Either way, I still hoped he’d have a car wreck and break his dick.
“Violetta?”
I veered into the downstairs office and saw Dee behind the massive desk. She poked her head around the large computer flat screen. “Do you know how many Henrys are missing just in the Western U.S.? A lot! I narrowed it down to eleven Henrys—and P.S. I had no timeframe. I mean was it in the 1970s or the 1980s or a year ago? This neighborhood is only five years old, but that didn’t really help because no little boys have gone missing here. Still there are four Henrys that meet the criteria and only three have actual pictures. Who doesn’t have a picture of their child? I mean, c’mon. I have pictures of Justin in my womb.” She stared at me, wide-eyed, breathing hard.
“How much caffeine have you had?”
She blinked. “I don’t know. Two or three?”
“Cups?”
“Pots.”
“Okay.” I leaned against the desktop. “Back away from the computer. It’s time for you to get some sleep. Seriously.”
“No, I think I’m okay. I feel really, really awake.”
“Dee. You’re delusional. We’re both going to sleep. Now.” I moved around her desk and took her arm, pulling her up from the chair.
“But—”
“Don’t even.” I marched her toward the stairs. I slid off my heels and left them at the bottom of the steps. I took my sister straight to her room and practically tossed her onto the bed.
“I can’t sleep,” she protested even as she curled under the comforter.
I went into her bathroom and took the Xanax from the medicine cabinet. She told me she’d been given the anxiety medication to help her sleep, and I’d never known her to take one for actual anxiety. She preferred being a stressed-out stoic.
“Open.” She did as I demanded, and I popped a pill into her mouth. “See you in a few hours.”
Dee yawned. “Okay.” By the time I put the meds away and left the room, she was fast asleep—and snoring with the same ferocity as a chainsaw.
I stumbled down the stairs around 2 p.m. in search of coffee. I needed a damn IV. Working nights and sleeping days really fucked with me. I heard voices and recognized Darren’s low-pitched whine. The other voice belonged to a dude.
In the kitchen, I found a full pot of fresh coffee waiting. Dee must be awake, too. Darren would never make a pot of coffee. He didn’t drink the stuff. Which just proved he wasn’t human.
Mug in hand, I wandered into the living room and found the source of the conversation. Darren and … Robert. I blinked. “Hey,” I said. “Where’s Muffin?”
Robert chuckled. “At home with the wife.”
“I take it you know our HOA president, Mr. Keller,” said Darren in a pleasant tone, as if we hadn’t verbally bitch-slapped each other the day before. He was a lawyer, so I don’t know why it surprised me when he was able to compartmentalize his emotions. He gave me a “what’s your issue” look, which made me want to junk-punch him just to watch the smug look on his face slide off as he collapsed to the floor.
I might need anger management classes. Or therapy. Or an ex-brother-in-law.
“Call me Robert, please. I’m also the coordinator for our Neighborhood Watch.” He stood up from the couch and showed me a stack of flyers. “We’re beefing up patrols. We don’t want any more nice young ladies to find dead neighbors.”
I didn’t know what floored me more—that he’d called me a nice young lady or that he thought more dead guys might be found in the neighborhood.
“You’re a busy bee, Robert.”
“I’m retired,” he said. “But I’ve always been a little on the OCD side.” He chuckled. “Guess I’m perfect for the job.” He offered me an empathetic look. “How are you doing?”
I raised a brow.
“I don’t know how I’d react if I found a dead body.” His curious expression indicated he’d love to talk about gritty details.
“Well, hopefully you’ll never have to find out.” Dee was right—he was a gossipy neighbor. He couldn’t know that I had a history with dead bodies, not that seeing them got easier or anything, but interacting with ghosts changes a person’s views on life and death. And it wasn’t like Carson’s death had been gruesome. All the same, Robert’s concern felt weird. We didn’t know each other, so why would he care how I was feeling? Yeah. I’m jaded. Or maybe I’m not using to being around nice people. See: Darren the Dickhead.
“Do you think the police will be back?” asked Robert. “It really doesn’t look good for our neighborhood to have crime scenes around her all willy-nilly.”
