Third Grave Dead Ahead (17 page)

“Second, I’m beginning to believe the man isn’t even dead.”

After staring out the window for a long moment, he said, “It’s possible. Not likely, certainly not probable, but possible. There are ways.”

“Like switching the dental records?” I asked.

He nodded.

“And the fact that Earl Walker’s girlfriend at the time was a dental assistant at the very office the authorities obtained those records from didn’t strike anyone as odd?”

I knew Ubie had been the lead detective on the case, so to say I was skating on thin ice would have been more than appropriate. And I sucked at ice skating.

His lips thinned under his thick mustache. “Are you helping him?”

“Yes.” There was no reason to lie. Uncle Bob wasn’t an idiot.

I felt a spike of adrenaline emanate from him when I answered, the surprise he felt, but I think he was more surprised that I was being honest. So he tried again. “Do you know where he is?”

“No.” When his brows slid together with a hint of doubt, I added, “That’s why he handcuffed me, to get a head start. He didn’t want to put me in that position.”

“And he hit you because?”

“I called his sister a doody head.”

He fixed an exasperated gaze on me.

“He’s very sensitive.”

“Charley—”

“He wanted it to look good, you know, for the cops.”

“Aw. Did you have anything to do with his escape?”

“Besides getting carjacked? No.”

“Are you going to fill in the details that you so conveniently left out for the sergeant on duty?”

“No.” I couldn’t tell him about Amador and Bianca or the super-spy plan they’d concocted to get him out of there.

“Do you think Cookie is up?”

I refrained from rolling my eyes and glanced over at Misery. Apparently, Amador had her delivered sometime during the night. Thoughtful of him.

Maybe the unholy union of Cookie and Uncle Bob wasn’t such a bad idea. They’d started flirting recently, and as much as it caused this burning sensation in my stomach, they were both healthy, responsible adults, capable of making their own bad decisions that resulted in years of couple’s therapy and, eventually, court fees.

It would be disturbing to watch, though. I could just pack up all my worldly possessions and live in Misery. The Jeep, not the emotion.

I glanced back at Uncle Bob, at his pathetically hopeful expression, and decided to negotiate. “You gonna get that tail off my ass?” I gestured toward the car parked across the street with a nod.

His face fell. “No. It’s good for your ass.”

“So is taking the stairs, but I take the elevator every chance I get.” When he shrugged, I added, “Cookie’s asleep,” right before exiting the vehicle.

11

Mistakes were made.

Others were blamed.

—T-SHIRT

Since I still had a couple more hours before we opened up shop, I decided to read some more of the research on my missing-wife case before hitting the showers. Uncle Bob had totally scored with the statements, but I mainly focused on Teresa Yost herself. Besides tons of volunteer work and sitting on a couple of boards, Teresa Yost had graduated magna cum laude from the University of New Mexico with a degree in linguistics. Which meant she was freaking smart. And she probably knew another language or two. She’d worked a lot with disabled kids and had been instrumental in starting a horse ranch that catered specifically to children in wheelchairs.

“And she didn’t deserve to die,” I said to Mr. Wong, who continued to stare into his corner.

Two hours later, I sat drinking coffee with a towel on my head, placating a very disappointed-that-I-hadn’t-called-her Cookie. “He was naked?”

“He was in the shower, so … yes.”

“And you didn’t get a picture?” She sighed in frustration.

“I was in handcuffs.”

“Did he … did you…?”

“No. Oddly enough, the actual act doesn’t seem to matter where he’s concerned. Just looking at him causes these sharp waves of ecstasy to flood my girl parts, so it’s almost the same thing.”

“That’s so unfair. I’m going on a killing spree.”

“Can I drop you somewhere?”

“No, I have to get Amber to school. At least let me help with Reyes’s case.”

“No.”

“Why not?” She frowned in disappointment. “I can research shit. It’s what I do.”

“I have names. I’ll look them up while you check into the good doctor’s finances.”

“Oh, well, okay. Isn’t he like a billionaire?”

I smiled. “That’s exactly what I want to know.”

