Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet (Charley Davidson) cd-1

by Даринда Джонс

  “Maybe he’s a smoker. If he’s still their driver—”

  “Sorry. Former driver. Now he just takes care of their cars or something. He said they just keep him around because they feel sorry for him.”

  “Interesting. Did you find out anything else?”

  She batted her lashes. “Well, he’s a Gemini, likes long walks on the beach, and is very attracted to men in kilts.”

  I swallowed the last bite of brownie and chased it with a shot of lukewarm java juice. “That’s so weird. I’m attracted to men in kilts, too.” I elbowed her. “Can I get Donald’s number in case I have any questions?”

  “You wouldn’t move in on my territory, would you?”

  I gasped and put an innocent hand on my even innocenter chest. “I would never.”

  She ignored me. “So, after you interview the housekeeper, you’re going to check on Rocket?” she asked, a knowing grin lighting her face.

  Rocket was an invaluable resource when it came to finding out who had passed and who was still kicking. A departed savant who knew the names of every person who ever lived on Earth, Rocket could give me their status updates in seconds flat. And he was big and adorable and loved to hug. Hard.

  But Cook wasn’t talking about Rocket, if that mischievous twinkle in her eye was any indication.

  “Yes,” I said, memorizing the address of the housekeeper she gave me.

  “And what about Rocket’s neighbors? Going to check on them, too?”

  I crooked a brow. “I do have a weakness for guys on Harleys.”

  She wagged an index finger at me, teasing. “Just say no.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said before heading that way. “It’s a really strong weakness.”

  I drove to the housekeeper’s residence on the south side, trying not to obsess about the fact that my father had tried to shoot me. Twice. The housekeeper lived in an older part of town. Many of the houses were considered almost historical and they were well kept, as was Mrs. Beecher’s.

  After I knocked on the door, I took a moment to appreciate the beautiful flowers on her front porch. They were purple. That was about as categorical as I got. A squat elderly woman with light gray hair and soft gray eyes opened the wooden door but stayed put behind the screen of the storm door. The top of her head barely reached my chin, and she had to look up at me.

  “Hi, Mrs. Beecher?”

  “Yes?” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She wore a floral dress that looked like it’d had more than its fair share of washings.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you. My name is Charley Davidson.” I held up my ID. “I’m a private investigator, and I was hired to look into a case involving your former employer, the Lowells?”

  Her heartbeat skyrocketed and her mouth did this little twitch thing where it thinned for just a microsecond before she caught herself. Then she plastered on her best poker face.

  “Look, I understand it’s frowned upon to be talking about the Lowells. You were in their employ for many years. But I have their express permission to question their staff,” I said, lying through my whitening-stripped teeth. The Lowells had a strong hold on their staff. Mrs. Lowell was a tyrant if I ever saw one.

  “Oh, all right, then,” she said, seeming to calm. “What can help you with?”

  She continued to talk to me through the screen, clearly not wanting me to enter. Poor thing.

  “I understand you worked for the Lowells for almost thirty years. Can you tell me anything about their daughter, Harper?”

  Her heartbeat skyrocketed again, and she glanced around as though wondering if she were being watched. Just as her replacement had when I tried to question her at the Lowells’ mansion.

  “I really can’t say much. She was very disturbed and they had a lot of problems with her, but that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. Do you remember when it all started?”

  She glanced at the dish towel in her hands. Fear radiated off her in waves. “It seemed to start right after Mr. and Mrs. Lowell got married.”

  I nodded. “Did you notice anything suspicious at that time?” I couldn’t help but wonder if Harper’s stalker wasn’t an employee, maybe even a disgruntled one. “Did the Lowells hire anyone new around that time? Or maybe someone quit?”

  A thought dawned. I could see it in her expression. But she dismissed it with a frown.

  “Mrs. Beecher, anything you can tell me will help, no matter how small you think it is.”

  She drew in a long draft of air. “It’s nothing. I just remembered that Felix started right before the wedding.”

  “Felix?” I asked, taking out my memo pad and pen.