Willy-nilly? Jesus. Was this guy for real? “Oh, well I think Car—er, the guy died of natural causes.” Shit. No way for me to know that. I added, “At least, that’s what I overheard the police say.”
Robert brightened. “Oh, good.” He’d realized what he’d said and backtracked. “That sounded impolite. I’m just glad we’ll all be back to normal soon.”
“I’ve never been normal,” I said.
Robert blinked at me then turned his WTF gaze to Darren.
A purple vein pulsed on my brother-in-law’s forehead. He turned to the HOA president and offered his hand. “Thanks for dropping by, Robert. ”
“Sure. It’s up to us to keep our little piece of Summerlin safe.” He smiled at Darren then nodded to me. “Have a nice day, Violetta.”
“You, too.”
Darren walked the man out, said good-bye, and shut the door. He immediately started ranting. “Why didn’t you or Deidre tell me you found a body in our neighborhood? I’m a district attorney. And I didn’t even know there was a death practically on my doorstep.”
“Assistant district attorney,” I corrected.
Darren dropped his head and rubbed his temples. “You’re incredibly frustrating.”
“Thanks.” It pleased me no end that I could get under Darren’s skin. We’d never really liked each other, and now we didn’t have to pretend to be civil anymore.
Deidre walked into the living room with a rolling suitcase. She put it in front of her husband. “You can get the other two bags from the bedroom.”
“What?” Darren looked shocked. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” said Deidre. “You’re the one leaving.”
In my mind, I high-fived my sister for her courage to finally take a stand against the cheating jerk.
He balled his fists onto his hips. “You can’t kick me out of the house.”
I sipped my coffee and watched the drama. This was almost better than Fatal Vows.
“You walked out yesterday. Before Justin left for Florida with your parents. You didn’t come home. You didn’t call. You just popped back into the house an hour ago—in different clothes—like nothing had happened.”
Darren’s face turned red. “I’ll Skype with Justin later.”
“From your hotel room. Or your floozy’s house. Right now, I don’t care.”
At least my brother-in-law had the common sense to keep quiet. I took his silence as his acknowledgement that he’d been cheating on my sister.
Apparently, so did Deirdre. “Consider this our official separation.”
“Fine. I’ll go. But only so you have time to cool off and we can talk about this like two rational adults.”
I immediately looked at my sister, wondering if this was the moment that she would snap. I started mentally cataloguing supplies. Black trash bags. Check. Bottom drawer by the pantry. Saw. Check. Darren kept one in the garage for wayward tree limbs. Shovel. Check. Check. There was a spade and a shovel in the lawn shed. If Dee strangled Darren—and her current expression certainly indicated she could so—we’d be prepared to dispose of the body in the desert. It was a Las Vegas tradition started by the mob. And you know, it was only right to honor tradition.
Deidre, who’d managed to stay reasonably calm, inhaled a deep breath and then said in a very quiet and scary voice, “Get. Out. Now.”
I actually saw Darren swallow
hard. He said nothing as he headed toward the staircase, apparently nonplussed by his wife’s hostility.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “You want me to get the shovels? I know right where they are.”
She snorted a laugh. “No. Well, not yet.”
“Did you really just use the word floozy?”
“Totally. And I don’t regret it.” We went into the kitchen, and Dee poured herself some coffee. “I’ve narrowed down the Henrys to two possibilities. I’m hoping he’s one of them. If your Henry wasn’t reported as missing then we’re probably screwed.”
Okay. So we weren’t gonna talk about the fact she’d just thrown her husband out of the house. Moments later, we heard stomping feet (way to be mature, Dildo), scuffling of bags, and then the front door slammed. Apparently Darren had taken the hint.
“You think he’s going to her?” asked Dee.
The pain in her gaze made me want to cry for her. And also suffocate my brother-in-law with a Sumo wrestler’s thong.
“I think he’s an asshat, and you’re too good for him.”
Her lips trembled as she smiled. “Thanks.” She sucked in a steadying breath and picked up her mug. “C’mon, I’ll show you the Henrys.”
