“He even called in a fake psychic. When he has me! You’re going to do what, where, and with whom?”
“Just never you mind. Go to your appointment.”
“Okay.”
* * *
I sat through another pointless session of talking about my feelings when all I could think about was Uncle Bob. Hopefully, he’d talked the captain into putting his plans on hold, but I wondered if I was doing the right thing. There was still a dead kid. True, he died thirty years ago and his death was accidental, but wouldn’t his family want to know what happened to him?
I had Cookie track Garrett’s whereabouts and parked at my apartment building to walk the block and a half to the Frontier. He was sitting at a booth in the middle room of the meandering restaurant, reading the paper, a green chile burger with fries and iced tea on his table.
I sat across from him and decided to get right to the point. “What if you knew someone killed someone else decades ago, but it was more like an accident and now the person who accidently killed the other person wants to turn himself in and ruin a pristine career in law enforcement.”
He didn’t look up from his paper. “I’m assuming there’s a question in there.”
“Yeah. What would you do? What would you recommend he do?”
“It was an accident?”
“Yes,” I said, stealing a fry off his plate.
“And this was how long ago?”
“Thirty years, give or take. They were just kids. But the man has done a lot to help people. He’s a good person. If he goes forward, he’ll ruin his career and negate all the good he’s done over the years.”
“That’s a tough one. If it’s eating him alive, that tells me he probably is a good person. He can do more good in law enforcement than in jail, if he went to jail.”
“See. That’s what I was thinking, but my moral compass doesn’t always point north. You said earlier, right after I almost plummeted off that fire escape to my death, you had a condition? You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”
“And why am I scratching your back again?” he asked.
“I need you to meet with someone for me. He’s very knowledgeable and wants to work with us on all this prophecy stuff. Just do not let him talk you out of your soul. He’s really good at that.”
“I doubt he would want my soul.”
“Okay, so you have a condition as well?”
He put down the paper and took another bite of his burger. “I do, but it will be tricky.”
I shimmied down in my seat. “I like tricky. Tricky is my middle name. No, wait, that’s trouble. Trouble’s my middle name. My bad.”
“Do you remember the woman I told you about?”
I knew we would get back around to this. I’d been dying to know more. “The one who used your body then threw you away like a toothbrush you had to use to clean the toilet because you couldn’t find your scrub brush?”
“Well, yeah.”
“And then you saw her out a year later and she’d had a baby who just happened to have your eyes?”
“That’s the one.”
“No. I don’t remember you mentioning her. You should go order a sweet roll. Those are to die for. And a carne adovada burrito.”
His mouth thinned. “Should I order something else to drink?”
“Yes! A diet whatever. No! A mocha latte. No!” I held up my hand to put him in pause so I could think. “Yes. No. Yes, a mocha latte.”
“Are you finished?” he asked, rising to go place his order. He was really hungry.
“Yes. No! Yes. I’m good with that. I have a busy afternoon ahead of me, and I need all the energy I can get. And I need you to be my wingman.”
“This should be interesting,” he said, sauntering off like he owned the place.
By the time he got back, his fries had disappeared. It was weird.
“So, what about her?” I asked.
“Marika,” he said, scooting into the booth. “That’s the sticky condition.”
I leaned in and did my best Italian accent. “You want I should off her?” I slid my index finger across my throat in the universal gesture for murder.
“Not exactly.”
“Wait!” I said, holding up my hand before he continued. “What’s your number? I’ll keep watch for you so your food doesn’t get cold.”
He checked the receipt. “Fifty-four.”
“Got it. Okay, hit me with the sticky.”
“I need you to get samples of both Marika’s and the boy’s DNA.”
I took a long moment to stare in disbelief. He stared back, but his stare was more matter-of-fact.
“Are you insane?” I asked him at last, considering it a real possibility. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to get DNA samples from them?”