Second Grave on the Left (20 page)

The desperation in my voice brought him back to me. He blinked up and furrowed his brows in question.

“If there was ever anything in your life that you could not tell another living soul, Neil, this is it. I don’t know what Reyes would do if he found out that you knew. I mean—” I turned and paced away from him in thought. “—I don’t think he would hurt you. I really don’t, but there’s just no way to be certain. His behavior has been … erratic lately.”

“How is that possible?” he asked again.

“Well, he’s been under a lot of stress. And torture.”

“The son of Satan?”

“Are you listening to me?” I asked. Holy cow, talk about screwing the pooch. I screwed the whole litter. “You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” I’d already made the mistake of telling Cookie before I even considered the consequences. And now Neil? Why not just take out an ad in
The New York Times
? Put up a billboard on I-40? Have it tattooed on my ass?

“Charley,” Neil said, coming to his senses before me. “I understand. Not a word. I know what he can do, remember? I’m not about to incur his wrath. I promise you.”

With a huge sigh of relief, I sank back into the chair.

“But how is that possible?” he asked for the third time.

I offered a helpless shrug. “Even I don’t have all the details, Neil. I’m so sorry I told you. It’s not as bad as it sounds, really.”

“Bad?” he said, astonished. “How is that bad?”

“Ummm—” I gave it a moment’s thought. “—is that a trick question?”

“I happen to know he’s a good person, Charley. Just because his father is, well, broiled evil on toast. Do you know what true evil is?” he asked.

I shrugged my brows.

“When Americans talk of evil, they mean it in a malicious way, cruel and brutal. But that’s not what evil is. That’s simply our take on it.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Evil is simply the absence of good, the absence of God.”

I’d never thought of it that way. “So, you know that Reyes is not evil? That he’s a good person.”

“Of course.” He said it like I was a nincompoop. “But, seriously, he really is? You know, his son?”

“Yes,” I said, regret filling me. “He really is.”

“That is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Cool?”

Neil grinned. “Yes, cool.”

“I don’t understand. How is that cool?”

He reclined in his chair and steepled his fingers. “From the moment you arrived last week … No, I take that back. From the moment Reyes arrived in my life ten years ago, I’ve questioned things. I’ve asked myself if there really is a higher power. If heaven exists. If God exists. Part of that, I’ll admit, is seeing day after day the atrocities man is capable of. But then knowing, having a glimpse of this other world, this other reality and not knowing what it was, where it came from. But now…” He fixed an appreciative gaze on me. “In a word, you have reaffirmed my belief in God, Charley. I mean, think about it. If there’s a son of Satan, you can be damned certain there’s a Son of God.”

I shook my head. “You’re absolutely right. I’m just a little surprised at how well you’re taking all of this.”

“Think about it. Jesus loves me.”

Chuckling in relief, I leaned forward and whispered, “Jesus may love you, but I’m his favorite.”

He started to laugh, then paused. He studied me. For, like, a really long time.

“What?” I said, becoming self-conscious.

“If Farrow is the son of Satan, then what are you?”

“Uh-uh,” I said, wagging a finger. “You gave me one; I gave you one.”

He continued to study me, suddenly very curious, when Luann knocked. “Come in.”

She walked in and handed him some papers.

“This is it?” Neil said in astonishment as he settled a pair of glasses on his nose.

Luann had brought him the visitation records he’d asked for. “Yes, sir. He refuses all the others.”

“Thank you, Luann.” After she left, he said, “Farrow has only one person on his approved-visitors list. No attorney. No advocate. Just one guy.”

“Let me guess: Amador Sanchez.”

“That’s right. They were cellmates for four years.”

“They were friends in high school as well.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised. “How the hell did they end up cellmates? And remain cellmates for four years?”

How
did
Reyes manage that? He grew more intriguing by the heartbeat. “What did Luann mean, he refuses all the others?”

“Oh, the women, you know.” He waved the idea off with a hand as he studied the records. “Okay, Amador Sanchez visited him the week before he was shot. He seemed to visit fairly regularly.”

“What women?” I asked as he flipped through the pages.

