so he fit all the grieving-husband criteria at first glance.

“Please, come in.” I showed him into my office. “The coffee’ll be ready in a minute, or I can offer you a bottled water,” I said after he sat down.

“No, nothing for me, but thank you very much.”

“Not at all.” I sat behind my desk. “Garrett told me you’d be coming in. Can you tell me what happened?”

He straightened his tie and glanced around at the artwork covering my walls. I had three paintings that my friend Pari had done. Two were very old school detective — the detectives female, naturally, with fedoras, trench coats, and smoking guns to go along with their sultry gazes. And the one right behind my desk was a little more goth, with a young girl washing blood from her sleeves. It was just enough of an abstract to make it difficult to see exactly what she was doing, an inside joke between Pari and me. Mostly because laundry day ranked right up there with paper cuts and stubbed toes.

“Absolutely,” he said after taking a deep breath. “My wife has been missing for a little over a week.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, fishing out a notepad and pen from my desk. “Can you explain what happened?”

“Of course.” His expression turned mournful. “My wife was out late with some friends, so I wasn’t worried when I woke up around midnight and she wasn’t home yet.”

“What day was this?” I asked, taking notes.

He raised his eyes and thought back. “Last Friday night. So, I woke up Saturday morning and she still wasn’t home.”

“And you tried her cell?”

“Yes, and then I called the friends she’d been out with.”

“And was her cell on?”

“Her cell?”

I paused and looked up at him. “Her cell phone, when you called it, was it on or did it go straight to voice mail?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, his brows sliding together. “Um, voice mail, I think. I was very upset by that point.”

Wrong answer. “Naturally. What time did she leave her friends?”

“Around two.”

“I’ll need their names and contact information.”

“Of course.” He combed through his briefcase and handed me a piece of paper from a leather portfolio he’d retrieved. “This is a list of most of her friends. The ones she was out with that night are starred.”

“Great, thank you. And what about family?”

“Her parents died a few years ago, but she has a sister here in Albuquerque and a brother in Santa Fe. He owns a construction company. You know”—he scooted closer to my desk—“they weren’t really close. It’s not something she liked to talk about, but I wanted you to know in case they seem uncooperative.”

Interesting. “I understand. Little of that in my family, too.” While my sister and I had recently reconnected after years of borderline apathy, my stepmother and I had barely spoken in decades. Since most things out of her mouth were rude and self-centered, I’d always considered our cool relationship a good thing.

I took down the names of her siblings and the places his wife had done volunteer work, just to make it all official looking. He’d stumbled a little with the verb tense, but I let it go for now.

“Has there been a ransom demand?”

“No, that’s what the FBI’s waiting for. I mean, that’s what this has to be about, right? I’m well off. They just want money.”

“I can’t say, but it’s certainly a motive. I think I have enough to get started. I just have one more question.” I fixed an Alex Trebek gaze on him, sympathetic with a trace of arrogance, mostly because Alex clearly has the answer to Final Jeopardy! ahead of time. Kind of like me now. “Sometimes, we have a feeling, Dr. Yost, a gut instinct. Do you ever get those?”

Pain flashed across his face and he lowered his head. “Yes, I do.”

“Do you have one now? Do you feel like your wife is still out there, waiting for you to find her?”

With his stare still locked on the floor, he shook his head. “I would like to believe she is, but I just don’t know anymore.”

Wrong answer again. He would totally suck at Final Jeopardy! The slip in verb tense, the fact that he didn’t know if his wife’s phone had been on or not — had he actually been looking for her, he would have known — and the fact that he hadn’t used his wife’s name throughout the entire conversation all added up to a wealthy doctor with blood on his hands. The omission of his wife’s name meant that he no longer saw her as a living, breathing person. While that didn’t necessarily mean Mrs. Yost was dead, it was a strong indicator. Either that or he was purposely trying not to see her as a person, trying to put her out of his mind.

But the final nail was the fact that people with missing spouses or children clutched on to the belief that their loved ones were still alive with every ounce of strength they could squeeze out of their bodies, especially after only a week. Sometimes even seeing a loved one’s remains didn’t help. They simply couldn’t let go. But someone who had killed his spouse would never know to cling on to that hope, no matter how false it might be. Which meant Mrs. Yost was most likely dead. But I wasn’t about to tip him off to the fact I knew he was as guilty as sin on Sunday, just in case I was wrong. If she were alive, I’d need time to find her before he finished the job.

