Uncle Bob listened with a quiet resolve, his poker face excellently placed and maintained throughout, and then he said the unthinkable: “Charley, can you leave us alone for a minute?”
I gaped at him. It was like he was speaking a foreign language—except I knew them all, so that wasn’t the best analogy. “I’m sorry?”
“The captain and me. Can you leave us alone for a minute?”
“I don’t understand.” Ubie had never asked me to leave the room. He usually argued incessantly to let me stay in every situation.
“We need to talk in private.”
“No,” I said, completely offended. “I’m in this thanks to Van over there, and I’ll stay right here, thank you very much.”
Ubie raised a hand and gestured for a uniformed officer to come in. I didn’t recognize him, but he was big and blond and big.
“Could you escort Ms. Davidson out of the building, please?”
I balked. “It’s—it’s that fake psychic chick, isn’t it? You think she’s going to solve cases for you? She’s as fake as your hairline.”
Ubie scowled at me. I scowled back, all the way to the front door of the station, where I proceeded to wrench free from the officer and brush myself off. “That was so uncalled for,” I said to him. He stood there and watched me go.
My phone rang when I got to Misery.
“Are you okay?” Cookie asked.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’m so not fine!” I said, collapsing into a blob of sniffling nerves. “Something is up with Uncle Bob. I think he’s … he’s mad at me.”
Cookie gasped. “Robert is never mad at you.”
“I know. I just don’t know what to think.”
“Me neither. On the bright side, you can talk it over with your therapist. Your appointment is in half an hour.”
“I can’t go to therapy. That woman needs more therapy than I do.”
“Most therapists do, hon. You still have to go. If you miss again, your sister will kill you.”
“Cook, I have a thousand cases going on at once. My life has been threatened. My apartment has been ransacked. A half-human, half-demon stole a priceless dagger from me and won’t return it until he gets together with Swopes so they can talk prophecies. And I was just almost arrested for drug possession and kiddie porn.”
“Your sister won’t care.”
“My sister is at a conference in D.C.”
“And you think that would stop her?”
I changed lanes to head back the direction I’d come. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Good girl. We need coffee and creamer at the office.”
“Okay.”
“And I need an orange bra and a tennis racket. It’s a new home-defense thing.”
“Okay.”
“And I thought about having sex with Garrett on my desk.”
“Okay. But really, why do you think Ubie is mad at me?”
“I don’t know, hon. He adores you. He’ll get over it.”
“He even called in a fake psychic. When he has me! You’re going to do what, where, and with whom?”
“Just never you mind. Go to your appointment.”
“Okay.”
* * *
I sat through another pointless session of talking about my feelings when all I could think about was Uncle Bob. Hopefully, he’d talked the captain into putting his plans on hold, but I wondered if I was doing the right thing. There was still a dead kid. True, he died thirty years ago and his death was accidental, but wouldn’t his family want to know what happened to him?
I had Cookie track Garrett’s whereabouts and parked at my apartment building to walk the block and a half to the Frontier. He was sitting at a booth in the middle room of the meandering restaurant, reading the paper, a green chile burger with fries and iced tea on his table.
I sat across from him and decided to get right to the point. “What if you knew someone killed someone else decades ago, but it was more like an accident and now the person who accidently killed the other person wants to turn himself in and ruin a pristine career in law enforcement.”
He didn’t look up from his paper. “I’m assuming there’s a question in there.”
“Yeah. What would you do? What would you recommend he do?”
“It was an accident?”
“Yes,” I said, stealing a fry off his plate.
“And this was how long ago?”
“Thirty years, give or take. They were just kids. But the man has done a lot to help people. He’s a good person. If he goes forward, he’ll ruin his career and negate all the good he’s done over the years.”
“That’s a tough one. If it’s eating him alive, that tells me he probably is a good person. He can do more good in law enforcement than in jail, if he went to jail.”
“See. That’s what I was thinking, but my moral compass doesn’t always point north. You said earlier, right after I almost plummeted off that fire escape to my death, you had a condition? You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”
“And why am I scratching your back again?” he asked.
“I need you to meet with someone for me. He’s very knowledgeable and wants to work with us on all this prophecy stuff. Just do not let him talk you out of your soul. He’s really good at that.”
“I doubt he would want my soul.”
“Okay, so you have a condition as well?”
He put down the paper and took another bite of his burger. “I do, but it will be tricky.”
I shimmied down in my seat. “I like tricky. Tricky is my middle name. No, wait, that’s trouble. Trouble’s my middle name. My bad.”
“Do you remember the woman I told you about?”
I knew we would get back around to this. I’d been dying to know more. “The one who used your body then threw you away like a toothbrush you had to use to clean the toilet because you couldn’t find your scrub brush?”
“Well, yeah.”
“And then you saw her out a year later and she’d had a baby who just happened to have your eyes?”
“That’s the one.”