“The women,” he said without looking up. “He doesn’t allow any of them to visit, so we probably don’t have any records. But God knows they try. At least one or two a month.” He glanced at the ceiling in thought. “Come to think of it, they usually fill out an application, try to see him regardless. We might still have copies. I’ll have to check.” He refocused on the papers.

“Yes, you said that. What women?” I asked again, trying to rein in the hot streak of jealousy that ripped through me.

After a long moment that had me plotting his assassination in various ways—I was up to seventeen—he glanced over the rim of his glasses. “All those women from the Web sites.” His tone successfully conveyed the fact that he suddenly found me idiotic.

I began leaning toward a slow death. With lots of pain. Perhaps number four. Or thirteen. “What Web sites?”

He laid the papers on the desk and stared, his expression incredulous. Which was just rude. “Aren’t you an investigator?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And you’ve been investigating Farrow for how long?”

“Hey, I just found out who he was about a week ago. Less if you go by Saturn’s calendar.”

“First, remind me never to hire you.”

I changed my mind. It was definitely going to be number twelve. I almost felt sorry for him.

“And second, do yourself a favor and Google him.”

“Google Reyes? Why?”

He laughed softly and shook his head. “Because you’re in for one hell of a surprise.”

I scooted forward in my chair. “Why? What are you talking about? Do women write him?” I’d heard of women who wrote to prisoners. Without conjuring any of the thousands of adjectives I used to describe those women, I asked, “Does he have pen pals?”

Neil pinched the bridge of his nose while fighting a grin. “Charley,” he said, looking back at me, “Reyes Farrow has fan clubs.”

Chapter Eleven

YOU CAN OBSERVE A LOT JUST BY WATCHING.

—YOGI BERRA

“You never just Googled him?”

“Well, you didn’t either,” Cookie said when I’d asked about Reyes. We were driving back to Santa Fe. “I just browsed official databases to find his arrest record and conviction information. And I went to the
News Journal’
s site for articles about the trial.”

“And you never just Googled him?”

“You didn’t either,” she repeated, distressed. She was typing away on her laptop.

“Fan clubs!” I said, more than slightly appalled. “He has fan clubs. And mountains of mail.”

A sharp pang of jealousy slashed through my chest, ripping a hole in it. Metaphorically. Hundreds of women, possibly thousands, knew more about Reyes Alexander Farrow than I did.

“Why would anyone create a fan club for an inmate?” Cookie asked.

I’d asked Neil that very thing. “Apparently, there are women out there who become obsessed with prisoners. They scour news articles and court documents until they find prisoners who are attractive, then they make it their mission in life to either prove that prisoner is innocent—as they all profess to be—or they just admire him from afar. Neil said it’s almost like a competition for some women.”

“That’s just so wrong.”

“I agree, but think about it. The pickin’s are pretty slim for these men. Maybe women do it because they know they’ll almost surely be accepted by the prisoner. I mean, who’s going to reject a woman sending you love letters or going to the prison to visit? What do these women have to lose?”

Cookie cast a worried glance my way. “You seem to be taking all this exceptionally well.”

“Not really,” I said, shaking my head. “I think I’m in shock. I mean, holy cow, they tell stories.”

Cookie seemed to be in a state of shock as well. She was surfing a site on her laptop as I drove to one Elaine Oake’s house. Her eyes were wide and slightly lovestruck. “And they have pictures.”

“And they tell stories. Wait, what? They have pictures?” I decided, in the interest of transportation safety, to pull to the side of the highway. I hit the hazard lights then looked over at Cookie’s screen. Holy mother of banana cream pie. They had pictures.

An hour later, we stood at the doorstep of the woman I could refer to only as Stalker Chick. I mean, really? Paying guards and other inmates to get information on Reyes? To steal from him? Not that I wouldn’t do the same, but I had good reason.

A tall, thin woman opened the door. Her blond hair was cut short and styled to look messy, but I doubted that a single hair on her head was not exactly where she wanted it to be.

“Hello, Ms. Oake?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice holding the slightest hint of annoyance.

“We’re here to ask you about Reyes Farrow.”

“I have hours posted.” She pointed to a sign over her doorbell. “Can you come back then?”

