Second Grave on the Left

I’d never thought of it that way. “So, you know that Reyes is not evil? That he’s a good person.”

“Of course.” He said it like I was a nincompoop. “But, seriously, he really is? You know, his son?”

“Yes,” I said, regret filling me. “He really is.”

“That is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Cool?”

Neil grinned. “Yes, cool.”

“I don’t understand. How is that cool?”

He reclined in his chair and steepled his fingers. “From the moment you arrived last week … No, I take that back. From the moment Reyes arrived in my life ten years ago, I’ve questioned things. I’ve asked myself if there really is a higher power. If heaven exists. If God exists. Part of that, I’ll admit, is seeing day after day the atrocities man is capable of. But then knowing, having a glimpse of this other world, this other reality and not knowing what it was, where it came from. But now…” He fixed an appreciative gaze on me. “In a word, you have reaffirmed my belief in God, Charley. I mean, think about it. If there’s a son of Satan, you can be damned certain there’s a Son of God.”

I shook my head. “You’re absolutely right. I’m just a little surprised at how well you’re taking all of this.”

“Think about it. Jesus loves me.”

Chuckling in relief, I leaned forward and whispered, “Jesus may love you, but I’m his favorite.”

He started to laugh, then paused. He studied me. For, like, a really long time.

“What?” I said, becoming self-conscious.

“If Farrow is the son of Satan, then what are you?”

“Uh-uh,” I said, wagging a finger. “You gave me one; I gave you one.”

He continued to study me, suddenly very curious, when Luann knocked. “Come in.”

She walked in and handed him some papers.

“This is it?” Neil said in astonishment as he settled a pair of glasses on his nose.

Luann had brought him the visitation records he’d asked for. “Yes, sir. He refuses all the others.”

“Thank you, Luann.” After she left, he said, “Farrow has only one person on his approved-visitors list. No attorney. No advocate. Just one guy.”

“Let me guess: Amador Sanchez.”

“That’s right. They were cellmates for four years.”

“They were friends in high school as well.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised. “How the hell did they end up cellmates? And remain cellmates for four years?”

How did Reyes manage that? He grew more intriguing by the heartbeat. “What did Luann mean, he refuses all the others?”

“Oh, the women, you know.” He waved the idea off with a hand as he studied the records. “Okay, Amador Sanchez visited him the week before he was shot. He seemed to visit fairly regularly.”

“What women?” I asked as he flipped through the pages.

“The women,” he said without looking up. “He doesn’t allow any of them to visit, so we probably don’t have any records. But God knows they try. At least one or two a month.” He glanced at the ceiling in thought. “Come to think of it, they usually fill out an application, try to see him regardless. We might still have copies. I’ll have to check.” He refocused on the papers.

“Yes, you said that. What women?” I asked again, trying to rein in the hot streak of jealousy that ripped through me.

After a long moment that had me plotting his assassination in various ways—I was up to seventeen—he glanced over the rim of his glasses. “All those women from the Web sites.” His tone successfully conveyed the fact that he suddenly found me idiotic.

I began leaning toward a slow death. With lots of pain. Perhaps number four. Or thirteen. “What Web sites?”

He laid the papers on the desk and stared, his expression incredulous. Which was just rude. “Aren’t you an investigator?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And you’ve been investigating Farrow for how long?”

“Hey, I just found out who he was about a week ago. Less if you go by Saturn’s calendar.”

“First, remind me never to hire you.”

I changed my mind. It was definitely going to be number twelve. I almost felt sorry for him.

“And second, do yourself a favor and Google him.”

“Google Reyes? Why?”

He laughed softly and shook his head. “Because you’re in for one hell of a surprise.”

I scooted forward in my chair. “Why? What are you talking about? Do women write him?” I’d heard of women who wrote to prisoners. Without conjuring any of the thousands of adjectives I used to describe those women, I asked, “Does he have pen pals?”

Neil pinched the bridge of his nose while fighting a grin. “Charley,” he said, looking back at me, “Reyes Farrow has fan clubs.”

Chapter Eleven

YOU CAN OBSERVE A LOT JUST BY WATCHING.

—YOGI BERRA

“You never just Googled him?”

“Well, you didn’t either,” Cookie said when I’d asked about Reyes. We were driving back to Santa Fe. “I just browsed official databases to find his arrest record and conviction information. And I went to the News Journal’s site for articles about the trial.”

“And you never just Googled him?”