Second Grave on the Left cd-2

by Darynda Jones

  “She’s alive,” he told Smith, and I realized he was talking about Mimi.

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who you work for?” I asked him.

  “You might say we work for the big guy.”

  “God?”

  He fought a grin. “Come down a step, as in commander in chief.”

  “Then this does have something to do with the seat in the Senate.”

  “Something, yes.”

  “Damn, they don’t mess around. Wait, so, Kyle Kirsch did this after all?”

  He squinted his eyes and shrugged. “Look farther north.”

  “Oh, come on. That’s all you’re giving me?”

  “We did just save your life,” he said, brows raised.

  I snorted. “Please, I totally had that.”

  Smith chuckled and shook his head. “I have to say, this was the most interesting assignment I’ve ever been on.” He leveled a regret-filled gaze on me. “I’ll miss you. And your boxer shorts.” He looked past me into the shadows. “Get that woman to the police. She has quite a story to tell.”

  After one more solid pounding, Ulrich strode past me with a nod and climbed in the backseat. I had a sneaking suspicion I would never see them again. As they drove off, Cookie and Mimi tackled me from behind, and I was soon ensconced in the most suffocating group hug I’d ever been ensconced in.

  * * *

  Blue and red lights undulated over the buildings as a plethora of police and emergency vehicles cordoned off the alley. Two EMTs loaded a handcuffed Evil Murtaugh into the back of an ambulance while another EMT was seeing to a concussed Hulk. He moaned a lot. I knew how he felt. I stepped over to watch them load Evil just as two men in crisp suits walked up to me. There seemed to be a lot of crisp suits around lately. Dillard’s must have had a sale.

  “Ms. Davidson?” one of them asked.

  I nodded. Now that all the excitement was over, my back was stinging. Evil Murtaugh had ruined a perfectly good jacket and left a bit of a fissure across my spine. I squirmed in my jacket, trying to ease the discomfort.

  “I’m Agent Foster with the FBI.” He held up his ID. “And this is Special Agent Powers.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said with a snort. “I’ve heard that before.”

  Agent Foster’s expression didn’t change. “So we were told. That’s why we’d like to talk to you before we question this man.”

  I looked into the ambulance at Evil. “Sucks when the real deal shows up.”

  “I can’t leave you alone for a minute,” Uncle Bob said as he strode toward me.

  “I think I’m probably off to the station,” I told the agents.

  “We’ll meet you there.”

  “Are you injured? How’s your head?” Uncle Bob asked. He was such a softy.

  “Better than yours. Have you considered electroshock therapy?”

  He blew out a long breath. “You’re still mad at me.”

  “Ya think?”

  * * *

  As it turned out, Evil Murtaugh and Evil Riggs were related. Cousins or something. Big surprise. They both hailed from Minnesota and had been in and out of trouble their whole lives. But nothing like murder. At least, not that we knew of.

  The station was like a melting potty of old and new cases by the time we arrived. Morning was burning its way across the horizon as Cookie sat with Mimi in an interview room for support while Mimi gave her statement. They’d both been wrapped in blankets and given hot chocolate. All things considered, they looked pretty comfy. Mimi’s parents had shown up and were in there with her as well. Her father couldn’t let go of her and kept her in his embrace, which made it difficult for her to drink her cocoa, but I doubted she minded. One was never too old to revel in the embrace of your dad. From what I could tell, a lot of old baggage was being unpacked, dirty underwear and all.

  Uncle Bob was working on getting Warren’s charges dropped, and he’d called in Kyle Kirsch, who was due any moment.

  “I don’t think they were paid enough,” Ubie said as he walked up, a pile of papers in his hands. I was pouring creamer into a cup of coffee while trying to keep a blanket around my shoulders, mostly to hide the slice across my back. I didn’t think I could stand another round of superglue. “The Cox cousins’ bank accounts show cash deposits of fifty thousand each.”

  “So, who are the Cox cousins again?”

  He sighed. It was funny. “The men who kidnapped you? One of them just tried to kill you in a dark alley? Art and William Cox? Any of this ringing a bell?”

