Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet

by Darynda Jones

  He raised a brow. “Can’t let you have it. Already have a tenant.”

  “No way. Mr. Z, I’ve wanted that apartment since I first looked at this place. You promised to put me on the list of possible tenants.”

  “And you are on the list. Right below these people.”

  I gasped. “You mean, you cheated?”

  “No. I took a bribe. Not the same thing.”

  He started for the door again. I took a menacing step in front of him. “I bribed you, too, if you’ll remember.”

  With a snort, he said, “Was that a bribe? I thought it was a tip.”

  I was now officially appalled. “And I offered to pay you more than what I was paying for this cracker box.”

  “You dissing my building?”

  “No, your ethics.”

  “If I’m recalling this right, you offered to pay fifty dollars more a month for this apartment.”

  “That’s right.”

  “For an apartment that’s twice the size of yours.”

  “Yeah, so? It’s all I had at the time.”

  “From my understanding, the new tenant is paying three times what you pay for yours. And paying for all the repairs.”

  Crap. I probably couldn’t afford to do something like that. Maybe if I sent back the espresso machine. And the electric nail gun. “I cannot believe you went behind my back like this.”

  He picked up the ladder. “I don’t think renting out an apartment is going behind your back, Ms. Davidson. But if you feel that strongly about it, you can always kiss my ass.”

  “In your dreams.”

  After a soft chuckle, he disappeared into the apartment. I got a peek at the new drywall lining the walls, all fresh and unpainted. Clearly, I’d missed something.

  I strode through Cookie’s door, cursing my bad luck. And bad hearing.

  “Did you know Mr. Z rented 3B?”

  Cookie looked up from her computer. “No way. I wanted that apartment.”

  “I did, too. Who do you think our neighbor will be?”

  “Probably another elderly woman with poodles.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe a serial killer.”

  “One can dream. What do you have?” She nodded toward the paper in my hands.

  “Oh, right. We have a client.”

  “Really?” Her surprise wasn’t completely unexpected. It’d been a while. But it was a little offensive.

  “Yeah. She just showed up. Maybe those ads we’re running on late-night radio are working.”

  “Possibly, but I still think they’d work even better if they were in English. Not many people speak Japanese around here.”

  “Honestly, Cook, you act like I don’t even want any new clients.”

  She reached over and snatched the paper out of my hands. “I wonder where I got that idea from.”

  With a confounded shrug, I glanced behind me to make sure Harper wasn’t at the door; then I spoke softly to Cook. “I need you to find out everything you can about her. I need family members, work and volunteer history, parking tickets, whatever you can get.”

  “You got it. Where are you going now?” she asked as I headed for the door.

  “Harper believes someone is trying to kill her, so I’m taking her to the safe house.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” After the door clicked closed, she yelled out, “We have a safe house?”

  3

  Welcome back.

  I see the assassins have failed.

  —T-SHIRT

  After a battle of epic proportions, where my legs wanted to go one way while my head told them to go another, I strode with Harper past my dad’s bar and down the alley toward our makeshift safe house. I couldn’t help but scan the terrain like a soldier in hostile territory. Oddly enough, Harper did the same thing. We looked like tweakers as we passed businesses, college students, and the occasional homeless person.

  I decided to try to lighten the mood. “So, what did you always want to be when you grew up?” I asked Harper.

  She walked beside me, arms crossed at chest, head down, and fought to smile.

  “It’s just up here,” I said, saving her from having to respond. “Pari’s a saint. Only with full sleeves and a bad attitude. Other than that, you can totally count on her. Mostly for questionable advice, but we all have to be good at something, right?”

  “Do you think you’ll catch him?” She couldn’t quite wrap her head around anything other than her immediate danger. Clearly she did not suffer from ADD.

  “I’m going to do my best, hon. Cross my heart.”

  “I’m so tired of feeling helpless. Guess I should’ve taken karate or something, huh?”

  I liked her thought process, but even martial arts didn’t guarantee a long and prosperous life. “Don’t beat yourself up over this, Harper. There are crazy people out there. People you can’t reason with or even begin to understand without being a licensed psychotherapist. There’s no telling what set this guy off.”

  She nodded, acceding to my expertise on crazy people. I grew up with one in the form of Denise Davidson, the stepmother from hell. She could teach the son of Satan a thing or two.

  “Here it is,” I said, pointing to a screen door. Remnants of red paint framed the wood around the back entrance.

  Harper stopped and looked around the alley. We were at the back entrance of a seedy tattoo parlor. Her confidence in me seemed to wane a bit.

  “It’s totally safe. I promise.”

  After a hesitant nod, she said, “Okay. I trust you.”

  Maybe she really was crazy. “And Pari has a really cute apprentice.”

  A shy grin spread across her face. She seemed so innocent and unworldly, yet she was simply beautiful. I wondered what her life had been like. Hopefully, I’d find out as the case went on.

  “A teacher.”

  I was just about to open the door when she’d spoken. “I’m sorry?”

  “A teacher. You asked me what I’d always wanted to be. A teacher.”

  I gave her my full attention. “Why didn’t you become one?”

  She shrugged and looked elsewhere. “My mother didn’t approve. She wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer.”

