Part 3 (1/2)

I graced her with the biggest smile I could conjure. ”He's all yours.”

Chapter Three.

Never knock on death's door.

Ring the doorbell then run. He totally hates that.

-T-s.h.i.+RT Garrett broke a cold pack, shook it, then tossed it to me as he swerved onto Central. ”Your face is lopsided.”

”I was hoping n.o.body would notice.” I winked at Elizabeth, who sat between us, a fact I neglected to mention to Garrett. Some things were better left unsaid.

Garrett turned an irritated gaze on me. ”You thought n.o.body would notice? You pretty much live in your own little f.u.c.ked-up reality, don't you?”

”d.a.m.n,” Elizabeth said, ”he doesn't pull any punches.”

”You pretty much annoy me and thus can kiss my a.s.s,” I said. To Garrett, not Elizabeth.

There's a certain responsibility that comes with having a name like Charley Davidson. It brooks no opposition. It takes s.h.i.+t from no one. And it lends a sense of familiarity when I meet clients. They feel like they know me already. Sort of like if my name were Martha Was.h.i.+ngton or Ted Bundy.

I looked in the side mirror at the black-and-white following us to the address where Detective Robert Davidson, from an anonymous tip, believed there might be another victim. Uncle Bob got lots of anonymous tips. Garrett was starting to put it all together.

”So, you're his omnipotent anonymous source?”

I gasped. ”Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Though I do like the omnipotent part.” When Garrett just glowered, I answered, ”Yes. I'm his anonymous source. Have been since I was five.”

His expression turned incredulous. ”Your uncle took you to crime scenes when you were five years old?”

”Don't be ridiculous. Uncle Bob would never have done that. He didn't have to. My dad did.” When Garrett's jaw fell open, I chuckled. ”Just kidding. I didn't have to go to crime scenes. The victims always found their way to me without my help. Apparently, I'm bright.”

He turned away and watched the pinks and oranges of the New Mexico sunrise ribbon across the horizon. ”You'll have to forgive me if I don't fall for it.”

”Um, no, I don't.”

”Okay,” he said in an exasperated voice, ”if this is so real, tell me what my mom was wearing at her funeral.”

Great. One of those. ”Look, most likely your mom went elsewhere. You know, into the light,” I said, wiggling my fingers to demonstrate. ”Most everyone does. And I don't have the secret decoder ring for that plane of existence. My all-access pa.s.s expired years ago.”

He snorted. ”That's convenient.”

”Swopes,” I said, finally gathering the courage to press the cold pack to my cheek. Pain shot through my jaw as I reclined my head against the rest and closed my eyes. ”It's okay. It's not your fault you're an a.s.shole. I learned a long time ago not to tell people the truth. Uncle Bob shouldn't have said anything.” I paused for a response. Receiving none, I continued. ”We all have a certain knowledge about how the universe works. And when someone comes along and challenges that knowledge, we don't know how to deal with it. We aren't hardwired that way. It's difficult to question everything you've ever thought to be true. So, like I said, it's not your fault. You can believe me or not, but whichever you choose, you're the one who has to deal with the consequences. So make your decision wisely, gra.s.shopper,” I added, the nonswollen side of my mouth curving into a grin.

When I didn't get one of his trademark comebacks, I opened my eyes to see him staring at me. It was through Elizabeth, but still ... We sat idling at a stoplight, and he was using the time to a.n.a.lyze me with his super skiptracer senses. His gray eyes, striking against his dark skin, sparkled in curiosity.

”Green light,” I said to break his spell.

He blinked and pressed the gas pedal.

”I think he likes you,” Elizabeth said.

Since I hadn't told Garrett she was sitting there, I tossed her an abbreviated version of my death stare. She chuckled.

We drove a few more blocks before Garrett asked the ten-thousand-dollar question: ”So who hit you?”

”Told ya,” Elizabeth said.

I ground my teeth and winced as I maneuvered the cold pack lower. ”I was working on a case.”

”A case hit you?”

I heard an inkling of the old, non-a.s.shole Garrett. ”No, the case's husband hit me. I was keeping him busy while the case boarded a plane to Mexico City.”

”Don't tell me you got involved in a domestic abuse situation.”

”Okay.”

”You did, didn't you?”

”Yep.”

”d.a.m.n, Davidson, have you learned nothing from me?”

Now it was my turn to stare incredulously. ”Dude, you're the one who taught me what Frank Ahearn taught you on how to teach people how to disappear. Why did you think I needed that information?”

”Not for you to get involved in domestics.”

”My entire client base is domestics. What do you think private investigators do?”

Of course, he was a licensed PI as well and could private investigate circles around me, but he focused his business on skips. Bond recovery pays well when you're as good as he is. And, actually, I had to agree with him on this one. I'd gotten in way over my head. But it all turned out okay in the end.

The case, otherwise known as Rosie Herschel, got my number from a friend of a friend and called me up one night, asking me to come to a Sack-N-Save on the Westside. It was all fairly cloak-and-dagger. To get out of the house, she told her husband they needed milk, and we met in a dark corner of the Sack-N-Save parking lot. The fact that she had to make up an excuse just to leave the house set my nerves on edge. I should have turned tail then, but she was so desperate and so scared and so tired of her husband taking out the fact that he was a certifiable loser on her that I couldn't turn her down. My jaw doesn't compare to the horrific s.h.i.+ner she was sporting the first time I met her. She knew, and I believed it, too, that if she'd tried to leave her husband without help, she would never have seen another birthday.

Since she was originally from Mexico and had relatives there, we cooked up a plan for her to meet her aunt in Mexico City. The two of them would then travel south with a deed and just enough cash to open a small inn, or posada, on a beach not far from her grandparents' village.

From what Rosie told me, her husband had never met any of her relatives from Mexico. The chances of him finding the right Gutierrez family in Mexico City were slim to none. But just in case, we had new ident.i.ties drawn up for them both. An adventure in itself.

In the meantime, I sent an anonymous text to Mr. Herschel, pretending to be an admirer and inviting him for drinks at a bar on the Westside. Though I longed for the security of my dad's bar, no way could I risk someone blurting out my real name. So I dropped Rosie at the airport and took off across the Rio Grande. Rosie would have to be there a few hours before her plane departed, but I had a plan to keep Herschel busy for the entire night. I goaded him into hitting me and pressed charges. Not that it was easy. Flirting like a vixen in heat then pulling the emergency brake in such a way that the mark felt like I'd just slapped him took skill. And naturally, a man like Herschel would take great offense to being led on. Throw in a few insults about small p.e.n.i.ses and a degrading giggle or two, and the fists start flying.

While I could have just gotten him drunk-off-his-a.s.s wasted, then dumped him in an alley somewhere, I couldn't risk him finding Rosie gone until the morning. One night in jail was all we needed. And now she was well on her way to an esteemed career as a posadera.

”This is it,” Elizabeth said.

”Oh, here,” I said, relaying the info to Garrett. ”This house on the corner?”

She nodded.

And she was right where she said she'd be. I saw her shoes first, red and sharp and expensive; then I glanced at departed Elizabeth's. Perfect match. That was good enough for me. I strolled back to the porch and plopped down while Garrett and the officer called it in.