skylight one more time this week, I was going on a killing spree. Starting with him.
He stood in my face a solid minute, whispered a hoarse, “Fuck you,” then stalked out the door.
Okey dokey. As interesting as that was, I had a date with Uncle Bob. And destiny.
After stuffing Reyes’s file in my shoulder bag, I locked up and headed to the office. Strawberry Shortcake followed, and it hit me that her initials were
“He doesn’t want me around, huh?” she asked, swinging her little arms at her sides. I barricaded my heart.
“Nope,” I said, checking my phone for messages. “Neither do I.”
She stomped her foot in a fit and stalked off. That was way easier than I thought it would be. When I had more time, I’d deal with the SS. For now, I had people to see and places to be.
Dad wasn’t in yet, so I took the outside staircase, slowly ’cause it hurt. The sun shone bright, making the day seem deceptively warm. On my long and arduous journey to the second floor, I went over what I had to do for the day. Number one, Yucca High. Ubie could flash his badge and get all kinds of cooperation. I needed transcripts and class rosters. Surely someone would remember Reyes. How could they forget him? I could cross-reference the students in each of his classes and find out who shared more than one class with him. The more exposure, the more likely they’d remember him. And his sister.
In one smooth move, I dumped my coat and bag on a chair, turned up the heat, then sashayed — somewhat rigidly — to the coffeepot for my morning fix. That’s when the world fell out from under me. Was it karma? Was my less-than-caring attitude toward Taft coming back to bite me on the ass, hot as it was? I checked and double- checked, searched and prayed, only to be left utterly and completely without a single coffee ground.
How was this possible? How could the universe be so cruel?
A knock on my door raised my hopes. It was the inside door to my office that Dad always used. He’d have coffee. If he knew what was good for him.
I opened the door wide, only to be met by a tense Garrett Swopes. My lungs released a long breath as I scowled at him. “What do you want?”
His expression softened. “I have coffee.”
I eyed the coffee in his hands, tried to keep from drooling, wondered if the gods were toying with me, then gave in. Fine, I’d play along.
Plastering a bright smile on my face, I began again. “Oh, hey there, Garrett. What’s up?” Good enough. I snatched the coffee from his hands and started back for the slippery comfort of my plastic wood-grained office furniture and faux-leather chair. “What do you want?” I asked over my shoulder.
“I just want to talk.”
“I’m busy.”
“You don’t look busy. What are you doing?”
“Whatever the little voices tell me to do.”
“Will you just give me a minute?”
As if a delayed reaction had suddenly hit, Taft’s outburst was starting to gnaw. Another person angry with me for no reason. Eating away at me as well were the hostile, wary glances at the police station yesterday. In fact, men in general were pretty low on my list of priorities at the moment. Garrett could bite my ass.
“I don’t feel particularly inclined to give you anything, Swopes. Not even a minute.”
“How did you do it? Yesterday at the station. What did you say to him?”
“Please. Like you’d believe me if I told you.”
“Look,” he said, stalking forward, “you gotta admit, it’s all a little hard to swallow, but I’m trying.”
I jumped out of my seat, suddenly angry at the world, and faced Garrett head-on. “You know what I’m tired of?”
He thought a moment. “Unsightly cellulite?”
“People like those assholes at the station yesterday. People like Taft with their sideways glances and hushed whispers who turn their backs on me every time I walk into a room. People like you who treat me like shit until they figure out I really can do what I say I can do. And then suddenly I’m their best friend.”
“Taft? That cop?”
“And, and them!”
“Them?”
“All of them! Wanting me to tie up all the loose ends they left hanging when they bit it.”
“I would think your lawyers—”
“Not the lawyers,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “They have every reason to want their loose ends tied up. It’s these people who come to me with, ‘I didn’t tell Stella I loved her before I got sucked into that jet engine.’ ”
“Okay, slowly, and without making any sudden movements, hand over the coffee. I’ll go get you another cup, and we can start over.”
“What’s wrong with this cup?” I asked, eyeing it suspiciously.
“You need decaf.”
I pulled in a long deep breath and sat back behind my desk. Tantrums never got me anywhere fast. “Sorry. I’m working on a deadline.”
“This case?”
“No,” I said, thinking about Reyes in that hospital bed, connected to machines just to keep him alive. After several soothing sips of java, I calmed down. Well, kind of. My insides were still seething a bit. Taft was a freak. “So, that’s why you’re here? To find out what I said?”
“Pretty much. And to chew your ass out for being at the wrong place at the wrong time again.”
“Pffft. Stand in line.”
“That guy tackled you pretty hard. Do you
“Not daily. Have you heard anything about the warehouse?”
“I’ve gotten just enough on it to make me think it’s not what we think it is.”
“Oh, well, good thing I wasn’t married to my beliefs.”
“I’ve heard talk that the good Father who owns it really is a good Father. He runs a mission for runaway kids downtown.”
“Kids?” I asked.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he asked, referring back to my deal with Julio Ontiveros.
“Nope. Since we have two kids involved in Mark Weir’s case, I’d say there’s a connection somewhere.”
“It’s possible. Can you give me a hint?”
A knock at the door saved me from once again having to say no. What was it with men and the word
It was the side door Garrett came through. “Come on in, Dad,” I called. Then I turned to Garrett. “You know, we do have a front door.”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug.
When Dad didn’t come in, I stood and walked to the door. “Dad, you can come in,” I said as I opened it. A split second later, my life flashed before my eyes, and I came to one important conclusion about it.
It was fun while it lasted.
CHAPTER 14
Well, this is awkward.
Apparently, this really was Kill Charley Davidson Week. Or at least Horribly Maim Her. I considered the slick gun pointed at me from across the threshold confirmation. It would probably never get government recognition,
