Third Grave Dead Ahead
Page 57
Geez, the guy was good. “Of course he did it. He was drowning in guilt when he came in.”
“Maybe he was guilty of something else, like cheating on his taxes.”
“Dude, I’m not wrong. Tax guilt is completely different. And unless I’m gravely mistaken, he killed his first wife, too.”
“Okay, but I’d rather hang with you.”
“Fine, but just for a few minutes. He didn’t give you any leads? Make a suspicious phone call? Go out to the shed? Down to the basement? Meet a woman in the alley and have hot animal sex? Maybe he’s having an affair.”
He tossed me an irritated glare. “I would have noticed.”
“Just checking.” I threw out a talk to the hand sign to block his ’tude.
“Besides, there are feds all over that place. He could have hot animal sex if he wanted to, but he’d have an audience.”
“Did you check his property? Maybe there’s some freshly turned dirt. Or a new garden. That’s always popular with serial killers.”
“Nothing. The man’s clean. Who’s that guy following you?”
“Uncle Bob put a tail on me.”
Angel smiled. “I like Uncle Bob. He reminds me of my dad.”
“Really? That’s so sweet.”
“Yeah, not really, but if I knew who my dad was, I think he’d be like Uncle Bob.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “I bet you’re right.”
We drove in silence a few miles before Angel tossed me a “See ya,” and popped out again.
* * *
I stopped for coffee at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, then booked it over to Kim Millar’s apartment complex, flashed my ID to the guard at the gate—then offered him a ten-spot if he refused entrance to the black pickup following me—and parked close to her door. I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing. Admittedly, this was more curiosity than honest-to-goodness investigative work. Did she also believe Earl Walker was still alive? Did she know something Reyes didn’t? According to Kim, she and Reyes were in a zero-contact agreement. For her own safety, Kim’s existence was never brought up in any of the court documents. Because she had a different last name, it was easy for her to fade into the background, at Reyes’s insistence.
From what I could tell, Kim worked from home as a medical transcriptionist. No idea what that entailed, but it sounded really important. However, I’d been to see her twice, and after getting a glimpse of her life, her pristine apartment, and neat-but-out-of-date attire, I was beginning to think she needed to get out more. She was beautiful. Slim with auburn hair and silvery green eyes.
I padded up the walk to her turquoise door. The complex was styled to look like authentic Pueblo with round-edged adobe walls, flat roofs, and stepped levels, each one with vigas along the roofline, heavy timber beams extending through the exterior walls. Every door was painted a different Southwest color, from bright blues, reds, and yellows to the more earthy tones of terra-cotta and rich umber.
The last time I visited Kim, Reyes got a little upset. I tried not to let that worry me. He was bound now. He’d never know. Still, I couldn’t help but hesitate before I knocked. But knock, I did. A few moments later, the door opened. Kim stood there, pencil in hand. I flinched. Not because she was gripping the pencil like a switchblade and my sister had tried to stab me with one once—a pencil, not a switchblade, her grip quite similar—but because if I thought she’d looked fragile before, she looked ten times that now. I regretted my decision to come here instantly.
Her huge green gaze landed on me, worry and despair saturating the air. “Ms. Davidson,” she said, her voice soft and surprised. She glanced around, and I could feel the hope carried in each glimpse, each hesitant blink of her eyes.
“He’s not with me,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“But you’ve seen him.”
Her grip tightened on the pencil and I forced myself to stand my ground. This time, I glanced around, then looked back at her and offered the slightest hint of a nod. Her eyes widened. She pulled me inside and slammed the door shut.
“They’ve been here already,” she said, closing curtains and leading me to her small living room.
“I figured they might come here.” Those U.S. Marshals were nothing if not thorough.
She turned back to me after closing one last set of curtains. “Do you think they’ve bugged the place?” she asked, sitting next to me on the sofa.
Despite the fragility that seemed to encase her like a thin layer of crystal, she had a healthy glow, a soft blush on her porcelain skin. She seemed almost excited.
I couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t know, but I don’t really want to say too much.”
“I saw on the news where he escaped.” She was way too happy when she said that.
“Yes,” I said with a chuckle. “Do you think he’ll come here?”
“Heavens no. Remember, no contact. Like it matters anymore. The authorities know all about me.”
I’d wondered how the marshals had discovered her in the first place. There was nothing to connect Kim with Reyes. Then, a couple of weeks back, I found a reference to the possibility of a sister on one of those prisoner groupie sites and figured that’s where they caught her scent. Of course, the fact that fan sites existed at all for prisoners stunned me to my toes. And when I found out there was not one, but several dedicated to one Mr. Reyes Alexander Farrow … to say I’d been taken aback would’ve been the understatement of the millennium.
