First Grave On The Right Part 21

Spotting Ubie beside another patrol car also brought me within screaming distance of Garrett Swopes. I tamped down the angry hornetlike sting of jealousy when I realized Ubie must have called him first. I'd been solving cases for the man since I was five, and he calls Swopes first? Aggravation coursed through me, ruffled my feathers, got my hackles up, whatever hackles were. Was a little appreciation too much to ask? A little nepotistic favoritism?

Uncle Bob was on the phone as usual when Garrett looked up at me from behind the patrol car's open trunk, concern flashing in his eyes. With a curse, I realized the ache in my ribs and hip had me limping. I gritted my teeth, straightened my spine, and walked as normally as possible. Then I had to force myself to relax a little, fearing my walk resembled the robot dance from the eighties.

"I can't believe you don't have twenty-seven broken ribs," Garrett said as I robot-walked forward.

"I don't have twenty-seven ribs."

"Are you sure?" he asked, eyeing my rib cage. "Maybe I should count them."

Ridiculously ticklish, I wrapped my arms protectively around my stomach in reflex. "Only if you want to lose a hand," I warned, though he did look rather hot in jeans and a white T-shirt with a dark blue bulletproof vest strapped around his torso. Very machismo. "But don't worry," I continued. "Surely that whole learning-to-count thing will pay off someday."

He grinned, unscathed, as he checked his clip. "Surely."

" 'Kay, I'm going around back."

"Why?"

" 'Cause I can. And you're not there."

"Oh. Don't get shot."

I snorted-as if-and hobbled away.

"And don't fall off anything," he half whispered, half yelled.

He was funny.

I had scarcely taken up a position behind the complex with a cute cop named Rupert when we heard what sounded like a gunshot coming from inside. Rupert sprang into action. He scaled six feet of chain-link and rushed toward the back entrance, crashing to a halt against the redbrick building with gun at the ready. Rupert was young.

Being older and wiser, I chose to enter through the opening where a gate once stood several feet back. Taking Garrett's warning about not getting shot to heart ... considering ... I scrunched down and eased inside the yard. Twelve seconds later, I lay sprawled in the dirt, gasping for air. Apparently, the suspect had spotted the opening in the fence as well. And for some reason, when surrounded by cops with nickel-slick badges and chambered rounds, the path of least resistance is most often through the unarmed chick, despite her att.i.tude. I had just enough time to check out Rupert's nicely shaped a.s.s before a large hoodie-clad g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger determined to make a hole in the universe tore through me.

We hit the ground hard, and the pain in my ribs had me seeing white-hot stars ... and fear. His fear. And his innocence. He didn't shoot anyone. d.a.m.n.

Chapter Thirteen.

Well-behaved women rarely make history.

-LAUREL THATCHER ULRICH My PI techniques would never be the stuff of legend. They would never make it into criminology textbooks or university lecture halls. But I did feel that, with some focus, I could have a strong presence in chat rooms.

If I couldn't be a good example, I'd just have to be a horrible warning.

Cookie's attempts to get her hands on the transcripts and cla.s.s rosters from Reyes's high school failed. It was rare, but it happened. Something about laws and confidentiality. With this in mind, I strode into the police station, a singular objective guiding me. Carrying what was perhaps too big a chip on my bruised and swollen shoulder, I ignored the wary glances and suspicious looks directed my way and walked straight back toward the interrogation room.

That's when I heard the "Pssst."

I slowed and looked around the station. Nothing but desks and uniforms from my vantage point. Then I looked toward the restrooms. An elderly Latina in a light floral dress beckoned me forward with a crooked finger. She had a black lace mantilla wrapped around her head and shoulders, and I would've bet my last nickel she made tortillas like n.o.body's business. When she had been alive, anyway.

I didn't really have time to counsel a departed, but I couldn't say no. I could never say no. I glanced around the station and ducked into the women's room all cool and nonchalant, not really sure why. Answering the call of nature was hardly illegal. But five minutes later, I exited the same way. Only this time I was armed to the teeth-metaphorically-and ready to make a deal.

I spotted Uncle Bob standing at the door to observation. He was talking intently with Sergeant Dwight when I strode up.

"I want to negotiate a deal," I said, interrupting.

Dwight glared at me.

Ubie raised his brows in interest. "What kind of deal?"

"Julio Ontiveros didn't shoot our lawyers." Guilt poured off a person. I could sense it a mile away. And Julio Ontiveros was not a guilty man. Not of murder, anyway. And what had sounded like a gunshot coming from inside the apartment was actually his motorcycle misfiring. Apparently, he took it in at night so no one would steal it. Smart kid.

"Great," Sergeant Dwight said, rolling his eyes. "Glad we have you to tell us these things."

But Uncle Bob slanted his brows, lowered his chin, and eased closer. "Are you sure?"

"Are you serious?" the sergeant asked in disbelief.

