I looked back at them. “Who’s his father?”

“I am.” He grinned, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “So, your uncle mentioned the case, and I do remember it quite well. I called Hannah—she’s still at the department in records—and had her pull the file. She’s got it if you want a look.”

“Thank you.” I was a little surprised at the cooperation I was getting.

“I really wanted to nail that guy,” he said, working his jaw.

“Dr. Yost?” I asked.

“What? Oh, no.” He shook his head, refocusing on me. “Eli Quintero. Best damned forger I’ve ever seen. He printed more paper than Xerox.”

“Paper?” I asked, surprised. “You mean like forged papers? Like IDs and stuff?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wow, I wasn’t really expecting that. So, why did you have the doctor’s name flagged in the case?”

“Because he was on the list.” When I shrugged my brows in question, he elaborated. “When we raided Quintero’s place, he’d already fled the scene—went to Minnesota or Mississippi, some place with an M, last I heard—but he left behind a book, a ledger that had fallen behind a table in his haste to vacate the premises. It had dozens of names, including that of your doctor.”

“Really?” I was more than a little surprised.

“Unfortunately, that’s all we got. Not enough evidence to prosecute, and I’d spent months on that case.”

“That sucks.”

He nodded lazily in agreement. “It does indeed.”

“Do you know about when Dr. Yost went to see Quintero?”

“Well, if I remember correctly, the doc was one of the last names on the list, so it had to have been around the time we raided his place. That would put it—”

“Really, Dad?” Caleb whined from behind us. Apparently, it was his father’s turn.

He turned slowly, and offered a huge smile. “Really, Caleb. Really.” He turned back to me as Caleb threw down a club and stalked off. “My wife spoiled that boy rotten. About three years ago, I’d say.”

She spoiled him three years ago? ’Cause that kind of behavior took decades to cultivate.

“Yeah, that’s right. It was one of my last cases, so I’d say almost three years to the day.”

“Wow, well, okay. Thank you so much for your time, and I’ll get in touch with Hannah for the case file if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind a bit.” He handed me his card and had written her number on the back. Then he glanced at his pacing son and turned back to me. “Sure you don’t need anything else? Stock tips? Legal advice? To hear the Gettysburg Address recited verbatim?”

I laughed and headed for my sweet ride. “I’m good. Thank you so much.”

“Tell your uncle he’s an ass,” he called out to me.

“Will do.” I liked that man. As I drove off, his son was in the throes of a full-blown rant about how time was money.

“Let me express how much I don’t care on a scale of one to bite me,” the former detective said.

* * *

I called Hannah, the files clerk, about the case on the way back to the clubhouse and drilled her with a few questions. Apparently, right beside the doctor’s name in the ledger was the name Keith Jacoby. I got an exact date from the ledger and asked Hannah if she could hold on to the file for a while in case I needed to come in and take a look. I might need to find the forger Eli Quintero for more information. According to the detectives’ report, they believed Eli had absconded to Mississippi and set up shop there.

“No problem,” she’d said. “Anything for Bobby.”

Bobby? Did she mean Uncle Bob? Ew.

I flipped Garrett off, climbed into Misery, and called Cook. “Forget the comings and goings on the islands of Dr. Yost,” I said when she picked up.

“Good, because I’m not getting a whole lot of cooperation.”

“Do people never watch Sesame Street anymore?” I asked, pulling onto 47. Garrett followed.

“You got me. What’s up?”

“I want you to do exactly what you were doing, only look for the name Keith Jacoby.”

“Did I tell you how much cooperation I’m not getting?”

“You sure did, and I appreciate the update.”

“Where are you?”

I merged onto I-40, narrowly missing a semi. “On my way back, why?”

“You sound distracted.”

“Well, I am. Garrett is freaking following me.”

“Really? What’s he wearing?”

“Cook, this is serious.”

“Wait, what are you doing?”

She could apparently hear the strain in my voice as I craned my neck from side to side. “I’m trying to see past a little girl on my hood.”

“Oh. Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Normally. But she has a knife.”

“Oh, well, then, I guess it’s okay.”

13

A Nun’s Life: Chastity, poverty and obedience. Wait, chastity?

—BUMPER STICKER

As soon as I pulled up to the office, I ran up the stairs to tell Cookie the most incredible thing I’d just heard on the radio. I flew through the door and skidded to a halt in front of her desk. “Have you heard about Milton Berle’s penis?”

Cookie’s eyes widened and she gestured behind me with a nod.

I turned to see a young nun stand up. She’d apparently been waiting for me.

Awkward.

I smiled. “Sorry about that,” I said, offering her my hand. She wore a navy skirt and sweater that just matched the habit on her head, her hair brown underneath it. “I’m Charlotte Davidson.”

“I know.” She took my hand into both of hers, an awestruck glow in her green eyes, as if she were meeting a rock star. Or she was stoned. “I’ve heard it was huge.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, thrown by the admiration in her eyes.

“Milton Berle’s penis.”

“Oh, right. Weird, huh? So, what can I help you with?”

“Well…” She glanced from me to Cookie and back again. “You won’t answer my emails, so I decided to come see you myself.”