“No. I don’t remember you mentioning her. You should go order a sweet roll. Those are to die for. And a carne adovada burrito.”
His mouth thinned. “Should I order something else to drink?”
“Yes! A diet whatever. No! A mocha latte. No!” I held up my hand to put him in pause so I could think. “Yes. No. Yes, a mocha latte.”
“Are you finished?” he asked, rising to go place his order. He was really hungry.
“Yes. No! Yes. I’m good with that. I have a busy afternoon ahead of me, and I need all the energy I can get. And I need you to be my wingman.”
“This should be interesting,” he said, sauntering off like he owned the place.
By the time he got back, his fries had disappeared. It was weird.
“So, what about her?” I asked.
“Marika,” he said, scooting into the booth. “That’s the sticky condition.”
I leaned in and did my best Italian accent. “You want I should off her?” I slid my index finger across my throat in the universal gesture for murder.
“Not exactly.”
“Wait!” I said, holding up my hand before he continued. “What’s your number? I’ll keep watch for you so your food doesn’t get cold.”
He checked the receipt. “Fifty-four.”
“Got it. Okay, hit me with the sticky.”
“I need you to get samples of both Marika’s and the boy’s DNA.”
I took a long moment to stare in disbelief. He stared back, but his stare was more matter-of-fact.
“Are you insane?” I asked him at last, considering it a real possibility. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to get DNA samples from them?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Not my problem.”
Making a mental note to ask m
y therapist how I got myself into these situations and accuse her of sucking at her job because I was clearly not getting better, I said, “Have you put any thought into how it could be done?”
“Not really. Why do you need a wingman?”
“I have to go talk to a notorious crime lord and accuse him of sending men after me and trying to put a hit out on his ex-girlfriend, who is the only witness to a murder he committed.”
“Do I have time to finish my burger?”
“I guess. But why are they called crime lords? Why not crime douche bags? Or crime asswipes? Why do they have to sound so cool?” I glanced up at the marquee. “Oh, your number’s up.”
He scooted out of the booth again. It was kind of charming.
“And hurry up before your food gets cold.”
He turned the corner and flipped me off at the same time. See? Men could multitask. I was so proud of him. Since I sat there with nothing better to do than watch the man in the next booth argue with his ketchup, I summoned Angel. I told him about my latest dilemma, gave him some rather explicit orders, then listened to him curse in Spanish before he asked if he could see me naked. When I said, “Only if you can navigate time and watch my perilous journey through my mother’s birth canal,” he vanished to do my bidding.
“Why me?” Garrett asked when he sat back down with his food.
I took a bite of his burrito. “Wow,” I said, rolling my eyes in ecstasy, “excellent choice. And why you what?”
“Why not get your boyfriend to be your wingman?”
“He’s cooking this afternoon. Sammy had to go get his cast off.” The regular cook had broken his leg trying to ski off his roof. Tequila often gave people the desire to tackle the impossible. It did not, however, make the impossible possible.
“Who’s the crime lord?”
“Phillip Brinkman.”
“The car salesman? He’s a crime lord?”
“Apparently.” I stopped and gaped at him. “Did you just take a bite of your sweet roll?”
“I paid for it.”
“And?” I took the plate and slid it out of his reach. Not really, though, because he had a ridiculous reach, which he demonstrated when he stole another bite with effortless ease. Thankfully, their sweet rolls were big enough to feed a small country.
“If Mr. Car Salesman of the Year was going to send men to my apartment carrying suppressed Glocks, the least he can do is offer me a discount on a new Porsche.”
“Should we, I don’t know, devise a plan?”
“Do you think that’s wise? I’ve always just kind of winged it.”
“No,” he said, his faux surprise chafing.
* * *
I strolled into the dealership wearing the wire Garrett had pinned to my bra between Danger and Will. Thankfully, Reyes never had to know that little fact. After pretending to browse a few minutes, and turning down a very enthusiastic salesperson, I made my way back to Phillip Brinkman’s office. The man was facing murder charges, and yet there he was at work, nary a care in the world. He was a cool one. And he looked about as much like a crime lord as my great-aunt Lillian. He looked more like an accountant with dark hair, pale skin, and eyes too large for his face.
I took a seat across from his desk. He looked up from his paperwork, a little startled. No, that was fear in his eyes. A lot startled. He’d either had too much coffee or he was expecting someone else.
He scanned the area past his office then asked, “May I help you with something?”
“You may. If you’re going to send men in black masks to my apartment and have them point a gun at my head so I’ll find your girlfriend, I suggest you pick better men.”
I’d confused him. The fear was still there, but I’d definitely confused him. Damn it. He had no idea what I was talking about.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Back to square one. Then again, this guy was up for murder. And the men in masks wanted the whereabouts of the woman set to testify against him. That was a little more than a thin connection.
I frowned at him. Maybe if the cops had a body, it would help their case.
