The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(53)

“Why?”

“Right? It’s such an odd name. It’s like two first names put together. But I have no idea why anyone would name him that.”

He bit down, his jaw working. “Why do you want to know?”

I had a feeling he was making nice in front of Cookie. That woman was invaluable in ways she couldn’t even imagine. “I’m asking for a friend.”

“That friend wouldn’t happen to be a local tattoo artist?”

Cookie gasped. Loudly.

I slammed my eyes shut, then said, “No.”

But he was already wearing a smirk when I opened my eyes again. “Well, they did date.” He picked up Cookie’s stapler. “He did blow her off.” He set it down, feigning complete intrigue in mundane office supplies. “And poisoning is the number-one MO when females kill.”

“Poison?” I asked, astonished. It took everything in me not to turn to Cookie for a high five. Pari was so off the hook, as were the Lobo football players.

“Yes,” he said, missing my skyrocketing euphoria. “Less violent.”

I almost giggled. “Clearly, you don’t know Pari.”

“Clearly, you do.” He pinned me with a victorious smirk, which was so much more annoying than his smug one.

Oops. “Yes, but I also know she had nothing to do with his death.”

“He’d also been beaten recently. Any thoughts on that?”

“Not that I can share.”

“So, I can add obstruction to my list of grievances against you.”

“You have a list of grievances against me?”

“Several pages’ worth.”

Dude did not like me.

“Either way,” he added, “count your friend lucky. This was the last girl who tried to break up with Hector Felix.”

I’d noticed the manila envelope in his hands but hadn’t paid it much mind until he brought out an eight-by-ten glossy of a girl whose face had been slashed to ribbons.

My hands flew to my mouth as did Cookie’s. She sank into her chair and stared in shock.

“Straight razor,” he said.

The poor girl, a blonde in a light blue hospital gown, had about a thousand stitches closing the numerous slashes along her cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin. Each more gruesome than the last. She also had a swollen shiner and the whites of that eye were blood red, so she was probably beaten as well.

“Who would do this?” I asked, my chest constricting the flow and ebb of air to my bloodstream.

He took the picture out of my hands, stuffed it back into the envelope, then handed it back to me, as though to make a point. “Something to think about.”

“Detective—”

“Mrs. Davidson,” he said, then turned and strode out.

“Oh, Charley,” Cookie said from behind her clasped hands.

I took the photo out. The woman’s name, Judianna Ayers, was on the bottom.

“Okay,” I said to the door Joplin had just walked out of. “I’ll bite.” I handed the photo, as badly as I hated to do it, to Cookie. “Get me everything on this woman. I have an errand to run. Be back in an hour.”

“What did you mean, you’ll bite?”

“He gave this to us for a reason, Cook. Asshole wants me to look into it? I’ll look into it.”

“You think he wants you to solve this woman’s attack?”

“Maybe he can’t pin it on Hector.” I grabbed my bag and stalked toward the door. “But I damned sure can.”





15

That which doesn’t kill me,

makes me weirder and harder to relate to.





—T-SHIRT


I drove to Chanel Newell’s house. I’d remembered her saying she had a few days off and she wanted to get a jump start on spring cleaning, so I hoped to find her home.

A white Encore sat in the driveway of the house I’d staked out only a couple of nights earlier. I walked to the door and knocked. Blue ?yster Cult filtered through the wooden door.

A girl after my own heart.

The door opened. “Mrs. Davidson,” she said, surprised.

“Hey, Mrs. Newell.”

“Chanel, please. Come in.” She opened the screen door and ushered me inside. “The kids are at my sister’s house. She’s helping me out so I can get some cleaning done.” She yanked off a pair of yellow rubber gloves and led me to the kitchen so she could turn down the music.

“And call me Charley. Please.”

“Sure. Would you like some tea?”

“I don’t want to keep you. I just had a couple of questions.”

“Oh, okay.”

She moved some magazines and papers off the kitchen table, embarrassed, and offered me a seat.

“Chanel, I am going to ask you an odd question, and I just want you to know that I am completely open to any answer you give me.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of her. “This sounds ominous.”

“You let me into your home the other day, having no idea who I was when I told you I believed your house was haunted.”

“Yes.” She nodded evasively. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You had a card. You seemed legit.”