“You told me to guess.”

“Listen to this—”

“You realize I can hear you without the annoying intercom.”

Cookie and I both leaned forward and looked at each other through the doorway.

“But this is more fun,” I said. “More Star Trekkie.”

“More annoying?” she asked.

When I pressed my lips together and waited, she caved.

“So where is she?”

“Okay, check this out.” I brought up the article. “Sarah Hadley was found dead in her apartment Monday morning by her landlady while responding to complaints that Hadley’s television was too loud.” I looked back at her.

“No way,” she said, leaning forward again.

“Way.”

“Like, this Monday?”

“No, that’s just it. Reyes’s trial ended over ten years ago on a Thursday, right?”

“Right.”

“She was found dead the following Monday right after his trial.”

“Walker killed her. He was tying up loose ends.”

“It would seem so. Not only that, he was a hairsbreadth away from going to prison himself for scamming elderly women out of their money—winner—and was facing a fifteen-year prison sentence.”

“Then he’s conveniently murdered?”

“About five minutes before his case went to trial.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Yeah. Or a conniving one.”

“So, Sarah Hadley switches the dental records, thus proving the man Earl Walker chose to take his place in the afterlife was actually Earl Walker—”

“What? I can’t hear you.” I waved my hand and pointed to my ear and then at the intercom. “You need to speak into the intercom.”

After a loud sigh, she pressed the button. “—then she testifies against Reyes at his trial, and good ole Earl repays her by—”

“Beating her to death with a bookend.”

“I think Earl has issues.”

“And I think he has about a gazillion years of jail time waiting for him.” I jumped up, walked into Cookie’s office to grab my coat, as that was where I’d left it, walked back into my office, then pushed the intercom button again. “Okay, I have addresses on the names Reyes gave me. I’m heading out. And hopefully I won’t kill anyone.”

“You still have days before that happens. Don’t worry about it.”

“True, and thankfully one of the men on the list is already dead, so there’s no killing him again.”

“And the others?”

“One is here in Albuquerque, and one is in Corona.”

“The beer?”

“Sadly, no. The town.”

“We have a town named Corona?”

“I know, right? Who knew? I’m going to interview the guy here first. Wish me luck.”

“Wait!” she said as I walked past her desk.

I turned to her, but her finger was still on the button and she was giving me this impatient glare.

Oh fine. I’d started this. I once again walked into my office and pushed the intercom button.

“So, you’re saying I look like a cupcake?”

14

Time to make today my bitch.

—T-SHIRT

I steered Misery in the general direction of south until we came to a crumbling group of apartments behind another crumbling group of apartments behind an abandoned group of apartments that made the first two look like the Ritz.

“Charley’s House of Cards,” I said into my phone while pulling in to the lot of the worst of the apartment buildings.

“Yost’s first wife was cremated,” Cookie said.

“What?” I turned the ignition to off. “But her death was suspicious. And they let him cremate her?”

“Apparently. He had it done on the islands before he brought her back to the States.”

“Why do these people not check with me first?”

“No hit on the alias yet. Still looking.”

“Okay, let me know. Soon, because the odds of me getting out of this neighborhood alive are nowhere near good.”

“I knew it. I should have come with you.”

“So we could die together?”

“True. Well, good luck.”

I kept the phone to my face even after we’d hung up. A phone made the perfect excuse not to notice the people ogling me as I strode to apartment three. It didn’t actually have a 3 on the door, but I was pretty good at counting in the single digits.

I rapped on the door of one Mr. Virgil Gibbs, and a thin man, hunched over with age and abuse, answered. He had dark hair and a graying beard.

“Hi,” I said when I got his attention. He was busy looking at a group of men looking at me. “My name is Charlotte Davidson, and I’m a private in—”

“Maybe you should come inside, sweetheart.”

He stood back but kept a wary eye around us.

“Okay.” I was so going to die. I stepped inside nonetheless. He didn’t look super agile. Surely I could outrun him.

His apartment wasn’t bad, considering. A couple empty beer bottles on an end table. A television complete with foil-laced antenna sticking out. No dirty ashtrays, which surprised me. Or underwear on the couch.

“You want a beer?” he asked, the fact that he was missing a few teeth becoming evident with the question.

“No, thank you.”