“I understand,” I said. “But I want you to hold on to the belief that she’s okay, Dr. Yost.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with fabricated grief. “So, you’ll take the case?” he asked, his face brightening. After all, a grieving husband doing anything possible to find his missing wife would look less suspicious.

“Well, I have to be honest, Dr. Yost, with the FBI already on it, I’m not sure what more I can do.”

“But, you can do something, right? I can write you a check right now if it’s about the money.” He pulled out a checkbook from the portfolio and patted his shirt pocket for a pen.

“No, it’s not about the money,” I said, shaking my head. “I just don’t want to take yours if there’s nothing I can do.”

He nodded in understanding.

“Let me look into this for a couple of days. If I think I can be of any help to your wife, I’ll give you a call.”

“All right,” he said, a spark of hope resurfacing. “So, you’ll call me?”

“Absolutely.”

I led him to the door and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I promise, I’ll do everything I can for her.”

A sad smile slid across his face. “I’ll pay anything.”

I saw the good doctor out, waited a hot second, then turned to Cookie with a roll of my eyes. “That man is as guilty as my accountant.”

Cookie gasped. “He’s guilty? He doesn’t look guilty.”

“Neither does my accountant,” I said, sifting through the papers on her desk.

She reached across and slapped my hand. “What’s your accountant guilty of?”

I sucked on the back of my hand before answering. “Fudging numbers.”

“Your accountant fudges numbers?”

“Why else would I pay someone to do my taxes? Anywho”—I hitched a thumb over my shoulder—“guilty. And we have another missing wife. They must be in season.”

We’d just solved a missing wife case a couple of weeks ago. In the process, I was kidnapped, tortured, shot at, and I came pretty darned close to getting Garrett, Cookie, and our client killed. Not a bad week, if I did say so myself.

“So, he’s guilty. Does that mean his wife is dead?”

I knew the statistics, and there was about a 95 percent chance of a resounding yes, but I refused to work under that assumption. “That part’s a little fuzzy, but this guy is good. He only let his verb tense slip twice, letting me know he believes she’s already dead. And he never once said her name.”

“That’s not good,” Cookie said, her face lined with worry.

“If I hadn’t felt the guilt radiating out of every pore in his body, I would’ve been completely fooled.”

“I was fooled.”

With an appreciative grin, I said, “You’re always fooled. You always think the best of people. That’s why we get along so well. You can’t see past my charm and stunning beauty to the real me.”

“Oh, no, I see the real you. I just feel sorry for the mentally challenged. I think you guys deserve just as much of a chance at a normal life as the next guy.”

“That’s so sweet,” I said like a cheerleader on meth.

She shrugged. “I try to be a positive influence on the less fortunate.”

Then a thought occurred to me. “Crap.”

“What?”

“I just realized something.”

“Did you forget to put on underwear again?”

I glanced at her point-blank. “Since the good doctor is guilty, he’ll probably try to kill me soon. You might want to take precautions.”

“Got it. Where should we start?”

“A Kevlar vest, maybe. Pepper spray at the very least.”

“I meant on the case.” Cookie looked past me into my office. “Oh, hi, Mr. Davidson.”

I turned as Dad walked in. He’d come up from the bar by way of the inside stairs, which was fine, since he owned it and all. His tall, thin frame seemed to sag just a bit. His blond hair looked barely combed, and his bloodshot eyes were lined with a purplish hue. And not a pretty purple either. It was that dark grayish purple that depressed people wear.

Things hadn’t quite been the same between us since he tried to have me murdered a while back. One of his collars from his former life as a detective had been released from prison and decided to get even with Dad by going after his family. So, by deftly placing a target on my back to save my sister and stepmother from the guy’s dastardly plan, he’d almost gotten me killed. That part wasn’t the problem. The problem lay in the fact that, believing they would catch the guy before any harm could be done, he neglected to tell me that he’d sent a killer my way. Thus leaving me vulnerable. He’d put Garrett Swopes on my tail, which would normally have been enough protection for the president making an anti-gun speech at the NRA, but the new guy Garrett had assigned to me decided to go for coffee right when the parolee decided to go on a killing spree. And I had a nasty scar across my chest to prove it. Or I would have had I not healed so fast. A grim reaper thing, apparently.

