I stepped back into my office. Mrs. Garza, who had also lost her husband after Angel died, was examining a painting on my wall. She turned to me, her expression still set on hell-bent.
“You’re right,” I said, defeat evident in my sagging shoulders. “I know who you are, Mrs. Garza. Would you like some coffee?”
I couldn’t help but notice how close she was to the dark elixir. I liked to stand near it, too. It was like standing next to a fire in the middle of winter, warm and comforting.
She relaxed her shoulders, but just barely. “I guess.”
I poured her a cup, then let her doctor it as she pleased while I sat back behind my desk.
After she sat down, I said, “I do put money into your account every month. A great-uncle of yours had me track you down a few years ago and he left provisions for you before he died.”
“Great story,” Angel said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Smartass.
Her brows knitted in suspicion. “A great-uncle? Which great-uncle?”
“Um, the great one on your aunt’s side.”
“I’m Mexican American, Ms. Davidson. Catholic. We like to procreate. Do you know how many aunts I have?”
“Right…”
“And we are very close.”
I was so going to that special hell. “This is a great-uncle that no one knew about. He was… a recluse.”
“Does this have anything to do with Angel?” She pronounced his name in true Spanish fashion. Ahn-hell. But her voice wavered when she said it.
“No, Mrs. Garza. It doesn’t.”
She nodded and got up to leave. “Like I said, I checked around. When you want to tell me the truth, you obviously know where I’ll be.”
“That was the truth,” I promised her.
She put her coffee cup down and left, completely unconvinced. And I was so good at lying.
I put an arm around Angel. “I’m so sorry, hon. I had no idea she knew about me.”
“She’s smart. She checked up on you. It’s not your fault.”
He walked back out the door and looked over the railing into the restaurant downstairs. “Why is he here anyway?”
“Who?” I walked over and looked down, too, but the place hadn’t opened for business yet. Empty tables and chairs sat strategically positioned, ready for patrons.
“You have another visitor,” he said, then vanished before I could say anything else. I was learning more about what I could and could not do, and I knew that I could’ve brought him back if I’d wanted to, but he needed some time to process what had just happened. With his mother so open and willing to know more, craving to know more, I was a little surprised that he still didn’t want me to tell her. It made me more curious. Was there something in particular he didn’t want her to know? Was he hiding something?
But sure enough, I had another visitor. I wasn’t meeting Mrs. Tidwell for another half hour, so I was surprised the front door opened again. I looked over as Captain Eckert, my uncle’s boss, stepped in, dressed impeccably as always. He wasn’t like the captains in the movies, with their ties crooked and their jackets in dire need of an iron, though that pretty much described Ubie to a T. Captain Eckert was more like an older cover model for GQ. His clothes were always pressed, his tie always straight, his back always rigid. I could only imagine the anal jokes that floated around the precinct.
“Captain,” I said, letting the surprise I felt filter into my voice. It was weird how every time I said the word captain, I wanted to tack on a Jack Sparrow at the end.
The last time we’d spoken was a few days ago when I’d basically solved three cases in one fell swoop. Possibly four. It was the wrong thing to do. He took note and had been curious about me, about my role at the station as a consultant, ever since. I wasn’t sure what to make of his curiosity. He seemed suspicious, but unless he knew that there was a grim reaper roaming the lands solving his cases for him, what on earth could he be suspicious about? “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
He analyzed my offices a full minute before answering. With his back to me as he took in the same painting Mrs. Garza had, he said, “I’ve decided to keep closer tabs on any and all consultants the APD has on payroll.”
Crap. “Really? H-how many are there?”
“Removing any experts we occasionally use, like psychologists and the like, CIs and any consultants who are not actually on the payroll, that pretty much leaves just one.”
“Oh.” I offered up my best Sunday smile. “Surely you don’t mean little ole me?”
He executed a perfect heel-to-toe turn. “I do, in fact.”
I tried not to be intimidated. It didn’t work. “Well, okay, this is my office.”
“I was a detective, Davidson.”
“Right, I just meant that this is pretty much all there is. I’m not sure what kind of tabs you wanted to keep, but —”
“How do you do it?” He’d turned back to study the books on my bookshelf. I prayed he didn’t pay too close attention. Sweet Savage Love was probably not the kind of material he wanted his consultants to read.
I sat back behind my desk and took a sip of coffee. Liquid courage. “I’m sorry?”
“You seem to be very adept at solving cases and I was just wondering what your methods were.”
“Oh, well, you know. I’m a detective.” I laughed, sounding slightly more insane than I’d intended. “I detect.”
He strolled over and sat in the chair opposite me, laying his hat in his lap. “And what methods of detection do you use?”
“Just the everyday kind,” I said, having no idea what to say to that. What was he trying to get from me? “I just think to myself, ‘What would Sherlock do?’ ”
“Sherlock?”
“I even have a bracelet with the acronym WWSD on it. It’s my favorite. It’s plastic.” I was losing it. Spurting out inconsequential facts. He was so going to bust me. But for what? Why was I so nervous? I had a difficult time with confrontations. Two in one morning was going to be my undoing.
