First Grave On The Right Part 13

"I don't really have time-"

"They shouldn't be here. No, no, no. They need to leave." Rocket was also a consummate tattletale, always giving me names of those who had pa.s.sed but had yet to cross.

"You're right, Rocket, but this time I have a name for you."

He paused and eyed me in confusion. "A name?"

I decided to toss out a name of someone I knew had already pa.s.sed. "James Enrique Barilla," I said, quoting the name of the kid found murdered in Mark Weir's backyard.

"Oh," he said, jumping to attention.

It was a cheap trick, throwing out a name like that, but I had to keep Rocket focused. I didn't have much time. I had a date with one Mr. Illegal Activity. That breaking-and-entering gig wouldn't break and enter itself.

Rocket recognized the name immediately and began walking with a purpose, which unfortunately included taking shortcuts through walls. I struggled to keep up, jogging around corners and through doorways, hoping the dilapidated floor held beneath my weight.

"Rocket, wait. Don't lose me."

Then I heard him, down the stairwell and through the kitchen, repeating the name to himself over and over. I tripped on a broken chair and dropped my flashlight, sending it tumbling down the steps.

Then Rocket was in front of me. "Miss Charlotte, you never keep up."

"Never?" I asked, struggling to my feet.

"Never." He grabbed my arm and jerked me down the stairs. I just managed to scoop up the flashlight as we ran past.

He meant well.

Then he stopped. With an abruptness I hadn't expected, he skidded to a halt. I slammed into his backside, ever thankful of its plumpness, and bounced off him to land, once again, on my a.s.s. Normally, Rocket would have laughed when I stood and dusted myself off, but he was on a mission. Based on past experience, nothing swayed Rocket from one of his missions.

"Here. Here it is," he said, pointing repeatedly to one of the thousands of names he'd sc.r.a.ped into the plaster. "James Enrique Barilla."

Finding James's name among those of the departed really wasn't surprising, since there was a man going to prison for his murder. But I had to check, just in case.

"Can you tell me how he died?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Not how," he said, suddenly annoyed. I fought back a grin. "Not why. Not when. Only is."

"How about where?" Now I was just being obstinate.

He glared at me. "Miss Charlotte, you know the rules. No breaking rules," he said with a warning shake of his pudgy finger. That'd teach me.

I sometimes wondered if he really did know more and was just following some cosmic set of rules I was unaware of. But his vocabulary, I had a feeling, stemmed from years of inst.i.tutionalization. n.o.body liked rules more than inst.i.tutionalizationers.

I pulled out my notepad and thumbed through it. "Okay, Rocket Man, what about a Theodore Bradley Thomas?" If nothing else, I'd leave here today knowing if Mark Weir's missing nephew was dead or alive.

Rocket bent his head in thought for a moment. "No, no, no," he said at last. "Not his time yet."

Relief flooded every cell in my body. Now I just had to find him. I wondered how much danger the kid was in. "Do you know when his time will be?" I asked, already knowing the answer. Again.

"Not when. Only is," he repeated as he turned and started carving another name into the plaster.

I'd lost him. Keeping Rocket's attention was like serving spaghetti with a spoon. But I had another name to give him. An important one. I inched closer, almost afraid to say it aloud, then whispered, "Reyes Farrow."

Rocket stopped. He recognized the name; I could tell. That meant Reyes was dead after all. My heart dropped into my stomach. I'd hoped so hard he wouldn't be.

"Where is his name?" I asked, ignoring the sting in my eyes. I scanned the walls as if I could actually find his name among the ma.s.s of scribbled chaos that looked like an M. C. Escher on acid. But I wanted to see it. To touch it. I wanted to run my fingers along the rough grooves and lines that made up the letters of Reyes's name.

Then I realized Rocket was gazing at me, a wary expression on his boyish face.

I lifted a hand to his shoulder. "Rocket, what's wrong?"

"No," he said, stepping out of my reach. "He shouldn't be here. No, ma'am."

My eyes slammed shut, trying hard not to see the truth. "Where is his name, Rocket?"

"No, ma'am. He should never have been born."

They flew open again. I'd never heard such a thing from Rocket. "I can't believe you just said that."

"He should never have been a boy named Reyes. He should have stayed where he belonged. Martians can't become human just because they want to drink our water." His eyes locked on to mine, but he stared past me a long moment before refocusing on my face. "You stay away from him, Miss Charlotte," he said, taking a warning step toward me. "You just stay away."

I held my ground. "Rocket, you're not being very nice."

He leaned down to me then, his voice a raspy whisper as he said, "But, Miss Charlotte, he's not very nice either."

Something beyond my senses caught his attention. He turned, listened, then rushed toward me and clenched his meaty hands around my arms. I winced, but I wasn't scared. Rocket would never hurt me. Then his grip tightened, and I almost cried out, realizing I might have spoken too soon.

