I mean, I knew the basics just like everybody else, but I figured I should learn more of what was involved. It was the biggest mistake I’d made in a long time, minus that whole orange fur-lined sweater catastrophe.
Cookie came in as I sat glued to my computer screen, horrified and slightly intrigued.
“How’s it going?” she asked, starting a pot of coffee.
“Everyone and their dog is mad or has been mad at me at some point today,” I said absently.
“Way to stir the hornet’s nest.”
I didn’t answer. The video I was watching was just getting good.
“They’re from different parts of the country,” she said, washing a couple of mugs. “The suicide victims. Two are native New Mexicans and two aren’t. But I found something rather interesting.” She walked over and handed me a news article. “The identical case two months ago in Los Angeles? Another note. No body found.”
I tried to nod but couldn’t quite manage it. What the hell were they doing to that woman?
Cookie went back to the kitchen. “Her name was Phoebe Durant, and guess where she was from?”
“Uh —”
“Exactly. Right here in Albuquerque. And guess what I did. Go ahead.”
“Um —”
“You guessed it. I went to talk to Phoebe’s aunt before picking up Amber from school.”
That got my attention. “You did what?”
“It was in the same area, so I thought, ‘Hey.’ She still lives here. Works at a nursing home. Oh, this really nice elderly man wants me to smuggle Viagra to his roomie and gin in to him. He said we could start a smuggling ring. He’s going to cut me in for twenty-five percent. What do you think?”
“Sounds legit. You went on an interview?”
She flashed me a nuclear smile. “I knew you were busy almost getting killed by the crime boss and playing paternity lawyer, so I thought, ‘Hey.’”
“You think that a lot. But look at you. Miss Private Investigator. Now that you have a concealed carry permit, we might have to get you a fedora and a trench coat. The whole nine yards.”
She shrugged sheepishly. “It was nothing. Like literally. The woman knew nothing. She and her niece were fairly close, but she said they hadn’t talked much since Phoebe’s move to Californ-eye-ay. That’s actually how she said it. And what the hell are you watching?”
But I’d returned to the woman on the screen and didn’t dare take my eyes off it. “She’s pregnant,” I said.
“You think? These things are going to give you nightmares and —” She stopped and leaned closer. “What is she in?”
“Shhh.” I waved absently. “It’s almost here.”
“Is that a wading pool? In her living room?”
“Cookie, wait. She’s having a baby. Look.”
“What is that man doing down there?”
Shaking my head, I said, “That woman does not seem to be enjoying the moment.”
“There’s no reason for his hand to be doing that.”
“I think he’s massaging her.”
“Her what? Her vagina?”
“Oh, wait!” I said, squirming in my chair. “It’s coming.”
We tilted our heads in unison, trying to see the baby emerge. Then, again in unison, we both cried out in horror.
I covered my mouth and spoke from behind my hand. “Is that supposed to happen?”
“Okay, seriously,” Cookie said, recovering quicker than I, “who’s the new guy? And why does he have a spatula?”
“What are you two watching?” Uncle Bob asked from behind us, but our gazes were superglued to the screen.
“Is that even legal?” Cookie asked. “It just seems wrong.”
“I think this was shot in Mexico.”
“Okay. But still, is it moral?”
“What the hell is that guy doing?” Uncle Bob asked, leaning over my other shoulder, tilting his head until it matched ours. “Are you watching South American p**n again?”
“Oh, crap,” Cookie said, straightening. “You’re here.”
“I am,” Ubie announced proudly.
“We have to get ready for dinner. I’ll call and have Italian delivered.”
“Works for me,” he said, heading to my kitchen for a cup of devil’s blood.
I twirled in my chair and stood. “What is this dinner everyone keeps talking about?”
“The dinner. You know.”
“That is not helpful, Cookie.”
She pursed her lips. “It was in last week’s memo.”
Ah, the Concorde. It met a fiery end on Central. My window had been open.
“Dr. von Holstein?” she continued.
“The cow doctor? He’s coming here for dinner?”
“He’s coming here to talk to you. Garrett was supposed to pick him up at the airport. We’re supposed to have dinner. Please tell me Garrett didn’t forget.”
“He’s a little busy with his ex.”
“No, he’s not,” Garrett said, walking right in. Nobody knocked anymore. It was weird.
Cookie cast him a worried frown. “He isn’t coming?”
Garrett hung up his phone. “He died of a heart attack two days ago. I just got off the phone with his secretary.”
“Oh, no,” I said, sitting back down. “I’m sorry, Garrett.”