Second Grave on the Left

  He took a long draw then asked, “What’d I do?”

  “You knew about the guy threatening my dad?”

  He paused, shifted in his chair, so freaking busted, it wasn’t funny. “They told you?”

  “Why, no, Swopes, they didn’t. Instead, they waited until the guy knocked the fuck out of my dad and readied him for spaceflight with duct tape then tried to kill me with a butcher’s knife.”

  He shot out of his chair, cursing when he spilled coffee in his lap. Apparently nobody had called him. “What?” he asked, swiping at his jeans. “When? What happened?”

  “I can print my statement out for you, if that would help.”

  He sat back down, eyeing me warily. “Sure.”

  I printed my statement, happy that all the work I’d put into it wouldn’t go unnoticed. He took it, read my four sentences for a really long time that had me wondering if he was dyslexic, then looked back at me. “Wow, that’s a lot to take in all at once.”

  “It was for me, too,” I said, the sarcasm dripping from my tongue unmistakable.

  “You cut his throat?”

  I leaned toward him, my voice menacing as I said, “I do things like that when I’m angry.”

  He worked his jaw a moment. “How about I come back later?”

  “How about?”

  As he strode out the door, he paused and turned back. “We need to interview the previous owner of Cookie’s Taurus. She’s going to be home late this afternoon. You in?”

  I unglued my teeth to answer. “I’m in.”

  “I’ll leave the info with Cookie. Right now, I have a phone call to make.”

  When I gave myself a minute to calm down, I realized that an anger had come over Garrett just before he left. An explosive kind of anger one would be wise to steer clear of. I’d have to find out who’d rained on his parade later.

  “Mr. Kirsch is expecting us this afternoon,” Cookie called out from her office, since the door separating our offices was open. “His wife is out of town, but he said he’d be happy to talk to us about the Hana Insinga case.”

  I stood and walked to the doorway. “It’s almost three hours from here. We should probably get on the road.”

  “He asked that we bring the case file.”

  “Of course.”

  We packed up and headed out the door for our journey to one of the most beautiful places on Earth: Taos, New Mexico.

  “I handed Garrett Mistress Marigold’s e-mail address and gave him the short version,” Cookie said when we jumped into Misery. “He’s going to e-mail her, try to get her to spill about why she wants the grim reaper to contact her. But for now, I could tell you dirty jokes on the way, if that would help cheer you up.”

  I turned the key with a smile. “I’m okay. Just annoyed.”

  “You have every right to be. I’m annoyed and I wasn’t attacked. Or slashed open with a butcher’s knife. Stevie Ray Vaughan?”

  We both looked down at my stereo, slow grins coming over our faces. “This should be a good trip,” I said, turning it up. Any trip starting out with Stevie Ray was good.

  Most PIs would simply call the former sheriff of Mora County instead of driving three hours, but I could tell much more about a person with a face-to-face. There would be no question as to what Mr. Kirsch knew about the case by the end of the day. If he knew his son was involved in something illicit, I’d know. Maybe not the finer points, but I’d have a good idea if he was involved in any kind of cover-up.

  Cookie worked the entire way, gathering intel and making calls. “And you worked for Mr. Zapata seven years?” she said into her phone. Mr. Zapata was our murdered car dealer, and she was speaking to one of his former employees. “Mm-hm. Okay, thank you so much.” She closed her phone and cast me a weary gaze. “I hope when I die people only remember good things about me as well.”

  “Another testament to Zapata’s pending sainthood?”

  “Yep. Same story, different day.”

  “Whatever they did back in high school,” I said, taking a right on Mr. Kirsch’s block, “nobody but nobody is talking about it. At least we know one thing about this group of kids.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, making notes on her laptop.

  “They were all really good at keeping a secret.” I pulled into Mr. Kirsch’s drive. “Where did you say his wife is?”

  Cookie closed her laptop and looked up. “Wow, nice house.” Most houses in Taos were nice. It was an expensive place to live. “She’s up north visiting her mother.”

