Second Grave on the Left (7 page)

I glanced down to the top of a bookshelf housed underneath his montage of humorous family moments. He’d set out several photographs of me, each one featuring a dark shadow somewhere in the background, each one smudged with a fingerprint in that exact same spot. And I couldn’t help but wonder what Dad was doing. Well, that and what the dark shadow meant, ’cause even I didn’t know that one. Was it a by-product of grim reaperism? Or maybe, just maybe, it was Reyes, his dark robe almost visible, almost capturable. The thought intrigued me. Growing up, I’d seen him only a handful of times. Had he been there more often? Watching over me? Protecting me?

*   *   *

When I arrived at my office, sure enough, two men in crisp navy suits sat waiting. They stood, each offering a hand.

“Ms. Davidson,” one said. He showed his ID then tucked it away inside his jacket. Just like on TV. It was wicked cool, and I realized I needed a jacket with an inside pocket if I were ever to be taken seriously. I usually kept my laminated PI license in the back pocket of my jeans, where it got bent and crinkled and thoroughly mutilated.

The other agent did the same, taking my hand in one of his and flashing his ID with the other simultaneously. They were very coordinated. And they looked like brothers. Though one had a few years on the other, both sported light blond crews and transparent blue eyes that, in any other situation, wouldn’t have been nearly so creepy as I was finding it.

“I’m Agent Foster,” the first one said, “and this is Special Agent Powers. We’re investigating the disappearance of Mimi Jacobs.”

At the mention of Mimi’s name, Cookie knocked over a pencil cup. That wasn’t so bad until she tried to grab it and sideswiped a lamp in the process. While pencils and other writing paraphernalia went flying, the lamp fell halfway to the floor, stopping to crash against the front of her desk when she grabbed the cord. Reacting to the sound, she pulled too hard, and the lamp ricocheted back up, crashing into the back of her computer monitor and knocking off the ceramic wiener dog Amber had given her for Christmas.

Subtle.

After a five-minute trailer of
The Young and the Accident Prone
—one that would give me the giggles for months to come—I turned back to our guests. “Would you like to step into my office?”

“Certainly,” Agent Foster said, eyeing Cookie like she needed to be locked up.

As I led the way, I flashed her my best incredulous look. She lowered her eyes. Thankfully, the wiener dog landed in the trash can atop a cushion of papers and didn’t break. She fished it out, keeping her gaze averted.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of a Mimi Jacobs,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee as they took a seat in front of my desk. Cookie was excellent at keeping the coffee fresh and the hugs warm. Or maybe it was the coffee warm and the hugs fresh. Either way, it was a win–win.

“Are you sure?” Foster asked. He seemed like the young cocky type. I wasn’t particularly fond of the young cocky type, but I was trying really hard to get past my first impression. “She’s been missing for almost a week, and a notepad with your name and number scribbled on it was the only thing on her desk when she disappeared.”

She must have written my name and number down when she talked to Cookie. I turned back to them, stirring my coffee in doe-eyed innocence. “If Mimi Jacobs has been missing for almost a week, why are you just now coming to me?”

The older one, Powers, chafed, probably because I’d answered a question with a question. He was clearly used to getting answers with his questions. Silly rabbit. “We didn’t think much of the note until we realized you were a private investigator. We thought she might have hired you.”

“Hired me for what?” I asked, fishing.

He shifted in his chair. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“So, she wasn’t in trouble? Maybe with the company she works for?”

The men glanced at each other. In any other situation, I would have shouted eureka. Internally, anyway. But I felt as though I had just handed them the perfect scapegoat. They knew more and were not about to tell me. “We’ve considered that, Ms. Davidson, but we would appreciate it if that information were kept between us.”

So, not the company. One possibility down, twenty-seven thousand to go.

Apparently satisfied, they both stood. Foster handed me a business card. “We need to insist that you contact us if she tries to get in touch with you.” His tone held the slightest hint of warning. I tried not to giggle.

“Absolutely,” I said, leading them back out. I stopped before opening the door that separated Cookie’s office and mine. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, and you have to leave now.”