I leaned forward, and a wave of fear washed through him. His poker face was worse than mine. His too-large eyes rounded exponentially. “Where’s the body, Brinkman?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Depends. Would you be more likely to tell me where the body was if I were?”
“No.”
“Nope. I am not a cop. Not even a little. Now, where’s the body?”
“They’re looking for Emily?”
“Depends. Who’s Emily?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Oh! Right, then yes they are.” Fear and something painfully close to a full-on panic attack rolled out of him in waves. “Are you gonna talk or am I going to have to—?”
“Why would they go to you?” he said, interrupting. Dang it, and I had a really good threat planned. It involved fire ants, sandpaper, and a cement mixer.
I crossed my legs. “I don’t know. Maybe because I have a sign on my head that says ‘aim here.’ Or it could be because I have access to information through different sources. They must think I can get her address. But it’s WITSEC we’re talking about here. It doesn’t matter who I know, I am not getting that kind of info. You need to tell them that.”
He rubbed his mouth and kept his hand there a long moment. Sweat ran down his temples, and his stomach churned in protest to the stress.
“Look, Phillip,” I said, changing my tactics, “you made a mistake. It happens. Trying to kill your girlfriend will not rectify anything.”
He nodded. “You got one thing right,” he said absently, “I made a mistake. Lots of them, but Emily was not one of them. Is she—is she okay?”
He was genuinely concerned about her. Clearly, he had no involvement in the attempt to locate or, most likely, kill her.
“As far as I know, she’s fine, but she won’t be for much longer. If you’ll just tell me what happened, where to find the body, I can help you, Phillip.”
He grew wary. “I thought you weren’t a cop. How can you help me? Did he send you? Is this a setup?”
The word setup seemed to be appearing a lot lately. I shook my head. “No setup. I’m just trying to help put you away so your girlfriend can get on with her life and not have to worry about those goons trying to kill her.”
He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and took a hardy swig. Hardy as in half the bottle. Because he might be more inclined to help me if he were drunk, I didn’t stop him.
“But you seem genuinely concerned about her. If you didn’t send those men, who did?”
After another swig, he wiped a shaking hand over his mouth. “You need to leave,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Oh, I get it. Watch your own back but no one else’s. Am I in any real danger?”
He scoffed. “Let’s just say you do not want to be on their naughty list.”
“What happens if I get on it?”
“Not death, if that’s what you’re worried about. But you’ll pray for it before they’re through with you. This has just gotten so out of hand. So much bigger than we’d planned.”
“We?” I asked, letting him take another drink before answering.
“I just wanted out.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “You’re being investigated for fraud. Is that what this is all about?”
“I’m being investigated?”
“Well, yeah, for that and murder, of course.”
He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his face with his fingers. If anyone was in over his head, it was Phillip Brinkman. I couldn’t imagine what he’d gotten himself into. Maybe the death was self-defense or even accidental. Maybe his girlfriend was lying.
“Phillip, I can help you if you’ll let me.”
“Mr. Brinkman?” a pretty brunette said from the doorway. “Is everything okay?”
The fear I’d
felt earlier came back full force. “Yes, Lois,” he said, his exterior a picture of serenity, “everything is fine.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No. No, I’ll just be a minute.” After she left, he glared at me. “You need to leave. Now.”
“’Fraid I can’t do that. Those men are planning on killing a friend of mine if I can’t come up with your girlfriend’s whereabouts.” I hated to bring out the big guns, but he’d practically handed them to me, locked and loaded. “I need answers, Phillip, and if those men come to me again and I have nothing to give them, I’m telling them you and your girlfriend were in it together.”
“What?” he asked, appalled. “Emily has nothing to do with this.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know that. You seem to want to stay under their radar. What’ll happen if they think you two set this whole thing up?” What thing, exactly, I had no idea.
He raked his fingers through his hair.
“Just talk to me,” I said, my voice placating. “I promise you, whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, I can help you get out of it. I’m a private investigator. I have connections.”
After a very long stare into the bottle of Jack, he said, “Not here. There are eyes and ears everywhere.”
The possibility that he might actually talk to me sent a sharp thrill racing over my skin.
He wrote quickly on a piece of paper and handed it over to me. It had an address on it and the words, Meet me here in half an hour. Alone.
I shook my head. “So I can suffer the same fate as that poor man you killed? I think not.”
He leaned over and whispered, “It’s a friend’s apartment. He’s out of town.”
“And that’s supposed to set my mind at ease?” I whispered back.
“I’ll tell you everything.”
“Meet you there in thirty.” I rose and walked out the door. When I passed by his secretary Lois’s desk, I opened up to get a full read on her. Burning curiosity was all I got. She was curious about me. She lifted her phone and pretended to text, but I was about 90 percent positive she snapped a shot of me. I’d executed that very move a hundred times, only just now realizing how fake it looked. No one texted like that. I’d have to get a new technique.
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