We went into the office. When Dee moved the mouse, the screensaver disappeared and the CNN webpage appeared. Thomas Whitby’s smiling face appeared at the top of the page with the headline: Six-Year-Old Still Missing, Parents Fear the Worst.
“What?” Dee scanned the story.
“Yeah. I heard about this early this morning.”
My stomach pitched. I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that Thomas Whitby didn’t have a lot of time, and that he would end up like Henry. What could I do to find Thomas? I wasn’t a psychic. I saw ghosts. That was not the same as receiving vibrations from the so-called ether or flashes of vague information.
Frowning, Dee closed the browser tab and clicked another one. A page from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children’s appeared. I looked at the blond-haired boy with freckles sprinkled like cinnamon across his nose. He had hazel eyes.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? How can it be a maybe?”
“All right, how about probably not?”
She clicked the next tab over. Henry Mason. Six-years-old. Missing for the last two years. Blonde hair. Brown eyes. An adorable gap-toothed smile. In my heart, I knew that this was the Henry. He was the kid in my vision/dream/nightmare.
“Him,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I straightened. “Now what? All I know is that kid and a couple of others are hanging out on March Street. Their graves don’t have to be around there.” Sadness swept over me. “It might be where they were killed, though. I think Henry was abducted.”
“Like Thomas Whitby?”
“Yeah.”
Dee said nothing for a moment. Then, “You think some sick bastard took the kids to that house and murdered them?” Dee’s horror threaded through her words. “Justin lives in the same neighborhood as a killer of young boys?” Her lips thinned into an angry line. “We have to get evidence, Vie.”
“No, we don’t.” I knew my sister was deflecting because of her pain about Darren, but tracking down murderers was a dangerous gig, and Dee didn’t have ghosts to warn or help her if a situation got sticky. “We can take what we know to the police.”
“To Detective Hottie, you mean. He doesn’t know about the dead boys. We can’t tell him we have a suspect in a missing person’s case because you saw the spirit of Henry Mason. How do you think that conversation will go?” asked Dee. “Go on. I’ll give you a minute to run through the scenario.”
I didn’t need a whole minute. “Damn it. I hate logic and reason. All right. We’ll try to find concrete proof and call the Crime Stoppers hotline.”
One of the rules of ghost whispering was not to tell anyone about ghost whispering. More than one of the family members with our curse/gift had been taken to the whacko shack when they’d tried to help the dead connect (or in some cases, accuse) the living. Even Gram had a close call when she made the mistake of trusting the wrong friend with her secret. She’d spent 72 hours in a psychiatric facility. Luckily, she’d been deemed sane and released. From then on, she passed along information anonymously.
“I have a date with Detective Hottie, remember? Dee, we can’t go off half-cocked. We need to—oh my God. When did I become the responsible sister?”
She snickered. “You are the oldest.”
“Age does not equal maturity. Have I taught you nothing?”
Dee clicked another tab and a bunch of rough looking men holding long numbers under their sour faces came up on the screen.
“Mug shots?”
“Yeah. Searching the Internet for bad guys takes some twisted turns.” She pointed at the third guy from the left. His hair was utterly wild with tight red curls that sprouted on his scalp like a Chia pet, but his eyes twinkled and his smile seemed genuine. Of course, that was the signature of sociopaths, right? “Meet Gary Tremaine. The creepy pre-Carson renter that Robert told us about.”
“Huh. I was expecting someone less happy.” I leaned in closer. “Hey, did you know Robert, the dog walker from yesterday, is the president of the HOA?”
“No. I’ve never seen him before. Besides, I don’t pay attention to that stuff. Darren goes to those meetings.”
“Avoiding your communal duty? You some of the Graves DNA after all. I’m so proud.” I pretended to wipe a tear from my cheek.
“Har-de-har. Can we get back to the creeper, please?” She tapped the edge of the computer screen. “He has had several arrests for breach of peace. Of course, he was actually protesting stuff. Las Vegas can be kinda picky about unlawful assembly.”