  “You know what?” I asked, climbing out of my Jeep. “When this case is over, I vote we join her. I mean, north is a good direction.”

  “We should go to Washington State.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Or New York,” she said, changing her mind. “I love New York.”

  I nodded my head. “I only like New York as a friend, but I’m in.”

  * * *

  Congressman Kyle Kirsch’s father looked as though he had been a force to deal with in his day. He was tall and lanky, solid muscle even now. He had graying sand-colored hair and sharp cerulean blue eyes. Retired or not, he was a law enforcement agent through and through. His stance, his mannerisms, every unconscious habit pointed to a long and successful career bringing down criminals. He reminded me of my own father, which forced a pang of sadness to surface. I was so angry with him and yet so concerned. I decided, for the good of all present, to focus on the concern. We were going to have a long talk, the two of us. But for now, I needed to know if Mr. Kirsch was involved in Hana Insinga’s disappearance.

  “I remember the case like it was yesterday,” Mr. Kirsch said, his eyes scanning the file like a hawk eyeing a meal. I doubted much got past him. “The entire town banded together to find her. We sent search parties into the mountains. We had flyers and bulletins in every town for a hundred miles.” He closed the file and settled his startling gaze on mine. “This, ladies, is the one that got away.”

  Cookie and I glanced at each other. She sat beside me on a leather sofa, her pen and notebook at the ready. The Kirsches’ home was decorated in the blacks and whites of Holstein cows and the subtle tans of the New Mexico landscape. The décor was a charming mix of country and Southwest.

  I could feel the pain in Mr. Kirsch’s heart, even after all this time. “The report said you talked personally to every single high school student. Did anything stand out? Anything you didn’t think important enough to put in your report?”

  His mouth thinned into a solid line. He unfolded his towering frame and stepped to a window overlooking a small pond. “Lots of things stood out,” he admitted. “But try as I might, I just could not put my finger on what any of it meant.”

  “According to witnesses,” I said, taking the file folder and opening it on my lap, “Hana may or may not have been at a party that night. She may or may not have left early and alone. And she may or may not have walked to a gas station down the road from her house. There are so many conflicting testimonies, it’s hard to put the pieces together.”

  “I know,” he said, turning toward me. “I tried for two years to put them together, but the more time went by, the more vague everyone’s stories became. It was maddening.”

  Situations like these always were. I decided to go for the gold. At that point, my gut told me the former sheriff had nothing to do with any cover-up, but I had to know for sure. “In your report you say that you interviewed your son, that he had been at that party, yet he was one of the students who said he never saw her there.”

  With a heavy sigh, he sat across from me again. “That’s partly my fault, I think. His mother and I were on vacation that weekend, and we basically threatened his life if he left the house. At first, he said he didn’t go to the party for fear of getting in trouble. But when I had several kids tell me he’d been there, he finally admitted he’d gone. However, that was about all I could get out of him. Just like several of the others, I was getting mixed signals. Odd mannerisms I cou
ldn’t get a handle on.”

  Mr. Kirsch was telling the truth. He was no more involved in Hana’s disappearance than I was. “Sometimes kids are covering up other things they think they will get in trouble for that have nothing to do with our case. I’ve run into that several times in my own investigations.”

  He nodded. “Me, too. But adults do the same thing,” he said with a grin.

  “Yes, they do.” We stood to leave. “Congratulations on your son’s vie for the Senate, by the way.”

  Iridescent rays of pride emanated from him. The warmth surrounded me and my heart sank just a little. If I was right, his son was a murderer. He was not going to take the truth well. Who would? “Thank you, Ms. Davidson. He’s speaking in Albuquerque tomorrow.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised. “I had no idea. I don’t always keep up with these things like I should.”

  “I do,” Cookie said, raising her chin a notch. I tried not to giggle. “He’s going to be giving a speech on the university campus.”

  “That he is,” Mr. Kirsch said. “I can’t go, unfortunately, but he’s speaking in Santa Fe in a couple of days. I hope to make that one.”

