Third Grave Dead Ahead

Chapter 5

I careened onto the interstate and set Misery to medium-high, my head still reeling. Reyes was nothing short of an enigma. So primal and ethereal. So fierce and, well, pissed. But damn those biceps.

My cell started singing out the chorus to “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” I flipped it open. “What’s up, Cookie?”

“So?”

“So?”

“So?”

“Cookie, seriously.”

“Charley Davidson,” she said in her best motherly voice, “don’t think for a minute you’re going to keep even the smallest details from me.”

I cracked up, then thought about Reyes again and my breath hitched in my chest. “Oh, my god, Cook, he’s so … he’s just so…”

“Stunning? Gorgeous? Magnetic?”

“Add really, really angry to that, and you’ve nailed him with a sledgehammer.”

She sucked in air through her teeth. “I was afraid of that. You have to tell me everything. Wait, where are you?”

“On the interstate, heading out of Santa Fe.”

“Well, stop.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but if I die, I’m coming back to haunt you.” It was only fair. I took the next exit and headed back toward town.

“Deal. From what I’ve found out, Dr. Feelgood has no priors, but he was arrested in college. A death threat, or something. The charges were dropped, so there’s nothing really juicy in the database.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so. I’m working on the hows and whys. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to get ahold of our missing wife’s sister to no avail, but I did get ahold of her brother in Santa Fe.”

“Ah, hence the near negligent homicide to get me back to town.”

“Exactly. I take it you survived?”

“As always.”

“Her brother’s name is Luther Dean.”

“I remember. Big, strong name.” It made me conjure a white supremacist. Or a sausage.

“Yeah, he sounded big and strong over the phone.”

“Wonderful.” This could be interesting. “Did he give you any info on the case?”

“Nope. Won’t talk to me.”

Uh-oh. “Will he talk to me?”

“Nope.”

“So, I’m going to see him because?”

“You’re a charmer. If anyone can get him to talk, it’s you.”

“Aw, thanks. And I repeat, if I die, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

She thought about that a moment. “You do have a tendency to almost get murdered in the most unlikely places.”

She was right. I did. I’d considered therapy, but the never-ending search for mental stability would cut into my couch potato time. That couch was not going to sprout roots itself.

“Wait,” she said, excited. “You don’t have to worry. He’s a contractor. You’re going to a construction site. Getting killed at a construction site with all those tools and equipment about is very likely, so surely nothing will happen.”

“Oh, good thinking.” She was so smart. “What’s the address?” I wrote down the address amidst honking horns and a couple of flying birds, then said, “And get me the name of the woman who pressed charges against the good doctor in college. I’d love to hear that one.”

“You got it, boss. So, everything’s okay, right?”

“Absolutely. The minute my knees stop shaking from being in the presence of God Reyes, I’ll be fine.”

“Man,” she said, her tone more nasally than usual, “I want a god. Just one. I’m not selfish.”

“Well, if mine kills me, he’s all yours.”

“You’re so sweet.” I could hear her nails clicking on the keyboard in the background.

“What are bestest friends for?”

“Oh, and that Mistress Marigold keeps emailing. She’s practically begging you to email her back.”

I pulled up to a stop sign and watched as a group of Deaf kids shuffled past, all of them laughing at a story one of the boys was telling. Something about a hearing counselor jumping on his desk to get away from a Chihuahua.

“It’s a good thing you set up that fake email address,” I said, chuckling at the boy’s story. “She’s a nut.”

Mistress Marigold hosted a website on angels and demons. I’d been doing research on it one night when Reyes was being tortured by the latter and I was trying to learn more about them. On a page buried deep within the site, I’d come across a peculiar line that read, If you’re the grim reaper, please contact me immediately.

It was so strange and we were so curious, Cookie emailed her the next day, asking what she wanted with the grim reaper. She’d written back with That’s between me and the grim reaper. Which, naturally, sent Cookie on a mission. She had Garrett email her saying he was the grim reaper, and Mistress Marigold had written back; this time she said, If you’re the grim reaper, I’m the son of Satan. It was enough to stun me a good thirty seconds. How did she know about Reyes? It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Next, Cookie had set up an alternate email address for me to use. So, in the interest of all things scientific and creepy, I emailed her, again asking what she wanted with the grim reaper. I’d fully expected another brush off. Instead, she wrote back with, I’ve been waiting a long time to hear from you.

