Eleventh Grave in Moonlight

  “Okay. I’ll look into it, hon.”

  She nodded and force-fed her doll another bite. “You’ve been gone forever. I was looking for you, too. I thought you left.”

  I reached over and smoothed her hair over her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d just seen me a few days prior. The departed didn’t always have the best sense of time. Maybe it was the same with her brother.

  She lifted a tiny shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  “Want to ride with me a while? I’m going to visit a woman accused of murder.”

  After a yawn, she shrugged again. “I guess.”

  Kids these days. So hard to keep entertained.

  I started Misery, dragged my phone out of my pocket, and called Uncle Bob.

  “What are you doing?” he said in lieu of a greeting.

  “I’m not driving, if that’s what you mean. I was calling about Officer Taft. Is he okay?”

  After a moment of silence, he asked, “David Taft?”

  “That’s the one. His sister can’t find him.”

  “He has a sister?”

  “Departed.”

  “Oh. Oh, right. I guess I didn’t realize you knew him that well. David Taft is on leave.”

  “On leave? Since when?”

  “Since about four months ago. It was really strange, though. He came in one day, talked to the captain, then cleaned out his desk and left. We haven’t seen him since.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t get transferred?”

  “Not according to our records.”

  If Taft had just left his job, taken some time off, why couldn’t Strawberry see him? Not that she was the more reliable source, but still …

  “Okay what’s your theory?” I asked.

  “Theory?”

  “Come on, Ubie. What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know, pumpkin. He got burned out. It happens all the time.”

  Not to the David Taft I knew and almost respected. He loved his job and he’d only been on the force a year or two. And, last I’d checked, he was training to be a sniper. He’d had hopes. Aspirations. And probably an STD from all the skanks he’d dated, according to Strawberry.

  “That just doesn’t sound like something he’d do.”

  “I don’t know, pumpkin. This life isn’t for everyone.”

  I heard that. “Okay, thanks, Uncle Bob. Can you keep me updated on this?”

  “Absolutely. Are you at home?”

  I blinked. “Yes.”

  “Good. Stay put. I’ll be home in about an hour.”

  “Oh-kay.”

  I hung up and was just about to ask Strawberry, a.k.a. Rebecca Taft, if she’d been to her brother’s house lately, when she turned to me and said, “I’ll be back.”

  Damn. Her attention span was even shorter than mine. So much for using her as an investigator. Maybe I could call—

  “I’m back!”

  I jumped at her unexpected appearance.

  “I needed a different brush.” She held up what looked like a used toothpick. She turned it over in her fingers then rolled her eyes and said, “Ugh.” And she was gone again.

  The David Taft sabbatical really bothered me. Why would he just leave like that? And why couldn’t Strawberry find him?

  Another side effect of law enforcement was the high rate of suicide. What if he really had gotten burned out? What if he’d done something or seen something he shouldn’t have? What if he was gone?

  I waited until I got to a red light, bowed my head. “David Taft,” I said, summoning him. If he had passed and was still on this plane, he should appear beside me or in my lap or on my hood. I’d take any scenario. But he didn’t appear.

  Sadly, that didn’t mean he hadn’t passed. He could have crossed to heaven moments after he died, and I couldn’t summon anyone back from heaven. Not that I knew of. Though Angel always swore I could, I’d never tried it.

  Cookie called when I was only a couple of blocks away from the office.

  I answered with a simple but elegant, “Hey, Cook.”

  “Hey, hon. So, she’s been bonded out and is staying at her parents’ house.”

  “Good for her. That seems like a good place. Help her unwind and figure things out. Who are we talking about?”

  She chuckled. “Veronica Isom. The girl accused of killing her—”

  “Right. Sorry.” The Taft conundrum had rattled my brain.

  “They live in a mobile home park called Green Valley.”

  “Oh, perfect. Shoot me the address, and I’ll head over.”

  “Will do. So, why does Robert think you’re at home?”

