First Grave on the Right (4 page)

My family was so caring. I tried to slow my breathing, but I just kept thinking about that poor woman losing her sister, her best friend, her
comadre.
What would she do now? How would she go on? Where would she find the will to survive? I started crying again, and Uncle Bob gave up and left me alone in his SUV.

“She’ll be okay, hon.”

I looked in the rearview mirror at Elizabeth and sniffed.

“She’s tough,” she added.

I could tell she was shaken up, and I probably wasn’t helping.

I sniffed again. “I’m sorry. I should never have gone in there.”

“No, I appreciate you being there for my sister instead of a bunch of male cops. Sometimes guys just don’t get it.”

I glanced over at Garrett as he talked to Uncle Bob, shook his head, then leveled an expressionless gaze directly on me. “No, I guess they don’t.”

*   *   *

I needed to get the heck outta Dodge—and how—but Elizabeth wanted to go to her mother’s to check on things. We made plans to meet up at my office later; then I asked another officer to drive me back to my Jeep.

The ride was calming. People were just getting out, heading to work. The sun, still looming over the horizon, cast a soft glow on the crisp morning, suffusing Albuquerque with the prospect of a fresh start. Pueblo-style houses with neat lawns slid past us and broke away to a business district with new and old buildings covering every available inch.

“So, are you feeling better, Ms. Davidson?”

I peered at Officer Taft. He was one of those young cops trying to get in good with my uncle, so he agreed to give me a ride, thinking it might boost his career. I wondered if he knew he had a dead child in his backseat. Probably not.

“Much better, thank you.”

He smiled. Having asked the requisite question of concern, he could now ignore me.

While I normally don’t mind being ignored, I did want to ask him about the tiny blonde, who looked to be about nine years old, gazing starry-eyed like he’d just saved the earth from total destruction. But this line of questioning took tact. Skill. Subtlety.

“So, are you the officer who had a young girl die in his squad car recently?”

“Me?” he asked in surprise. “No. At least I hope not.” He chuckled.

“Oh, well, that’s good.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he thought about what I’d said. “I haven’t heard that. Did someone—?”

“Oh, just a rumor, you know.” Officer Taft had probably heard all about me from the other kids on the playground. Recess could be such a gossip den. Clearly he wanted to keep the conversation to a minimum. But my curiosity got the better of me. “So, did you have a young girl close to you die recently? Something in a blond?”

He was now eyeing me as if I were drooling and cross-eyed. I wiped the swollen side of my mouth just in case.

“No.” Then he thought about it. “But there was a young blond girl who died at the scene about a month ago. I gave her CPR, but we were too late. That was tough.”

“I bet. I’m sorry, too.”

The girl sighed. “Isn’t he the greatest?”

I snorted.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. I just think that would be really hard.”

“Look, bitch.”

I concentrated with every fiber of my being not to let my eyes widen in reaction. It just looks odd to the living when you react to something they can’t see or hear. I eased around to the girl, pretending to take a special interest in the scenery behind us, and raised my brows in question.

“You can’t have him, okay,” she said from behind the wire barrier.

“Mm-hmm,” I whispered.

Officer Taft looked at me.

“This is certainly a beautiful neighborhood.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I will scratch those eyes out of your ugly head.”

Ugly? That was it. Time to play cell phone. “Oh,” I said, digging through my bag. “I think my phone vibrated.” I flipped it open. “Hello?”

“I’d cut back on the glitter makeup if I were you. It’s not helping.”

“I don’t wear glitter—”

“And you’d best quit looking at him. He deserves someone much prettier.”

“Look, sweetheart,” I said, easing around to admire the scenery behind us again, hoping I didn’t look like I was talking to a dead person in the backseat and just pretending to talk on the phone. “I have my own impossible relationship with a guy I can’t really have.
Comprende?
”

She jammed her fists onto her pajama-clad hips and glared at me. “I’m just saying, bitch.”

“Would you stop calling me that, you little…”

I noticed Officer Taft’s brows slide together in concern.

“Relationships,” I said with a shrug. Of course, the cell phone trick worked best in silent mode. As I pretended to explain to my third party that sometimes there is a really bright light nearby and she should go into it, my phone rang out in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which meant Uncle Bob was calling. I almost dropped the phone, then smiled at Taft. “My previous call must have been disconnected.” I dared not comment on the fact that it had supposedly been on vibrate mere seconds ago.