I figured she was either clairvoyant or just a really good guesser. Either way, I decided to leave well enough alone.

“I think you should email her back,” Cookie said. “I feel sorry for her now. She seems a little desperate.”

“Really? What’d she say?”

“‘I’m a little desperate.’”

“Oh. Well, I don’t have time to play games at the moment. Speaking of which, we should play Scrabble tonight.”

“I’m not going to play games with you all night so you won’t fall asleep.”

“Chicken.”

“I’m not chicken.”

“Bock, bock.”

“Charley—”

“Bk, bk, bk—”

“Charley, really—”

“Bk-kaw!”

“I’m not scared you’ll beat me at Scrabble. I just want you to get some shut-eye.”

“Keep telling yourself that, chiquita.”

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the construction site of a sparkling new shopping center on the eastern outskirts of the city. Santa Fe was growing and had the traffic congestion to prove it. But it was still a pretty town, the only one in the country with a city ordinance requiring that all construction adhere to a Spanish Territorial or Pueblo style of architecture. As a result, the City Different was simply that, different, stunning, and one of my favorite places on earth.

I stepped out of Misery to examine the half-finished shopping center. It had adobe walls with terra-cotta tile and thick wooden archways.

“Can I help you?”

I looked over as a kid carrying a two-by-four walked past, unadulterated interest glistening in his eyes. Damn Danger and Will’s perky disposition. “Absolutely, I’m looking for Luther Dean.”

“Oh, sure.” He scanned the area, then pointed through the openings that would one day have glass panes. A man stood inside. “The duke’s in there.”

“The duke?” Impressive title. And the owner of it was impressive as well. He looked part professional football player and part brick wall with crisp sable hair peeking out from underneath his hard hat. “Can I go in?”

“Not without one of these.” He knocked on his hard hat while dropping his load, then jogged over to the portable office that sported a DEAN CONSTRUCTION sign. After rummaging through a plastic bin, he hurried back with a bright yellow hard hat. “Now you can,” he said, handing it over, a boyish grin flashing across his face.

“Thank you.” Normally I would have offered a wink or something equally flirty, but he looked too young, even for me. I didn’t want to get his pubescent hopes up.

“Not at all, ma’am.” He tipped his hard hat before hefting the board onto his shoulder again.

I stepped carefully over castoffs and debris and walked through the opening where the doors would someday stand. “Mr. Dean?”

A ginormous man stood studying a pile of architectural plans, his shoulders so wide, they actually looked uncomfortable. I knew bank vault doors less intimidating. He glanced up, his cerulean blue eyes only slightly curious. “Yes.”

“Hi.” I walked toward him and held out my hand, hoping he wouldn’t crush it. “My name is Charlotte Davidson. I’m a private investigator working on your sister’s case.”

His face darkened instantly, so I dropped my hand, my instincts for self-preservation being what they were.

“I’ve already told your assistant, I have nothing to say to you.”

The emotional weight behind his response — one full of anger, worry, and resentment — hit me head-on. The force of it stole the air from my lungs, and I had to take a moment to recover as he rolled up the plans and barked orders to a group of men in another room. They jumped to do his bidding. Literally.

“Mr. Dean, I assure you, I’m on your sister’s side.”

The scowl he hit me with could have convinced a seasoned assassin to empty his bladder. “What’s your name again?” The paper in his hand surrendered to the pressure he was placing on it and crumpled as he squeezed his fist closed.

“Jane,” I said, swallowing hard. “Jane Smith.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said it was Charlotte or Sherry or something.”

“It was. I very recently changed it.”

“Do you know what I do to people who mess with my family?”

“And I’m moving to South America.”

“I hurt them.”

“And possibly getting a sex-change operation. You’d never recognize me, you know, if you ever came looking.”

“Are we finished?”

Damn. Trick question. He turned and headed toward his office. I should’ve said yes, I really should’ve, but I couldn’t leave him with such a bad impression of me. A shaking mass of spineless jellylike stuff. Cookie was wrong. I was going to die at a construction site. I was so coming back to haunt her.

“Look, asshole,” I said. Out loud.

He stopped short of his destination and turned to gape at me. So did pretty much everyone else, but this was between me and the duke.

I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “I get it. You think I’m working for Dr. Feelgood, so you don’t trust me.”

He tilted his head, suddenly interested.