  “He does? That’s strange.”

  “Charley,” she said, her voice taking on an ominous note. “I’m not going to lie to my husband for you.”

  “What? Why? I’d totally lie for you.”

  “Yes, but you like to lie. You see it as a challenge. Probably because you’re so bad at it.”

  “Wow. And the hits just keep coming.”

  “Be careful,” she said, her tone more amused than concerned.

  “I’m not promising anything.” I hung up, pulled a U-ey to hit up the closest drive-thru, then headed off to find Veronica Isom, praying she’d talk to me.

  Twenty minutes and half a mocha latte later, I pulled into the Green Valley Mobile Home Park off Fourth. Her parents had a well-taken-care-of mobile. Avocado green. It made me hungry for guacamole. And in turn I realized how close the park was to El Bruno’s. So close I could smell the green chile roasting, flooding my mouth with anticipation. And saliva. Mostly saliva.

  My stomach growled as I journeyed up the Isoms’ walk. I knocked on the metal door and waited. A TV played softly in the background, and there was a car in the drive, but I didn’t get an answer at the door until I’d knocked three more times. And the greeter was not happy that I’d been so persistent.

  An older gentleman jerked open the door.

  “Mr. Isom?” I asked, praying he’d give me a few seconds to convince him to give me more.

  He glared. He had bushy brows and a faded blue work shirt with an Auto Crafters emblem on it. He was a body man. I could totally relate to body men. And, well, pretty much any men.

  “I am so sorry to bother you, but I may—and this is a big may—be able to help in your daughter’s case.”

  That got his attention, but not in the way I’d suspected. “The only thing my daughter needs help with is signing the plea agreement the DA offered. Can you help her do that?”

  My heart sank. He, like probably the rest of the city, believed his daughter guilty of murdering her child. Either that or he saw no way to win regardless. This could be a tough sell.

  “Is she here, Mr. Isom?”

  He glared again, and I felt a distinct disdain wafting off him. My gut told me he was only helping her out of loyalty. Out of a sense of fatherly duty. But his heart had been raked over the coals. I could tell.

  “My name is Charley Davidson. I’m a private investigator, and I think my current case directly relates to your daughter’s. Mr. Isom, I truly believe that your daughter is innocent of the charges against her.”

  “And what makes you so sure?” he asked. But he only did so to prove me wrong. He didn’t believe for a minute she was innocent.

  “Because the same people who pretended to have an adoption agency, the ones who took your granddaughter, kidnapped my husband when he was a baby, as well as at least one other boy that we know of.”

  He straightened but still held the screen door, barring any thought I might have of entering. “There was no agency.”

  “There was,” I argued. “And I have proof.” I didn’t, not anything physical, anyway, but he didn’t need to know that.

  He stewed on my words a moment, then yelled, “Roni!”

  A woman came to the door having just gotten out of the shower.

  “This woman has bought your story hook, line, and sinker. You two should have a great t
ime together.”

  Okay. Well, that’d work.

  “I’m Charley Davidson,” I said before he could throw any more sarcasm my way, “and I know you’re telling the truth.”

  She went completely still. Mr. Isom walked away, the door almost closing behind him. But Veronica recovered and pushed the screen door wider.

  “Come in.”

  Veronica had long dark hair that hung over her shoulders in wet clumps, big bourbon-colored eyes, and a curvy figure. She’d been towel-drying her hair and picked up where she’d left off, squeezing the ends with the damp towel.

  I navigated the steps to a rickety porch and stepped inside. There were toys strewn about the small mobile home.

  “My nephew’s. He’s at the store with my mother,” she said, explaining the clutter. She kicked a few toys out of the way and offered me a seat. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  It was a sweet gesture. Inside, her pulse pounded like a war drum. Her hands shook as they pressed water from her hair. And there was something unnatural about her movements. They were stiff. Anxious. The strong elixir of hope and fear had rendered her partially paralyzed.