Those kinds of family indiscretions were hard to get past. Nevertheless, I was willing to let bygones be bygones, but the guilt that wafted off him like bargain-brand cologne acted as a constant reminder and seemed to keep him just out of arm’s reach. He seemed unable to forgive himself. And that guilt was taking its toll, as guilt is wont to do.

So I couldn’t tell if the powerful emotion pouring out of him now was a by-product of that incident or if this was something new and improved with no preservatives, fillers, or artificial colors. He was definitely frowning. Maybe he had heartburn. More likely, he’d heard the pepper spray comment.

“Hey, Dad.” I bounced up and kissed him on his grumpy bear cheek.

“Hon, can I talk to you?”

“Abso-freaking-lutely. I’ll be right back,” I said to Cookie.

Dad nodded to her, then closed the door between our offices, not that it would help. That door made cardstock look indestructible.

“Is this about the coffee?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

“Coffee?”

“Oh”—whew—“um, want a cup?”

“No, you go ahead.”

I made a quick cup of contraband coffee, then sat behind my desk as he folded himself into the chair across from me. “What’s up?” I asked.

His gaze flitted toward me, paused, then veered off again, never quite touching mine. Not a good sign.

With a heavy sigh, he said what was on his mind in all its psychotic glory. “I want you to quit the investigations business.”

Though his statement was only slightly less welcome than chlamydia, I had to give him kudos for using the direct approach. For a former detective who’d retired with honors, he could be the most evasive man in my immediate gene pool, so this was a nice change.

But give up my business? The same business I’d built from the ground up with my own two hands and designer Louis Vuittons? The same business for which I’d sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears? Well, maybe not sweat and tears, but there was blood. Lots of blood.

Give it up? Not likely. Besides, what else would I do? I totally should’ve gone to Hogwarts when I had the chance.

I shifted in my chair as Dad waited for a response. He seemed determined, his resolve unwavering. This would take tact. Prudence. Possibly Milk Duds.

“Are you psychotic?” I asked, realizing my plan to charm and bribe him if need be flew out the window the minute I opened my mouth.

“Charley—”

“Dad, no. I can’t believe you’re even asking this of me.”

“I’m not asking.” His sharp tone brought me up short, and all the huffing and puffing that had built beneath the surface slammed into me, knocking my breath away. Was he serious? “You can tend bar for me full-time until you find something else.”

Apparently.

“Unless, of course, you want to stay on. I could use someone to do my books, keep inventory, and do the ordering.”

What the hell?

“But I’ll understand if you don’t want to. I can help you get on somewhere else. Or you could go back to school, get your master’s.” He looked hopeful. “I’ll pay for it. Every cent.”

“Dad—”

“Noni Bachicha is looking for a new office manager.”

“Dad, re—”

“He’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

“Dad, stop.” I bolted out of my chair to get his attention. When I had it, I placed both my palms on the desk, leaned forward, and said as nicely as I could, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” I threw my hands into the air, flabbergasted. “For one thing, this isn’t just about me. I have employees.”

“You have Cookie.”

“Exactly, and I hire other investigators when the situation warrants, as well.”

“Cookie can get a job anywhere. She’s overqualified and you know it.”

He was right. I didn’t pay her nearly what she was worth, but she liked it here. And I liked her here. “And I have a case. I can’t just pack up and call it a day.”

“You didn’t accept his money. I heard you. You don’t have a case.”

“There’s a woman missing.”

He stood as well. “And that man did it,” he said, pointing toward the front door. “Just tell your uncle Bob and stay out of it.”

I let the frustration I felt slip past my lips. “I have resources they don’t. You know that better than anyone. I can help.”

“Yes, by passing along anything you get to your uncle.” He leaned forward. “And staying out of it.”

“I can’t do that.”

His shoulders deflated, anger and regret churning inside him. “Will you please just think about it?”

I stood dumbfounded by the whole idea. My own father asking me to give up my livelihood. My calling. I should’ve known something was up when he tried to have me killed.

He turned to leave, so I cornered the desk and clutched his arm much more desperately than I’d have liked. “Dad, what brought this on?”

“You can’t guess?” He seemed surprised that I’d asked.

I fought to pinpoint his exact meaning. This was my dad. My best friend growing up. The only person I could turn to, who believed me, in what I could do, without looking at me like I was a sideshow freak. “Dad, why?” I tried to squelch the hurt in my voice. It didn’t work.

