Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(16)

“No idea. I don’t have a copy of the actual certificate, but get this—according to what was written on the application, both Mr. and Mrs. Foster were born on the same day, in the same town, at the same hospital.”

“Okay, that’s weird, right?”

“Oh, it gets better. Mrs. Foster’s birth certificate lists her maiden name as … are you ready for this?”

“Cookie, you’re killing me.”

“Foster.”

I sat back down. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as Shirley.”

I didn’t know who Shirley was or why she was so sure of herself, but Cookie seemed pretty confident in her findings. “Okay, let’s say they did fake their birth certificates for some reason, who would go to all that trouble to fake one only to put the wrong surname on it?”

“Maybe the forger messed up?”

“I’d say.”

I needed to get up close and personal with Mrs. F. To get a feel for her. She was clearly capable of kidnapping. What else was she capable of?

We’d been hired to find Shawn’s real parents, but this case provided the perfect opportunity to delve further into Team Foster. If we were going to prove that Shawn had indeed been abducted, we’d need all the ammo we could get when we went to the DA.

“I think I should pay Mrs. Foster a visit today.”

“Okay, she’s at lunch right now, but she’ll be back at two, and she’s working until six. I checked.”

Man, she was good. “Perfect. Now I just need a reason to visit a pediatrician’s office and not actually see the pediatrician.”





5

She has moments when she seems stable, but then so does nitroglycerin.





—MEME


Since I had a few minutes, I decided to hit up an old adversary for info on said adversary’s CI, his confidential informant. The confidential informant I had yet to find. The one who’d been slated to kill my uncle Bob, according to Reyes, who could see exactly when people were penciled in for a visit down under and what they did to get there.

Reyes had met Guerin in prison. He didn’t think much about it at the time. Many of the inmates had locked themselves into a visit to the fiery pits long before they ended up behind bars. But Reyes had recognized Uncle Bob as the detective who’d put him away. No animosity. Just fact.

Guerin had been in prison for stacking up too many petty crimes, but he had yet to do the deed that would get him sent under. That wouldn’t happen for a few years. Still, Reyes saw it the moment he met the kid, and though the time had come and gone, the threat was still there.

Since we’d been unable to locate the petty criminal, there was no way of Reyes seeing into him. Of him being able to tell if the kid’s inevitable trip to the netherworld had been postponed. Or rescinded altogether.

And that was where Parker came in. I’d had a run-in with ADA Nick Parker a few days ago. ADA, surprisingly, did not stand for Abnormally Dimwitted Asshole. Who knew?

He’d basically blackmailed me into solving a case for him. I solved the case, mostly because it needed solving, but I never liked being blackmailed. It brought out the worst in me. Especially when the leverage was a threat against my daughter. My claws came out. In a fit of anger—and right around the same time I threatened to take over the world—I let ADA Parker know that. I did something I didn’t even know I could do. I touched my mouth to his and showed him the supernatural world that raged around us in all its glorious detail. I showed him what I was, but more importantly, what I was capable of.

If nothing else, he’d never blackmail me again. I just hoped he was okay. Mentally. I’d left him in a state of shock. But hopefully he learned Rule #1 in the Charley Davidson Handbook: don’t fuck with the reaper.

Just kidding. I didn’t have a handbook, but I did have a handbag. A Prada knockoff.

Wait.

I stopped halfway in and halfway out of Misery when the realization of a lifetime dawned. I was a gazillionaire now.

Well, Reyes was. Dude was a genius.

Still, I could totally afford a real Prada handbag now. Holy cow. I scooted my ass across Idris Elba, my driver’s seat. The one that hugged me in tight curves and kept me safe under the most hazardous conditions. The one that heated up with the push of a button. That warmed my nether regions to exquisite perfection.

Damn, I’d lost my train of thought. Oh, right. Prada. This would take some thought. I couldn’t rush into such a big decision. Should I go with the fall line or wait for the new spring line to be out? My brain was going to explode with all the possibilities. Maybe I should just go to Target. Get my usual.

I turned Misery on, literally, and started to back out. But first, I flipped off the angel—this one with long black hair and pale skin—that was crouched on my hood, gazing at me through the windshield.

I floored it. The angel, completely unimpressed, simply spread his massive wings, rose up a few inches, and landed with his feet in front of my grill. His moves were more graceful than a ballet dancer’s. Smoother than a mocha latte. And cooler than Christopher Walken, though not by much.

Then, with two fingers, he saluted me. It was a very human gesture. I stared for a moment in surprise before realizing my foot was still on the gas pedal. I slammed on the brakes. Then I sat for a moment, stunned. I’d almost backed into oncoming traffic. I surveyed my surroundings, made sure I hadn’t run over any pedestrians, then offered the angelic being my best glare. He tipped an invisible hat. Not knowing how to take the gesture, considering the source, I shoved Misery into drive and headed to Parker’s office.