  “Of course. I just wanted to make you say Cox again. And as determined as they were,” I said, taking a sip, “they were probably promised a lot more once the job was done.”

  “I’m sure. But we can’t trace the deposits. And the dead gunman from the motel was a jailhouse chum of theirs. We’re still looking into his financial records, too.”

  I looked over as Kyle Kirsch hurried into the station, two bodyguards on his trail. I recognized him from his campaign posters. He stopped to ask the desk sergeant a question, and Mimi came barreling out of the interview room toward him. She ran into his arms.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, and he gaped at her.

  “Me? Are you okay? What happened?” he asked, hugging her to him again.

  “This man came after me and Cookie and her boss, Charley, saved my life.”

  I cringed. It was nice of her to leave out the part where we were the reason she almost got killed in the first place.

  Uncle Bob strolled up to him and offered a hand. “Congressman,” he said.

  “Are you Detective Davidson?” he asked, shaking his hand.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for coming in. Can I get you anything before we start?”

  Kyle had agreed to give a statement, insisting he had nothing to hide. He hugged Mimi again, a sad smile on his face. “I guess this is it,” he said to her.

  “We had to do this sometime.”

  “That we did.”

  I wondered if they would be arrested for not coming forth earlier. I hoped not. They were victims in all of this as well.

  “This is Charley Davidson,” Mimi said when she saw me hovering.

  Kyle took my hand. “I owe you everything.”

  “Warren!” Mimi ran into her husband’s arms as he practically stumbled into the station, looking as harried as usual.

  I spoke to Kyle under my breath. “I hate to have to tell you this, but I thought you were the one behind these murders for quite some time.”

  He smiled sadly in understanding. “I don’t blame you, but I promise,” he said to Uncle Bob, “I had nothing to do with them. I’m not exactly innocent, but I’m not guilty of murder.” He took out his cell phone. “I know we have an interview, but would you mind if I called my mother? I couldn’t get a hold of my dad. I think he went fishing, and he never carries his cell. I just want to let them know where I am and what’s going on before they see it on the news.”

  “Not at all,” Ubie said.

  “Thank you.” He spoke over his shoulder as he walked away. “She’s visiting my grandmother in Minnesota.”

  Uncle Bob and I both froze. I stepped up and placed a hand on Kyle’s, lowering the phone from his ear.

  He frowned and closed it. “Is something wrong?”

  “Kyle … Congressman—”

  “Kyle is fine, Ms. Davidson.”

  “The murder suspects were hired henchmen from Minnesota. Did you tell your mother or grandmother what was going on? What happened in Ruiz? Or even that Tommy Zapata wanted to step forward and confess what he did?”

  Kyle blinked in surprise, contemplated what I’d said, then turned from me, his face a mask of astonishment.

  “Kyle, everyone who was in that room with Hana Insinga is dead except for you and Mimi. And trust me, Mimi was not going to see another day if those men had anything to say about it.” I touched him gently on the shoulder. “That leaves you.”

  He covered his eyes with a hand and breat
hed deeply.

  “Your mother didn’t happen to borrow a hundred thousand dollars from you recently, did she?”

  “No,” he said, facing me with a resigned expression. “My mother comes from money. She would never have had to borrow any from me.”

  That explained the ritzy house in Taos that she lived in with a retired sheriff.

  “Do you think she’s capable of—?”

  “My mother is more than capable, I promise you.” A bitterness suddenly edged his voice, cold and unforgiving. “I told her everything that happened that night twenty years ago. She made me swear not to tell my father. She said I would be arrested, that people would say I was just as much to blame as anyone. The minute school let out for the summer, she sent me to my grandmother’s.”

  “She knew all along?” Uncle Bob asked.

  He nodded. “When I told her I was going to step forward with Tommy Zapata, she went ballistic. She said nothing mattered more than the Senate. And eventually, the presidency.” He laughed, a harsh, acidic sound. “It would never have worked, anyway. They would have found out about my past, my lifestyle. People like me don’t get to be president, but she insisted that I try, beginning with a seat in the Senate.” He leveled a hard gaze on me. “That woman is nuts.”