  I hoped he would make that one, too. It might well be his last chance to see his son shine.

  * * *

  After grabbing a bite in Taos then driving the three hours it took to get back to Albuquerque, Cookie and I went straight to the address Garrett had left us. He was already there, waiting down the street in his black pick-’em-up truck. We pulled in behind him as he stepped out.

  “How’d your phone call go?” I asked in reference to the call he suddenly had to make when leaving my office that morning. I was curious whom he’d called and why.

  “Wonderful. I now have one less employee.”

  “Why?” I asked, a little startled.

  He turned a mischievous grin on me. “You made me promise not to follow you. You didn’t say anything about me having you followed.”

  I gasped. Aloud. “You slime.”

  “Please,” he said, going around my Jeep to help Cookie out. Admittedly, Misery was not the easiest vehicle to maneuver oneself in and out of.

  “Thank you,” Cookie said, surprised.

  “Not at all.” He led us down the street toward a small white adobe in serious need of a weed whacking. “I’ve been keeping a man on you twenty-four/seven.” He glanced down at me as I walked beside him. “Or at least I thought I was keeping a man on you twenty-four/seven. Apparently, the one from yesterday evening felt he needed to break for a late-night snack without waiting for his relief. Around three in the morning?” he asked. I nodded, my teeth clamped together in anger. “Your life was in danger, in case you didn’t get the message.” He fished out a paper from his back pocket.

  “I got the message loud and clear when I was stabbed in the chest.” I glanced to my side. Cookie totally had my back with a determined nod.

  He rolled his eyes. It was very unprofessional. “You weren’t stabbed. You were sliced. And I heard back from your Mistress Marigold—speaking of which, really? Mistress Marigold?”

  “What did she say?” Cookie asked, enthralled. It was funny.

  “Well, I told her I was the grim reaper, like you said—” He hitched his head toward Cookie. “—and she told me that if I was the grim reaper, she was the son of Satan.”

  I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. Garrett caught me as I glanced back at a wide-eyed Cookie.

  “I tried to e-mail her back,” he continued, eyeing me warily now, “but she’ll have nothing to do with me.”

  “Can you blame her?” I asked, faking nonchalance. Holy cow, who was this woman?

  “This woman’s name is Carrie Lee-ah-dell,” he said, struggling with the pronunciation.

  “Mistress Marigold?” How the hell did he know that?

  He frowned. “No. This chick.” He pointed to the house. “She’s a kindergarten teacher.”

  Oh, right. I drew in a deep breath, then glanced at the paper, at the name Carrie Liedell, and giggled. “It’s pronounced Lie-dell.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  I stopped my trek up the sidewalk and pointed to the paper. “See this? This i-e? When two vowels go walking, the first one does the talking.”

  He furrowed his brows at me. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  I started for the door again, casting a humorous glance underneath my lashes at Cook, and at that very moment in time, I realized how ultracool the click of my boots on the concrete sounded. “It means that you never learned to read properly.”

  Cookie hid a giggle behind a cough as Garrett met me at the door. He waited while I knocked. Just as the doorknob turned, he asked in a low voice, “Where does that leave freight?”

  He had a point.

  “Or said.”

  A thirtyish woman with a short, dark bob that squared her already square jaw to a harsh extreme cracked open the door.

  “Or, I don’t know, blood.”

  Now he was just showing off.

  “Yes?” she asked, her tone wary. She probably thought we were selling something. Vacuum cleaners. Magazine subscriptions. Religion by the yard.

  Before I could say anything, Garrett leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Or should. And yes, Charles, I can do this all day.”

  I was fully prepared to beat him to death with serving tongs. “Hi, Ms. Liedell?” I held up my laminated PI license. Mostly ’cause I looked cool doing it. “My name is Charlotte Davidson, and these are my colleagues Cookie Kowalski and Garrett Swopes. We’re investigating a hit-and-run that happened about three years ago.”