Uncle Bob, in a rare moment of hostility, cast a razor-sharp scowl in Dwight's direction that would wither a stout winter rose. Dwight clamped his jaw shut and turned his back to us to study the suspect through the two-way mirror.

"This is pretty big-time, Charley. I need you to be certain. There's a lot of pressure on this one from the guys up top."

"It's always big-time. I want you to think back to the last time I was wrong."

Ubie thought, then shook his head. "I can't remember the last time you were wrong."

"Exactly."

"Ah. Right. And your deal?"

Ubie was going to love this. "If I can get him to confess his part in all of this today, right now, and turn state's evidence on the real shooter, I need you to do two things for me."

"This should be good," he said.

"I need you to get an injunction to stop the state from pulling the plug on a convicted felon who's in a coma."

His brows shot up. "On what grounds?"

"That's part of number one," I said with a one-shouldered shrug. "You gotta come up with something. Anything, Uncle Bob."

"I'll do what I can, but-"

"No buts," I said, interrupting him with an index finger in the air. "Just promise me you'll try."

"You have my word. And two?"

"I need you to go back to high school with me. And bring your badge."

After a second jolt of surprise widened his eyes, he said, "I take it you'll explain all this later?"

"Cross my heart," I said, doing that very thing with my extended index finger. "For now, let's get this guy to tell us what he knows."

Sergeant Dwight, hearing our conversation, snorted at what seemed like arrogance on my part.

An annoyed sigh slipped through my lips. "This shouldn't take long," I told Uncle Bob.

Unable to stand by and do nothing, Sergeant Dwight turned around to us. "You're not seriously going to jeopardize this entire investigation by allowing her to go in there, are you?" When Ubie just stood in thought, quite effectively ignoring the irate man, Dwight ground his teeth and stepped in Ubie's face. "Davidson," he said, expecting an answer.

I didn't have time for this. While Uncle Bob dealt with Dwight the dipstick, I walked into the observation room and studied Mr. Ontiveros through the two-way mirror. The other officer in the room turned to me in surprise. Naturally, I ignored him. Julio sat in a small spa.r.s.e area across from the observation room, fidgeting in his chair and glaring into the mirror. He had the basic g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger do-shaved on the sides, a little longer up top-and wore att.i.tude like it was the latest thing. But fear leached from every pore in his body.

He wasn't exactly innocent, but he didn't shoot anyone. His fear stemmed from the thought of going to prison for something he didn't do. There seemed to be a lot of that going around lately.

I turned and winked at Yesenia, the Latina I'd just conversed with in the women's room who also happened to be Julio Ontiveros's aunt. She stood waiting in the corner and flashed me a wicked grin as I walked out.

"I'm ready," I tossed to Uncle Bob before entering the interrogation room itself. As I shut the door, I heard him and Dwight scramble to get inside the observation area to watch. Then I heard more footsteps doing the same. Apparently we were going to have an audience. They might be disappointed. This wouldn't take long.

Julio sat handcuffed to a small metal table. He looked up at me, a wary surprise widening his eyes and lowering his brows for a split second before he took control over his features again.

He leaned back in his chair, lowrider style. "Who the fu-?"

"Shut up," I said, walking purposely toward him. I leaned on the desk in front of him, brushing his cuffed wrist with my hip and blocking his view of the two-way, but more important, blocking the men in the observation room from listening in. I was close enough to give Ontiveros a lap dance. A necessary evil because what I had to say could not be overheard. Not without me being sent to a very special place with padded rooms and medication in little white cups.

I could just feel Uncle Bob coming unglued with my proximity to what he still thought of as a cold-blooded killer. But I knew better.

I'd taken Julio by surprise. Using to my advantage the seconds it would take for him to recover, I leaned forward and whispered into his ear. I didn't have much time before Uncle Bob stormed into the room, afraid for my safety. Just a few words, two or three short sentences, and Julio Ontiveros would spill like wine on silk.

I prayed for ten seconds. I got them.

"We don't have much time, so be quiet and listen."

He took advantage of the situation, playing the tough guy all the way. He turned into me and inhaled the scent of my neck and hair.

"Your tia Yesenia sent me-"

He stilled.

"-and told me the exact location of the three things you desire most in the world."

I could hear the doork.n.o.b turning. I could also feel doubt wafting off Ontiveros, his admiration for my neck and hair evaporating. That always happened when I talked about dead people. I leaned back a little and peered into his wary eyes.

"You are five minutes away from going down for three murders you and I both know you didn't commit. Tell your part in this, without holding anything back, and I'll tell you where the medal is. For starters."

He sucked in a soft breath of surprise. That was desire number one. Desire number two was pretty solid as well, but number three would be a bit trickier, mostly because Ontiveros's aunt didn't know the exact exact location of the number three so much as its general proximity. I figured that's what I had Cookie for.

Just as I finished my spiel, Uncle Bob rushed through the door, a warning glare on his face. I winked at him, turned back to Julio, pulled a business card from my back pocket, and slid it beneath his cuffed hand.

