Fifth Grave Past the Light: Number 5 in series (Charley Davidson)

by Darynda Jones

  “A ten-month-old baby was taken out of his crib while his mother napped.”

  I perused the file. “No pictures?”

  “That’s just it. One of the oddities of the case. All photographs of the child were stolen as well.”

  I eyed her doubtfully.

  “Tell me about it,” she said, taking another sip. “Nothing made sense. At first they thought a neighbor took him. She kept stalking the family, watching their every move, sending them threatening notes accusing the mother of witchcraft, of all the bizarre things.”

  “Witchcraft? That was very medieval of her.”

  “Preaching to the choir. But that still isn’t the most unusual part. Even odder were the markings on the baby’s body.”

  “Markings?” I asked, suspicion needling the back of my neck.

  “Yes, according to the baby’s doctor, there’s a rare syndrome that can happen when the mother is pregnant with twins but one of them dies very early in the pregnancy. The surviving twin absorbs the cells of the other and basically has two sets of DNA running through his body.”

  “Okay, and the markings?”

  “Well, sometimes when that happens, the twin’s body will have light marks like stripes on his body. But supposedly they can be seen only in a certain light. I don’t know. That’s the only explanation the doctors could come up with to explain the marks on him.”

  “They looked like stripes?” I asked.

  “Not sure. My dad said they looked more like tattoos.”

  My lungs seized. After all this time, surely the very case I’d been wondering about for years did not just land in my lap. I had another explanation for those marks, one that involved the son of Satan and maps to navigate the gates of hell, but I wasn’t going to tell Agent Carson that. I liked that she thought I was only a little crazy. Bona fide lunatic could drive a wedge between us, and I valued our friendship too much for that. And the fact that she was my only contact at the FBI.

  I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Reyes wasn’t listening in. “I would love to take a look at this case. Can I keep the folder awhile?”

  “If I can keep this drink for a while.”

  “It’s all yours,” I said. “Would you like another?”

  “Let me make sure I can walk after this one. I’ll get back to you.” She searched for an empty table. “I was going to eat. I’ve been hearing nothing but rave reviews about the food here.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure it’s the food everyone is raving about.” When she raised a questioning brow, I added, “We got a new cook. He’s like a supermodel on steroids.”

  “Reeeeeally?” she purred, looking toward the kitchen. “You know, the FBI has certain liberties when it comes to kitchen inspections.”

  Trying to subdue a sudden case of the giggles, I said, “And you can eat at the bar.”

  “That’s true. Can I eat in the kitchen?”

  “Charley!”

  I jumped and looked over as Uncle Bob charged toward me. What the hell did I do now?

  “Why aren’t you in bed? Oh,” he said, spotting Agent Carson, “hi.”

  “Detective,” she said. “How’s business?”

  He leaned forward, as though sharing a secret. “Pretty good, if you know what I mean.” He indicated me with a nod and winked at her.

  She grinned. “I do indeed. We need more of her.”

  He gasped theatrically, tossing in a hand over his heart and an expression of horror. “Bite your tongue. I can barely handle this one. Speaking of which —” He stabbed me with the scariest, most feared glower in his arsenal. The legendary one that set criminals on edge and made his colleagues giggle behind closed fists while they pretended to cough. It was a thing of beauty. “— what the hell are you doing out of bed?”

  “Working.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s Dad’s fault. He went to my apartment, grabbed me by the hair, and dragged me over here kicking and screaming.” I turned to the man who’d just walked up to stand beside me. “Oh, hey, Dad. We were just talking about you.”

  “Leland,” Uncle Bob said, “I don’t think Charley needs to be working right now.”

  “That’s what I said. She insisted. Said she was going stir-crazy. Threatened to put a curse on me if I didn’t let her.”

  “That’s not the way I remember it.”

  “Can you do that?” Ubie asked. “Can you put a curse on someone?”

  I loved that man.

  Flashing him an evil grin, I went back to work, wiping the bar. It seemed like the right thing to do, since I was getting paid to be there.

  And here came the last member of the gang.

  “Twitter!” Cookie said, pointing at me as she sat beside Agent Carson.

  I tossed my rag on the bar and stood up for myself. “Don’t tell me what to do, missy!”

  “No, that’s how all these women know about your man and where he works. He has his own hashtag. It’s crazy.”

  Why that would surprise me, I had no idea. He had entire websites dedicated to him while he was in prison – why should I have expected any less when he got out?

  “Does he really have a Ferrari?” she asked.

  “A what?” I asked, stunned.

  “According to the Twitter-verse, that man is decked out.” She waved at the rest of the gang as she settled onto the barstool.

  A Ferrari? Clearly we needed to bang less and talk more. If he did, where was he keeping it? I would totally have noticed a Ferrari, especially if one were sitting beside Misery.

  Uncle Bob quit staring at my receptionist, sat on the opposite side of Agent Carson, and told Dad, “I need that new cook of yours to whip me up some nachos.”

  “You gonna pay?”

  “Do I ever? Oh, and I found out who bought the asylum you’ve been so worried about, pumpkin.”

  I’d just picked my rag back up. I stopped wiping the bar again, realizing it was never going to get clean at this rate. “And?”

