Ubie acknowledged that with a nod. That fact had come out in the trial.
“Second, I’m beginning to believe the man isn’t even dead.”
After staring out the window for a long moment, he said, “It’s possible. Not likely, certainly not probable, but possible. There are ways.”
“Like switching the dental records?” I asked.
He nodded.
“And the fact that Earl Walker’s girlfriend at the time was a dental assistant at the very office the authorities obtained those records from didn’t strike anyone as odd?”
I knew Ubie had been the lead detective on the case, so to say I was skating on thin ice would have been more than appropriate. And I sucked at ice skating.
His lips thinned under his thick mustache. “Are you helping him?”
“Yes.” There was no reason to lie. Uncle Bob wasn’t an idiot.
I felt a spike of adrenaline emanate from him when I answered, the surprise he felt, but I think he was more surprised that I was being honest. So he tried again. “Do you know where he is?”
“No.” When his brows slid together with a hint of doubt, I added, “That’s why he handcuffed me, to get a head start. He didn’t want to put me in that position.”
“And he hit you because?”
“I called his sister a doody head.”
He fixed an exasperated gaze on me.
“He’s very sensitive.”
“Charley—”
“He wanted it to look good, you know, for the cops.”
“Aw. Did you have anything to do with his escape?”
“Besides getting carjacked? No.”
“Are you going to fill in the details that you so conveniently left out for the sergeant on duty?”
“No.” I couldn’t tell him about Amador and Bianca or the super-spy plan they’d concocted to get him out of there.
“Do you think Cookie is up?”
I refrained from rolling my eyes and glanced over at Misery. Apparently, Amador had her delivered sometime during the night. Thoughtful of him.
Maybe the unholy union of Cookie and Uncle Bob wasn’t such a bad idea. They’d started flirting recently, and as much as it caused this burning sensation in my stomach, they were both healthy, responsible adults, capable of making their own bad decisions that resulted in years of couple’s therapy and, eventually, court fees.
It would be disturbing to watch, though. I could just pack up all my worldly possessions and live in Misery. The Jeep, not the emotion.
I glanced back at Uncle Bob, at his pathetically hopeful expression, and decided to negotiate. “You gonna get that tail off my ass?” I gestured toward the car parked across the street with a nod.
His face fell. “No. It’s good for your ass.”
“So is taking the stairs, but I take the elevator every chance I get.” When he shrugged, I added, “Cookie’s asleep,” right before exiting the vehicle.
Chapter 11
Mistakes were made.
Others were blamed.
Since I still had a couple more hours before we opened up shop, I decided to read some more of the research on my missing-wife case before hitting the showers. Uncle Bob had totally scored with the statements, but I mainly focused on Teresa Yost herself. Besides tons of volunteer work and sitting on a couple of boards, Teresa Yost had graduated magna cum laude from the University of New Mexico with a degree in linguistics. Which meant she was freaking smart. And she probably knew another language or two. She’d worked a lot with disabled kids and had been instrumental in starting a horse ranch that catered specifically to children in wheelchairs.
“And she didn’t deserve to die,” I said to Mr. Wong, who continued to stare into his corner.
Two hours later, I sat drinking coffee with a towel on my head, placating a very disappointed-that-I-hadn’t- called-her Cookie. “He was naked?”
“He was in the shower, so … yes.”
“And you didn’t get a picture?” She sighed in frustration.
“I was in handcuffs.”
“Did he … did you…?”
“No. Oddly enough, the actual act doesn’t seem to matter where he’s concerned. Just looking at him causes these sharp waves of ecstasy to flood my girl parts, so it’s almost the same thing.”
“That’s so unfair. I’m going on a killing spree.”
“Can I drop you somewhere?”
“No, I have to get Amber to school. At least let me help with Reyes’s case.”
“No.”
“Why not?” She frowned in disappointment. “I can research shit. It’s what I do.”
“I have names. I’ll look them up while you check into the good doctor’s finances.”
“Oh, well, okay. Isn’t he like a billionaire?”
I smiled. “That’s exactly what I want to know.”
After covering my black eye with enough concealer to make the late Tammy Faye Bakker proud, I trudged across the parking lot, my feet getting heavier with every step. This whole lack-of-sleep thing seemed to be wearing on me if the little girl following me with the knife was any indication. “Weren’t you a hood ornament yesterday?” I asked.
She didn’t look at me. Which was horridly rude. She wore a charcoal gray dress with black patent leather boots, an outfit that could have doubled as a Russian school uniform, and she had shoulder-length black hair. Her only accessory was the knife, which didn’t really match. Apparently accessorizing was not her thing.
I walked over to the tail parked across the street and knocked on the window. The guy in it jumped with a start. “I’m going to work now!” I yelled through the glass as he squinted at me. “Pay attention.”
He rubbed his eyes and waved. I recognized him as one of Garrett Swopes’s men.
“Are you Charley Davidson?”
I turned to see a woman in a worn brown coat and penny loafers. Practical but hardly appealing. “Depends on who’s asking.”
She walked up to me, scanning the area as she went. She had long black hair that could’ve used a good brushing and huge sunglasses covering half her face. I recognized her from the Buick in the street yesterday morning. The same hair. The same sunglasses. The same sadness percolating beneath the surface. But her aura was warm, its light like the soft glow of a candle, as though afraid to shine too brightly.
“Ms. Davidson.” She held out her hand. “My name is Monica Dean. I’m Teresa Yost’s sister.”
“Ms. Dean.” I took her hand. All the emotions of a woman with a missing sister were present and accounted for. She was scared and grief-stricken and sick with worry. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’m sorry.” She pushed her sunglasses up nervously. “My brother said not to talk to you.”
“Yeah, I don’t think he appreciated my visit yesterday. Can you come in?” I gestured toward the back of Dad’s bar. The wind bit through my jacket, nipping at me like an elderly Chihuahua.
