The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(36)

“Charles, where are we going?”

“I’m not 100 percent positive. Walter wrote down the address, but she’s in a state of shock at the moment.”

“He burned off your clothes?” Walter asked. At least she was talking again.

“I just remember the place seemed cocky.”

If it were possible to actually ground out a sigh of annoyance, Garrett just did it. “How can a business be cocky? And who the fuck is Walter?”

“There it is!” I pointed with way more enthusiasm than I should have and pulled into the parking lot of a large, menacing-looking building with a smaller one in front. “Welcome to the law offices of Dick, Adcock, and Peterman. See? Cocky. They had to know what they were doing when they partnered up.”

“What we need is in a law office?”

“No. What we need is in the huge building behind the law office.”

We pulled around to the side of the law offices to make it look like we were visiting our lawyer—in the middle of the night—and not breaking into and entering the building behind it.

Nicolette Lemay, my nurse friend with the freakishly cool gift of clairvoyance, albeit selective, walked out of the shadows and toward us, scanning the area as she hurried across the lot. Which didn’t look suspicious at all.

She met me as I slid out of Misery. “Are we really doing this?” she asked, her nerves supercharged. “I may be a nurse, but I panic easily.”

I laughed. “No worries. I have a plan.”

Walter gaped at me from the passenger’s seat. “You have a plan? I thought this was Garrett’s plan. Or Osh’s plan. Or Pari’s plan.”

Speaking of whom, Pari pulled up in a little red Dodge Dart, got out, and walked up to my open window.

I greeted her with a nod, then looked back at Cookie. “What are you trying to say, Walter?”

“I’m trying to say that your plans never work.”

“What? My plans always work most of the time, unless they’re carried out on a Friday. My Friday plans never pan out.”

Walter got out of the Jeep and walked around. I was pretty sure she checked out Misery’s ass on the way.

“Hey, Pari,” she said.

“Hey, Walter.” Pari caught on fast. Faster than some people who shall not be named … Garrett.

We walked over to his truck. Garrett rolled down his window. “What are we doing?”

“Well, that depends. There are two night guards here, and I’m not sure which one is on duty. If it’s the female, Garrett’s on. If it’s the male, this whole thing will rest in your hands, Osh.”

“Ten-four, boss.” A master flirt, he jumped out of Garrett’s truck, a little too happy to oblige.

Garrett was a little more hesitant.

“If it helps,” I added, knowing it would, “she won Miss New Mexico when she was twenty-two.”

That brightened him right up. He climbed out of his monster truck—boys and their toys—and spoke softly to Osh a moment.

“I can’t believe you let her plan this,” Walter said to them, admonishing.

“Walter,” I said, my tone more admonishing. “Ye of little faith. Maybe you need to stay in the car.”

“No way. And why are you calling me Walter?”

“You said I could.”

After making introductions in which Pari’s heart went pitter-pat for Garrett and Nicolette’s did the same for Osh, we headed to the front entrance of the building and peered through the plate glass.

“I don’t remember agreeing to changing my name,” Walter said.

“Probably all the meth. It’s the female guard.” I turned back to them. “Swopes, you’re up.”

Osh seemed disappointed.

I patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. We still need you. I just had my nails done.”

Garrett looked inside. “I thought you said she won Miss New Mexico.”

“She did. I told you, when she was twenty-two.”

He deadpanned me. Hard. “And when was that? The fifties?”

“Swopes, she’s not that old. Now go do your thing.”

He grinned. “Just kidding. She’s cute. This’ll be fun.”

“You’re such a slut.”

He shrugged and nodded toward Osh. “Make it good.”

Osh’s grin turned downright evil.

“Not too good,” Garrett clarified, but Osh had already fired.

He swung, so very much harder than anyone had expected, hitting Garrett’s left eye and the bridge of his nose.

Garrett’s head jerked back, and he stumbled a couple of steps. Then he pressed his hands to his face and doubled over, cursing like a drunken sailor on leave. But it worked. Blood slipped between Garrett’s fingers.

He straightened and glared at Osh.

“What?” he asked, the picture of innocence.

Then Garrett glared at me. “This is the worst plan ever.”

“See?” Walter nodded. “Told you. Nobody ever listens to me.”

After offering Osh a bloody middle finger, he stumbled to the glass doors and knocked.

The rest of us hurried to the side of the building where we could watch to make sure Garrett got in.

When the guard opened the door, Garrett turned on the charm, spouting something about being mugged and his cell battery dying and could he borrow a phone and maybe use the restroom.