“No violence? No kidnapping?” I frowned. “How did you get his name?”
“You said Carson had a newspaper. If he only lived there for a month and he had brain cancer, why would he get a subscription? So, I thought maybe it belonged to the previous renter. And I went over there earlier and stole the one laying on the driveway to get the name.”
I was seriously impressed with her skills at finding out shit. Also, this was the second time I’d known her to resort to thievery for solving problems. “You’re pretty good at this detective thing.”
“Aren’t I?” She laughed. “If I do say so myself.” She stood and picked up her empty mug. I followed her back into the kitchen. “Okay. New plan. We talk to Gary and see if he’s the perp. Maybe we’ll find Thomas Whitby at his place.”
“Okay, first—perp? Really? Second, it would be beyond lucky to find that kid. Third … well, there is no third.” I refilled my coffee cup. “Wait. There is a third. We don’t have any authority, Dee. We can’t arrest the guy.”
“Yes, we can. Statute NRS 171.126 allows a private person to make an arrest.” She lifted three fingers and began counting. “One, we can make an arrest for a public offense committed or attempted in our presence. Two, we can arrest a person who has committed a felony, even if it’s not in our presence. Three, if we have reasonable cause to believe a person has committed a felony, we can arrest his sorry ass.” She beamed at me. “If Gary is the killer, he’ll fall into the last two categories.”
“Great. We can arrest him. How does that work, exactly? I tackle and sit on him while you cite statutes and dial 911?”
“Or vice versa. We should probably invest in some handcuffs.” Her eyes had an unholy gleam. “And a Taser.”
“You are off the rails.” I sucked down some life-saving java juice. “And so am I. All right. Let’s go talk to Gary Whatshisface. I take it you know his current address?”
“Yep. It’s a halfway house off of Charleston Boulevard.” She looked at me. “If you and Matt eventually get serious, you’ll have to tell him about your abilities.”
“Oh, hi, yeah. I love long walks, steak dinners, and a good vodka tonic. By the way, I’m can see and talk to ghosts. Surpr
ise!”
“You like long walks?”
“No. And I don’t like telling potential boyfriends that I see dead people.”
“Have it your way, Jennifer Love Hewitt. If we determine that Gary isn’t a person of interest, the next step is to snoop around March Street for other clues. How long do you think you’ll be gone on your date?”
“I have no idea. Do you want me to tell Matt I have a curfew?”
She looked as if she were seriously considering that option. I whapped her on the arm. “Get real.” She gave me the sad-puppy gaze. Big, wet, sad eyes. Christ. My fucking Kryptonite. “Okay, okay. If Gary doesn’t pan out, we’ll break into the house after I get home from my date.”
Dee hugged me. “Yay!”
Yeah. Yay for breaking and entering after going on a date with a cop. What are the odds? With me?
Dead even.
Chapter 6
We parked behind a rusted blue van. By the time I’d gotten my seatbelt undone, my sister was out of her minivan and impatiently tapping her foot on the cracked sidewalk.
“You really need to cut down on your caffeine intake,” I said as I exited the car. “Or up your Xanax meds.”
“Can you give me bad advice while we’re walking?” she asked. “We’re on a mission.”
I followed Deirdre up to the front door of the typical Las Vegas abode: stucco exteriors, arched doorways and tiled roofs. This one had seen better days. A plaque next to the door read: “The Harvey Coen Halfway House.”
“Who’s Harvey Coen?” I asked.
“Who cares?” Dee knocked on the door. It was a couple of minutes before someone answered it. The man was dressed in ripped jeans and red tank top. His long gray hair drifted around his shoulders like cobwebs. His watery blue eyes took us in. “No hookers.”
I was used to this kind of bullshit. Sometimes, customers misunderstood the purpose of a cocktail waitress. However, Dee had never been called a hooker in her life, and her face turned an alarming shade of red.
“Do we look like hookers?” she hissed.
He studied us then nodded my way. “She does.”
A Spirited Defense (Violetta Graves Mysteries Book 2) Page 4