“I’m not. He hasn’t paid me a dime. I’m looking for your sister, and if you don’t want to help me, that’s on you. But if anyone can find her, it’s me.” I fished a card out of my jacket and pushed it inside his shirt pocket. The shirt pocket that covered a really fit pec. Amazed that I was still conscious, I added, “Call me if you’d like to know where she is.”

Then I turned and walked back to Misery before I blacked out.

“You said what?” Cookie asked, her voice rising an octave in three words flat.

I grinned and repositioned the phone as I downshifted, and said, “‘Look, asshole.’”

“Oh, my goodness. Wait, you said that to Luther Dean or are you saying that to me right now?”

She was funny. “I wanted to go to Rocket’s and check on Teresa Yost’s mortal status, but the Rottweiler was out.”

Rocket was a departed savant who lived in an abandoned mental asylum I had to break into just to see him. He knew the names of every person who’d ever been born and their status in the grand scheme of things. He could tell me if Teresa Yost was alive or if the doctor had already done the deed, a bit of information that would really help about now. But the biker gang who now owned the mental asylum also owned a slew of Rottweilers, and I preferred my limbs attached, thank you very much.

“Ugh, damn that Rottweiler. So do you think he’s married?”

“Well, I don’t know, Cookie, but I’m sure he’d prefer something in four legs.”

“Not the Rottweiler. Teresa’s brother. Oh, your uncle called. He said he needs you to unclog his drain or something. Have you already found a new profession?”

I snorted, then mentally repossessed that snort and replaced it with an epiphany. “You know what? That’s not a bad idea. How would you feel about us becoming plumbers? I have a nice crack.”

“I’ll take a rain check.”

“Are you sure? They have wrenches.”

“Positive. So, how are you doing?” she asked. I could tell by the tone in her voice she’d switched back to our earlier conversation about Reyes.

“I’m okay. That meeting left me with enough fodder to fuel a thousand lonely sleepless nights.”

“Damn it, Charley, will you never learn to document these things? I need visuals, flowcharts.”

“Hey, I’m going to Super Dog for a quick bite and to pass along a message from a dead guy to his girlfriend. You should come with me.”

“I can’t go with you.”

“Is it because of my questionable morals?”

“No, it’s because it’s three o’clock in the afternoon and I have to pick up Amber from school.”

“Oh, right. So the morals thing doesn’t bother you?”

She laughed and hung up.

I called Ubie, my hemorrhoidal, hypertensed uncle and a detective for the Albuquerque Police Department, wondering about his message. Thanks to him, I’d been hired by APD as a consultant and helped him with cases on a semi-regular basis. The pay wasn’t bad. The access to their databases was better.

“What is this about your drains?” I asked when he picked up. “’Cause that sounds almost incestuous.”

“Oh, that was code for call me ay-sap.”

“Really?” I squinted in thought. “You couldn’t just say call me ay-sap?”

“I suppose I could’ve. I was trying to be cool.”

Suppressing an inappropriate giggle, I said, “Uncle Bob, why don’t you just ask her out?”

“Who?”

“You know who.” He’d recently developed a crush on Cookie. Disturbing? Absolutely. On several levels. But he was a good guy. He deserved a nice girl. Unfortunately, he might just have to settle for Cookie.

“What are you working on?” he asked.

“I have a missing wife.”

“I didn’t even know you were married.”

“Smart-ass. What do you know about this Dr. Nathan Yost?” I asked as I scanned the signs along Central for a giant hot dog. I could never remember if Super Dog was by the adult toy store or the Doggie Style pet grooming boutique. I just remembered it was something sexual.

“I know his wife is missing,” he offered.

“That’s it?”

“In a nutshell.”

“Well, bummer, because he did it.”

“Holy shit, are you positive?”

“As a pregnancy test a month after prom.”

“This is big. Who are you working with on it?”

“Cookie.”

He blew out a heavy sigh. “Well, I’m about seventeen months behind on my paperwork, but I can look into this for you, see if we have anything on the guy.”

“Thanks, Ubie. Can you get a copy of the statements for me, as well?”

“Sure, why not.”

There it was, next to the law offices of Sexton and Hoare. “You should come eat with me at Super Dog.”

“No.”

“Is it because of my questionable morals?”

“No, it’s because I’d have heartburn all night if I ate a Super Dog this late in the day.”

“So the morals thing doesn’t bother you?”

