Okay, that was new. “Which is?” I asked, my voice edged with a wary dread.
“The ultimate weapon,” she said as if she were ordering an ice cream cone. “The bringer of death.”
“Well, crap.”
“The Antichrist.”
“Damn.”
“He is more powerful than any demon or any angel that ever existed. He can manipulate the space-time continuum and bring about the destruction of the entire galaxy and everything in it.”
“Okay, I get it,” I said, holding up a hand to stop her. I suddenly found myself fighting for air. I just had to ask. It couldn’t have been something easy, something non — world destroying. Oh, hell no. It had to be all apocalyptic and ghastly. Well, this sucked ass. I had no idea how to fight that. But finding Reyes’s body suddenly became imperative. “You found out a lot in that five minutes.”
“I guess,” she said with a shrug.
I switched gears, dropped down into neutral, then shifted myself into denial before looking back at Strawberry. “So, did you find out Rocket’s real name?”
“Yep,” she said, running her fingertips over the sleeve of my sweater. It was disturbing.
I waited. Like forever. “And?”
“And what?”
“Rocket’s name?”
“What about it?”
Deep breaths. Deep calming breaths. “Pumpkin head,” I said, calmly and deep-breathily, “what is Rocket’s name?”
She looked up as if I were insane. “Rocket. Duh.”
My teeth slammed together again. If it weren’t for her large, innocent eyes, the perfect pout of her bowlike mouth, I would have exorcised her right then and there. Well, if I knew how. I lowered my head instead, played with an errant string on my jeans. “Is Rocket okay?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, he’s just a little scared.”
Damn it. Reyes could be such a butthead. Freaking Antichrists. A thought emerged. “Hey, so what’s his little sister’s name?”
Her mouth dropped open before she glared up at me. “Do you even listen?”
What the heck did I do now? “What?”
“I already told you. Her name is Blue.”
“Oh, really?”
She nodded.
“Her name is Blue?”
She crossed her arms — again — and nodded, slowly, apparently so I would understand.
“Does she have a last name, mayhap?” Smart-ass.
“Yep. Bell.”
I sighed. Another nom de plume. “Blue Bell, huh?” Well, that wouldn’t bolster my investigation any. Rocket Man and Blue Bell. Wonderful. No, wait. Now I had a Rocket Man, a Blue Bell, and an alleged Antichrist. Never let it be said that life in Charley Land wasn’t interesting.
“So, why won’t Blue Bell come out to meet me?” I asked, slightly hurt only not.
“Really?” She eyed me like I was part blithering and part idiot. “Because if
She had a point.
Taft finished his conversation and strolled back over. “Is she here?” he asked, looking around. They always looked around. Not sure why.
“In the flesh,” I said. “Metaphorically.”
“Is she still mad at me?” He kicked the sand at his feet.
Had I not been shell-shocked over the pending apocalypse, I would have laughed when Strawberry did the same, her tiny pink slippers skimming over the ground, disturbing nothing. “I wasn’t mad,” she said. “I just wish he would stop taking ugly girls to dinner.” Before I could say anything, she reached up and curled her fingers into mine. “He should take you to dinner.”
To say that the mere thought horrified me would have been a grievous understatement. I threw up a little in my mouth then swallowed hard, trying not to make a face. “She’s not really mad,” I told Taft when I recovered. I leaned in and whispered, “Just please, for the love of God, find a girl good enough to take home to your mother. And do it soon.”
“Okay,” he said, confusion locking his brows together.
“And stop dating skanks.”
Chapter Seven
I STOPPED FIGHTING MY INNER DEMONS.
WE’RE ON THE SAME SIDE NOW.
After presenting my ID at the front, I strolled into the central police station, where they’d brought Warren Jacobs for questioning, and spotted Ubie across a sea of desks. Fortunately, only a couple of uniforms took note of my presence. Most cops didn’t take kindly to my invading their turf. Partly because I was Ubie’s secret weapon, solving cases before they could, and partly because they thought I was a freak. Neither particularly bothered me.
Cops were an odd combination of rules and arrogance, but I’d learned long ago that both attributes were needed for survival in their dangerous profession. People were downright crazy.
Ubie stood talking to another detective when I walked up to him. At the last minute, I remembered I was annoyed with him for putting a tail on me. Thank goodness I did, because I almost smiled.
“Ubie,” I said, icicles dripping from my voice.
Clearly unfazed by my cool disposition, he snickered, so I frowned and said, “Your mustache needs a trim.”
His smile evaporated and he groped his ’stache self-consciously. It was harsh of me, but he needed to know I was serious about my No-Surveillance Policy. I hardly appreciated his insensitivity to my need for privacy. What if I’d rented a porn flick?
The other detective nodded to take his leave, humor twitching the corners of his mouth as he walked away.
“Can I see him?” I asked.
“He’s in observation room one waiting for his lawyer.”
Taking that as a yes, I headed that way, then offered over my shoulder, “He’s innocent, by the way.”
Just as I stepped inside, he called out to me. “Are you just saying that ’cause you’re mad?”
I let the door close behind me without answering.
“Ms. Davidson,” Warren said, rising to take my hand. He actually looked a little worse than he had at the cafe. He wore the same charcoal suit, his tie loose, the top button of his shirt unfastened.
“How are you holding up?” I asked, sitting across from him.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” he said, his hands shaky with grief. Guilty people were often nervous during interviews as well, but for a different reason. More often than not, they were trying to come up with a good story. One that would cover all the bases and hold up in court. Warren was nervous because he was being accused of committing not one, but two crimes, and he’d committed neither.
“I don’t doubt that, Warren,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm nonetheless. He didn’t tell me everything,
