Second Grave on the Left (14 page)

He nodded knowingly. “And he will push that kid and push him to be the professional baseball player he could never be.”

“Your father could never conquer the world, so he was grooming his kid to do it for him.”

“Exactly.”

“And how well did he groom you?”

“What are the odds of that kid becoming a professional baseball player?”

“I understand that. You’re not like him. But I was told your incorporeal body is like an anchor and without it, you’ll lose your humanity. That you’ll become exactly what he wants you to be.”

“How is it you believe everything you hear about me, yet nothing I tell you?”

“That’s not true,” I said, clutching a throw pillow to my chest. “You’ve told me you don’t know what’ll happen if you die. I’m simply trying to find out.”

“Yet everything you hear is negative. Catastrophic.” He eyed me from underneath his lashes and whispered, “A lie.”

“You just told me why you were created. That wasn’t a lie.”

“My father created me for one reason. It doesn’t make me his puppet. And it damn sure doesn’t make me the fucking Antichrist.” He turned from me, his anger rising quickly to overtake his frustration. With a loud sigh, he said, “I don’t want to fight.”

“I don’t want to fight either,” I said, jumping up. “I just want to find you. I just want you to be okay.”

“What part of
trap
don’t you understand?” He turned back to me with a glower. “Until you’re safe, I’ll never be okay.”

A knock at the door had both of us glancing that way.

“It’s your friend,” he said, annoyance edging his voice.

“Cookie?” She never knocked.

“The other one.”

“I have more than two friends, Reyes.”

“I heard that,” Garrett said as I opened the door. His weapon was drawn before my next heartbeat. I totally needed to learn to do that. “Where is he?” He barged past me and scanned the area.

Reyes was still there. I could feel him. I just couldn’t see him anymore, and Garrett certainly couldn’t see him, not that it would’ve mattered. That gun would hardly be of benefit in a showdown with the son of Satan. “He’s not here.”

Garrett turned to me, his jaw clenching. “I thought we had a deal.”

“Calm down, kemosabe,” I said as I closed the door and strode past him to the watering hole. I needed caffeine. “His corporeal body isn’t here. His incorporeal body has scurried off to sulk.”

I heard a distant growl as I searched out my favorite mug, the one that said
EDWARD PREFERS BRUNETTES
.

“You’re drinking coffee this late in the evening?”

“It’s either this or a fifth of Jack.”

“And this whole thing with Farrow’s corporeal body, his incorporeal body … it’s kind of freaking me out.”

“Did you get a hit on Dead Trunk Guy?” I asked, just as Cookie walked through the door in her pajamas.

“Oh,” she said, surprised we had company. “Um, maybe I should change.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, frowning at her. “It’s just Swopes.”

“Right,” she said, covering her breasts self-consciously. Like we could see any more than normal in her flannel PJs. A nervous giggle squeaked out of her as she strolled toward the coffeepot.

It was about time those two got to know each other. She’d had a crush on Garrett since the day he sauntered into my office on Uncle Bob’s heels. They’d been in the middle of an investigation and Garrett stayed in the waiting room, aka, Cookie’s office, so Ubie could ask me in private if I had any info on a murdered elderly woman from the Heights. That was before Garrett found out the truth about me. I don’t know what they’d talked about, but Cookie was never the same. Then again, it could have been the fact that she was alone for a solid ten minutes with a tall, muscular man whose mocha-colored skin made the gray of his eyes shine like silver in the sun.

He grinned, knowing exactly what he did to her, what he did to most women, before settling on the club chair that cattycornered my sofa.

“A kindergarten teacher,” he said, apparently answering my question about what he’d found on Cookie’s car as I added enough cream to my coffee to make it unrecognizable.

“Swopes,” I said, giving Cookie a wink, “we don’t care what you want to be when you grow up. We want to know what you found out about Cookie’s car.”

Her eyes widened. “My car?” she whispered.

“You’re funny,” he said absently, studying the corner where he knew Mr. Wong stood. Er, hovered. “The previous owner was a kindergarten teacher.”

“You mean, the person who owned the car before me?” Cookie asked, taking her coffee black and sitting on the sofa opposite him.

