“Wow, that’s a volatile response to such an innocent question.”

“That’s what I thought. And Warren’s cousin Harry who always asks for money?”

“Yeah.”

“Dead end. He’s been in Vegas for over a month, working at a gambling casino.”

“As opposed to a nongambling casino?”

“I also spoke to our murdered car salesman’s wife,” she continued, ignoring me.

“You’ve been busy.”

“She had the exact same story as Warren. Her husband started to withdraw, to get depressed. She said he worried constantly and told her the oddest thing.”

I raised my brows in question.

“He told her that sometimes our sins are too great to be forgiven.”

“What the hell did they do?” I asked, thinking aloud.

Cookie shook her head. “Oh, and she thought the same thing that Warren did. She thought her husband was having an affair. She said large sums of money went missing from their savings. I assured her he wasn’t having an affair.”

I cast her a teasing glance. “Just because he wasn’t having an affair with Mimi doesn’t mean he wasn’t having one at all.”

“I know, but that woman was a wreck. No need to make her suffer more. He wasn’t having an affair. I’m sure of it. Speaking of wrecks, how are you doing?” she asked, concern drawing her brows together.

“Wreck?” I balked, feigning offense. “I’m good. The sun is shining, the superglue is holding. What more could a girl ask for?”

“World domination?” she offered.

“Well, there is that. Have you talked to Amber today?”

She sighed heavily. “It seems my daughter is going camping with her dad this weekend.”

“That’s cool. Camping’s fun,” I said, careful to keep my tone light. I knew why the thought upset her, but chose not to mention it. When Amber stayed with her father, Cookie went into a kind of depressed state. Come Friday, that would have changed. Now her happy fix would have to wait until after the weekend. I felt for her.

“I guess,” she said, her voice noncommittal. “You look tired.”

I picked a couple of file folders off her desk. “So do you.”

“Yeah, but you were almost murdered last night.”

“Almost being the pertinent word in that independent clause. I’m going to do some research and then I’ll probably go talk to Kyle Kirsch’s parents in Taos. Can you call and make sure they’ll be home?”

“Sure.” She dropped her gaze and started thumbing through some papers. “He lived,” she said as I turned to go to my office. “Your attacker. After five pints of blood.” I paused midstride, restrained the emotion that threatened to surface, then continued into my office. “Oh, and I’m going with you to Taos.”

I figured she’d want to go. Just before I closed the door, I leaned out and asked, “You didn’t happen to leave me a note, did you? On Mr. Coffee?”

Her brows furrowed. “No. What kind of note?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” I didn’t figure Cookie would threaten my life, but I had yet to find out if she was a black widow. She did have a dead guy in her trunk, and one could never be too certain these days.

I sat down at my desk, my thoughts cloudy with a chance of rain. He lived. That was good, I supposed, but he would always be a threat. I almost wished Reyes had been there, had taken him out, or at least incapacitated him so he would never be able to hurt anyone again. An age-old question surfaced despite its uselessness. Why did monsters like that get to live when good people died every day?

A soft knock brought me out of my musings as Cookie poked her head into my office. “Somebody’s here to see you,” she said, as though annoyed.

“Male or female?”

“Male. It’s—”

“Does he look like a Jehovah’s Witness?”

She blinked in surprise. “Um, no. Do we suddenly have a problem with Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I closed the door on a couple this morning. Thought they might send their homies after me.”

She shook her head. “It’s your uncle Bob.”

“Even worse. Tell him I’m out.”

“And who do you suppose he’s going to think I’ve been talking to all this time?”

“Besides,” Uncle Bob said, pushing past Cookie, “I heard your voice.” He leveled a chastising glare on me. “Shameful, asking Cookie to lie for you. What did you do to those Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

“Nothing. They started it.”

He sat across from me. “I need your statement about last night.”

“No worries. I typed it up.”

“Oh.” He brightened and took the paper I handed him. His face fell as he read. “I heard a sound. A bad guy swung a knife at me. I ducked and cut his throat. The end.” He breathed in a heavy sigh. “Well, that needs some work.”

“But I’m just a girl,” I said, a bitter edge to my voice. “It’s not like I’ve solved dozens of cases for you and my father both. It’s not like I should have to worry my pretty little head with nasty things like details. Right? God forbid I know anything about anything.”

He worked his jaw a long moment, probably calculating his odds of getting out of my office unscathed. “How about we do this later?” he asked, tucking my statement into a folder.