  While I couldn’t imagine her as a lawyer, I could definitely see her as a doctor. She seemed the nurturing type. Then again, doctors weren’t all that nurturing. Maybe a nurse. Still, I could definitely see her as a teacher. She would’ve made a great one. “I hope all your dreams come true, Harper.”

  “Thank you,” she said in surprise. “I hope yours do, too.”

  I offered an appreciative smile. “Most of mine involve a man who is more trouble than he’s worth, but it’s a nice thought.”

  She laughed softly, covering her mouth with a hand. Her mouth was too pretty to be covered.

  We stepped inside Pari’s shop. She had a desk up front, but her office sat in the back, past the studio, a corner space the size of a moth’s testicles with a nice view of the Dumpster across the alley. I heard a few huffing sounds coming from underneath the desk, so I strolled in, half hoping to catch her doing something illicit. Her apprentice was hot.

  She had computer guts scattered over her desk. Wires and gadgets of all shapes and sizes littered every available inch of counter space.

  It seemed like every time I walked into her parlor, she was busy with something technical, which seemed to go against the grain of her artistic nature. Then again, she always was a little grainy.

  A thumping sound wafted toward me, eliciting an evil grin. I was such a perv. “Hey, Par,” I said, hitching a hip onto her desk to peer over it nonchalantly.

  After a mighty struggle that involved a sharp crack and a few gurgling sounds, she popped her head up. Her hair, a thick black mop that some would call a mess while others—namely me—would call a work of art, seemed to have grown attached to the wires she was working on. She spit out a microscopic piece of plastic while fishing the wires out of her do with one hand and shielding her eyes with the other.


  “Fucking hell, Charley.” She closed her eyes and felt around her desk blindly for her sunglasses. Pari had been able to see what normal folk referred to as ghosts since she’d had a near-death experience when she was twelve. She couldn’t make out the shapes or communicate with the departed. She just saw them as a gray mist, so she always knew when one was near.

  But me she could see from a mile away. My brightness seemed to grate on her. It was funny.

  After inching her sunglasses away from her reach a third time, she opened her eyes and glared at me. It must have been painful. I could only hope she didn’t have a hangover.

  She sighed and ducked back under the desk.

  “Is your guy down there with you?” I asked.

  “My guy?” She grunted, apparently trying to reach something. “I don’t have a guy.”

  “I thought you had a guy.”

  “I don’t have a guy.”

  “You have an apprentice.”

  “That’s not a guy. That’s Tre.”

  “Who is a guy.”

  “But not that kind of guy. How did you get in here? My office door was locked.”

  “No it wasn’t.”

  She popped her head back out and glanced around. “Really? It should have been locked.”

  After she ducked back down, I asked, “Why? What are you doing?”

  “… Nothing.”

  She’d hesitated far too long. She was totally up to something. I leaned over to inspect her work. “Looks to me like you’re rewiring your phone line.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said defensively. “Why would I do that?”

  If liars were the main course at a Shriners convention, she’d be a pork chop.

  “Okay, fine, don’t tell me. I need to leave a client with you a few days. Can we use your spare room?”

  “There’s only a couch, but it’s comfortable.”

  “That’ll work. This is Harper. Harper, this is Pari.”

  “Hey, Harper,” she said, but before Harper could respond, a shower of sparks lit the area. A rustling sounded from under the desk and was followed by a solid thud as Pari slammed into the underside of it for the umpteenth time.

  Doubtful that phone lines sparked like that, I leaned over again. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

  “Did you see a spark?”

  “I’m going to show Harper to her room. Try not to kill yourself before I get back.”

  “Okay, lock the door on the way out.”

  “O—”

  “Wait!” She popped up again, an idea lighting her face. Her heavy liner narrowed as she patted the desk, searching for her sunglasses again. I let her get them that time. She slid them onto her face, then said, “I’m doing you a favor.”

  I hitched my hip back onto her desk. “Yes.”

  “And favors need to be repaid, right?”

  Wondering where she was going with this, I said, “Yes.”

  “Go on a date with me.”

  “You’re not really my type.”

  “Come on, Chuck. One date and I’ll never ask again.”

  “No, really, you’re not my type.”

  “You know how you have this incredible gift for being able to tell when someone is lying?”

  I glanced at Harper. She seemed very interested all of a sudden. I shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m thinking about dating this guy, but I can’t quite get a read on him. You know, I can’t tell if he’s being truthful with me or not.”

  “Do you suspect him of anything in particular?”

  “Not really. I just thought you could show up—” She added air quotes to emphasize the deception “—then just sit with us a minute. You know, just long enough to get a read on him.”

  “I don’t really read people.”

  “Feel him, then.”

  “Fun, yet awkward.”

  “You know what I mean. Tit for tat, lady. Take it or leave it.” She looked past me. “No offense, Harper.”

  “Oh, none tak—”

  “So?” Pari said, interrupting poor Harper, who was finally getting a word in. “My couch for your mad skill.”

  “Well, since you put it that way.”

  “Sweet. I’ll text you the place and time.”

  “Wonderful. I’m going to show Harper the couch.”