  Having no idea what actually happened to Dead Trunk Guy, I was taking a huge risk. If she was involved with his death, any number of things could have happened. But since he probably died in the trunk, a hit-and-run made the most sense. I figured she was driving home late one night and just didn’t see him. Fearing she would get in trouble, she coaxed him into her trunk? It was thin, but I had nothing else.

  My gamble paid off immediately. I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through her, a sharp spike of fear as guilt descended like a dark cloud, though her face showed only the slightest hint of distress. Her eyes widened ever so slightly. Her mouth pursed the tiniest degree. She’d practiced this moment, which made her a murderer.

  I decided to push forward, to deny her system a chance to recover. “Would you care to explain what happened, Ms. Liedell?” I asked, my voice knowing, accusing.

  A hand closed the collar of her blouse self-consciously. Or it could have been the sudden chill of having a dead homeless man standing over her, staring down with a spark of recognition coming to light in his green eyes. I’d never had a departed hurt a living human—I didn’t even know if they could—but I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to tackle the guy. He was huge. And since I was the only one who could see him, it would look odd.

  “I—I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

  Noting the telltale quiver in her voice, I said, “You hit a homeless man, locked him in the trunk of your 2000 white Taurus, then waited for him to die. Does that about sum it up?”

  Garrett’s jaw clenched in my periphery, and I honestly couldn’t tell if he was concerned about my line of questioning or if he was angry at what she’d done.

  “It was on Coal Avenue,” Dead Trunk Guy said, his deep voice clear and sharp. It startled me at first, but even crazy people had their lucid moments. He turned to me then, pinning me to the spot with his fierce gaze. “In a parking lot, believe it or not.”

  “You hit him in a parking lot?” I asked, my pitch high with surprise. Garrett shifted beside me, wondering where I was going with this. I was wondering, too.

  This time when her eyes widened, the guilt on her face was undeniable. “I—I never hit anyone.”

  “She was wasted,” the guy said, memories lining his face, “falling down drunk, and she told me to sit on the back of her car, that I would be fine.”

  “You
told him to sit on the back of your car,” I said, dissecting her with an accusing scowl. “You’d been drinking.”

  Ms. Liedell looked around, as if making sure she wasn’t on Candid Camera.

  “I must have had a concussion. I couldn’t focus. I was talking to her one minute, then dying in her trunk the next. She hit me again, only with a brick that time.”

  “What the hell did you say to her?” I asked him, no longer worried about appearances.

  His bitter gaze traveled back to me. “I told her I was a cop and that she was under arrest.”

  “Holy fuck,” I said in full freak-out mode. “Are you serious? You were a cop? Like undercover?”

  He nodded, but Liedell gasped, covered her mouth with both hands. “No, I didn’t know he was a cop. I thought he was a crazy homeless guy. H-he was filthy. I thought he was lying to get money out of me. You know how they are.” She was panicking. Under more normal circumstances, it would have been funny. “You’re not cops,” she said to us. “You can’t do anything.”

  Just then, Uncle Bob pulled his SUV to a screeching halt in front of her house, followed by two patrol cars, lights flashing. His timing, though impeccable, had me stumped.

  “No,” I said, unable to wipe the astonishment from my voice, “but he is.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder toward Ubie, aka Man on Fire. He was walking toward us with a purpose. A mission. Or hemorrhoids. Or both.

  “Carrie Liedell?” he asked as he barreled toward us.

  She nodded absently, her whole life most likely flashing before her eyes.

  “You are under arrest for the murder of Officer Zeke Brandt. Do you have anything in your pockets?” he asked just before he turned her about face and frisked her. A uniform quoted the Miranda as Liedell started bawling.

  “I didn’t know he was a cop,” she said between sobs. “I thought he was lying.”

  When the uniform took her away, Ubie turned to me, his expression dire. “Officer Brandt has been missing for three years. Nobody knew what happened to him. He was investigating a drug ring that used homeless people to sell for them.”