or should I walk by again?

—T-SHIRT

Having just received a delivery, Reyes came in from outside with a woman following in his wake. A very familiar-looking woman. One with a determined gait and fire in her eyes. The minute those eyes landed on me, I ducked under the table, my head landing in Cookie’s lap.

“Tell her I’m not here!”

Cookie coughed, then glanced around frantically. “What? Why? Who?”

“Mrs. Garza. Tell her I’m not here.”

“She already saw you,” she said through gritted teeth. “She’s coming this way.”

“Pretend like I passed out and call an ambulance.”

“I am not calling an ambulance to cover for you.”

“No, really, it’ll work.”

“Charley Davidson, they have better things to do with their time than—”

“I can see you from here, Ms. Davidson.”

From underneath the table, I could see Mrs. Garza, too. Though only her bottom half. She had a killer bag slung over her right shoulder, turquoise with a woman’s face painted Día de Muertos style, and if I wasn’t mistaken, she was wearing an amazing pair of Rocketbuster boots. One of which she was tapping impatiently.

That woman had the best clothes. Then again, I was probably paying for them, thanks to her son, aka my investigator, Angel. She’d recently figured out I was the one sending her money every month and insisted I tell her what was going on, why I was depositing five hundred dollars into her account every month. That was until Angel blackmailed me into a raise. Now it was a cool $750, but I figured he was worth it.

But Angel didn’t want her to know. He was so adamantly against it, I couldn’t help but comply. What he didn’t take into account was the fact that his mother was smart. She knew there was no uncle the minute Angel and I concocted the excuse. But what else could I have said? He just did not, under any circumstances, want her to know the truth.

He said it was because his death had devastated her and he didn’t want her to have to go through that again, but she seemed to handle the prospect of another explanation better than he did. Could there have been something more to Angel’s reluctance? I’d wondered that a lot since she came into my office that day. It had been only two weeks. She wouldn’t be put off for long. I could tell by the determined set of her jaw. She wanted answers. Answers I could give her only if I betrayed Angel.

She finally had enough of waiting and leaned down to peer at me under the table. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

I crinkled my nose, busted beyond belief, then popped up out of Cookie’s lap, wondering in the back of my mind what that would look like. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Garza! I didn’t see you.”

After taking a long moment to fold her arms over her chest, she said, “You sent more money this month.”

“Right, um, your relative’s estate was larger than we’d originally been told.”

“It magically got bigger?” She was such a stunning woman. Even at fifty, she had an amazing body and fantastic hair. Combine that with her thick Spanish accent and her rich, husky voice, and she was what Garrett would call a TKO.

“It did get bigger. Weird, huh?”

“Right,” Cookie said, nodding in agreement. “Totally weird. That was one eccentric aunt you had.”

“Uncle,” I corrected her.

“Uncle. Aunt,” she said, going in for a save. “I think he was a cross-dresser.”

Not bad. Not bad.

Mrs. Garza slid into the booth with us. “I’m not here to cause problems, Ms. Davidson.”

This was not going to end well. “Call me Charley,” I said. “And this is my assistant, Cookie.”

She blinked at her. “Your name is Cookie?” she asked her. No one had ever questioned that, but she was right. It was an odd name. And yet it fit her so perfectly.

“Sure is.” She held out a hand, and Mrs. Garza shook it.

“I am Evangeline.”

“Oh, we know,” Cookie said. “We make out a check to you every—”

“So,” I said, interrupting her before she said too much, “what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“You. This money. This tío de tu imaginación.”

Well that was uncalled for. “I have a couple of imaginary friends,” I said, correcting her, “but my uncle is very real.”

“No, my uncle,” she said.

“Does your uncle know you think he’s imaginary?”

Just when I thought she might grow frustrated enough to storm out of the room, she stopped and implored me. “I just have some questions. For him. For Angel,” she said, pronouncing it Ahn-hell.

“I don’t know anyone named Ahn-hell.”

Cookie shook her head, too, completely baffled. She was getting really good at this stuff. Of course, she was not lying. She’d never seen the little punk, though I’d described him to her on several occasions. Every time, a starstruck expression would come over her face. She liked the kid. So did I. Usually.

Evangeline held up hand. “Spare me. I know who you are. I know what you can do.”

I kept waiting for the subject of our conversation to pop in. He always seemed to sense what his mother was up to. While I wanted to tell her, to let her know what a great kid she had and how well he was doing, Angel was so vehemently against it, I didn’t know what to do.