First Grave on the Right

“What?”

“Besides,” I said, indicating Aunt Lillian with a nonchalant nod of my head. “Aunt Lil already made coffee.”

I watched — and tried really hard not to giggle — as Cookie’s hopes for a caffeine high were dashed on the mocking rocks of irony. She hung her head and took the cup I handed her. “Thanks, Aunt Lillian. You’re the best.”

She’s a trouper, that one.

* * *

I set Cookie on the arduous task of going through Mark Weir’s court transcripts — which Uncle Bob had left on my desk — and checking Barber’s flash drives. Hopefully Barber wasn’t into fetishes. And if he was, hopefully he wasn’t into leaving evidence of such a thing on a flash drive where anyone could find it. Those things were much better off in a password-protected file buried deep in the underbelly of one’s hard drive with an inconspicuous file name. Something like Hot Firefighters in Love. For example.

My cell broke out into a chorus of Beethoven’s Fifth, and I did the find-the-needle-in-the-haystack thing while cruising at ninety in a seventy-five, marveling at how a cell phone could make itself so obscure in one tiny handbag.

“Hey, Ubie,” I said after a three-hour search.

“Must you call me that?” he asked in a groggy voice. He seemed almost as caffeine deprived as I was.

“Yep. I got the files you put on my desk. Cookie’s going through everything now.”

“And what are you doing?”

“My job,” I said, pretending to be offended. As badly as I wanted to ask him about Reyes’s conviction, I wanted to be face-to-face, where I could read his every expression. Or read things into his every expression, whichever worked best to my advantage. I still couldn’t believe he was lead detective on Reyes’s case. What were the odds?

“Oh, okay,” he said. “They found a partial on the shell casing from the Ellery site.”

“Really?” I asked, suddenly hopeful. “Did you get a hit?”

“This isn’t CSI, sweetheart. Things don’t happen quite that fast ’round these parts. We should know by this afternoon if it’ll get us anywhere.” He yawned loudly, then asked, “Are you in your Jeep?”

“Sure am. I’m headed to the prison in Santa Fe to check out some intel.”

“What intel?” he asked, suspicion altering his voice.

“It’s … another case I’m working on,” I hedged.

“Oh.”

That was easy.

“Hey, what does bombazo mean?”

“Uncle Bob,” I said reproachfully, “have you been in that Hungarian chat room again?” I tried really hard not to giggle, but the thought of some Hungarian chick calling Ubie “the bomb” was just too much. I cracked up regardless.

“Never mind,” he said, annoyed.

I laughed harder.

“Call me when you get back to town.”

After he slammed down the phone, I closed mine and tried to focus on the road through my tears. My reaction was insensitive and uncalled for. I thought this as I doubled over the steering wheel in laughter, holding my aching ribs.

It took me a few moments to sober, but at least laughing at Ubie’s expense was better than pining over Reyes like I’d been doing all morning. Unfortunately, my hour-long shower — while revealing exactly how black and blue I was becoming — didn’t lend any insight as to why he wouldn’t have shown up last night. But the closer I got to the Penitentiary of New Mexico, the more optimistic I became. Surely this place would have some answers. Then I drove up to the gates of the maximum-security prison, and my optimism morphed into a crackly kind of sweat- induced pessimism.

I glanced down at my clothes one more time. Loose pants, long sleeves, high collar. Covered neck to kneecaps. I wondered if looking masculine in a maximum-security prison, however, would actually be of benefit. Considering.

Thirty minutes and two elderly Italian women later — they had crossed through me, arguing all the way, as I sat in the waiting room — I was led to the office of Deputy Warden Neil Gossett. It was small but bright, with dark office furniture and mountains of paperwork nesting on every available surface. Neil had been a more-than-decent football player in high school, and he’d kept the bulk of his youth, though not in exactly the same proportions. He looked good, despite the tragic emergence of male-pattern baldness.

He stood and circled his desk. “Charlotte Davidson,” he said, more than a little surprised.

His height had me looking up as I took his hand. “Neil. You look great,” I said, wondering if it was okay to say such things to persons with whom you weren’t exactly friends.

“You look…” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

I wondered if I should be insulted. It couldn’t have been the bruises. I’d worked really hard on covering them. Was it my hair? It was probably my hair.

“You look spectacular,” he said at last.

Oh. That would do nicely. “Thank you.”

“Please.” He gestured toward a chair with a sweep of his hand and took his own seat behind the desk. “I have to admit,” he admitted, “I’m a little surprised to see you.”

A coy grin spread across my face as I angled for “light and flirty.” “Well, I had some questions about one of your inmates, and I figured I’d just start at the top and work my way down.” The sexual innuendo in that statement was not lost on me.

He almost blushed. “I’m not exactly the top, but I’m glad you think so highly of me.”

I chuckled appropriately and brought out my notebook.

“Luann tells me you’re a private investigator now.”

Luann, meaning his secretary. “Yes, I am. I’m currently working with APD on a DOA resulting in an FTA.” I purposely threw around a few acronyms to make myself sound savvy.

He arched his brows. At least he seemed impressed. That would help in the long run. “And this is about that case?”

“It’s all related,” I said, lying my ass off. “I’m actually here about a man who was convicted of murder about ten years ago. Can you tell me anything about a—” I looked down at my notepad, feigning tedium. “—a Reyes Farrow? I was hoping to question him regarding a case, you know, about this case thing I’m working on with…”

I lost my train of thought when Neil paled before my eyes. He picked up his phone and stabbed a button. “Luann, can you come in here?”

Damn, was I in trouble already? Was he kicking me out? I just got here. I knew I should have thrown around more acronyms, but I just couldn’t think of any. The NAACP! Why didn’t I think of the NAACP? That scares the crap out of everyone.

“Yes, sir?” Luann asked as she opened the door.

“Can you get me the file on Reyes Farrow?”

Phew.

But Luann hesitated. “Sir?”

“It’s okay, Luann. Just get me Farrow’s file.”

She glanced at me, then back at him. “Immediately, sir.”

She was good. Cookie never said, Immediately, ma’am. We’d have to talk. And Luann’s reaction was just as interesting as Neil’s. She had a very feminine demeanor. Very bubble baths and wine beneath her business suit. But in a heartbeat, she had become protective. Almost angry. Though her anger didn’t seem directed at me.

“Is this about the incident?” Neil asked. “I didn’t think Farrow had any relatives.”

“The incident?” I asked as Luann brought in the file and handed it to him. She left without giving me a second