The poltergeist in the backseat howled out an evil laugh. Where the hell did this kid come from? Then it hit me. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she was actually from hell.

“Hell-o,” I said.

“You just want me to go into the light so you can make your move,” Demon Child said.

“That’s not what I want!”

“Okay,” Uncle Bob replied, a wary hesitance in his voice. “No more ‘hey, kiddos’ for you.”

“Sorry, Uncle Bob, I thought you were someone else.”

“I’m often mistaken for Tom Selleck.”

Taft perked up. “Does your uncle need anything? A coffee? A latte?”

Sucking up was so unmanly. “He needs someone to bear his illegitimate child if you’re interested.”

Taft’s mouth thinned into a solid line as he turned back to the road.

Okay, I admit it. That was rude. The demon in the backseat thought so, too. She took a swing at me.

I laughed when I dodged her fist by accidently-on-purpose dropping my cherry lip balm to the floorboard.

“I’ll take that as a can-do,” Uncle Bob said.

“Oh, right. My office, nine o’clock. Got it. I’m just going to run by my apartment and grab a bite, then I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, kiddo. And, are you okay?”

“Me? Always,” I said, just as the golden-haired demon dive-bombed for my eyes. She fell out of the car somewhere between Carlisle and San Mateo. “But I have to say, Uncle Bob, I’ve recently uncovered irrefutable evidence of why some species eat their young.”

Chapter Four

I love children, but I don’t think I can eat a whole one.

—BUMPER STICKER

I was worried Demon Child would follow me to my apartment and get her freak on, so I made sure she was nowhere in sight before I climbed into Misery and hightailed it home. Just in case, though, I stormed into my apartment, tossed a quick hello to Mr. Wong, then rummaged through my entertainment center to lay out all my exorcism equipment. I kept it in my entertainment center because exorcisms were nothing if not entertaining.

And, no, I can’t actually perform one, even with my auspicious status as the grim reaper. I can only help the departed figure out why they’re still on Earth, then lure them across planes afterwards. I can’t force them to go against their will. At least I don’t think I can. I’ve never actually tried. I can, however, trick them. A few candles, a quick chant, and—voilà—exorcism du jour. The departed fall for it all the time and end up crossing despite themselves. Except Mr. Habersham down the hall. He just giggled when I tried to exorcise him. Old fart.

Despite Mr. Habersham—and, come to think of it, Mr. Wong—I loved living here. Not only does my apartment building, the Causeway, sit right behind my dad’s bar and, thus, my office, it’s also something of a local landmark.

I’ve lived here a little over three years, but when I was young—too young to know that evil existed—this old building became fused into my memory, through no fault of its own. Later, when my dad bought the bar, I stepped into the back parking lot and saw the building again for the first time in over a decade. Looking up at the intricate medieval carvings along the entrance, a rarity in Albuquerque, I stood transfixed as a montage of memories, dark and painful, rushed through me. They made my chest hurt and stole my breath, and I became obsessed with the building from that moment on.

We had a history together, a horrible, nightmarish history that involved a paroled sex offender scoping for a fix. And maybe by living here, I felt I was somehow conquering my demons. Naturally, this worked best when demons didn’t actually come to visit.

I put on a pot of coffee and headed to the bathroom to see if my eyes were as swollen as my jaw. Sobbing like a movie star in rehab was not the best beauty regimen. But I soon realized the red swelling brought out the gold in my eyes. Cool. I turned on the hot water full blast, then waited the requisite ten minutes for it to actually get hot.

And they say New Mexico has a water shortage. Not according to my landlord.

Just then, I heard Cookie, my neighbor-slash-best-friend-slash-receptionist, burst through the door, coffee cup in hand. Cookie was a lot like Kramer from
Seinfeld,
only not so nervous, like Kramer might have been on Prozac. And I knew she had her coffee cup in hand because she always had her coffee cup in hand. I think she had difficulties forming complete sentences without it.

“Honey, I’m home!” she yelled from the kitchen.

Yep, she had it.

“Me, too!” came another voice, soft and giggly.

I met Cookie when I moved into the Causeway. She had just moved here as well, following an ugly-ass divorce—her words—and we became instant friends. But she had a daughter, Amber, and they came as a package deal. While Cookie and I hit it off immediately, I was a little worried about the kid. I’d never taken to four-foot creatures who had the uncanny ability to point out all my flaws in thirty seconds flat. And just for the record, I can too read without moving my lips. But I was determined to win Amber over, no matter the cost. And after just one game of miniature golf, I was putty in her hands.