He smiled. I smiled, too, realizing that was probably the most she’d ever said to him at one time.

“Yep. And she’s had her fair share of speeding tickets.”

I sat next to Cook, realizing that even in her flannel jammies, she made big beautiful.

“Do you think it was a hit and run?” she asked.

“Not if he died in your trunk.”

“Oh, yeah.” She shook her head. “Wait.” Her mouth fell open. “Are you thinking she killed him? Put him in the trunk on purpose?”

“As opposed to accidently?” he asked.

She offered a shrug with an embarrassed giggle.

“She has a DWI,” he said. “And was arrested for another DWI that got thrown out of court due to a technicality.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking aloud, “so she’s on her way home from a party when Dead Trunk Guy steps off a curb—only he’s not dead yet—and she nails him, freaks out, stops to check on him, then realizes he’s still alive. So she stuffs him in her trunk … why? So he can’t report her?” After a moment, I said, “That makes no sense. If she was so worried about getting caught, why stop at all?”

“True,” Garrett said. “Your theory sucks.”

I wondered where Dead Trunk Guy was when I wasn’t in the shower. Probably back in Cookie’s trunk. “You’re just going to have to find out more,” I said to Garrett.

“Do you know about her fake dying plants?” he asked Cookie.

She pressed her lips together and nodded, twirling her index finger around her ear. Nobody understood the real me.

“So, what did you find out about Mimi?” I asked her.

“Oh, lots.” She sat up straight, excited to have the floor. “When Mimi was in high school in Ruiz, she moved to Albuquerque to live with her grandparents.”

We waited for more. After a moment, I asked, “That’s it?”

She grinned. “Of course not. The class rosters are en route.”

Ah, now I understood why she was so proud. The last case we had where we tried to get a class roster from a public school was like trying to get a deadbeat dad to donate a kidney. In the end, I had to recruit Uncle Bob, his rusty badge, and his reprehensible skill at flirting.

“So, how’d you manage it?” I asked, eager to hear what she did.

Her face fell. “I just asked.”

Oh. Well, that wasn’t very exciting. “But you got them,” I said, trying to cheer her up.

“True. And I’m going to bed.” She eyed Garrett self-consciously then gave me a furtive look from underneath her lashes. My brows rose in question. She gritted her teeth and widened her eyes. I crinkled my nose, again in question. She sighed and gestured toward the door with a slight nod. Oh! I glanced at Garrett, who was trying to be the gentleman and not notice the exchange between us. He suddenly had an intense fascination with the arm of the chair.

“I’ll come with.” I hopped up and walked her across the hall, figuring she wanted to talk about Garrett. I hoped she didn’t want me to pass him a note. I didn’t have any paper on me.

She opened her door then turned back. “So, is he here?”

“Garrett?” I asked, confused.

“What?”

“Wait, who?”

“Charley,” she said, annoyed, “the little boy.”

“Oh.” I’d totally forgotten that while we were traipsing along the streets of Albuquerque at three o’clock this morning—walking in bunny slippers really wasn’t much different from walking barefoot—I’d let slip she had a departed child hanging in her humble abode. I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut. I scanned the area quickly. Her apartment was a montage of black and the bright colors of Mexico, her décor a mixture of rustic Southwest and ranch. My apartment, though identical in size and shape to hers, was more a montage of garage sale and leftover college student paraphernalia. “Nope, don’t see him.”

“Can you check the rest of the apartment?”

“Sure.”

After a five-minute search that had guilt eating away at my innards—really, I should never have told her—we were standing back at her front door, no departed kid in sight.

“Okay, I have a question for you,” I said, drawing her interest. “If you were the dying son of Satan, where would you stash your body?”

She cast a sympathetic glance my way. “Since you’re the one he’s hiding from, sweet pea, my guess would be the last place you, of all people, would be likely to look.”

“No offense,” I said, disappointed, “but that doesn’t really help.”

“I know. I suck at all of this supernatural stuff. But I fry a mean chicken.”

“Oh, good. I hate it when the nice ones get fried.”

“Can I have him for Christmas?” she asked.

“Reyes?”

With a lovesick sigh, she said, “No, the other one.”