"Rocket," I said in a soothing voice, "sweetheart, you're hurting me."

He jerked back his hands and retreated in disbelief, as if astonished at what he'd done.

"It's okay," I said, refusing to rub my throbbing arms. It would only make him feel worse. "It's okay, Rocket. You didn't mean to."

A horrified expression flashed across his face as he disappeared. I heard three words as he left. "He won't care."

Chapter Eight.

Guys have feelings, too. But like ... who cares?

-INSPIRATIONAL POSTER The sun nested on Nine Mile Hill for several heartbeats before losing interest and slipping down the other side. I sat in Misery-the Jeep, not the emotion-and waited for the skyline to swallow it completely so I could get on with my breaking-and-entering gig. But the more I waited, the more I thought about Reyes. And the more I thought about Reyes, the more confused I became.

Rocket knew Reyes's name, but did that necessarily mean he'd pa.s.sed? Could it mean anything else? I'd never seen Rocket scared before, and that scared me. He seemed to be hiding something as well, but trying to differentiate between Rocket's lucid and less-than-lucid moments was nearly impossible.

On the plus side, I did learn that Martians should never try to become human just to drink our water. Since Martians didn't exist, I figured they were part of some bizarre Rocket Man a.n.a.logy. So what on Earth could be comparable to alien beings? Besides circus performers? It had to be someone living contrary to the norm. I could think of a couple of groups, but I felt strangely secure in the knowledge that Reyes was neither an IRS auditor nor a member of the Manson family. Thank goodness, because swastikas aren't as easily accessorized as one might think.

Perhaps the bigger piece to the puzzle was the water. What did it represent? What would a person living outside the boundaries of society want for badly enough to conform? Money? Acceptance? Power? Green chili enchiladas? I was clueless. It happened. In my own defense, Rocket used a bad a.n.a.logy. We lived way too close to Roswell to think logically about alien invasions.

But I could think logically about the case. Mark Weir's nephew was alive, and I had a very strong suspicion he'd known James Barilla, the deceased kid in Weir's backyard. There had to be a connection. Mostly because I wanted one. Whatever that connection might be, Teddy was in trouble because of it.

Where the heck was Angel when I needed him? He rarely stayed away this long. How could I do supernatural recon without a supernatural reconnaissance team? Namely, Team Angel, which was pretty much a team of one. But by calling it a team, I could say things like, "There's no i in team, mister!" I friggin' loved saying c.r.a.p like that. As it stood, I was having to do way more legwork than I'd planned when I decided on these boots.

On the way over from the asylum, I'd called the lead detective on Weir's case. He was a friend of Uncle Bob's, but not a big fan of mine. I think I irked him. I could be irksome when I put my left ventricle into it. I figured he was either jealous of Uncle Bob's success-and my part in it-or he didn't like hot chicks with att.i.tude. Probably a smidgen of both.

Our conversation didn't last long. Detective Anaya's answers were short and to the razor-sharp point. According to him, APD had tried to find Teddy in connection to the case as well, but they were looking for another body, another death to pin on Mark Weir. Such an investigation would lead them continually in the wrong direction. Since I knew Teddy was alive, I would have a slight advantage over APD, emphasis on the word slight. Advantage might be a bit overstated as well.

When they'd interviewed Teddy's mom, she told the police her son never moved back home from her brother's house. And yet she'd waited until Mark was arrested for murder to report him missing? That left two weeks of Teddy's whereabouts unaccounted for. I may not have been the state academic decathlon champ, but even I could tell the facts weren't adding up.

As I waited for the lingering light to stop lingering and let darkness blanket the area, I flipped open my phone to study Reyes's picture for the hundredth time that day. And just like each time before, my breath caught at the first glimpse of him. I couldn't get over it. After more than ten years, I'd found him. True, I'd found him in prison, but for the moment-as I was fairly adept at living in denial-I was ignoring that part. The one ray of hope I clung to lay in the fact that Reyes was p.i.s.sed when they took his mug shot. Not just upset, not just angry, but wildly, ragingly furious. Guilty people aren't p.i.s.sed. They're either relieved at having been caught or worried. Reyes was neither.

I closed my phone, resisting the inane urge to make out with the screen, and made my way up the walk to the front entrance of the Sussman, Ellery & Barber Law Offices. A wide oak door sat conveniently hidden by evergreens and Spanish daggers, making my breaking and entering all the more uncomplicated-though, really, it wasn't so much breaking as entering, since I had a key and all.

Barber's office was only slightly less organized than a postapocalyptic war zone. I thumbed through stacks of papers and found Weir's case files in a cardboard box marked WEIR, MARK L. Which was a totally logical place to find them. But the mysterious flash drive was another matter. Barber said it would be on top of his desk. It wasn't, and his pencil drawer had seven flash drives without so much as a label in sight. I couldn't loiter all evening. I had a stakeout to attend, which sadly involved neither steaks nor vampires.