“I’ll be right out,” I said from the bathroom. Mrs. Lowenstein down the hall must be doing laundry, because it didn’t take long for the water to reach its usual two thousand degrees. Steam rose up around me as I splashed my face. Then I looked in the mirror and gave up once again. Thank God Dream Guy didn’t have to see me like this. I patted a towel over my eyes, then stepped back as a name glittered and formed in the condensation.

DUTCH.

My breath caught. Dutch. I hadn’t imagined it. Dream Guy, aka Reyes, aka God of Fantasies and All Things Sensual, had really said
Dutch
to me in the shower. Who else could it be?

I glanced around the bathroom. Nothing. I stopped and listened, but the only thing I heard was Cookie clanking around in the kitchen.

“Reyes?” I peeked behind the shower curtain. “Reyes, are you here?”

“You need a new coffeepot,” Cookie called to me. “It’s taking forever.”

I gave up the search with a sigh and ran my fingers along the path of each letter on the mirror. My hand shook. I snatched it back and, after one last sweep of the area, stepped out of the bathroom, bracing myself for the
oohs
and
aahs
my face would elicit.

“What the bloody heck in Hades for crying out…” Cookie had put the coffee cup down. She picked it up and started over. “What happened?”

“Ooh!” Amber crooned, skipping over to me for a better look. Her huge blue eyes widened as she studied my cheek and jaw. She looked like a wingless fairy, the promise of grace evident in every stride she took. She had long dark hair that fell in tangles down her back, and her lips formed a perfect bow.

I chuckled as her curiosity drew her brows together in deep concentration.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I asked.

“Fiona’s mom is picking me up this morning. We’re going on a field trip to the zoo and Fiona’s mom is a chaperone so she told Mr. Gonzalez we’d just meet the class there. Does that hurt?”

“Yep.”

“Did you hit back?”

“Nope. I was unconscious.”

“No way!”

“Way.”

Cookie pushed past her daughter and studied my jaw for herself. “Did you get checked out?”

“Yeah, by a hot blond who sat in the corner of the bar and made googly eyes at me.”

Amber giggled.

Cookie pursed her lips. “I meant by a doctor.”

“No, but a balding yet bizarrely hot paramedic said I’d be fine.”

“Oh, and he’s an expert?”

“At flirting,” I said. Amber giggled again. I loved the sound, like a tinkling wind chime in a soft breeze.

Cookie leveled a chastising motherly glare on her, then turned back to me. She was one of those women too big for the one-size-fits-all category, and resented the commie makers of such clothing wear. I once had to talk her out of bombing a one-size-fits-all manufacturing company. Other than that, she was pretty down to earth. She had black wiry hair that hung past her shoulders and lent itself nicely to her reputation as a witch. She wasn’t one, but the furtive glances were fun.

“Any coffee yet?”

Cookie gave up and checked the pot. “Seriously, this is beyond torment. This is like Chinese water torture, only less humane.”

“Mom’s going through withdrawal. We ran out of coffee last night.”

“Uh-oh,” I said, grinning at Cookie.

She sat at the counter with me as Amber rummaged through my cabinets for Pop-Tarts. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Cookie said, “Amber wants your dad to get a teriyaki machine so she can sing for all the lonely barflies.”

“I’m a good singer, Mom.” Only a twelve-year-old could make the word
mom
sound blasphemous.

I leaned into Cookie. “Does she know it’s not called—?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Are you gonna tell her?”

“No. It’s much funnier this way.”

I chuckled, then remembered Cookie’s doctor’s appointment the day before. “How’d your visit go? Any new debilitating diseases I should know about?”

“No, but I have reaffirmed my respect for lubricating jelly.”

“Fiona’s here!” Amber said, flipping her cell phone closed and rushing out the door. She rushed back in, kissed her mom on the cheek, kissed me on the cheek—the good one—then rushed back out again.

Cookie watched her go. “She’s like a hurricane on crystal meth.”

“Have you considered Valium?” I asked.

“For her or me?” She laughed and headed for the coffeepot. “I get the first cup.”

“When do you not get the first cup? So, what’d the doc say?” Cookie didn’t like talking about it, but she’d once fought breast cancer, and the breast cancer almost won.

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “He’s sending me to this other doctor, some kind of guru in the medical community.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Dr.— Hell, I don’t know.”

“Oh, him.” I grinned. “So he’s good?”