  “Okay.”

  I figured our conversation was over, but no sooner had she ducked behind the desk than she popped right back up again. She reminded me of a toaster pastry minus the icing.

  “Wait a minute. Where have you been?”

  “Around. Just kind of hanging out in my apartment.”

  “For two months?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Hmm. Okay, well, lock the door!” she yelled. She was so pushy.

  “She’s interesting.”

  “Yes, she is.” I led Harper around a tight corner, made tighter by the boxes of supplies, and into a small back room. “It’s not much, but no one will think to look for you here, I’m certain of it.”

  She took it all in with a gracious nod. I could tell she wanted to scrunch her nose in distaste, but refrained out of kindness. “This is perfect,” she said instead. What a great sport.

  “Okay, I’m off to do investigative stuff. I’ll come back later tonight. You gonna be okay here?”

  “Sure, I’ll be fine.”

  I put a hand on her arm to draw her attention away from her new surroundings. “I’ll do everything in my power to find whoever is doing this to you. I promise.”

  A tiny smile lit her face, and if I wasn’t mistaken, she was a little relieved. “Thank you.”

  After leaving Harper standing in the middle of the tiny room, I spotted Pari’s apprentice, Tre. He was working on a girl’s tat who looked torn between anguish and desire. I could hardly blame her. Tre was like a Long Island iced tea: tall, unassuming, delicious enough to wet your whistle as well as other places, and packed a lethal punch when you least expected it.

  “Hey, Chuck,” he said, nodding at me between buzzes of the needle. The fact that deep down inside, tattoo artists must enjoy the infliction of pain on others was not lost on me. I wondered if that trait spilled over into his personal life. I could handle pain if that’s what he was into. Not a lot, but …

  “Hey, you,” I said, only a little worried I’d make him mess up. Mistakes were so permanent. Like nine-months-after-prom permanent.

  He paused his efforts to ask, “Do you just call me you because you can’t remember my name?”

  My shoulders wilted. “Darn. You caught me. No, wait, it’s here somewhere.” I tapped my temple in thought as he went back to his task. “Oh, right, is it Serving Tray?”

  He shook his head, his brows drawn in concentration.

  “Is it Lunch Tray?”

  “No,” he said with a soft chuckle.

  “Is it Ashtray?”

  He paused again, and the girl shot daggers at me with her huge dark eyes. She was either jealous or in so much pain, she just wanted it over with, and I kept interrupting.

  “Forget I asked,” he said, a boyish smile lighting his features.

  What a heartbreaker. No wonder Pari’s female client base had tripled since he started working with her.

  “See ya round, handsome.”

  He winked and went back to work with a grin sparkling in his eyes. I felt sorry for the girl.

  * * *

  On the way back, I cut through the parking lot and made a beeline for Misery, my cherry red Jeep Wrangler. In the semi-open space of downtown Albuquerque, I felt naked. I’d been naked in public once, so while this definitely synthesized that level of discomfort, this was different. More raw. More acute. More feral.

  “He misses you, you know.”

  I spun around to see a statuesque African American woman walking past me toward the back of Dad’s bar. I’d seen her a few times in the last few weeks and figured she was the new bartender Dad had been planning to hire when I refused the job. He’d wanted
me to give up my PI business and work for him. Silly rabbit. She stopped and offered me a friendly, I-come-in-peace smile. To say that she was stunning would have been an understatement. She was like a shimmering skyscraper, jutting proudly into the sky and daring the world to try to knock her down.

  “Your father,” she said, elaborating. Her exotic eyes held me captive for a full minute before she turned back to the bar. “You’re all he talks about.”

  Clearly she knew about our falling out, but I had no use for anything she’d just told me. Even if it were true, my father did not deserve my forgiveness at that moment. Nor my attention.

  I climbed into Misery and sank into her faux leather seats. She fit like a big red glove and felt just as warm. Well, not literally. The weather was chilly and her plastic windows were frosted over. I turned the key to let her warm up. She roared to life, then settled into a purr. It’d been a while since the two of us had had any alone time together. We’d have to talk later, but for now, we had places to be and suspects to see.

  Harper had given me her address, and I wanted to check out her dwelling before diving in too deep. If the person stalking her had left another threat, I wanted to see it for myself. One could judge a lot about a person by how they left threatening evidence. Was the culprit violent or just menacing? Would he really harm her or did he just want to get that rise out of her? That control?

  She lived in the gated Tanoan Estates, and I didn’t know if entrance would require Harper’s express permission or not. I dragged out my PI license just in case. It might help. It might not.

  After pulling up to the gate, I offered the uniformed security guard a placating smile.

  He stared, unimpressed.

  “Hi,” I said.

  He offered a brisk nod. Still unimpressed. I’d have to up my game.

  “My name is Charley Davidson. I’m investigating a situation with one of your residents. Have you had any break-ins recently? Any alarms going off?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Alarms go off every now and then, mostly by the residents themselves. And we have the occasional break-in, but they’re pretty rare here. Can I ask who hired you?”

  “Harper Lowell. She lives on—”

  “I know where she lives.”

  When I raised my brows, he tipped his hat back to scratch his head.