After covering my black eye with enough concealer to make the late Tammy Faye Bakker proud, I trudged across the parking lot, my feet getting heavier with every step. This whole lack-of-sleep thing seemed to be wearing on me if the little girl following me with the knife was any indication. “Weren’t you a hood ornament yesterday?” I asked.

She didn’t look at me. Which was horridly rude. She wore a charcoal gray dress with black patent leather boots, an outfit that could have doubled as a Russian school uniform, and she had shoulder-length black hair. Her only accessory was the knife, which didn’t really match. Apparently accessorizing was not her thing.

I walked over to the tail parked across the street and knocked on the window. The guy in it jumped with a start. “I’m going to work now!” I yelled through the glass as he squinted at me. “Pay attention.”

He rubbed his eyes and waved. I recognized him as one of Garrett Swopes’s men.
Garrett Swopes,
I thought with a snort. What a freaking traitor. My uncle Bob says,
Follow Charley,
and he does it. Like, just does it. Like our friendship means nothing to him. Of course, it doesn’t, but still. Punk ass.

“Are you Charley Davidson?”

I turned to see a woman in a worn brown coat and penny loafers. Practical but hardly appealing. “Depends on who’s asking.”

She walked up to me, scanning the area as she went. She had long black hair that could’ve used a good brushing and huge sunglasses covering half her face. I recognized her from the Buick in the street yesterday morning. The same hair. The same sunglasses. The same sadness percolating beneath the surface. But her aura was warm, its light like the soft glow of a candle, as though afraid to shine too brightly.

“Ms. Davidson.” She held out her hand. “My name is Monica Dean. I’m Teresa Yost’s sister.”

“Ms. Dean.” I took her hand. All the emotions of a woman with a missing sister were present and accounted for. She was scared and grief-stricken and sick with worry. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I’m sorry.” She pushed her sunglasses up nervously. “My brother said not to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he appreciated my visit yesterday. Can you come in?” I gestured toward the back of Dad’s bar. The wind bit through my jacket, nipping at me like an elderly Chihuahua.

“Of course,” she said, pulling her coat tighter. “And my brother doesn’t know what to think of your visit. He was quite taken with you.”

“Really?” I started for the bar. “I got the feeling he wanted to put me in a choke hold and insist I say
uncle
repeatedly.”
That’s it! A professional wrestler!
“I’m so sorry about your sister,” I added, steering my thoughts back around. But seriously, I would rock as a wrestler. I’d have to get a tan, though. And maybe veiny muscles.

“Thank you.”

Health insurance would be good, too.

I turned on lights as we entered the back of Dad’s establishment, though the illuminated kitchen told me Sammy was already in prepping for the dinner crowd. My dad’s bar was a cross between an Irish pub and a Victorian brothel. The main room had a cathedral ceiling with dark woods and hundred-year-old ironwork that crested the walls like ancient crown molding. It spiraled around and lured the eye to the west wall, where a glorious wrought-iron elevator loomed tall and proud. The kind you see only in movies and very old hotels. The kind with all its mechanisms and pulleys open for its audience to enjoy. The kind that took from here to eternity to get its occupants to the second floor. Framed pictures, medals, and banners from various law enforcement events covered every available surface with the original mahogany bar to the right of us.

“Want some coffee?” I asked, gesturing for her to sit at one of the corner booths. Monica looked half-starved, her hands shaking with grief and fatigue. I figured if we sat down here, we could get Sammy to whip us up something. “I was just about to have breakfast if you’d like to join me.”

The back door crashed open, and a very unhappy man named Luther Dean stormed inside. “You can’t be serious,” he said, glaring at his sister.

She took a seat and blew out a long breath, expelling such a deep, abysmal sadness when she did so that I felt consumed by it. I filled my lungs to ease the weight and ducked behind the bar for coffee.

“I’ve done my research,” she said to her brother. “She’s very good at her job.”

He glanced over a massive shoulder toward me. “She doesn’t look very good at it. She has a black eye.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, feigning offense. He was funny.

“Luther, sit down.” Monica took off her sunglasses and offered him a glower of annoyance when he didn’t comply. “I told you, she can help us. So, either behave yourself or leave. It’s your decision.”