“Ew,” I said, realizing she was talking about Garrett. Okay, he was sexy and all, but still, “Ew.”

“You’re just saying that ’cause you’re jealous of our thing.”

After an amazingly rude snort, I said, “Your thing needs a good talking to.”

“Whatever, girlfriend,” she said, showing me a palm before closing her door. I loved it when she got all dramaholic.

When I walked back into my apartment, Garrett had returned to studying Mr. Wong’s corner.

“He won’t bite,” I said, teasing him.

He furrowed his brows in doubt then turned a curious gaze on me. “What was it like growing up with dead people everywhere? Didn’t it freak you out?”

I grinned. “It’s all I’ve ever known. And, I don’t really get scared like most people. Not much frightens me.”

“Well, you are the grim reaper,” he said, teasing me with a shiver. Then his eyes traveled slowly over me, apparently taking in the sights.

“Stop gawking at what you can’t have,” I said, grabbing my cup and heading to the kitchen.

“Just checking out the package deal. You do sweats proud for a girl named Charles.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as he got up and strode to the door. He opened it then hesitated.

“Is there anything else on your mind?” I asked.

He looked back at me, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Besides the fact that I could make a meal out of you?”

The air crackled with Reyes’s anger. I had to wonder if Garrett did that on purpose. Maybe he was figuring out how all this otherworldly stuff worked.

“Cannibalism is frowned upon, buddy.”

“Are you going to report me for sexual harassment?”

“No, but I will grade you,” I said, rinsing out my cup.

He winked then closed the door.

After a moment, I asked, “Are you going to stay in my apartment and sulk all night?”

In an instant, Reyes was gone. Guess that answered that.

I plopped down at my computer to get a little research in before hitting it with Bugs Bunny. I’d had my comforter-slash-security blanket since I was nine. We’d been through a lot together, including Wade Forester. I was in high school. He was in the school of hard knocks, which taught its students much more about procreation than high school did. Bugs was never the same.

Back to my demon problem. If I couldn’t see the darned things, how was I supposed to fight them? Then again, if I
could
see demons, how was I supposed to fight them? I hadn’t missed the references Reyes let slip about my going up against evil incarnate. I needed info, the 411 on everything demonic.

I did a search on how to detect demons and received a slew of no-help-whatsoever for my effort. Everything that loaded onto my screen was about as useful as dental floss in a plane crash, from demonic possession being the underlying cause of ADHD to video games with scary demon overlords. But a few pages in, I found a site that looked almost relevant. Ignoring the fact that the owner’s name was Mistress Marigold, I waded through legend and lore, biblical and historical references, until I came to a page titled “How to Detect Demons.” Bingo.

And Mistress Mari was really helpful. She had a list of demon-detecting tricks, from throwing salt in their eyes—which firstly required my seeing them and secondly held the faintest hint of lawsuit when I inevitably blinded some poor schmuck I thought was possessed—to keeping a careful eye on plants when a questionable individual walked into a room. Apparently, a demon’s presence would wilt the poor suckers before they knew what hit them. I glanced around my apartment. Damn my love of fake dying plants. Maybe I could get a cactus.

The one thing M&M didn’t talk about was the fact that no one could actually
see
demons. In the end, she was about as much help as a BB gun in armed combat.

Just as I went to exit out of the site, two words caught my attention. There, in the middle of a mundane paragraph about a demon’s supposed allergy to fabric softener, was a highlighted link that said
grim reaper
. Me! Well, this was exciting. I clicked on the link. The page that popped up had only one sentence just above an Under Construction warning, but it was an interesting sentence.

If you are the grim reaper, please contact me immediately.

Okay. That was new.

Chapter Eight

IS IT SEXY IN HERE OR IS IT JUST ME?

—T-SHIRT

I woke up at four thirty the next morning—also known as five minutes past ungodly—and lay in bed, wondering why in the name of Saint Francis I’d woken up at four thirty in the morning. There were no dead people hovering over me, no global catastrophes looming near or clothes being thrown at my face, yet my reaper senses told me something was wrong.

I listened for the phone. If anyone had the
cojones
to call me before seven, it was Uncle Bob. But no one was calling. Not even nature.