When I scrolled through what I’d shot, mostly the inside of my Jeep, I picked up my phone and dialed the office.
“Davidson Investigations,” Cookie said. That sounded way more professional than my greeting, which often mentioned flavored lubricant.
“Yes, ma’am, can I get a pizza, thin crust, extra pepperoni?”
“No.”
Gah. Testy much? “I think someone is following me.”
“Is he in a white coat and carrying a butterfly net?”
Odd that she would say that while I was sitting in front of a mental asylum.
“No, but I know who it is. And I know who sent that cop to take pictures of me this morning.”
“A cop took pictures of you this morning?”
“Yes, I posed for the annual Daughters of the American Revolution dessert calendar. You’d be surprised at how good cupcake pasties look on me.”
“Doubt it.”
“You saucy minx. Actually, I think I’m being set up, and I just want it on the record that whatever it is they’re going to say I did, I didn’t.”
“Well, nobody can say life with you is boring.”
“Thank God.”
“Any idea who’s behind it?”
I glanced down at the camera screen again. “Sure do. He’s tall, wears a uniform, and seems to come out of nowhere.”
“Superman?”
“Captain Eckert.”
“The captain?” she asked with a soft gasp. “Why? What does he have to gain?”
“I’ll find out soon enough. I’ll be paying the captain a visit very soon. Until then, what do we have?”
“Okay, the woman in the picture is the sole witness to a murder by none other than Phillip Brinkman.”
“The car salesman?” I asked. “His commercials are ridiculous.”
“The word on the street is that the car dealership is a front and that he is really a drug kingpin.”
“Seriously? Isn’t there a TV show about that?”
“He allegedly beat a guy to death in a fit of rage. When he realized his girlfriend was still in the house and saw the whole thing, he tried to kill her, too. She barely escaped and is now in WITSEC.”
“Witness protection? What the hell? What makes these guys think I can find out where she is? WITSEC is tighter than my skinny jeans.”
“I don’t know, but I do know that the person in charge of the case is your friend Agent Carson. Seems the FBI had been investigating him for a while on separate charges. They can’t make anything stick, so they’re trying to get a conviction on this murder.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“They don’t have a body.”
“Oh, wow. That makes it difficult. Okay, anything else?”
“Yep. I’m not sure if you want this now, but the Fosters’ son has moved back home and is living with his parents while he finishes up his master’s degree at UNM.”
“Really? He’s there? Did you find a picture of him?”
“Sure did. Several, in fact. He’s on Friendbook.”
“Perfect. And?” I asked, curiosity burning inside me. Either that or I’d already had too much coffee.
“He looks nothing like him,” she said, the disappointment in her voice undeniable. “Seriously. Like there’s not even the slightest resemblance. Are you sure the Fosters didn’t adopt this guy? He’s really … white.”
I burst out laughing. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I mean like albino white without the actual condition. Which is fine, normally. I just expected him to be more Reyes-like. Have you seen pictures of the Fosters?”
“Well, no. That’s why I really wanted to get a glimpse.”
“This is a big fat disappointment, I don’t mind telling you. I mean, he’s nice looking. He’s just not Reyes. Not even close.”
“Look at it this way: You can see Reyes all the time now that he’s in our building. And sometimes you can even see him naked. As can your twelve-year-old daughter.”
She let a forlorn sigh slip through her lips. “That’s true. I’ll send you the Friendbook link.”
“Perfect,” I said, holding back a giggle. “Thanks.”
“Sure. Anything else?”
“How’s your escort?”
“Cute and married.”
I chuckled out loud that time. “I need to go talk to Special Agent Carson and get the lowdown on Sleazy Car Guy. I think I’ll head that way.”
“I think that’s a good idea. So, about the pizza—you were kidding, right?”
“I was kidding. I’ll be a while. Grab lunch when you can.”
“Will do. Reyes is making his famous green chile chicken quesadillas.”