He jerked a chair out from a nearby table and sat down. “She called me an asshole.”

“You
are
an asshole.”

I grinned and brought over three coffee cups, realizing how much fun this conversation was going to be. Thirty minutes later, we were polishing off an amazing rendition of huevos rancheros with green chile enchiladas on the side. God I loved Sammy. I’d considered marrying him, but his wife got upset when I asked for his hand.

“What makes you so trustworthy?” Luther asked, his icy-blue glare particularly brutal. He took skeptic to a whole new level. “I mean, you’re working for Nathan. Why should we believe anything you have to say?”

“Actually, I’m not,” I said, hoping they’d believe anything I had so say, “and why don’t you trust your sister’s husband?” We had yet to actually talk about the case. I decided to lull them into a false sense of security, which would have gone over better had I not stolen the last bite off Luther’s plate. He was very touchy about his food.

Still, I could tell he was coming around. They exchanged glances.

With a sigh of resignation, Monica admitted, “No reason whatsoever.” She shrugged. “He’s perfect. The perfect husband. The perfect brother-in-law. He’s just…”

“Too perfect?” I offered.

“Exactly,” Luther said. “And there were things, instances, that just didn’t quite make sense.”

“Like?”

He glanced at his sister, getting her approval before explaining. “Teresa invited us out to eat one night a couple of months ago when Nathan was out of town, just the three of us.”

“She seemed concerned about something,” Monica said, and I could’ve sworn I felt a pang of guilt assault her. “She told us she took out a huge life insurance policy on both her and Nathan, and that if anything were to happen to her, anything at all, we would get it all.”

“So
she
took it out?” I asked. “Not Nathan?”

I felt it again. A quiver, a tremble of guilt emanating from Monica as she replied, “Exactly. I’m not even sure Nathan knows about it.”

“She wanted us to know where the policy was,” Luther added. “She made sure of it.”

Monica produced a key. “She even put us down as her beneficiaries on her bank account so we would have access to her safety deposit box where she kept it.”

“That does sound odd,” I said, fighting to ignore the bells going off in my head. Was she afraid of her husband? Did she think her life was in danger? “How big was the policy?”

“Two million dollars,” Luther said. “Each.”

“Holy mother of crap.” I was ever the wordsmith. “Is that even possible?”

“Apparently,” Monica said.

Luther crossed his arms over his chest. “The policy was his idea. It had to be. Why would Teresa take out such a big policy? He had her do it to make himself look good.”

“We don’t know that,” Monica said.

“Please.” He scooted back in his chair, irritated. “Everything that man does is to make himself look good. That’s what he’s all about. Looking good. Presenting the perfect picture for his hordes of fans.”

I had to agree with him, from what I’d seen so far anyway. “Anything else?” I asked.

“Nothing I can think of.” Monica wiped the wetness from her eyes, and that was when I noticed the odd coloring around them, the unnatural puffiness and the yellowish tint lining her mouth. The mystery of her sister’s whereabouts was overwhelming for her, the not knowing, and … the guilt. “She did mention that Nathan was spending more and more time at home with her, refusing to go to conferences and getting furious if he was called to the hospital in the evenings. I think she felt smothered.”

“Did she say that to you?”

“Not in so many words,” she said, shaking her head. “But she said he did strange things.”

“Like what?” Luther asked. “She never told me that.”

“Because she couldn’t.” Monica offered him a frown. “You fly off the handle for the most ridiculous reasons, we can’t tell you anything.”

Luther’s jaw muscles flexed in reaction, and I could feel guilt assault him as well, but his stemmed from shame. Monica’s was deeper and full of regret. And she said
we
.
We
can’t tell you anything.

He seemed to force himself to calm down, then asked, “What did she say?”

Monica appraised her coffee cup as she thought back. “She said he would do strange things like wake her up in the middle of the night, scaring her on purpose, and then just laugh. And one time he said her dog got run over by a car. She cried for two days. Then, out of the blue, he showed up with it. Said he’d been picked up by the pound. But she’d checked the pound. They never picked him up.” She looked at me and shrugged. “He just did odd stuff like that all the time.”