  “Felix Navarro. He kept their lawns for years and—” She paused in thought.

  “And?” I asked.

  When she refocused on me, her expression was full of regret, like she hated to vocalize her suspicions. “And, well, he liked Ms. Harper. Very much.”

  “How much?”

  “H-he carried pictures of her in his wallet. Several pictures.”

  Okay, that was creepy. I couldn’t help the accusation that crept into my voice. “You don’t think he was doing anything—”

  “Oh, goodness no,” she said, cutting me off with a wave of the dish towel. “Not at all. He was just … well, he was very fond of her.”

  I’ll bet. “Thank you,” I said, offering her a reassuring smile. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  She bowed her head as though ashamed she’d said anything and closed the wooden door.

  After making a phone call to have Cook check out the gardener who was fond of little girls and carried pictures of them around in his wallet, I pulled around the side of a mental asylum that had been abandoned in the fifties. I’d found Rocket there when I discovered a love for exploring such mental asylums in college. Partly because of my fondness for old buildings but mostly because of my fondness for departed mental patients. They knew the secrets of the universe, each and every one, and I could talk to them for hours on end. It beat the heck out of homework.

  Surprised to discover an abandoned asylum smack-dab in the middle of Albuquerque, I cased the joint for a couple of days, then went in one night when the moon was full of glow-in-the-dark chalk and my belly was full of a cheap, nondescript wine. As I stumbled around the place, oohing and aahing at the forgotten equipment, wondering exactly what one would do with an instrument that looked like garden sheers, there stood Rocket.

  I wasn’t sure which of us was more surprised by the presence of the other, but once I assured him I was not there to steal his checkers, we became fast friends. However, because of Rocket’s minimalist approach to the whole attention-span thing, it took me several visits to discover anything definitive about him. I did find out that he’d died in the fifties. He also had a sister who’d died during the Dust Bowl. She kept him company at the asylum, but I had yet to meet her.

  Oddly enough, a local biker gang, the Bandits, owned the asylum in which Rocket lived, and they lived next door. I’d sneaked past them for years despite their tendency to have a slew of Rottweilers on duty at any given time, but the leader, a rough-and-tough type who went by the name of Donovan, had recently given me a key to the place. I had yet to use it, but today seemed like the perfect day to try it out.

  And yet I seemed unable to just pull up to the front door. I’d always pulled around the side and hidden Misery behind a Dumpster so I could sneak in without announcing my presence. Apparently that habit was hard to break. After locking her up tight, I patted Misery’s fender and went in search of the mighty Rocket. Or I would have had my interest not been piqued by the goings-on behind the Bandits’ headquarters.

  I looked through the ivy covering a chain-link fence and could just see the back area of the Bandits’ yard, where they had an old attached garage. They’d always had a plethora of bikes and parts scattered around the cinder-blocked area, but there was a van parked out back and several guys dressed all in black loading ny
lon duffel bags into it. Among the guys in black were Donovan and his two sidekicks: Michael, a Brandoesque kind of guy who could look cool in a tutu; and Eric, a tall kid who looked more like a Greek prince than like a biker. But what struck me as most odd was the fact that they were all dressed exactly alike. Eric and Donovan wore black bandannas around their necks, but other than that, there were four men total and one woman with black long-sleeve shirts and black military-style pants. They all wore leather gloves as well and were either wearing sunglasses or had them propped on top of their heads. That was taking the biker club colors to a whole new level, in my opinion. But to each his own.

  Still, there was something about their shape. I looked at the three main guys: Donovan, the leader, and his seconds, Michael and Eric. Tall, medium-tall, and just plain medium.

  Surely not.

  I’d almost left my hiding place and started for the asylum when something fell out of one of the duffel bags. I studied it as Eric picked it up and stuffed it back into the bag, and my heart sank. A white rubber mask. Just like the guys who had been on the news all over the county. Robbing banks. I knew those guys on the video surveillance footage had looked familiar. Of all the asinine hobbies.