“And when you were nine? What methods of detection did you use then?”
I coughed. “Nine?”
“And how about when you were five? How did you solve cases for your father when you were five years old?”
“M-my father?”
“I’ve been doing some research,” he said, picking lint off his hat, “conducting a few interviews. It seems you helped your father for years and now you assist your uncle. Have been for some time now.”
Holy cow, was this air-the-dirty-laundry day? I would’ve worn my good underwear instead of the ones that said admission by invitation only. “I’m not really sure what you mean. I just became a PI a little over two years ago.”
“I mean, you’ve been helping your relatives advance their careers for quite some time now. I just want to know how.”
“You know, some people would find that idea ludicrous.”
“But not you.”
“No, sir. Probably not me. But I do have to meet a client, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m fairly certain I do.” He uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “I will get to the bottom of this, Davidson.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
I chose not to answer. Instead, I let my gaze wander to the left as he stared at me.
“I think there’s something else going on here, something that perhaps can’t be explained by normal means. And I’ll find out what it is.”
When he turned and left, I let out the breath I was holding. Bloody hell. Before I knew it, the entire world was going to know I was the grim reaper. Wait, maybe I could get a reality TV contract. We could call it Grim in the City.
By the time the captain – who was sadly no relation to Captain Jack – left, I was shaking. Literally. Not once, but twice today I’d been accused of underhandedness. This was insane. What was wrong with the world? Didn’t they know that ghosts and supernatural powers where little girls helped their dads and uncl
es solve cases didn’t exist?
It was books. It was television shows and movies. They had desensitized the world. Damn writers.
I took the interior stairs down to the restaurant and saw my father. He was a tall man with a stick-figure body and sandy hair forever in need of a trim. “You’re back!” I said, caught off guard for the third time that day.
“I am. You seem surprised. Or, maybe, nervous?”
I laughed. Loud. It was awkward. “What? Me? Not at all.”
“I know about the gun, Charley.”
“That was totally not my fault.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” he said, giving me a quick hug.
Dad and I hadn’t been on the best of terms lately. He’d wanted me out of the PI biz, and I’d wanted him out of mine. He went about it the wrong way, trying to force me out by getting me arrested, among other things. Then I found out he’d had cancer and wanted to see me safe before he passed. The fact that he magically healed was a conundrum. One for which he thought I had the answers. I didn’t. I was pretty sure healing was not part of my gig. I was the grim reaper, for goodness’ sake.
“Can we talk soon?” he asked.
Discomfort prickled over my skin. He wanted answers that I didn’t have. Since I was certain that’s what he wanted to talk about, I deflected. “Is that a new shirt?”
“Soon, pumpkin,” he said before heading back to his office. He was so demanding.
I glanced around the bar and was floored at how many women were in there once again. The place had just opened for lunch like twenty seconds earlier. What the hell?
Shaking my head, I sat at my usual corner booth and looked at a menu for some unknown reason. I had the thing memorized, but that quesadilla from last night had to be a new item. There was nothing about it on the menu. Maybe it was a special.
I spotted Mrs. Tidwell coming in and stood to wave her over.
“Wow,” she said, unwrapping her stylish scarf. She was around my age and had been married to Marvin for just a little over a year. “This place is busy.”
I frowned and looked around. “Right? It’s never this busy this early. And there are so many women.”
“That’s unusual?” she asked as she settled in and ordered a water from our server.
“It is. This is kind of a cop hangout, and I’ve just never seen so many women in here. And once again, it is hotter than sin.”
“I’m fine, but if you’re hot —”
“No, it’s okay.”
Before we could get down to business, our server came back with our waters. I ordered a green chili stew, my usual, and Mrs. Tidwell ordered a taco salad. Maybe I should have ordered that. It sounded wonderful. Or maybe I should have ordered the chicken quesadilla from the night before. Now I was being indecisive. I hated the indecisive me. I liked the decisive me, the one who ordered the usual, then longed for something else I saw as it passed on a platter after I was halfway finished with mine.
“Don’t you think so?”
“I’m sorry.” Had she been talking that whole time? I hated the ADD me, too. I much preferred —
“What do you think?”
Shit. Did it again. I called out to our server. “Can you bring me a coffee, too?” Coffee would help. Or not. Either way.
“So, what did you find out?”
I pulled out the pictures and told Valerie Tidwell everything I’d found out so far. “I know this seems damning, but I’d like to keep checking, if you don’t mind.”
She sniffled into her napkin. “I knew it. I could just tell. He’s been pulling away from me, you know? He used to notice everything. If I styled my hair differently. If I raised the hem on a skirt. I thought it was so charming, but now, nothing. It’s like I’ve become invisible.”
“Hon, this isn’t really evidence that he has been cheating on you. He invited my associate to a hotel, but that’s as far as it got.”
Through the tears, “And I suppose he just wanted to play canasta.” Canasta was fun. Or it sounded fun. I’d never actually played, but it sounded kind of kinky for some reason.
