Eleventh Grave in Moonlight

  He sat holding his throat and glaring toward the bathroom.

  “Angel, what? Is it Beep?”

  Reyes was at the door in an instant, suddenly as curious as I was.

  When Angel didn’t answer as quickly as he’d have liked, he stalked toward him.

  I held up a hand and cast him a warning glare. “I think you’ve done enough, Mr. Farrow.”

  He stood back, every muscle in his body coiled, ready to spring into action should anything have happened.

  “It’s your uncle,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Alarm rocketed through me. “What about him? Did he find Guerin?” Grant Guerin. The lowlife slated to kill Ubie. The whole reason we had eyes on the curmudgeonly man.

  Angel shook his head. Coughed again. “No, he’s at a hotel room. Some dive a few blocks from here. He’s been watching one particular room all evening. Some guys just pulled up in a rental, and now your uncle is gearing up like he’s preparing for World War III.”

  “What? Show me.”

  I rushed to throw on some clothes. Reyes did the same.

  “You’d better hurry. When I left, he was headed for the door. If Captain America hadn’t tried to kill me.”

  “If I’d have wanted you dead—”

  “Seriously, guys?” Then I glared at Reyes again for good measure.

  He lifted a shoulder. “He should learn to knock.”

  Before they could start arguing again, I took Angel’s hand. “Show me.” I dematerialized beside him. Reyes followed suit. Angel wanted to ask me about this spiffy new ability, but he remembered why he’d come, and he disappeared.

  Following Angel was a little more difficult than I’d expected. Reyes took my hand and led me, and we were there in a split second, standing in front of one of the sleazier hotels Albuquerque had to offer.

  “There.” Angel pointed. “Room 212.”

  “Thanks, hon.” Uncle Bob was already inside. The door was closed, so I did what any self-respecting PI would do. I dematerialized again and eavesdropped.

  “He doesn’t speak English,” a man said.

  I slipped into a tiny hotel room. Reyes appeared beside me. Angel on the other side of the room.

  Uncle Bob seemed to be holding the entire place hostage. A total of nine men. Nine. And they’d been in the middle of a meeting, by the looks of it.

  “Yes,” Uncle Bob said. “He does.” Then he aimed one of the two guns he had drawn at a man in his early fifties. Bad haircut. Hideous mustache. Like something out of a seventies discothèque. “And I know why you’re here.”

  “Dutch,” Reyes said, drawing my attention to a table.

  I stepped over and took a peek. There was a briefcase open with a stack of papers inside. And on top was a surveillance photo of yours truly.

  Oh, no. This couldn’t be the same people. I looked at Reyes. “This can’t be the same people.”

  “Robert killed them, but th