—T-SHIRT

Since I still had a couple more hours before we opened up shop, I decided to read some more of the research on my missing-wife case before hitting the showers. Uncle Bob had totally scored with the statements, but I mainly focused on Teresa Yost herself. Besides tons of volunteer work and sitting on a couple of boards, Teresa Yost had graduated magna cum laude from the University of New Mexico with a degree in linguistics. Which meant she was freaking smart. And she probably knew another language or two. She’d worked a lot with disabled kids and had been instrumental in starting a horse ranch that catered specifically to children in wheelchairs.

“And she didn’t deserve to die,” I said to Mr. Wong, who continued to stare into his corner.

Two hours later, I sat drinking coffee with a towel on my head, placating a very disappointed-that-I-hadn’t-called-her Cookie. “He was naked?”

“He was in the shower, so … yes.”

“And you didn’t get a picture?” She sighed in frustration.

“I was in handcuffs.”

“Did he … did you…?”

“No. Oddly enough, the actual act doesn’t seem to matter where he’s concerned. Just looking at him causes these sharp waves of ecstasy to flood my girl parts, so it’s almost the same thing.”

“That’s so unfair. I’m going on a killing spree.”

“Can I drop you somewhere?”

“No, I have to get Amber to school. At least let me help with Reyes’s case.”

“No.”

“Why not?” She frowned in disappointment. “I can research shit. It’s what I do.”

“I have names. I’ll look them up while you check into the good doctor’s finances.”

“Oh, well, okay. Isn’t he like a billionaire?”

I smiled. “That’s exactly what I want to know.”

After covering my black eye with enough concealer to make the late Tammy Faye Bakker proud, I trudged across the parking lot, my feet getting heavier with every step. This whole lack-of-sleep thing seemed to be wearing on me if the little girl following me with the knife was any indication. “Weren’t you a hood ornament yesterday?” I asked.

She didn’t look at me. Which was horridly rude. She wore a charcoal gray dress with black patent leather boots, an outfit that could have doubled as a Russian school uniform, and she had shoulder-length black hair. Her only accessory was the knife, which didn’t really match. Apparently accessorizing was not her thing.

I walked over to the tail parked across the street and knocked on the window. The guy in it jumped with a start. “I’m going to work now!” I yelled through the glass as he squinted at me. “Pay attention.”

He rubbed his eyes and waved. I recognized him as one of Garrett Swopes’s men. Garrett Swopes, I thought with a snort. What a freaking traitor. My uncle Bob says, Follow Charley, and he does it. Like, just does it. Like our friendship means nothing to him. Of course, it doesn’t, but still. Punk ass.

“Are you Charley Davidson?”

I turned to see a woman in a worn brown coat and penny loafers. Practical but hardly appealing. “Depends on who’s asking.”

She walked up to me, scanning the area as she went. She had long black hair that could’ve used a good brushing and huge sunglasses covering half her face. I recognized her from the Buick in the street yesterday morning. The same hair. The same sunglasses. The same sadness percolating beneath the surface. But her aura was warm, its light like the soft glow of a candle, as though afraid to shine too brightly.

“Ms. Davidson.” She held out her hand. “My name is Monica Dean. I’m Teresa Yost’s sister.”

“Ms. Dean.” I took her hand. All the emotions of a woman with a missing sister were present and accounted for. She was scared and grief-stricken and sick with worry. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I’m sorry.” She pushed her sunglasses up nervously. “My brother said not to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he appreciated my visit yesterday. Can you come in?” I gestured toward the back of Dad’s bar. The wind bit through my jacket, nipping at me like an elderly Chihuahua.

“Of course,” she said, pulling her coat tighter. “And my brother doesn’t know what to think of your visit. He was quite taken with you.”

“Really?” I started for the bar. “I got the feeling he wanted to put me in a choke hold and insist I say uncle repeatedly.” That’s it! A professional wrestler! “I’m so sorry about your sister,” I added, steering my thoughts back around. But seriously, I would rock as a wrestler. I’d have to get a tan, though. And maybe veiny muscles.

“Thank you.”

Health insurance would be good, too.

I turned on lights as we entered the back of Dad’s establishment, though the illuminated kitchen told me Sammy was already in prepping for the dinner crowd. My dad’s bar was a cross between an Irish pub and a Victorian brothel. The main room had a cathedral ceiling with dark woods and hundred-year-old ironwork that crested the walls like ancient crown molding. It spiraled around and lured the eye to the west wall, where a glorious wrought-iron elevator loomed tall and proud. The kind you see only in movies and very old hotels. The kind with all its mechanisms and pulleys open for its audience to enjoy. The kind that took from here to eternity to get its occupants to the second floor. Framed pictures, medals, and banners from various law enforcement events covered every available surface with the original mahogany bar to the right of us.