First Grave on the Right

Martians didn’t exist, I figured they were part of some bizarre Rocket Man analogy. 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 analogy. 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 crap 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 attitude. 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 pissed when they took his mug shot. Not just upset, not just angry, but wildly, ragingly furious. Guilty people aren’t pissed. 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 crap, 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 crap.” 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 dick 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 windshield, 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 passenger’s side and climbing inside the warm interior.