The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(62)

I couldn’t help but wonder about his connection to the family. Was he from this area? Was he related?

After the funeral came to a close, a line formed for the condolences. I lined up, ignoring the fact that I could barely breathe in my little black dress, and passing out was a serious concern. I waited my turn regardless. I would get an even better sense of everyone up close and personal, as they say.

When I reached the grieving mother, I took her hand and offered my sincerest apologies. And I meant it. I could not imagine losing a child.

Mrs. Felix thanked me softly. Her fragile hold slipping, she sniffed into a handkerchief before regaining her composure and offering her hand to the next in line.

When I shifted my attention to Hector’s sister, I didn’t dare risk a glance at Taft. Even the smallest infraction could cost him his life. Or me mine. Neither was ideal.

I took her hand in mine and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, she’d done it. A ripple lay just beneath the righteous indignation. A ripple of guilt. She tried not to feel guilty. She truly believed her actions justified. I just couldn’t quite suss out why. What motivated her to take her brother’s life.

Still, the act alone was enough to startle me. To murder her own brother. Her own flesh and blood. I stood taken aback for a split second before recovering and offering her my sympathies.

But another emotion leeched out of her. Certainty. All-consuming, absolute certainty. She knew she would get away with it. She harbored zero doubt. Zero apprehension.

At this point, I could do one of two things. I could walk away and report my findings to an angry but ultimately grateful—one can dream—Detective Joplin, because no way was I telling my FBI buddy I’d disobeyed a direct order and come to the funeral. Or I could bait the guilty party and hope to shake something loose.

I realized something about myself in that moment. I loved to bait. And I really loved shaking shit loose. Loose was so much better than tight, thought the girl in the body cast. This dress was so going to Goodwill.

I leaned in to Elena as though to kiss her cheek and whispered, “What would your mother think?”

Elena yanked her hand back and stared up at me. I winked and went on to the next bereaved family member. When I’d finished offering my sympathies, I took out my phone, pressed the button to call Cook, and started toward Misery.

An arm linked with one of my own. I glanced to my side at Elena Felix as she matched my stride step for step.

She offered me a calculated smile. “Walk with me,” she said, leading me toward a sleek black limousine.

“Of course.” Not that I had any choice. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed two men following us, Taft and another bodyguard who resembled a well-dressed vault door.

“After you,” she said, gesturing me inside.

No way was it going to be this easy. Still, I’d ruffled her. I felt tremors of trepidation in her the moment she walked up to me. Guilt did that to a person. I could have been talking about her use of cocaine when I asked what her mother would have thought. Or the fact that the sun rises and falls on a daily basis. But a guilty person will always, always apply what is said to what that guilty person did.

Elena ducked in after me, and Taft after her. The other man took the passenger’s seat up front with the driver. After she got settled, Elena held out her hand for my phone.

I passed it to her, but she didn’t bother checking it. I’d already dialed Cookie. The screen was black but if there was a God, and by that point in my life I was fairly certain there was, she’d picked up.

Elena handed it to Taft, a man I barely got along with and who had about as much use for me as a light bulb had a koozie. But he cleaned up well. I couldn’t wait to tell Strawberry what her brother had been up to. If I lived that long. Then again, I was a god.

He put the phone in the front pocket of his jacket, mic side out. Hopefully Cookie would be able to hear and ascertain what was going on. Or she’d think I’d butt dialed her again and hang up. I was so bad about that.

I decided to fill Elena in so she’d know what she was getting herself into should she start shit. She sat across from me with Taft by her side. Close by her side.

“I’m a god,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Are you?”

“That’s how I know.”

She pulled the net up over her face and removed her hat as the driver started the limo. “And what do you know, Mrs. Davidson?”

She used my name. Admittedly, that threw me. “You’re very well informed.”

“I pay to be.”

The driver drove us out of the cemetery and headed north in the opposite direction of the city.

Elena smoothed her hair and took out a compact. Checking her lipstick, she continued. “I also know that you’re a private investigator who sometimes consults with the Albuquerque Police Department. Mostly with your uncle, an APD detective.”

For a split second, I wondered if Taft had told her. But he couldn’t have. Not without blowing his cover.

“Yes, he told me,” she said when she noticed my sideways glance toward him. “And, yes, before you ask, I know he used to be a cop.”

I schooled my features to stay neutral, but I’d rarely paid attention in school, so I had no idea if I was doing it right.

She put her compact away. “We dated in high school. When I saw him at a club a few months ago, I realized how much I’d missed him.”