The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(38)

“That works,” Nicolette said, suddenly her perky self. She hurried to the supply room, which Pari also picked, and took everything she’d need to drain us all dry. If she were a serial killer, or a vampire, this would be a prime opportunity for her.

When we finished plundering the place, I dragged Osh out of a reclining chair in which he’d fallen asleep and we filed outside, no worse for the wear.

I sprinted to the front of the building and knocked on the glass doors. Both Garrett and the security guard looked up at me, Garrett confused and the security guard miffed.

They walked to the doors, and she unlocked them. Before she could say anything, I began the show.

“Garrett! Oh, my God!” I rushed forward and threw my arms around him. “What happened? Who did this?”

“I was mugged.”

“Do we say mugged in Albuquerque?”

He glared at me.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Disappointment lined the guard’s face. But it quickly transformed into confusion. “Wait, I thought you said your name was Reyes. Reyes Farrow.”

After I gaped at him for an eternity, an eternity in which he struggled to conceal mischievous grin, I turned back to her. “It is. It’s Reyes Garrett Farrow. Not Reyes Alexander Farrow.” I snorted and waved a dismissive hand. “That’s another guy altogether.”

She wrinkled her forehead in suspicion.

“Gotta go,” I said, hurrying him along. “Have to get this man to a hospital for multiple stab wounds.”

“He was stabbed?” she asked with a concerned gasp.

“Not yet, but the night is young.”

Garrett wrapped an arm around me, and I helped him to his truck, where Osh was sitting. In the driver’s seat. He started to order him out when I said, “We have to make this look good,” and led him to the passenger’s side.

“That was fast,” he said. “Did you get what you needed?”

“We did. We just got the supplies, because apparently that was an option, and Nicolette is going to draw our blood at Pari’s place.”

“The mighty Charles Davidson stole?”

“Hey,” I said, offended. “I’ve stolen before.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Also, I left a hundred on the desk with an apology note, but don’t worry, I disguised my handwriting.”

He deadpanned me. “Did you disguise your fingerprints?”

Crap.





12

If I were a Jedi,

there’s a 100% chance I’d use the Force inappropriately.





—TRUE FACT


“This is the weirdest idea you’ve ever had,” Pari said when we got back to her apartment. “I love it.”

I giggled. “I figured you would.”

Nicolette took a little blood from all of us, and Pari mixed it, along with a dash of CAM phosphor, into a paint that matched her office walls. She then, with the help of a black light, created a beautiful mural right on top of the blood splatters that were already there, because no amount of cleaning ridded a scene of forensic evidence like that. Ever. Not without replacing the wall, anyway.

Pari applied a few more strokes, then did a test. She turned off the black light and turned on the regular lights. The new paint blended into the old, barely noticeable. One would have to be hard-pressed to figure out where the old paint ended and the new paint began.

But when the lights were out and the black light turned on, a gorgeous motif of bold strokes and sharp edges, punctuated by a skull here and there, shone through. It was an insanely cool effect.

“Camouflage,” Walter said before washing down a bite of pizza with her beer. “Genius.”

We all sat around Pari’s office and the back room of her thriving tattoo business, watching her work. I sat on the floor and used Osh’s leg as a headrest. He’d claimed the sofa in Pari’s office, and Nicolette, having completed her mission and safely disposed of the hazardous materials, sat on the armrest on the opposite end. He’d moved his legs so she could sit down, but Nic was too shy for that.

Garrett had stolen Pari’s office chair and was busy tearing into a slice of double pepperoni when Pari pinned him with her best inquiring stare.

“Well?” she asked him.

He nodded, then swallowed hard. “Incredible. You need to come to my house.”

“Yes, you do,” I said. “It’s very brown.”

“I like brown,” he said, defending his domain.

“I like brown food,” I offered. “Coffee. Chocolate. Caramel. How about you, Walter?”

“Tell you what,” she said with a humorous smirk, “you stop calling me Walter, because if you don’t, it will stick for years, and I’ll let you name the girls.”

I perked up. Literally. I pushed off Osh and sat up straight. “For reals?”

“Yes. Just leave me my dignity.”

“What? Dignity’s overrated.”

“That’s the deal.”

Damn, she was a hard negotiator. “Oh, hell, yes.” I jumped up and started pacing. “So many options.” I stared at her girls, a.k.a. her breasts, a long moment, and brainstormed. “Thelma and Louise? Sonny and Cher? Laurel and Hardy? Oh, my God. My brain is going to explode.”