Sixth Grave on the Edge

I dialed her number. Got her voice mail. Waited for the beep. Then I did my best creepy kidnapper voice. “This is a ransom demand,” I said, my voice raspy. Kidnapper-y. “Deliver one hundred boxes of Cheez-Its to the unmarked—ignore the license plate—cherry red Jeep Wrangler sitting in your parking lot by noon today, or you will suffer the consequences.” I paused to cough. Raspy was hard on the esophagus. “They will be dire.”

I hung up. That was my way of letting Agent Carson know to expect a visit. She could have been out of the office, but I’d just have to take that chance. She usually ignored calls when she was in meetings, which meant she should be at the FBI headquarters. Thus, with sound logic guiding me, I headed that way.

Much to my surprise, however, she called me back almost immediately.

“Hey, girlfriend,” I said in lieu of hello, hoping it would bring us closer.

“You might want to block your number when making ridiculous ransom demands.”

“That demand was not ridiculous. Have you ever thought about changing your name to AC? Or SAC since you’re a special agent.”

“Charley—”

“We could call you Sack.”

“I’m kind of the middle of something.”

“Sorry. Sorry. I just have one question.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you have any friends in the Secret Service?”

She hesitated before saying, “No.”

“Darn it. I was hoping you could smooth things over a bit. I seemed to have ruffled some feathers. They’re very sensitive.”

I could hear her run a hand down her face. She did that a lot when I was around. “What’d you do now?”

“Nothing, I swear. They just get really nervous when you butt-dial the president. Over and over. Like seventy-eight times. These jeans are really tight.”

“Charley, is this conversation going anywhere?”

“I hope so or I’m wasting my gas for nothing. Can we meet for coffee?”

“Sure. Meet me at the Flying Star on Paseo.”

“Paseo?” I asked. “As in Paseo del Norte? What are you doing up there?”

“I am a field officer, Charley. I go out into the field and investigate.”

“Oh, right.” I scratched that whole “she should be in her office” thing and did an amazing seven-point U-turn. Not many appreciated my driving prowess. Or the fact that I stopped the flow of traffic in several lanes. “A woman’s life is at stake here!” I yelled out my window. Or I would have if it’d been down.

* * *

I walked into the café, ordered my usual fare, which often had the word mocha in it, a tuna melt with sweet potato fries, and a slice of their salted caramel cheesecake—because YOLO—then sat down with my almost good friend.

No. My soon-to-be good friend.

No! My nigh good friend.

I seemed to have a lot of relationships at the moment in that very fragile “nigh” stage.

Meeting in a public place was a good idea. If I were being followed—by someone other than the captain—no one would see me walk right into the FBI field office. It worked out beautifully.

“Hey, Sack. Can I call you Sack?”

“No.” She sipped her coffee, her short brown bob perfectly coiffed, her navy business suit perfectly pressed. I felt very slobbish next to her. Oh, well.

She was reading the paper, completely ignoring me. It was awkward.

“So, how’s work?”

“Great.” She closed the paper. “Did you look into that case?”

The Foster baby abduction case. How did I tell her I knew exactly who and where that baby was? I didn’t. Not yet. I needed a little more info before I cast that stone and caused any lasting ripples in the universe. Tossing out the fact that I’d known all along where that missing baby ended up could crack our fragile bond. But if I went to her with irrefutable proof of her dad’s suspicions—mainly that there was more to the case than met the eye—our bond would be cemented like that time I accidently superglued my fingers together. That was an awkward week. One never appreciates opposable thumbs until one no longer has them.

“Sure did,” I said, taking a sip myself. “I still am, actually, but I have a strong lead.”

Though her pretty expression remained impassive, her emotions spiked inside her. She really wanted to solve that case for her father. And I wanted that for her, but I had a more pressing case at the moment.

She was reaching for her coffee again when I said, “Emily Michaels.”

She paused and looked up at me, but before she could say anything, a server brought my food over.

“Aren’t you eating?” I asked her.

“No. I didn’t know you were eating.”

“I’m eating. You should order something.”

“What did you get?”

“Tuna melt.”

“Is it good?”

“Emily Michaels,” I reminded her. I felt like she was changing the subject on purpose.

“Why do you want to know about Emily Michaels?”

“Because.”

Her lips thinned. “Why?”

“I can’t tell you. The man who held a gun to my head said no cops.”

Her mouth dropped open. I totally considered tossing a fry into it just to see if I could, but this was probably not the best time.

“Can I talk to her?” I asked.

“No.”