Foster cleared his throat uncomfortably when I hesitated a moment more. “Right, okay. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

As they stood waiting behind me, I turned the knob slowly, jiggled it a little, then opened the door. Cookie was typing away at her computer. If I knew her, she’d been listening in on our conversation through the speakerphone.

“Ms. Davidson,” Foster said, tipping an invisible hat as they walked past.

After the agents left, Cookie turned an exasperated expression on me. “Jiggling the knob? That was subtle.”

“Oh, yeah, grace. Could you have knocked anything else over?”

She cringed at the reminder. “Do you think they suspected anything?”

So many possibilities came to mind:
Duh. Ya think? Only if they weren’t complete idiots.
“Yes,” I said instead, the lack of inflection in my voice insinuating all of the above.

“But, shouldn’t we be working with them instead of against them?” she asked.

“Not at this precise moment in time.”

“Why not?”

“Mostly ’cause they’re not FBI agents.”

She sucked in a soft breath. “How do you know?”

“Really?” I asked. The last thing I wanted to explain was how I could tell when someone was lying. For the thousandth time.

“Right,” she said, shaking her head, “sorry.” Then she gasped. “You knew they weren’t real FBI agents?”

“I had my suspicions.”

“And you led them into your office anyway? Alone?”

“My suspicions don’t always pan out.”

She thought about that a moment and calmed. “True. Remember that time you tackled the mailman and—”

I held up a hand to stop her. Some things were just better left unsaid. “Cancel looking into the business stuff,” I said, thinking out loud. “I’d bet my virtual farm that’s a dead end. Concentrate on finding a connection between Mimi and Janelle York.”

“Besides the fact that they went to high school together?” she asked.

“No. Let’s start there. Dig into both their backgrounds, see if anything stands out.”

Just then, Uncle Bob walked into the office. Or, well, stormed into the office. He was always so stressed. It was probably time for us to have
the talk.
He needed a girlfriend before he stroked. Or maybe a blowup doll.

“If you’re going to be a grumpy bear,” I said, pointing to the door, “you can just leave the same way you came in, Mr. Man.” I twirled my finger in circles, motioning for him to do an about-face, make like a sheep, and get the flock outta there.

He stopped short, eyeing me with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “I’m not grumpy.” He sounded offended. It was funny. “I just want to know what you’ve gotten yourself into now.”

It was my turn to be offended. “What?” I asked. “Why I never—”

“No time for your theatrics,” he said, shaking a finger. That’d teach me. “How do you know Warren Jacobs?”

What the heck? Word traveled fast in the crime-fighting world. “I just met him this morning. Why?”

“Because he’s asking for you. Not only is his wife missing, but a car dealer he stalked and threatened to kill was found dead last night. Call me crazy, but I think there might be a connection.”

Son of a bitch,
I thought with a heavy sigh. “Instead of plain old Crazy, can I call you Crazy Bob?”

“No.”

“CB for short?” When I only got a glare, I asked, “Then can I see him?”

“He’s being questioned right now and he’ll probably lawyer up any second. What’s going on?”

Cookie and I glanced at each other then spilled our guts like frogs in biology lab.

We told Uncle Bob everything, even the writing-on-the-wall thing. He took out his phone and ordered one of his minions to check out the diner. “You should have told me,” he said after hanging up, his tone scolding.

“Like I’ve had a chance. But since we’re on the subject, there are two men posing as FBI agents to get to her. And they want her bad.”

Alarmed, Uncle Bob—or Ubie as I liked to call him, though rarely to his face—took down their description. “This is serious stuff,” he said.

“Tell me about it. We have to find Mimi before they do.”

“I’ll get a hold of the local feds and let them know they have a couple of impersonators. But you should have called me when this whole thing started.”

“Well, I didn’t think I would need to, since you’re having me tailed and all.”

His jaw clamped down, totally busted. With a heavy sigh, he stepped closer, towering over me, and lifted my chin gently. “Reyes Farrow is a convicted murderer, Charley. This is for your own protection. If he contacts you, will you please let me know?”

“Will you call off the tail?” I asked in turn. When he hesitated then shook his head, I added, “Then may the best detective win.”