"You have my word," I said before leaving.

After strolling back to the observation room, I waited to see if he'd cave. Not that I could see much. The tiny room was now full. Half the men were looking at me-including an enraged Garrett Swopes, who could kiss my smoking-hot a.s.s-and half were staring into the interrogation room. Then I heard it.

"I'll talk," Julio said through the speakers. "I'll tell you what I know, but I want immunity from prosecution. I didn't kill no one, and I ain't going down for this."

With a twinkle in my eye, I turned, high-fived Julio's tia Yesenia, the woman who'd raised him and wouldn't leave the earthly plane until he straightened his s.h.i.t out-her words-then strode out of the station with a relieved smile plastered on my face. Uncle Bob would call me later with the details, and I could explain the terms of our deal then. At the moment, I was tired and sore and in dire need of a long, hot bath. Had I known what awaited me at home, my needs may have shifted in a more sensual direction.

With thoughts of bubble baths and candlelight swimming through my head, I unlocked my door and sneaked into my apartment, trying not to disturb Cookie and Amber across the hall. It was late. The sun had drifted to the other side of the world hours ago, and I hated to keep Cookie up two nights in a row. Before coming home, I'd stopped by the office and found that Neil, in a surprising act of kindness, had couriered a copy of Reyes's file to me. I wasn't sure how legal it was, but I couldn't have been more grateful if he'd handed me the winning Powerball ticket. The file had a note attached to it that simply read, You didn't get this from me.

I checked with Dad for any messages, just in case Rosie, the woman I'd helped escape from her abusive husband, needed anything, sneaked a quick bite of green chili stew, then humped it back across the parking lot to the Causeway. Though the lack of messages from Rosie was a good thing, I couldn't help the concern that p.r.i.c.kled down my spine, wishing she would call despite my strict orders.

Flipping on the living room light, I was in the middle of a quick h.e.l.lo to Mr. Wong when Reyes turned toward me. Reyes, standing regal and G.o.dlike in front of my living room window. Reyes Farrow. The same Reyes Farrow who was lying in a coma in Santa Fe an hour away. He turned back to stare out the window, giving me a chance to put my stuff on the snack bar.

I stepped forward then, eased closer to him. He shifted, cast his powerful gaze downward, and examined me through his periphery. Though he was clearly incorporeal, he seemed to be made of a matter denser than human flesh, more solid and unyielding.

I scrambled for something to say. Somehow, You're really hot in bed didn't quite have the ring I was looking for. In an act of desperation, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"They're going to take you off life support in three days."

He looked toward me then, starting at my feet and traveling slowly up. A tingling warmth followed in its wake, suffusing every molecule in my body with an irradiating energy that pooled in my abdomen, swirled, and percolated low in my belly, branding my flesh and deboning my limbs. I struggled to stay focused.

"You have to wake up," I explained, but he remained silent. "Can you at least give me your sister's name?"

His gaze lingered on my hips before continuing its journey north.

"She's the only one who can stop the state."

Still nothing. Then I remembered Rocket's reaction to him at the asylum. His fear. I stepped closer, careful to stay out of arm's reach. Despite the fact that my body was shaking with his nearness, begging for his touch in a Pavlovian-style response that would've made any behaviorist proud, we needed to talk.

"Rocket's afraid of you," I said, my voice suddenly hoa.r.s.e. When he paused at Danger and Will Robinson, I asked, "You wouldn't hurt him, would you?" Then his gaze, piercing and turbulent, locked on to mine.

Though we stood several feet apart, his heat radiated toward me. Hard as I tried not to, I took a step closer. I had so many questions, so many doubts.

More than anything else at that moment in time, I wanted to know-pathetic as it sounded-why he hadn't visited me the night before. He'd come every night for a month, then nothing, and my insecurities were getting the better of me. Reyes frowned, his brows inching together over deep mahogany eyes, and tilted his head to the side as if wondering what I was thinking.

As badly as I wanted to ask my own self-indulgent questions, I had to make sure Rocket was in no danger from him, though I couldn't imagine why he would be.

"If I asked, real nice with a cherry on top, would you please not hurt Rocket?"

His gaze dropped to my mouth, making it difficult to breathe, to concentrate, to resist jumping him right then and there. I had to focus.

"Blink once for yes," I said before losing all sense of self-respect and attacking. He was obviously a very dangerous being, and I was beginning to wonder more and more just what kind of being that might be. Maybe he was like me and Rocket. Maybe he'd been born with a purpose, a job, but then his life turned out bad like Rocket's and he'd never been able to fulfill his duties. The fragile hold I had on my self-control was thinning. I was getting lost in the sparkling gold flecks of his eyes. I felt like a child, mesmerized by a magician, lured to his side by sheer force of will.

He turned suddenly, breaking the spell he had me under, as if something had demanded his attention. Then he was in front of me, his sensual mouth barely inches from mine.

"You were tired," he said, disappearing in a swirl of dark ma.s.s before he'd even finished his statement.