  “Maybe we should get that statement now,” Uncle Bob said.

  He led him to a separate interview room while I hung back. My head was still pounding out a symphony, but it had moved from Beethoven’s Fifth to Gershwin’s “Summertime.” I did feel better about one thing. My stepmother may be nuts, but she wasn’t a murderer. Not that I knew of, anyway.

  I took two ibuprofen and sat on one of the chairs in the waiting room. My lids grew heavier than I would have liked, but I wanted to wait on Cookie and see what Uncle Bob came up with. I was pretty sure we just solved a murder mystery. Still, my lids didn’t care. The world blurred, dipped, spun a little, did the Hokey Pokey and turned itself around. Then my dad came in. I figured he’d heard what happened and came to check on me.

  “Hey, Dad.” I pried my body out of the chair and gave him a groggy hug. I hadn’t seen him since the night of the attack, which made me a very bad daughter.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, holding me tight.

  “Um, what are you doing here?”

  “I still have to give my statement on the attack.”

  “Oh.” Duh.

  “Why are you wrapped in a blanket? What’s going on?”

  “Dad, I’m fine. Just the usual. PI stuff and all that.”

  “Charley,” he said, exasperated, “you need to find another job.”

  I scoffed as Denise and Gemma walked in. I was surprised to see the old ball and chain with him as well as my sister.

  “What are you doing here?” Denise asked. “I thought she wasn’t coming.” She glanced at Dad questioningly.

  He gritted his teeth. Sucks when the old hag spills the beans. Gemma raised a cordial hand in greeting, then yawned. She looked as exhausted as I felt.

  “And why wasn’t I coming?” I asked Dad.

  He shook his head. “We’re just going over some things. I didn’t think you’d want to be here,” he said, stumbling over his tongue. This was interesting. “You have to give a statement from your perspective later. I didn’t want to take up your time or influence your testimony.”

  “Well, I guess we’re in luck,” I said, a humongous smile brightening my face, “I’m already here. I’d love to join in the fun.”

  Dad worked his jaw as Uncle Bob joined us. “The congressman is writing everything down,” Ubie said to me. “I think he’s going to be a while. We can go over those tapes now.”

  “Tapes?” I asked, all innocence and virtue.

  “Yes, the tapes of Caruso when he was calling your dad. Leland started recording them. But I have to admit, bro,” he said to Dad, “I’m not sure Denise and Gemma will want to hear these.”

  “Certainly, we do,” Denise said, strolling past them toward the conference room. My Dad was so whipped, it was embarrassing.

  “This is awesome,” I said, following her with a new bounce in my step, “killing twenty-seven birds with one stone. Who knew a visit to PD would be so darned productive?”

  “She’s still a little miffed,” Ubie explained to Dad.

  Apparently, this was a community event. We, meaning the family and a couple other detectives, sat around the conference table while cops of every size and shape, mostly nice and really nice, lined the walls. Even Taft showed up. It was interesting, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why everyone was so fascinated with these tapes, especially Denise and Gemma.

  “Who should I kill first, Davidson?” the speaker on the recording, Mark Caruso, asked. For the most part, he had good vocal projection, decent pronunciation. He just needed to tweak his tone to better reflect his mood. “Whose death will bring you to your knees?” That was a great opening. He’d really thought out these little speeches of his. “Whose death will send you spiraling down a pit so deep and dark, you’ll never be able to claw out of it?” I felt his question was more rhetorical than inquisitive.

  Everyone in the room took turns slashing furtive glances in Dad’s direction, wanting to see what pent-up emotions Caruso could stir in him. This situation nailed why reality TV was such a hit. The human appetite to witness tragedy, to observe the subtle difference between pain and anguish, to see each emotion twist the features of a normally smiling face, was irresistible. It wasn’t their fault. A certain amount of morbidity was innate in each of us, part of our biological makeup, our DNA.

  “Your wife, Denise?” Caruso said as though asking permission.

