The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(20)
“How have you been?” I asked in lieu of moaning aloud after my first sip.
“Good,” she lied. She sat back down, chewed at her lips for a few minutes, then stabbed me with the most serious expression I’d ever seen her wear. Not that I could see much of it from behind her dark glasses, but still.
“I may have inadvertently murdered someone.”
I choked softly, then questioned her with raised brows.
“They found a body.”
“I guess that’s better than losing one.”
“A guy’s.”
“Okay.”
“The only thing he had on him was a card from my shop.”
“Well, you do own a tattoo parlor. It’s not odd that somebody would have your card, right?”
“Right.” She twisted her hands together. “There’s that, but I’d written my name and cell number on the back.”
“So, you knew him?”
“I told the cops I didn’t.”
“You lied to them?”
“Yes.”
“Care to explain why?”
“Because, like I said, I may have killed him. Well, Tre and I may have killed him. But we didn’t mean to.”
“Then I think technically that would be manslaughter. Not murder. I’m sure they’ll understand,” I said, tossing my own lie into the conversation.
“What? Oh, right. Manslaughter. Is it still manslaughter if it’s self-defense?”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
She gathered her resolve in one shaky breath and plowed headlong into her story. “Well, as you know, Tre and I have been seeing each other off and on for a while now.”
“How is Tre?” Tre was one of her artists. One of her tall, dark, delicious artists. “Still painfully gorgeous?”
“Oh, yes. Among other things.”
“Okay, I’m with you so far. Off and on. Painfully gorgeous.”
“So, it was during one of our off times that I met a man named Hector Felix. Tre had gone to California to visit family for a few days when Hector comes in with a couple of his friends wanting a tattoo. A Native American symbol for prosperity. Or maybe porn. I can’t remember. Anyway, I gave him some ink that night, and he was just so charming.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“And thoughtful.”
“Yep.”
“And, well, loaded.”
“Ah.”
“He asked me out, and I just thought it would be nice to be taken somewhere special for once.”
“Macho Taco not doing it for you anymore?”
“We went out, but it didn’t take long for me to realize he was bat shit. In the most sincere sense of the term. Guy was crazy, Chuck. Certifiable. He was possessive and jealous from day one. Like he didn’t even try to hide it. You know, most of the time, the really bad ones at least put on a show at first. Make you think they won’t break into a jealous rage just for you thanking the waiter.”
“When it’s obvious like that, it’s an entitlement thing.”
“Makes sense. I’m not sure what came over me, why I did it, but I went out with him a second time.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“I shouldn’t have. I should have broken it off immediately.”
“Why didn’t you?”
One dark strand fell loose from her hairband. She tucked it behind her ear. “You’ll think I’m shallow.”
“Pari, there’s no shame in wanting something secure.”
“Oh, no, that wasn’t it. I just wanted to drive his Lamborghini.”
I fought a grin. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Pari we all know and love. Speed freak.”
“It was so stupid of me. I broke it off after the second date.”
When she mentioned the date, I felt a ripple of repulsion shudder through her. “What happened?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Bottom line: nobody leaves Hector without Hector’s permission.”
“He actually said that?”
“Repeatedly. He harassed me for weeks, but he didn’t do anything that the cops could trace back to him. Nothing I could call and report him for. Everything he did would have been his word against mine, and it started out small. The mirror on my car had been broken off. There were bullet holes in the plate glass windows up front. Then it all just escalated. My electricity got turned off. One of my regulars was assaulted when he left the shop. Then one day I came home to find all my clothes cut into pieces.
“When I confronted him, he said he tried to warn me. That I could never prove a thing. And that he had a lot of friends who could attest to his whereabouts.”
“So, you did try to report him?” Normally, filing a police report would be the first thing I’d tell a client to do, but this situation had gone beyond that. I grew worried there would be a police report out there with both their names on it—a.k.a. evidence.
“No. I wasn’t born yesterday, Charley. I know how these things work. He has money and connections and shady friends. Nothing I accused him of would’ve stuck.”
“That might be a good thing since you told the detective you didn’t know him.”