  “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  When she sat down, she put the towel aside and pressed her shaking hands onto her lap. Then waited. No, hoped. Prayed. Begged.

  “Veronica, the couple that approached you all those years ago, do you remember what looked like?”

  “How did you hear about the case?” she asked, suddenly confused. “Are you working with my public defender?”

  “No. I’m sorry, I should’ve explained. I’m a private investigator. I’m working on another case that is peripheral to yours.”

  Her pretty brows cinched together. “In what way?”

  “I can’t tell you. Confidentiality and all. But I will say I think I know who approached you and why.”

  She bowed her head. “Because I was homeless with a newborn. That’s why they approached me.”

  I wasn’t about to go into the fact that her baby probably had some kind of aura that caught the Fosters’ attention, so I went along with her story. “I’m sure. Why were you homeless?”

  Mr. Isom stood in the kitchen, listening to every word we said.

  She glanced that direction, then said, “I was a mess back then. On and off drugs. I’d stayed clean, though. Once I found out I was pregnant, I got clean and stayed that way. Then, after I had Liana, her father came back into the picture.”

  I felt a deep fury emanate from Mr. Isom’s general direction. Clearly, his daughter’s ex didn’t invoke the warm and fuzzies.

  “He said he wanted to help raise our daughter. Talked me into moving in with him. A month later”—she dipped her chin even farther—“I was back on the shit and we were fighting all the time. He kicked me out, but I couldn’t come back home. I wasn’t ready to go through that again.”

  “To go through—?” I stopped myself. Of course. “The withdrawals.”

  She bit her lip and nodded.

  “He got you hooked again?”

  “He didn’t force me into anything.” The guilt radiating out of her stole my breath.

  I leaned toward her. “But he took advantage of the situation, Veronica.”

  “He led. Didn’t mean I had to follow. And yet, here we are.” Her breath hitched in her chest and I picked lint off my sweater, giving her a moment to recover.

  I didn’t argue with her. She was right, of course, but I’d wager he still deserved a lot of the blame.

  I decided to steer the conversation back to the case. “There’s a reason you’re having a hard time finding evidence that the adoption agency existed. It was never licensed.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, that’s what the investigator said, but he can’t track down who actually ran the business. Or the fake business.”

  I pulled up the side-by-side picture I had of the Fosters that Cookie had found from around the time they’d taken Veronica’s baby.

  “I know this might be impossible to remember, but is this them?”

  She looked at the picture. Squinted. Turned it a little to the left. “I don’t think so.”

  My hopes plummeted. Maybe I was on the wrong track. Barking up the wrong tree. Grasping at straws. And any other cliché I could think of.

  “I think…,” she continued, staring at the Fosters. “I think that’s the couple that actually adopted her.”

  I straightened, hope blossoming. “You remember them?”

  “No.” She stood and went for her purse. “I never met them, but the agents gave me a picture of the couple who was going to adopt Liana to make me feel better about the whole thing. I was really hesitant. I dug it out when … when they found her.”

  She pulled out a picture.

  I took it and almost cheered aloud. “It’s them,” I said, recognition rocketing through me. “So, a different couple approached you for this couple?”

  “Yeah, they seemed a little too Jesus freak, but I figured anything was better than living in a drug-infested squalor.”

  “Except for living with us,” her father said, his tone bitter.

  “Dad, stop it. It wasn’t you. You know that.”

  He turned and went back into the kitchen.

  “Veronica, how old were you?”

  “I was sixteen.” She glanced over her shoulder. “After they took Liana, I did it. I got clean again. I decided I was going to try to get her back. I know that’s a shitty thing to do, but it was so sudden. I only had a few days to think about it. I thought I was giving her a better home. All this time, I thought she was living a life I couldn’t give her. A better life. And they … they killed her.”

  She covered her mouth with her hands and let a suffocating agony wash over her. Her shoulders shook and I moved beside her. Wrapped an arm around her as she tried to gather herself.