“I know this is hard,” I said, “but can I ask you about your weight?”
“My weight?”
“Yes, it’s just, well, you weighed quite a bit more when you got married.”
I’d embarrassed her. “Yes, I’ve had a weight problem my whole life. I had surgery so I could shed some pounds. It was beginning to affect my health. Why?”
“I just, it’s just that I think that could be part of the problem. My associate is… well, bigger. And he wouldn’t give me the time of day. I think he likes bigger women.”
Her face morphed into disbelief. “He’s cheating on me because I lost weight?”
“No, Mrs. Tidewell. If he’s cheating on you, it’s because he is not the man you thought he was. This is not your fault. It’s his.”
“I just can’t believe it. I mean, I thought men left their wives when they gained weight, not the other way around.”
“I was a little surprised as well. But again, your weight shouldn’t matter. If he really loved you, he would love you for you, not your body. But I have to be honest. I’m a little worried about you.”
“Me?” she said, her brows drawn.
“Yes. Your husband saw the recording device I’d put on my associate’s scarf. He knows that he was set up.”
“Yes, I got your messages. He spent the night in jail and is going to be arraigned this morning.”
“I’m worried about you. He was pretty angry when he found that mic. I’m not sure what he’ll do.”
“Oh, no, he’s a pussycat. He’s never raised a hand to me, if that’s what you’re worried about. He knows better.”
“Well, good. That makes me feel a little better, but just in case, do you have someone you can call?”
“I do. I can call my parents anytime. He reveres my father. He wouldn’t risk making him angry.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
“Just please call me if you need to.”
“I will.”
Our food came and we ate in relative silence. Partly because I wasn’t sure what else to say, how else to console Mrs. Tidwell, but mostly because I was once again in heaven. The green chili stew, which was always delicious, seemed to melt on my tongue and cause each and every taste bud in my mouth to burst with joy. It was amazing.
Dad walked up. “How is it?”
“Incredible. Will you send my regards to Sammy? He has outdone himself again.”
“Sammy’s out, hon. Broke his leg trying to ski off his roof. I’ve warned him about mixing beer and ski equipment.”
“Then who —?”
Dad’s phone rang and he excused himself to answer it.
“Are you sure I can’t do anything else?” I asked Valerie.
She stood to leave with her shoulders straight and her chin high. “No. I know exactly who I’m calling next.”
“Who would that be?”
“My lawyer.”
I smiled and got up to leave, too. Uncle Bob and I were meeting at the bridge to find a missing person. Just as I headed out the back door, Jessica walked in. Her expression was one of pity.
“What?” I asked her, suddenly self-conscious.
“I mean, really? Again?”
I looked around. “Hey, I was here first.”
“And I’ll be here last,” she promised.
God, she was good at the comebacks. I had nothing. I felt like we were back in high school.
“Okay.” I continued on my way.
I was still a little floored Sammy had broken his leg. And skiing, no less. That had to be painful.
I headed to the parking lot and searched out Misery. The Jeep, not the emotion. My days of being miserable were well behind me. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t wreak misery on others. I called Garrett.
“Hello, Charles.”
He was so formal. “Hey, Swopes. I have a job for you.”
“I’m not looking for a job.”
“Pleeeeease.”
“Okay. What?”
That was easy. “Can you run a name for me, see if he has any priors real quick? I want to make sure my client is safe before her husband gets out of jail.”
“Name.”
Honestly, he acted as though he didn’t like me anymore. Wait, maybe he didn’t. “Do you still like me?”
“I never liked you.”
Oh, right. He had a point. “Marvin Tidwell.”
“Got it. I’ll call you back.”
I climbed into Misery and called Uncle Bob. “We hooking up?”
“Why does everything out of your mouth make me sound incestuous?”
“Um, I wasn’t aware that it did. Perhaps you have a guilty conscience.”
“Charley.”
“Is there something you need to get off your chest? Besides that skank I saw you with the other day?”
He cleared his throat. “You saw that?”
“It gave me nightmares.”
“I was undercover.”
“I stopped falling for that when I was five.”
“Oh. Do you know where you’re going?”
“Kind of. Are you already out there?”
“On the way now.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in a few.”
I hung up just as Cookie texted me again.
Hurry, what would I do if someone grabbed me from behind with a knife?
Whatever he told you to do.
That’s what I’d do, anyway. Knives were hard to fend off. Mostly ’cause they freaking hurt when they sliced through your flesh.
On the way to the bridge to search for a body – a dead one – I decided to try another voice. I brought up the pirated app, punched in my destination, and listened as a being grunted and groaned. After a moment, he said, “In one thousand feet, turn right you will.”
I loved Yoda. I thought about buying him and putting him on my mantel. I didn’t, mostly because I didn’t have a mantel, but during a recent addiction to a shop-at-home channel, I bought a tiny Yoda key ring that gave me comfort on long lonely nights. He didn’t vibrate or anything. I just liked having someone tiny and powerful and oddly charming near me.
Fifth Grave Past the Light: Number 5 in series (Charley Davidson) Page 9