I fished my PI license out of my back pocket. “Actually, we’re on a case. We’d really like to talk to you now, if you have a minute.”

“Oh. Well … okay.” She led us inside her humble abode, if a multimillion-dollar house with something like twelve gazillion rooms could be considered humble. Which, how could it? “I was just getting so many visitors, I had to post hours. Never a free minute.” She led us to a small sitting room. “Shall I call for tea?”

Was she serious? Is that what rich people did? Called for tea? “No, thank you. I just had thirty-two ounces of sugar-free nirvana on ice.”

She brushed a knuckle under her nose as if my uncouth behavior was … well, uncouth. “So,” she said, recovering from my impudence, “what has that rascal done now?”

“Rascal?” Cookie asked.

“Reyes,” she said.

Jealousy caused my muscles to spasm with her casual mentioning of Reyes’s name. It was uncharacteristic of me. I rarely spasmed, and in my book, it was every woman for herself. May the best flirt win. I’d always assumed I didn’t have a jealous bone in my body. Apparently, when it came to Reyes, I had 206.

I tamped the emotion down with teeth gritted and fists balled. “Have you been in contact with him any time over the last month?”

She laughed. Apparently, peasants amused her. “You don’t know very much about Rey, do you?”

Rey? Could this get any worse, I thought as my eyelid twitched. “Not really,” I said with my teeth still clamped together, so it was kind of difficult.

When Elaine stood and walked to a door, Cookie placed a hand on mine and squeezed. Probably to remind me there’d be a witness should I murder the woman and bury her lifeless body under her azaleas. I didn’t even know azaleas could grow in New Mexico.

“Then maybe you should come with me.” She opened a set of adjoining doors that led into what could only be described as a Reyes Farrow museum.

I stood with a gasp as a huge mural of Reyes met my eyes, teased me, caressed me with a fiery gaze that left me weak kneed and breathless.

“I thought you might like this,” she said as I drifted out of my chair and walked aimlessly forward.

I floated into Reyes heaven, and the rest of the world fell away. The room was large with lighted display cases and framed pictures lining the walls.

“I was the first,” she said, pride swelling in her voice. “I discovered him even before he was convicted. All the other Web sites followed in my wake. They know nothing about him except what I tell them to know.”

Or what guards at the prison tell her to know. Neil informed me they had fired four guards over the years for selling information and pictures to this woman, all featuring Reyes Farrow. And from the looks of her house, I’d be willing to bet Elaine could have afforded a lot more. Most of the framed pictures were the same ones featured on the Web site, candid shots that guards had taken when Reyes wasn’t looking. I wondered what she’d paid them to risk their jobs. And knowing Reyes, their lives.

There were even a couple of grainy ones of him in the shower. And grainy or not, that boy was hot. I leaned in to study the steely curve of his ass, the fluid lines of his muscles.

“Those are a personal favorite of mine as well.”

I jumped at the sound of Elaine’s voice and continued on with my perusal, calculating the odds of my getting away with breaking and entering here later to steal those. In the display cases were different items that had supposedly belonged to Reyes. From prison uniforms, a comb, and an old watch to a few books and a couple of postcards he’d apparently received. I looked closer. There was no return address on either of the postcards. Drifting farther down the case, I noticed several handwritten pages splayed along one shelf. The writing was crisp and fluid and reportedly Reyes’s.

“He has gorgeous handwriting,” Elaine said, her tone a little smug. She seemed to be reveling in the fact that she’d floored me. “We’re still unraveling the mystery of Dutch.”

I froze. Did she just say Dutch? After a long moment, I recovered, straightened, and placed my best look of nonchalance on her. Thankfully, Cookie stood behind her and off to the side, so the woman couldn’t see the wide-eyed expression on her face.

“Dutch?” I asked.

“Yes.” She sauntered forward and pointed. “Look closely at the script.”

I bent back down and read.
Dutch.
Over and over. Every line, every word, was simply
Dutch
repeated again and again. So, what looked like a letter was actually my nickname en masse. The last page was a little different. It was an actual drawing, word art, again with the Dutch insignia. My heartbeats tumbled into each other, as if racing for a finish line.