“Supposedly. I think he invented internal organs or something.”

“Well, that’s a plus.”

She poured two cups, then plopped down beside me again. “No, I’m fine.” She stirred sugar and cream into her coffee. “I think my doc just wants to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself.”

“He’s cautious,” I said, stirring my own cup. “I like that in a person, especially one with the power of life and death at his fingertips.”

“Well, I don’t want you to worry is all. I haven’t felt this good in years. I think you keep me young.” She winked from behind her cup.

After a long sip, I asked, “Isn’t that Amber’s job?”

She snorted. “Amber takes every opportunity possible to tell me how old and uninteresting I am. ‘You’re nothing like Charley,’ she says. Repeatedly. She’s about ninety percent positive you hung the moon.”

“At least someone thinks so,” I said with a shrug of my brows.

“Uh-oh,” she said, putting her cup down. “Did you have another run-in with that hot skiptracer?”

I slumped back into my chair, annoyed that he’d even been mentioned. And in my own apartment, no less. “He’s such a jerk.”

“You did,” she said, her face brightening. She had quite the thing for Garrett. It was … disturbing. “So, spill.” She scooted closer. “What did he say? Did you two have words? A fistfight? Angry sex?”

“Ew,” I said, crinkling my nose. “Not even if he was the last hot skiptracer on Earth.”

“Then what? You have to tell me.” She grabbed my shirt collar with her free hand. I tried not to giggle. “When will you realize I live vicariously through you?”

“You do?”

“Duh.” She smoothed my collar and went back to her coffee. “I have a teenage daughter. I have no social life. No agenda that doesn’t involve the Disney Channel. And sex,” she said with a dramatic wave of her hand. “Don’t even get me started. I haven’t had sex with anything non-battery-powered in years. I need details, Charley.”

After I recovered from the
non-battery-powered
comment, I said, “I tried to set you up with Delivery Dave.”

“The bread guy?” She thought about it, her mouth a grim line. “I guess I could do worse.”

A chuckle escaped me, and she smiled.

“So, are you gonna tell me what happened last night?” she asked.

“Ah, yes. Last night.” I went into the whole evening with Rosie’s asshole husband, assuring her I’d gotten Rosie on the plane and safely out of the country. Then I told her about my morning with the other asshole, Garrett the skeptic skiptracer. Then I told her about my disastrous time with Elizabeth’s sister. Then I told her the best part. The Reyes part.

“So, Reyes, huh?”

“Yeah.”

She laughed. “Could you say that with a little more sigh?”

I grinned and scooped a layer of strawberry cream cheese onto a blueberry bagel, getting a serving of grains, dairy, and fruit in one shot. “The first and only time I’ve ever seen him was that night in the South Valley with Gemma.”

“What night?” Then Cookie’s eyes widened. “You mean?”

“I mean. If I’m not mistaken, it’s him.”

She knew the story. I’d only told her a dozen times. At least. As Cookie sat speechless, I thought back to what I knew about Reyes. Unfortunately, I didn’t know much.

I was a freshman in high school the one and only time I’d seen him, and my psycho sister Gemma was a senior. Ever true to form, she was trying to graduate high school a semester early so she could start college full-time, but graduating early involved a class project she was too chicken to pull off by herself. Enter Charlotte Davidson, supersister, saint, and project getter-doner.

Not, however, without complaint. Oddly, I could remember our conversation like it was moments ago. But twelve years had passed since that terrible and beautiful night. A night I would never forget.

“If you ask me,” I’d said, mumbling through the red scarf wrapped around my nose and mouth, “no class project is worth dying for, even with that whole ten-points-extra-credit thing going for it.”

Gemma turned to me and lowered Dad’s camera to push back a blond curl. The cold of December at midnight added a metallic luster to her blue eyes. “If I don’t get this credit,” she said, her breath fogging in the icy air, “I don’t graduate early.”

“I know,” I said, trying not to sound annoyed. “But seriously, if I die two weeks before Christmas, I’m totally coming back to haunt you. Forever. And trust me, I know how.”

Gemma shrugged, unconcerned, then turned back to the autofocused images of Albuquerque. Luminarias lined sidewalks and buildings, casting eerie shadows over the deserted streets. For a final on community awareness, Gemma opted to make a video. She wanted to capture life on the streets of Southside. Troubled kids in search of acceptance. Drug addicts in search of their next high. Homeless people in search of sustenance and shelter.