“Maybe he was guilty of something else, like cheating on his taxes.”
“Dude, I’m not wrong. Tax guilt is completely different. And unless I’m gravely mistaken, he killed his first wife, too.”
“Okay, but I’d rather hang with you.”
“Fine, but just for a few minutes. He didn’t give you any leads? Make a suspicious phone call? Go out to the shed? Down to the basement? Meet a woman in the alley and have hot animal sex? Maybe he’s having an affair.”
He tossed me an irritated glare. “I would have noticed.”
“Just checking.” I threw out a talk to the hand sign to block his ’tude.
“Besides, there are feds all over that place. He could have hot animal sex if he wanted to, but he’d have an audience.”
“Did you check his property? Maybe there’s some freshly turned dirt. Or a new garden. That’s always popular with serial killers.”
“Nothing. The man’s clean. Who’s that guy following you?”
“Uncle Bob put a tail on me.”
Angel smiled. “I like Uncle Bob. He reminds me of my dad.”
“Really? That’s so sweet.”
“Yeah, not really, but if I knew who my dad was, I think he’d be like Uncle Bob.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “I bet you’re right.”
We drove in silence a few miles before Angel tossed me a “See ya,” and popped out again.
* * *
I stopped for coffee at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, then booked it over to Kim Millar’s apartment complex, flashed my ID to the guard at the gate—then offered him a ten-spot if he refused entrance to the black pickup following me—and parked close to her door. I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing. Admittedly, this was more curiosity than honest-to-goodness investigative work. Did she also believe Earl Walker was still alive? Did she know something Reyes didn’t? According to Kim, she and Reyes were in a zero-contact agreement. For her own safety, Kim’s existence was never brought up in any of the court documents. Because she had a different last name, it was easy for her to fade into the background, at Reyes’s insistence.
From what I could tell, Kim worked from home as a medical transcriptionist. No idea what that entailed, but it sounded really important. However, I’d been to see her twice, and after getting a glimpse of her life, her pristine apartment, and neat-but-out-of-date attire, I was beginning to think she needed to get out more. She was beautiful. Slim with auburn hair and silvery green eyes.
I padded up the walk to her turquoise door. The complex was styled to look like authentic Pueblo with round-edged adobe walls, flat roofs, and stepped levels, each one with vigas along the roofline, heavy timber beams extending through the exterior walls. Every door was painted a different Southwest color, from bright blues, reds, and yellows to the more earthy tones of terra-cotta and rich umber.
The last time I visited Kim, Reyes got a little upset. I tried not to let that worry me. He was bound now. He’d never know. Still, I couldn’t help but hesitate before I knocked. But knock, I did. A few moments later, the door opened. Kim stood there, pencil in hand. I flinched. Not because she was gripping the pencil like a switchblade and my sister had tried to stab me with one once—a pencil, not a switchblade, her grip quite similar—but because if I thought she’d looked fragile before, she looked ten times that now. I regretted my decision to come here instantly.
Her huge green gaze landed on me, worry and despair saturating the air. “Ms. Davidson,” she said, her voice soft and surprised. She glanced around, and I could feel the hope carried in each glimpse, each hesitant blink of her eyes.
“He’s not with me,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“But you’ve seen him.”
Her grip tightened on the pencil and I forced myself to stand my ground. This time, I glanced around, then looked back at her and offered the slightest hint of a nod. Her eyes widened. She pulled me inside and slammed the door shut.
“They’ve been here already,” she said, closing curtains and leading me to her small living room.
“I figured they might come here.” Those U.S. Marshals were nothing if not thorough.
She turned back to me after closing one last set of curtains. “Do you think they’ve bugged the place?” she asked, sitting next to me on the sofa.
Despite the fragility that seemed to encase her like a thin layer of crystal, she had a healthy glow, a soft blush on her porcelain skin. She seemed almost excited.
I couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t know, but I don’t really want to say too much.”
“I saw on the news where he escaped.” She was way too happy when she said that.
“Yes,” I said with a chuckle. “Do you think he’ll come here?”
“Heavens no. Remember, no contact. Like it matters anymore. The authorities know all about me.”
I’d wondered how the marshals had discovered her in the first place. There was nothing to connect Kim with Reyes. Then, a couple of weeks back, I found a reference to the possibility of a sister on one of those prisoner groupie sites and figured that’s where they caught her scent. Of course, the fact that fan sites existed at all for prisoners stunned me to my toes. And when I found out there was not one, but several dedicated to one Mr. Reyes Alexander Farrow … to say I’d been taken aback would’ve been the understatement of the millennium.