“Because,” he said, his voice harsh, “I can no longer sit idly by and watch as you’re beaten, kidnapped, shot at … hell, you name it, and it’s happened since you started this business.” He raised his hands, indicating my office — his second floor — as though the building were somehow at fault.

I stepped back and plopped back into my chair. “Dad, I’ve been solving crimes since I was five, remember? For you.”

“But I never put you in the thick of things. I kept you out of it.”

I couldn’t help the harsh bark of laughter that escaped me. Of all the asinine things to say. “Two weeks ago, Dad. Or have you already forgotten the target you painted on my back?” It was a cheap shot, but so was his coming in here and basically demanding I quit my job.

The guilt that seemed to swallow him whole bit into my resolve. I fought it. No matter what his intentions had been when that ex-con came after us, he’d handled it poorly, and now he was taking it out on me.

“Fine,” he said, his voice soft, “I deserve that, but what about the others? The time that angry husband came after you with a gun. The time those men kidnapped you and beat you to a pulp before Swopes showed up. The time that kid hit you and sent you crashing through the thirty-foot roof of a warehouse.”

“Dad—”

“I could go on. For quite a while, in fact.”

I knew he could, but he didn’t understand. Those were all very explainable. I lowered my head, feeling oddly like a pouting child, amazed that my father could make me feel so small. Amazed that he would. “So, your answer is to ask me to give up everything I’ve worked for?”

He exhaled slowly. “Yes, I guess it is,” he said as he turned and started for the door. “And stop taking my coffee.”

“Do you really believe my leaving this business will alleviate your guilt?”

He didn’t even slow his stride, but I’d stung him. I felt it in one quick burst before he disappeared around the corner.

After stewing a few minutes — only partly because of the coffee thing — I gathered myself up and walked back into Cookie’s office.

“We’re so busted. He knows about the coffee.”

“He’s wrong,” she said without looking up from her computer, almost as though her feelings were hurt.

“No, I’ve really been taking his coffee.” I sat in the chair across from her.

“I’m not overqualified.”

“Yes, hon, you are,” I said, hating that whole honesty-is-the-best-policy business.

She stopped typing and focused on me. “No. I love this job. Nobody does what we do. Nobody saves lives like we do. How could anyone ask for more?” Her passion surprised me. I’d never realized how she felt about what we did.

I forced a smile across my face. “He’s just upset. He’ll calm down. Well, maybe not about the coffee.”

Cookie thought a moment, then said, “Maybe … maybe if you told him.”

“Told him what?”

“I mean, he knows you can see the departed, Charley. He would understand. Really he would. Even your sister knows you’re the grim reaper.”

I shook my head. “I can’t tell him something like that. What would it to do him? To know that his daughter was born the grim reaper?” The death-incarnate gig had such a bad rap.

“Give me your hand.”

I glanced down at my hands, then eyed her warily. “Did you get into palm reading again? You know how I feel about that stuff.”

She chuckled. “I’m not going to read your palm. Give me your hand.”

I did, reluctantly.

She took it into both of hers and leaned toward me. “If Amber were capable of what you’re capable of, I would be so proud of her. I would love and support her no matter how creepy her job title.”

“But you aren’t like my dad.”

“I disagree.” She squeezed lovingly. “Your dad has always supported you. All of this negativity, this pent-up aggression and self-loathing—”

“I hardly loathe myself. Have you seen my ass?”

“—all of it is because of your stepmother, the way she’s treated you. Not your father.”

“My stepmother is a bitch,” I said, semi-agreeing. “But I don’t know if I can tell Dad. Not that. Not the grim reaper thing.” I pulled my hand back.

She let me. “I just think it might make him feel better about all of this, if he knew you had more on your side than just your ability to talk to the departed.”

“Maybe.”

“So, seriously, your accountant is crooked?”

“As a do-it-yourself haircut,” I said, grateful for the change in subject. “It took me forever to find an accountant with flexible morals.” I added a double wink to get my meaning across. “Apparently there’s this whole code-of-ethics thing they have to get past.”

My cell rang. I fished it out of my front pocket and checked the caller ID. It was Neil Gossett, a friend I’d gone to high school with who was now a deputy warden at the prison in Santa Fe.

“Hello?” I said, because Charley’s House of Pasties seemed wrong.

“Reyes wants to talk.”