  How could I have been so wrong about them? They were good guys. I felt it the moment I met them. True, I’d been on the ground and Donovan had propped a boot on my stomach to keep me there, but deep down inside, they had hearts of gold.

  I eased back behind Misery and thought about what I should do. I could try to talk them out of it, but I didn’t really want to die anytime soon. And they’d clearly been doing this for a while. I could turn them in, but what if I were wrong? Maybe they had a perfectly good explanation for why they were dressed exactly like the infamous bank robbers the Gentlemen Thieves. Maybe they were going to a theme party where the attendees dressed like their favorite villains. Bikers did tend to have some off-the-wall parties. But at ten o’clock in the morning?

  Ten o’clock in the morning was prime bank-robbing time.

  Damn it.

  The van roared to life, and I stepped back to the fence. Donovan tossed something to Eric just before the kid slid the side door closed; then the scruffy leader looked around to make sure no one was watching before jumping in the passenger’s side.

  That’s when a plan formed. I would follow them. If they really were just going to a theme party, I’d go in and tell them what I’d thought and we’d all have a good laugh. But if they robbed a bank, I’d have to come up with another plan. There was no getting around it.

  I hopped in Misery and did my best to keep up with them without looking like I was doing my best to keep up with them. For the first time since I got her, I cursed Misery’s cherry red exterior. Black would have been better. Or better yet, pavement gray. Then I’d really blend. I’d never longed for an invisibility cloak as much as I did at that moment.

  When they pulled up to the Bernalillo Community Bank, I was still hopeful they were just withdrawing extra cash for the party. Someone had to pay for the chips and beer. I parked across the street and waited. They sat idling for a few seconds before bursting out of the van in full bank-robber attire, complete with white masks and semiautomatic weapons.

  I let my head drop onto the steering wheel and sat in misery, literally, wondering what to do. Today was just not my day. Between my dad trying to kill me, Reyes trying to kill my dad, and the hottest biker dudes I’d ever met turning out to be notorious bank robbers, I wondered why I’d ever left my apartment. I was just fine there. I liked it there. It was warm and cozy in the same way a prison cell was cozy, but at least no one was shooting at me and no one was robbing it. Not that I knew of.

  Wait. Maybe I could still talk them out of it. Maybe if Donovan knew that I knew, he’d be embarrassed and put a stop to the whole thing.

  And maybe Charles Manson really was just a misunderstood poet.

  But it was worth a shot. I mean, we were friends. Friends didn’t shoot friends. Apparently fathers did, but friends were a different story altogether.

  I left Margaret in Misery and hurried across the street, past the idling van, and into the bank as stealthily as I could. Which wasn’t very. The place was being robbed, so it wasn’t difficult to spot a new patron stepping inside. I zeroed in on Donovan instantly. The cool thing was, not one of them had his gun drawn. Fortunately, that didn’t seem necessary. Donovan was busy keeping his eyes on the security guard and the patrons who were facedown on the floor. They were so going to be traumatized and I felt bad for them in that regard, but I was still thrilled Donovan wasn’t pointing a gun at them, threatening to blow their heads off. That was much more traumatizing in the long run.

  The others were seeing to the cash drawers and the vault, and one of them was standing on the tellers’ counter, keeping watch. It was Eric. He spotted me and stilled. I thought about smiling and waving but didn’t want to look like a complete idiot.

  When I looked back at Donovan, he was watching me, his arms crossed at his chest, his head tilted to the side as though asking me, What the fuck?

  I wondered that, too, as I stepped over patrons to get to him.

  “Sorry,” I said when I stepped on a woman’s skirt. Then I tripped on a man’s arm. “Sorry,” I repeated. When I finally got to Donovan, I did that fake smile thing so I could talk without moving my lips. No idea why. “You’re a bank robber?” I asked through clenched teeth, looking around nonchalantly.

  Eric, the youn gest and tallest of the crew, jumped from the counter and landed solidly next to us. He eased around me, crowded into me, dipped his head until his mouth was at my ear. “Don’t we need a hostage?” he asked, his words breathy with adrenaline. I could hear the smile in his voice.