I weighed the pros and cons of taking all the flash drives with me and checking them out later. The pros won. Mentally scheduling another B & E for tomorrow night to return them, I started stuffing flash drives into my pockets. That led to the realization that mocha lattes and cheeseburgers weren't doing me any favors. Which, in turn, led to an angry growl echoing against the walls of my empty stomach. I was starving.

As I hopped up and down, trying to cram the last two flash drives into my pockets, I ran a mental list of all the fast food joints I could hit between here and the warehouse we were staking out.

"You're about as inconspicuous as a monster truck at an exotic car show."

I started and whirled around to see Garrett standing in the doorway. "Holy c.r.a.p, Swopes," I said, placing a hand over my heart. "What are you doing here?"

He strolled in, eyeing the moonlit surroundings before returning his attention to yours truly. "Your uncle sent me," he said, his voice flat. "Any evidence you obtain without that warrant will be useless in court."

Ah, we were back to being mortal enemies. Coolness wafted off him. I'd have to be on guard in his presence, ever wary of his traitorous tendencies. I'd have to eat, sleep, and potty with one eye open.

"Do the words chain of custody mean anything to you?" he asked.

"They would if I gave a c.r.a.p." I picked up the box and headed for the door. "I just need to know what I'm up against, Swopes."

"Besides mental illness?"

Dang, we were even back to the volatile insults. It felt good to be home.

"I'm not out to prove my investigative prowess, Swopes, or how ginormous my d.i.c.k is by making a name for myself. I'm helping my clients. It's what I do," I said as I edged past him. "It's what I've been doing for years now, long before you came along."

Garrett followed me out the front door. "What's the code?" he asked to reset the alarm.

I yelled the numbers over my shoulder-apparently so everyone in the neighborhood could hear-then put the box in the back of my Jeep. He walked up behind me.

"I have to stop for sustenance along the way. I'll meet you at the warehouse," I said.

After closing the back door for me and making sure it was locked, he said, "We're not far from your place. Why don't we drop off your car, and you can ride over with me."

I put the key in to unlock my door. "I'm hungry."

"You can eat on the way."

An annoyed sigh slipped through my lips as my hand hovered over the door handle. "Is Uncle Bob paying you to babysit me now?"

"We have four dead bodies, Davidson. He's ... concerned."

"Ubie?" I asked with a snort.

"I'll follow you to your place."

"Whatever makes your balloon red, Swopes," I said, climbing into Misery and slamming the door. He didn't seem any happier about Charley-sitting than Charley did herself. Somewhere deep inside, she felt bad about that. Not.

"Mmm. Tacos are good." I looked over at Swopes as we pulled in beside Uncle Bob's unmarked police car, a bland, dark blue sedan. "I just hope I don't spill any more salsa on your nice vinyl seats."

Garrett's jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth. It was funny. "They're leather," he said, his voice tightly controlled.

"Oops. Well, they're real nice."

He threw the truck into park, and I hopped out before the tension could escalate into random acts of violence, ducked back in for my monster cup of diet soda, then dashed over to Uncle Bob's car. Aka the Safety Zone.

We were parked a fair distance away from the warehouse; a wide field of ragweed and mesquite lay between us and the rusting metal building. It looked like a cross between an airplane hangar and a mechanic's shop and sat perched smack-dab in the middle of nowhere. Not a single neighbor for miles. A fact I found most interesting.

Uncle Bob sat in his car, staring out of a nifty pair of binoculars from behind his steering wheel. I leaned over his winds.h.i.+eld, peered into the binocular lenses, and smiled. He pulled the specs away from his eyes and frowned at me.

"What?" I mouthed before bouncing around to the pa.s.senger's side and climbing inside the warm interior. Death by starvation had been staved off another day, thanks to Macho Taco. Life was good.

"Who's that?" I asked, pointing to a second unmarked police car strategically parked a few yards away. Totally camouflaged by darkness. Except for one small, teensy-tiny, minuscule blunder. His parking lights were on. I took a shot and guessed the guy hadn't graduated at the top of his cla.s.s.

"That's Officer Taft," Uncle Bob said.

"No," I breathed.

"He volunteered."

"No."

"He's a good egg, that one."

I rolled my eyes and eased lower into the seat as Garrett opened the back door to get in, s.h.i.+ning the minisearchlight directly on me.

"Close the door," I whispered with a furtive urgency.

Uncle Bob frowned. Again. I didn't know why. It wasn't like he needed the practice.

"Taft has a fan," I explained. "An adorable little girl has been stalking him. I think her name is h.e.l.l Sp.a.w.n of Satan."