First Grave on the Right

by Darynda Jones

  His wide chest rose and fell to the rhythm of the machine. I ran my fingertips along a shoulder that scalded. A quick glance at the chart hanging from the end of his bed confirmed his temp to be a perfect 98.6, yet his heat was as real as if I were standing in front of a furnace.

  Even at rest he looked wild and untamed, something impossible to domesticate, to restrain for very long. Enduring the heat of his touch, I placed a hand in his and leaned over him.

  “Reyes Farrow,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion, “please wake up.” I didn’t care what the state said; Reyes was no more dead than I was. How could they even consider taking him off life support? “They are going to turn this machine off if you don’t. Do you understand? Can you hear me? We have three days.”

  I glanced around the room, hoping he’d show up in another form. I still didn’t know exactly what he was, but he was something more than human. I knew that now beyond a shadow of a doubt. I had to find his sister. I had to put a stop to this.

  “I’ll be back,” I whispered. But before I could leave, I lowered my head and put my mouth on his. The kiss scalded my lips, but I stayed for several miraculous heartbeats, relishing the feel of his mouth beneath mine.

  I tried to rise, to end the kiss, but images started coming at me in a rush. I began to remember our nights over the past month. His hands gripping my hips, my legs wrapped around him as if holding on for dear life as he pushed inside, sending waves of unimaginable pleasure crashing into me. I remembered the kiss in Cookie’s office, how he guided my hand, how he held me when my knees gave beneath my weight. Then I remembered that night so long ago. When his father hit him, when he lost consciousness for that split second. I remembered the look in his eyes when he snapped back. The anger. Directed not at his father but at me! He had looked at me. For a split second, he saw me and anger washed over him.

  Then I remembered a cup at my mouth, a warm towel at my head, an arm holding me in place as I swam back to reality, wondering where my bones had run off to.

  “Are you okay? Ms. Davidson?”

  “Here,” a female said, “drink this, sweetheart. You had quite a fall.”

  I sipped on cold water and opened my eyes to see the corrections officer and the RN standing over me. The officer held a wet towel at my head while the nurse tried to coax me into drinking more water. They’d dragged me to a chair outside the room and were trying to keep me in it despite my limp body’s insistence on eating floor tile.

  “Oops,” the nurse said. “Got her?”

  “I had her the first time. She just keeps slipping out of my grip. She’s like really heavy spaghetti.”

  “What?” I shrieked, jerking to my senses. “How heavy? What happened?”

  Glancing up into the grinning eyes of the officer, I took another sip as he explained.

  “You either fainted or you wanted a much closer look at the cracks in the tile. Either way, you hit hard.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nodded. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been trying to make out with him,” he suggested.

  How did he know that? “I was kissing him good-bye.”

  He snorted and exchanged glances with the nurse. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”

  Probably not. But what happened? Could Reyes Farrow take control over me even from a freaking coma? I was doomed.

  “Oh my gosh!” I said, jumping out of the chair. After a woozy moment that reminded me way too much of the night I celebrated my high school graduation—in a pool of my own vomit—I stumbled back into Reyes’s room, marveled at his beauty a few seconds more, gave him a quick kiss good-bye—on the cheek—then hurried out of the hospital with a thank-you and a wave to the officer and the nurse. I had to find Reyes’s sister, and time was running out.

  * * *

  “You fainted?”

  I sighed into the phone and waited for Cookie to get over her surprise. Why anything should surprise her at this point was beyond me. “Did you get a hit on Reyes’s high school transcripts?”

  “Not yet. You passed out? Kissing him?”

  “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Well, I’ve scoured these flash drives. They’re all Mr. Barber’s. There’s nothing on them but his case files.”

  “Damn. I’ll have to talk to Barber about that.” Where were my lawyers, anyway? “And I’ll have to get those flash drives back before the secretary finds out they’re missing.”

  Before we hung up, I asked Cookie to find out if the lawyers’ secretary, Nora, went into the office that day. Hopefully not. She wouldn’t have missed the flash drives if she hadn’t been there.

  Just as I pulled Misery into the parking lot of the Causeway, aka home sweet home, Beethoven’s Fifth rang out on my cell. Uncle Bob told me they had an ID and an address on our shooter. Or the guy they believed was our shooter. I just wished at least one of the lawyers had seen the assailant so we could be sure we had the right guy. Apparently he worked for Noni Bachicha, a local body shop owner. I knew Noni personally, and he’d never be involved in something like this, so there had to be another angle. But we wouldn’t know anything until we brought in the alleged shooter. Uncle Bob was on his way to do that very thing. With half the force acting as backup.

  Naturally, I couldn’t miss out on all the fun. I would be able to tell if the guy was guilty or not in a heartbeat. Part of my being a grim reaper, I figured. The problem came when whomever I was assessing was guilty of a myriad of other crimes. Guilt was guilt. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish between two crimes. Still, I had to try.

  I got the address, pulled a U-ey, and flew to an apartment complex in the middle of the Southern War Zone, where one Mr. Julio Ontiveros resided.

  The teams were still a block away, prepping for the extraction. Apparently they had fairly solid intel that Julio was asleep inside his apartment. He must have had a late night. I pulled in between Uncle Bob’s SUV and a patrol car, put my phone on silent—because there’s nothing worse than a cell phone going off in the middle of an extraction; everyone glares at you really mean—then went in search of Ubie.

  Ninety-nine percent of the time I don’t carry a sidearm—hence the motivation to perfect my death stare. But today all the cool kids were packing. I felt like the girl who showed up at a formal dinner party in jeans and a Pink Floyd T-shirt. Probably ’cause I did that once.

  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 attitude. I had just enough time to check out Rupert’s nicely shaped ass before a large hoodie-clad gangbanger 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. Damn.

  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 class 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 nobody’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 sparse area across from the observation room, fidgeting in his chair and glaring into the mirror. He had the basic gangbanger do—shaved on the sides, a little longer up top—and wore attitude 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 cou
ld 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 tía 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 doorknob 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 ass—and half were staring into the interrogation room. Then I heard it.