  Donovan kept tabs on the room with quick, sharp glances that landed on me at regular intervals. He looked at his watch. “Fifteen seconds!” he yelled before refocusing on me. At least I think he did. It was hard to see past the rubber mask. “I think you’re right.”

  Before I could protest, he turned me around and put one arm around my throat and one around my waist.

  I rolled my eyes. “You have got to be kidding me,” I said, my teeth still clenched.

  “This is going to be fun,” Eric said.

  “Could you do your job?” Donovan asked him.

  “Oh, right.” He jumped back and started grabbing the nylon duffel bags that one of the others had brought out of the vault. I couldn’t believe that a bank that size carried that much cash. Sirens blared in the distance, and I wondered if I should be relieved or worried. It was a strange feeling. I was on the side of the law. I worked as a con sultant for the Albuquerque Police Department. Surely my participation in a bank robbery would look bad. But adrenaline was coursing through my veins, and I couldn’t help but wish they’d hurry the heck up.

  As the guys started filing out, Michael swaggered up to us. I could tell it was him because no one did swagger like Michael. “A hostage,” he said, offering me a nod in greeting. “Cool.” Then he walked out to the van like he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Oh, yeah. These guys were crazy with a side of fries.

  Donovan dragged me along behind him, following the others out the door, his hold tight enough to pull my entire length against him. He was such a perv.

  “Sorry,” I said as I tripped on the guy’s arm again. He glared up at me, but really, he saw us coming. He should have moved his freaking arm. It was hard being half-dragged backwards across a floor of bank patrons. And I’d never been accused of being sure-footed. He had to know that after our first encounter.

  I clutched at Donovan’s arm and said, “This is not winning you any brownie points, mister.”

  When we got to the door, Donovan whispered into my ear, “Nice to see you, too, beautiful.”

  I started to respond, but he jerked me out the door and shoved me into the van. I landed in a heap among boots and bags of money. And I was broke. I blinked and looked at them longingly for exactly two-point-seven secon
ds before reality struck. I couldn’t take stolen money. Not even if I lived to see another sunrise, which wasn’t super-likely if all the white faces staring down at me were any indication.

  The van peeled out and took a sharp curve, sending me crashing between a pair of legs. I fought for balance and pretended the moment wasn’t awkward in the least as I turned back to Donovan. He was on his knees, keeping perfect equilibrium as he ripped off the mask and stuffed it into a bag. The others did the same. Eric’s demasking revealed an evil smirk, as it was his legs I’d crashed into, his charming grin accompanied by dark, sparkling eyes.

  When Michael took off his mask, his grin was filled with both humor and curiosity. But I was more concerned with the fact that everyone had started disrobing. They peeled off the black shirts to reveal a varying array of T-shirts. Then off came the pants. Donovan wore jeans underneath, but Eric and Michael both wore leather.

  The driver also peeled off his mask—or, well, her mask—and tossed it back, and I recognized her from when I was at the house a couple months ago. Curvaceous with long hair the color of midnight and striking hazel green eyes, she seemed to be the only woman within the inner circle of higher-ups of Donovan’s gang. And she could drive like nobody’s business. I saw why Donovan chose her, as she took just enough risky chances to make lights and hurry through turns without drawing too much unwanted attention.

  She looked at me in the rearview mirror and winked humorously. At least they enjoyed what they did for a living. Something to be said about that.

  “Strip,” Donovan ordered, and I realized he was talking to the last guy. He sat by the back door and had yet to take off his mask.

  “Are you for real?” he asked. “She knows who we are.”

  “She knew who we were before she ever stepped into the bank,” Eric said, becoming defensive instantly. “Get your shit together.”

  “Fuck you,” the guy said. “I ain’t going to prison for that skank.”

  Skank?

  “Get your mask off,” Donovan said, his tone sharper than I’d ever heard it. “We’re almost at the drop point.”