I strode out the door, realizing what a ridiculous statement that was, as Uncle Bob, a veteran detective for the Albuquerque Police Department, was the ace of spades when it came to investigations. I was kind of like a three of hearts.

As I walked down the block to my friend Pari’s tattoo parlor, I scanned the street for the shadow Ubie’d assigned to me, with no luck. It had to be someone good. Uncle Bob wouldn’t send a rookie to watch over me.

I stopped in front of Pari’s shop, not because I particularly needed a tattoo, but because Pari could see auras. I could see auras as well, but I figured maybe I’d missed something over the years. How could I see auras and dead people and sons of Satan and yet in all my days never see a demon? Heck, I didn’t even know demons existed until Reyes told me, much less that they would be fighting tooth and nail to get to me. To get through me. My breath caught as another realization dawned. If demons existed, heck, if Satan himself existed, then angels surely existed as well. Seriously, how could I be so out of the loop?

Hopefully, Pari knew something I didn’t, other than the correct timing for a 1970 Plymouth Duster with a supercharged 440 big block. I didn’t even know cars had timing issues—speaking of which, it was still early in tattoo parlor time, so I was surprised to see Pari’s front door open. I stepped inside.

“I need some light,” I heard her call out from the back.

“On it,” came a male voice.

Then I heard scrambling in the back room as I walked up behind Pari. She was bent under a refurbished dentist’s chair, electrical wires in a heap at her knees.

“Thanks,” she said, quietly deciphering the wires.

“What?” the guy in the back room called out.

Startled, Pari jolted upright and hit her head on the seat of the chair before turning back to me. “Charley, damn it,” she said, raising one hand to shield her eyes and the other to rub the sting from her head. “You can’t just walk up behind me. You’re like one of those floodlights shining from a cop car in the middle of the night.”

I chuckled as she fumbled for her sunglasses. “You said you needed light.”

Pari was a graphic designer who’d turned to body art to keep the bill collectors at bay. Luckily, she’d found her calling, and she did the profession proud with full sleeves of sleek lines, tiger lilies and fleur-de-lis. And a couple of skulls thrown in to impress the clientele.

She’d designed the grim reaper I now sported on my left shoulder blade. It was a tiny being with huge, innocent eyes and a fluid robe that looked like smoke. How she managed that with tattoo ink was beyond me.

She slipped her shades on, then looked back at me with a sigh. “I said I needed light, not a starburst. I swear you’re going to permanently blind me one day.” As I said, Pari could see auras; mine was just really bright.

She grabbed a bottle of water off the counter and sat on the broken dentist’s chair, propping her hiking boots onto two crates on either side of her and resting her elbows on her knees. I grabbed a water out of a small fridge and turned back to her, struggling not to crack up at her indelicate position.

“So, what’s up, Reaper?”

“I can’t find the flashlight!” the guy yelled from the back room.

“Never mind,” she called back before grinning at me. “All beauty, no brains, that one.”

I nodded. She liked beauty. Who didn’t?

“Okay, so you’re pretending to be all cool and collected,” she said, studying me with a practiced eye, “but you’re about as serene as a chicken on the chopping block. What’s going on?”

Dang, she was good. I decided to get right to the point. “Have you ever seen a demon?”

Her breathing slowed as she absorbed my question. “You mean like a hellfire and brimstone demon?”

“Yes.”

“Like a minion of hell demon?”

“Yes,” I said again.

“Like—”

“Yes,” I repeated for the third time. The subject made my stomach queasy. And the thought of one torturing Reyes … not that the little shit didn’t deserve to be tortured just a tad, but still.

“So, they’re real?”

“I’m going to take that as a no,” I said, my hopes evaporating. “It’s just, I think I have a few after me, and I was hoping you might know something I didn’t.”

“Damn.” She glanced at the floor in thought then refocused on me. At least I think she did. It was hard to tell with her shades on. “Wait, there are demons after you?”

“Sort of.”

After she stared a long time, long enough to be considered culturally insensitive, she bowed her head. “I’ve never seen one,” she said, her voice quiet, “but I know there are things out there, things that go bump in the night. And not just the prostitute next door. Scary things. Things that are impossible to forget.”