“Oh, wow, so you came up with a code for that, huh?”

She giggled, but soon the grief caught up with her again and her smile faltered. She caught it and pushed it back up for my benefit.

“No,” I told her, placing a hand on her shoulder, “you don’t have to pretend for me.” In an instant the tears reappeared and she hugged me again. We sat like that a long time as boys and men alike passed by the room to look in, mostly for a glimpse of the girl-on-girl action.

6

Ask me about my complete lack of interest.

—T-SHIRT

The minute Jenny started putting two and two together and asking me questions about how I got the message from Ronald and could I communicate with the other side, I suddenly had to be somewhere. Thankfully, she understood and offered to buy me another chili dog before I left, as mine had literally become chilly, but by then, I was out of the chili dog mood and had careened into hankering for a guacamole burger from Macho Taco. Plus Macho Taco had excellent coffee. Which would explain my presence there.

I decided to call the FBI agent who’d been assigned to the Yost case, see what I could dig up. “Yes, is this Agent Carson?” I asked as I sat at a booth and piled jalapeños onto my guacamole burger.

“This is her,” the woman on the other end of the phone said.

“Oh, awesome.” I plopped the bun back on, licked my fingertips, then groped through my handbag for a notepad. Instead, I came up with a napkin that had some long-forgotten phone number on it. It would have to do. I flipped it over and clicked my pen. “My name is Charlotte Davidson and I’ve been hired by Teresa Yost’s family to look into her disappearance,” I said, lying a little.

“Well, then, you must be in contact with them. You probably know everything we do.” Her tone was sharp and brooked no argument, but there were few things I liked better than brooking arguments. I’d dealt with the FBI before, and not just those annoying Female Body Inspectors. I’d dealt with the real FBI on several occasions. Apparently, one of the prerequisites to becoming a federal agent was the inability to play well with others.

“Oh, I’m sure I do, about the case. I was actually wondering about Dr. Yost.”

“Really?” Her interest piqued. “Didn’t he hire you?”

“Well, yes and no. Let’s just say I haven’t accepted any money from him. I’m out to find Teresa Yost, not to make friends.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said, a smile in her voice. “But I’m still not sure—”

“Nathan Yost was arrested in college. While going to medical school, in fact. Surely, you’ve checked into that.”

After a long silence where I tried really hard not to ogle a transvestite in the most beautiful ruby stilettos I’d ever seen, she said, “It’s nothing you can’t find out on your own.”

“True, but this is faster. I’ll make a deal with you.”

“This should be good.” I heard the squeak of a chair as if she’d leaned back in it, possibly to put up her feet. “So?”

“I’ll call you the minute I find her.”

It was odd. She didn’t scoff, bark with laughter, grind her teeth in annoyance, at least not that I could hear. She just said, “And I get partial credit?”

“Of course.”

“Deal.”

Wow.

“The arrest in college was due to a complaint by an ex-girlfriend.”

Okay, way too easy.

“She said Yost became agitated when she tried to break up with him, told her one stick was all it would take. Her heart would stop in seconds, and no one would be able to trace it back to him. She got scared and moved in with her parents the next day.”

“I can see why.”

“They convinced her to press charges, but it was all hearsay. No concrete evidence, no other reports of abnormal behavior on file, so the DA’s hands were tied.”

“That’s really interesting. One stick and her heart would stop, huh?”

“Yeah, he probably learned something in medical school and decided to use it for evil instead of good.”

“Have you questioned her in light of the more recent developments?”

“Nope. But she still lives here, as far as I know. Guess I could give her a shout.”

“Do you mind if I talk to her?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Marveling at how smooth this whole conversation was going, I asked, “Can I get a name?”

After some rifling of papers, she said, “Yolanda Pope.”

“Wait, seriously?” I asked. “I went to school with a Yolanda Pope.”

“This particular Yolanda Pope is … Oh, here it is. She’d be twenty-nine now.”

“That’s about right. Yolanda was a couple grades ahead of me.”

“Then you two should have a lot to talk about. Saves me from swallowing a hefty dose of wasted time and energy.”

Okay, I really liked her, but I couldn’t help myself. FBI agents just weren’t this into sharing. “Can I ask what’s going on here?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why share?”

She chuckled. “You think I haven’t heard of you? About how you helped your father solve crimes when he was a detective? How you’re helping your uncle now?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“I’ll take success where I can get it, Ms. Davidson. I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.”

“I’m famous?”

“Though I did actually fall off a turnip truck when I was nine. Just make sure you put me on speed dial,” she said before hanging up.

Score! I had an in with the local FBI. This day was getting better and better. And the guacamole burger didn’t hurt either.

* * *

Cookie had yet to track down Teresa Yost’s sister. She lived in Albuquerque but apparently traveled a lot. Still, with Teresa missing, I couldn’t imagine she’d be out of town. I gave Cookie the name of Yolanda Pope with instructions to get whatever she could on her, then spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing friends of both the good doctor and his missing wife. And according to every single person I talked to, he was a saint. They loved him, said he and Teresa were perfect together. In fact, he was a little too perfect. Like he’d used some kind of glamour, cast a spell.