  If they’d kidnapped other children, why go through the trouble of pretending to adopt Veronica’s baby? Why not just take her?

  “Veronica, where were you living exactly?”

  “At the time, I was living in a shelter.”

  That could explain it. Shelters often locked their doors at a certain hour. Maybe the Fosters couldn’t get in. Maybe they could only get to her when she panhandled, but there were too many people around? And it was surely during daylight hours? That had to be it.

  “Okay, I’m working with a detective on this, or I will be soon. I promise you, Veronica, I’ll help you in any way I can. In the meantime, send your PD to Detective Robert Davidson.”

  The room cooled about thirty degrees instantly, and she backed away from me.

  “What?” I asked, knowing the answer before she said it.

  “He’s the detective that arrested me.”

  “Oh, sweet,” I said, making a note in my phone. “Then he’s already on the case.” I leaned closer. “We got this. You just take care of yourself.” I started for the door, then said, “And don’t sign anything.”

  12

  I talk an awful lot of shit for someone who can’t put underwear on without tipping over.

  —T-SHIRT

  By the time I got home with dinner from El Bruno’s, Ubie had gone out again, Cookie was fretting about it, and Amber was hiding in her room. I tried calling my curmudgeonly uncle, but he had yet to return the favor. He was probably mad that I’d lied to him about being home. The weirdo.

  Reyes and I went over the case, and I shared everything we’d found on the Fosters and Veronica Isom. He listened but didn’t really join in the conversation. He wasn’t really a joiner. Still, he wasn’t ordering me about like usual.

  I could find the positive in any situation. It was a gift.

  But I could still feel his resistance to the whole idea. His reservations.

  We’d just cleaned up after dinner when a knock sounded at the door.

  I pretended to be surprised. “Who’d be knocking at this hour?”

  Reyes narrowed his gaze in suspicion.

  I hur
ried to the door and opened it. Shawn Foster stood on the other side, looking a tad sheepish and very uncomfortable with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “Shawn, come in.” I’d invited him over, thinking that if Reyes met him, if he understood the whole situation, he wouldn’t be so upset that I’d taken the case.

  Shawn stepped inside, took a quick awestruck sweep of the room, and then nodded his head toward Reyes in a silent acknowledgment. I hadn’t realized until that moment that he’d wanted to meet Reyes. His heartbeats stumbled into one another. A mixture of anticipation and excitement radiated out of him in warm waves.

  “It’s so good to see you,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  His brows slid together. “Yeah, you told me to—”

  “Reyes!” I said, gesturing toward him. “This is my husband, Reyes. Reyes, this is Shawn Foster. You know, the Fosters’ son?”

  For a brief moment, Reyes looked like he was going to bolt. He glanced toward our bedroom as though calculating how many steps it would take him to stalk out.

  I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t be so rude. Hoping he wouldn’t dash Shawn’s hopes. The same hopes he could detect as easily as I.

  But Shawn had already felt it. Reyes’s irritation. He started to turn toward the door when Reyes walked forward and took his hand. A wave of relief washed over me.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I asked them both.

  The flash of annoyance in Reyes’s eyes didn’t deter me.

  “Coffee it is. You guys sit down. Get to know each other.”

  I went to the kitchen and started a pot as they sat at the dining room table. Because we wouldn’t want to sit in the comfortable seats by the fire in the living room so that our guest actually felt welcome.

  “Sorry to just show up like this,” Shawn said.

  Reyes shook his head, seeming a bit sheepish himself. “No, it’s fine. I’ve been meaning…”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning, too.”

  Reyes nodded and then noticed the ink Shawn had on his forearm. “Nice.”

  “Oh, thanks.” He held out his arm to display a gorgeous, full-color sleeve. “Got this a few years ago. My mom—Eve—almost had a heart attack.”

  Reyes laughed under his breath. “So, do you know who your real parents are?”