  He handed me a thick envelope and hitched a brow as though I should already know. “It seems you did.”

  “That’s odd. I don’t remember buying an abandoned mental asylum. I’ll have to look at my bank statement.”

  “According to this, you’re the new owner.”

  I paused, befuddled, then after a quick succession of blinks that got me nowhere fast, I opened the envelope to find a deed with my name on it. “Reyes,” I said, stunned. “It had to be Reyes.”

  “Reyes Farrow?” Dad didn’t know about Reyes and me and our sordid past or even sordider present. If he’d known, I wondered if he would’ve hired him.

  “Yes, it had to be Reyes. Who else? I knew that man had a million dollars. And he drives a Ferrari?” I looked toward the kitchen. “But why would he do this?”

  “Well, I didn’t know how to tell you this, pumpkin,” Dad said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “but Reyes Farrow bought this place as well with the stipulation that the offices upstairs be yours. I was wondering about that last part. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “No. And what?” My voice raised an octave. “You sold Calamity’s?”

  “We were supposed to hammer out the details yesterday, but he said he had a sick friend to look after, so we’re going to the abstract company tomorrow.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m retiring. And after what he paid me, I can do it very comfortably. I’ve decided to do some traveling.” His gaze dropped to the floor. “Alone.”

  “Just a man and his thoughts, huh? What about the old ball and chain?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this way, but your mother and I are separating.” When I pressed my mouth together, he corrected, “Stepmother. We’re just – We’re going in different directions.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Dad. ‘Hurray’ just seems wrong.” And it did. He loved her. Or at least he did at one time. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of Charley went into that decision.
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br />   I looked down at the deed in my hands. Surveyed the bar. My offices upstairs. I just didn’t know what to say.

  “Well, I think a round of nachos are in order,” Uncle Bob said, still thinking about his belly instead of my newfound —

  Wait. What the heck was I going to do with an abandoned mental asylum?

  “We’ll discuss this as well as other things later,” Ubie added, the threat almost crystal clear, only not because it had a milky film on the top. He shot me his glower again and I had to resort to coughing behind my closed fist.

  When one side of the room quieted and a scorching heat crept around me, I turned to watch my man bring two plates out of the kitchen. He smiled and placed two plates of nachos in front of my initiated gang members.

  “Enjoy,” he said, flashing a nuclear grin when Agent Carson only stared. Who could blame her?

  “Mr. Davidson,” he said, acknowledging Dad before leaning over the bar to hand Uncle Bob some extra napkins. His mouth brushed across my ear. “Can you take a break?” He wore a cook’s apron. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen in my entire life, and I fell just a little harder.

  “From what I hear, you’re the boss, so you tell me.” I raised the deed. “What’s this?”

  He lowered his head as though embarrassed. Reyes Farrow embarrassed? Unfathomable.

  “It’s yours,” he said, fiddling with a small piece of paper in his hand. “I know how important Rocket is to you, so I just thought I’d buy it. Make sure the city doesn’t tear it down or anything. We’ll need to fix up the outside a little to keep the city off your back, but the inside is all Rocket’s.”

  For the second time that day, I was at a loss for words. Then I remembered the outbuildings. “I noticed you tore down Donovan’s house.”

  He lifted his gaze until it locked with mine. “He’s alive because he left town. His house chose to stay. It paid the price.”

  I laughed. “Fair enough. And you bought Dad’s bar?” The astonishment I felt filtered into every word.

  “Yeah, about that,” he said, hedging, “I’m going to have to charge you a pretty penny for those offices. That’s prime real estate. And there are some late fees that will have to be worked out.”

  “Reyes, I don’t know what to say. Did you buy anything else I need to know about?”

  “I didn’t. But you’ve been spending money like it’s going out of style.”

  “Why? What else did I buy?”

  “You’re living in it.”

  “You bought my apartment?”

  “No, you bought your apartment. Well, the whole building, actually.”

  “I have an apartment building?” After a minute, I looked back at him. “I am so raising your rent.”

  The kitchen door crashed open. We turned to see one of the young prep cooks leaning out of it.

  “Um, Reyes?” he said, nervous. “You might want to – I mean there’s something —” He pointed into the kitchen.

  “I’ll be right there,” Reyes said—then he looked back at me. “I have to get to work before I burn the place down.”

  I nodded. “I just don’t know what to say.”

  He closed the distance between us, his heat winding around me like a red-hot ribbon, and whispered into my ear. “Say yes.”

  He turned and walked away. I watched. He was just ridiculously cute in that long apron. It framed his ass just so.

  “Wait,” I called out, “do you have a Ferrari?”

  He tossed me a wicked grin from over his shoulder. Holy cow, I would say yes to anything that man had to ask, unless he asked about butt sex. I had to draw the line somewhere. Speaking of which, say yes to what? I reconstructed our conversation and came up with nothing. Clearly I missed something. I tended to do that. Freaking ADD.

  I turned back to the menial task requirements of my most recent pink-collar position and noticed a sticky note on the bar. The one he’d had in his hands. That man loved Post-its. I read the note, thought about it, tried to absorb its true meaning, its deeper message, then read it again before turning toward the kitchen and shouting, “Marry you?”