“Not as much as my heartburn.”

That was good to know. At least the people in my life weren’t completely appalled by me.

I pulled up to Super Dog and walked inside, keeping a weather eye for a name tag with JENNY on it. As luck would have it, she was my cashier. I ordered my food first, knowing that once I gave Jenny the message from Ron, the departed clown I’d found in my living room that morning, I’d be bombarded with questions and my dreams of eating a chili dog would die a sad and lonely death.

In the interest of all things romantic, I decided not to repeat Ron’s message word for word. Jenny was a pretty girl with dark blond hair and supermodel eyebrows and probably deserved better than a quick bite me, the message from Ron.

After she handed over my chili dog and fries, I said, “Jenny, my name is Charlotte Davidson. I have a message for you from a friend.”

She refocused on me. Grief had moved in and set up shop, seeping into every nook and cranny of her being. “For me?” she asked, not the slightest bit interested.

I could hardly blame her. “Yes. This is going to sound really odd, but I just need you to work with me a minute.” She laced her long, thin fingers together and waited. “Ronald said that he loved you very much.”

She swallowed as my words sank in, slowly, methodically. Then her eyes filled with tears that pushed past her lashes and streamed down her cheeks like the floodgates of a damn opening, only her expression didn’t change. “You’re lying,” she said, her voice suddenly edged with bitterness. “He would never say that to me. Never.”

She turned and walked to the back room as I stood there dumbfounded. All in all, the experience rated somewhere between the Bedouin woman who crossed when I was twelve and wanted me to take care of her father’s camels and the wannabe porn star who’d refused to cross until I called him Dr. Love. So not too out there, but not too in there either. I walked around the counter and headed for the back room.

Someone yelled, “You can’t be back here!” just as I spotted the break room. Jenny sat huddled in a plastic chair, staring at a cat poster encouraging its readers to hang in there, her cheeks wet with grief.

“Jenny, I’m so sorry,” I said.

She wiped her face on a sleeve and looked up at me. “He would never have said that.”

Damn, I hated to be caught in a lie. I much preferred my lies to go unnoticed, like a movie star’s career who’d been arrested and sent to rehab. “He didn’t.” I lowered my head in shame and vowed to self-flagellate later.

Her mouth opened as if to ask me something, her expression suddenly filled with hope.

“He said, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, ‘Bite me.’”

Her face transformed just as slowly, just as methodically as before, and she threw her arms around me. “I knew it!” she yelled as a couple of coworkers came into the cramped room to see what was going on. “I knew that’s what he said.” She leaned back and tried to explain past the lump in her throat. “He couldn’t speak well at the end, and I could barely understand him, he was just so weak.” She stopped and leaned back for a better look at me. “Wait, you’re the light,” she said, realization dawning in her eyes.

“The light?” I asked, all innocence and myrrh.

“Of course. When he was … right before he died, he said he saw a light, only it was coming from a woman with brown hair, gold eyes, and—” She cast a quick glance at my feet. “—motorcycle boots.”

“Really?” I asked, stunned. “He saw me? I mean, he should’ve gone into the other light. You know, the main one, the direct route. I’m mostly reserved for those who’ve passed and didn’t go up immediately.” I glanced down at myself, annoyed that I couldn’t see what the departed saw. My brilliant, come-hither beacon. “I totally need to check my wattage.”

“He said bite me?” she asked, already over the fact that I was a light the departed went into. It would hit her later.

“Yes,” I said with a wary grin. “What did he mean?”

A smile that resembled those searchlights on cop cars flashed across her face. “He meant he wanted to marry me. It was kind of our code.” Her long fingers picked at a thread on her Super Dog shirt. “We never liked to argue in front of people, so we made up codes for everything, even the good stuff.”

“Ah,” I said, understanding her earlier outburst, “and ‘I love you very much’ was code for—?”

With a sheepish smile, she said, “I would rather suffer the sting of a thousand fire ants on my eyeballs than look at your face another minute.”

“Oh, wow, so you came up with a code for that, huh?”

She giggled, but soon the grief caught up with her again and her smile faltered. She caught it and pushed it back up for my benefit.

“No,” I told her, placing a hand on her shoulder, “you don’t have to pretend for me.” In an instant the tears reappeared and she hugged me again. We sat like that a long time as boys and men alike passed by the room to look in, mostly for a glimpse of the girl-on-girl action.