“Wait,” she said, excited. “You don’t have to worry. He’s a contractor. You’re going to a construction site. Getting killed at a construction site with all those tools and equipment about is very likely, so surely nothing will happen.”
“Oh, good thinking.” She was so smart. “What’s the address?” I wrote down the address amidst honking horns and a couple of flying birds, then said, “And get me the name of the woman who pressed charges against the good doctor in college. I’d love to hear that one.”
“You got it, boss. So, everything’s okay, right?”
“Absolutely. The minute my knees stop shaking from being in the presence of God Reyes, I’ll be fine.”
“Man,” she said, her tone more nasally than usual, “I want a god. Just one. I’m not selfish.”
“Well, if mine kills me, he’s all yours.”
“You’re so sweet.” I could hear her nails clicking on the keyboard in the background.
“What are bestest friends for?”
“Oh, and that Mistress Marigold keeps emailing. She’s practically begging you to email her back.”
I pulled up to a stop sign and watched as a group of Deaf kids shuffled past, all of them laughing at a story one of the boys was telling. Something about a hearing counselor jumping on his desk to get away from a Chihuahua.
“It’s a good thing you set up that fake email address,” I said, chuckling at the boy’s story. “She’s a nut.”
Mistress Marigold hosted a website on angels and demons. I’d been doing research on it one night when Reyes was being tortured by the latter and I was trying to learn more about them. On a page buried deep within the site, I’d come across a peculiar line that read, If you’re the grim reaper, please contact me immediately.
It was so strange and we were so curious, Cookie emailed her the next day, asking what she wanted with the grim reaper. She’d written back with That’s between me and the grim reaper. Which, naturally, sent Cookie on a mission. She had Garrett email her saying he was the grim reaper, and Mistress Marigold had written back; this time she said, If you’re the grim reaper, I’m the son of Satan. It was enough to stun me a good thirty seconds. How did she know about Reyes? It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Next, Cookie had set up an alternate email address for me to use. So, in the interest of all things scientific and creepy, I emailed her, again asking what she wanted with the grim reaper. I’d fully expected another brush off. Instead, she wrote back with, I’ve been waiting a long time to hear from you.
I figured she was either clairvoyant or just a really good guesser. Either way, I decided to leave well enough alone.
“I think you should email her back,” Cookie said. “I feel sorry for her now. She seems a little desperate.”
“Really? What’d she say?”
“‘I’m a little desperate.’”
“Oh. Well, I don’t have time to play games at the moment. Speaking of which, we should play Scrabble tonight.”
“I’m not going to play games with you all night so you won’t fall asleep.”
“Chicken.”
“I’m not chicken.”
“Bock, bock.”
“Charley—”
“Bk, bk, bk—”
“Charley, really—”
“Bk-kaw!”
“I’m not scared you’ll beat me at Scrabble. I just want you to get some shut-eye.”
“Keep telling yourself that, chiquita.”
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the construction site of a sparkling new shopping center on the eastern outskirts of the city. Santa Fe was growing and had the traffic congestion to prove it. But it was still a pretty town, the only one in the country with a city ordinance requiring that all construction adhere to a Spanish Territorial or Pueblo style of architecture. As a result, the City Different was simply that, different, stunning, and one of my favorite places on earth.
I stepped out of Misery to examine the half-finished shopping center. It had adobe walls with terra-cotta tile and thick wooden archways.
“Can I help you?”
I looked over as a kid carrying a two-by-four walked past, unadulterated interest glistening in his eyes. Damn Danger and Will’s perky disposition. “Absolutely, I’m looking for Luther Dean.”
“Oh, sure.” He scanned the area, then pointed through the openings that would one day have glass panes. A man stood inside. “The duke’s in there.”
“The duke?” Impressive title. And the owner of it was impressive as well. He looked part professional football player and part brick wall with crisp sable hair peeking out from underneath his hard hat. “Can I go in?”
“Not without one of these.” He knocked on his hard hat while dropping his load, then jogged over to the portable office that sported a DEAN CONSTRUCTION sign. After rummaging through a plastic bin, he hurried back with a bright yellow hard hat. “Now you can,” he said, handing it over, a boyish grin flashing across his face.
“Thank you.” Normally I would have offered a wink or something equally flirty, but he looked too young, even for me. I didn’t want to get his pubescent hopes up.
“Not at all, ma’am.” He tipped his hard hat before hefting the board onto his shoulder again.
I stepped carefully over castoffs and debris and walked through the opening where the doors would someday stand. “Mr. Dean?”
A ginormous man stood studying a pile of architectural plans, his shoulders so wide, they actually looked uncomfortable. I knew bank vault doors less intimidating. He glanced up, his cerulean blue eyes only slightly curious. “Yes.”
“Hi.” I walked toward him and held out my hand, hoping he wouldn’t crush it. “My name is Charlotte Davidson. I’m a private investigator working on your sister’s case.”
His face darkened instantly, so I dropped my hand, my instincts for self-preservation being what they were.
“I’ve already told your assistant, I have nothing to say to you.”
The emotional weight behind his response — one full of anger, worry, and resentment — hit me head-on. The force of it stole the air from my lungs, and I had to take a moment to recover as he rolled up the plans and barked orders to a group of men in another room. They jumped to do his bidding. Literally.
“Mr. Dean, I assure you, I’m on your sister’s side.”
The scowl he hit me with could have convinced a seasoned assassin to empty his bladder. “What’s your name again?” The paper in his hand surrendered to the pressure he was placing on it and crumpled as he squeezed his fist closed.
“Jane,” I said, swallowing hard. “Jane Smith.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said it was Charlotte or Sherry or something.”
“It was. I very recently changed it.”
“Do you know what I do to people who mess with my family?”
“And I’m moving to South America.”
“I hurt them.”
“And possibly getting a sex-change operation. You’d never recognize me, you know, if you ever came looking.”
“Are we finished?”
Damn. Trick question. He turned and headed toward his office. I should’ve said yes, I really should’ve, but I couldn’t leave him with such a bad impression of me. A shaking mass of spineless jellylike stuff. Cookie was wrong. I was going to die at a construction site. I was so coming back to haunt her.
“Look, asshole,” I said. Out loud.
He stopped short of his destination and turned to gape at me. So did pretty much everyone else, but this was between me and the duke.