  My stepmother gasped softly and tossed a hand over her mouth at the mention of her name. Dutifully, tears sprang to her eyes. But I had mad skill at reading people, and I could tell she was getting off on the sympathetic gazes sliding her way. Even more than that, however, I could feel the relief that swallowed her as she glanced toward me, because Caruso had come after me, not her. I supposed I couldn’t blame her for that, really, but I could have done without her fix for attention at my expense.

  Caruso waited for a reaction. “No,” he said, his voice resigned. “No, you need to lose a daughter, just like I did. How about Gemma? The pretty one?”

  Though Gemma had hardly moved an inch the entire time, she stilled. Her face paled, and her breathing stopped for what seemed like a full minute before she looked up at Dad. Denise wrapped an arm into his and leaned into him to offer support in her superficial way, but he neither looked up at Gemma nor acknowledged his wife’s ministrations. He was lost inside himself, a shell where my father had once been. Oddly enough, he was sweating nine millimeters. Why now? It was said and done. The guy was back behind bars.

  And still, he did not answer the man.

  Then everyone waited, knowing what was coming next. Who was coming next.

  “Or how about that pistol of yours?” Caruso asked, his gravelly voice enjoying the moment. “What’s her name? Oh, yes … Charlotte.”

  He said my name slowly, as though he relished every sound, every consonant as it rolled off his tongue. I felt each gaze present snap in my direction, but I lowered my eyes and kept them down. I could especially feel Uncle Bob’s, for some reason. He had always had such a soft spot for me. One that I took advantage of every chance I got.

  But then Dad spoke, his voice crystal clear in the recording, each note strained, each syllable forced. He hadn’t said a word when Caruso mentioned Denise or Gemma, but when my name came up, he broke.

  “Please,” he said, his voice hoarse with the emotion he held at bay, “not Charley. Please, not Charley.”

  My heart stopped. The air in the room thickened until I thought I would suffocate on it. The truth of what was happening washed over me in waves of such shock, I sat utterly stupefied for a solid minute before glancing up. Now, everyone had cast gazes of sympathy toward my father. They saw a man in anguish. I saw a man, a veteran cop and
detective, who had made a decision.

  My father lowered his head and, from underneath his lashes, cast furtive, sorrowful glances at me. To say I was taken aback by his plea would be the understatement of the century. The whisper of emotion he fought tooth and nail to control was not the pain of fear, but the pain of guilt. His eyes locked on to mine, a silent apology dripping from each lash, and the agitation that overcame me pushed me out of my chair like a bully on a playground.

  I stumbled to my feet, the blanket and the rest of the recording forgotten, and scanned the faces around me. Denise was appalled that her husband was begging for my life when he hadn’t begged for hers. Her shallow sense of reality simply didn’t run deep enough to grasp the truth. It must’ve been nice to see the world so one-dimensionally.

  But Uncle Bob knew. He sat with mouth agape, staring at Dad like he’d lost his mind. And Gemma knew. Gemma. The one person on planet Earth I didn’t want or need sympathy from.

  Thankfully, any tears that might have surfaced from the knowledge that my father had practically painted a target on my forehead stayed behind a wall of bewilderment. My lungs were still paralyzed, as if the air had been knocked out of me. They started to burn, and I had to force myself to breathe as I stared in utter disbelief.

  My father, a twenty-year veteran of the Albuquerque Police Department, was way too smart to do something so incredibly stupid. And my Uncle Bob knew it. I could see the shock and anger mingling behind his brown eyes. He was just as stunned as I was.

  The look on my father’s face was reprehensible. The clueless look on my stepmother’s as her gaze darted back and forth between the two of us was almost comical. But there were three other people in the room who’d figured it out. Uncle Bob I could understand, but I couldn’t believe that even Taft had figured it out. He had planted a surprised look on me that bordered on apologetic.

  But the look of incredulity on Gemma’s face was more than I could bear. She stared hard at our father, her face a picture of stupefaction. Her Ph.D. in psychology was paying off. She knew that our father had chosen her over me. Had chosen our stepmother over me.