“How about?”

Just as Uncle Bob stood, Cookie buzzed me on the speakerphone.

“Yes?”

“You have another visitor. It’s Garrett. I’m not sure if he’s a Jehovah’s Witness or not.”

Oh, the other traitor. Perfect. “By all means, send him in.”

As Garrett and Uncle Bob passed each other, Ubie must have tipped him off with a warning expression. His brows shot up in curiosity just before he strode over to pour himself a cup of java and folded himself into the chair across from me. I sat tapping my fingernails on my desk, waiting for the opportunity to tear into him.

He took a long draw then asked, “What’d I do?”

“You knew about the guy threatening my dad?”

He paused, shifted in his chair, so freaking busted, it wasn’t funny. “They told you?”

“Why, no, Swopes, they didn’t. Instead, they waited until the guy knocked the f**k out of my dad and readied him for spaceflight with duct tape then tried to kill me with a butcher’s knife.”

He shot out of his chair, cursing when he spilled coffee in his lap. Apparently nobody had called him. “What?” he asked, swiping at his jeans. “When? What happened?”

“I can print my statement out for you, if that would help.”

He sat back down, eyeing me warily. “Sure.”

I printed my statement, happy that all the work I’d put into it wouldn’t go unnoticed. He took it, read my four sentences for a really long time that had me wondering if he was dyslexic, then looked back at me. “Wow, that’s a lot to take in all at once.”

“It was for me, too,” I said, the sarcasm dripping from my tongue unmistakable.

“You cut his throat?”

I leaned toward him, my voice menacing as I said, “I do things like that when I’m angry.”

He worked his jaw a moment. “How about I come back later?”

“How about?”

As he strode out the door, he paused and turned back. “We need to interview the previous owner of Cookie’s Taurus. She’s going to be home late this afternoon. You in?”

I unglued my teeth to answer. “I’m in.”

“I’ll leave the info with Cookie. Right now, I have a phone call to make.”

When I gave myself a minute to calm down, I realized that an anger had come over Garrett just before he left. An explosive kind of anger one would be wise to steer clear of. I’d have to find out who’d rained on his parade later.

“Mr. Kirsch is expecting us this afternoon,” Cookie called out from her office, since the door separating our offices was open. “His wife is out of town, but he said he’d be happy to talk to us about the Hana Insinga case.”

I stood and walked to the doorway. “It’s almost three hours from here. We should probably get on the road.”

“He asked that we bring the case file.”

“Of course.”

We packed up and headed out the door for our journey to one of the most beautiful places on Earth: Taos, New Mexico.

“I handed Garrett Mistress Marigold’s e-mail address and gave him the short version,” Cookie said when we jumped into Misery. “He’s going to e-mail her, try to get her to spill about why she wants the grim reaper to contact her. But for now, I could tell you dirty jokes on the way, if that would help cheer you up.”

I turned the key with a smile. “I’m okay. Just annoyed.”

“You have every right to be. I’m annoyed and I wasn’t attacked. Or slashed open with a butcher’s knife. Stevie Ray Vaughan?”

We both looked down at my stereo, slow grins coming over our faces. “This should be a good trip,” I said, turning it up. Any trip starting out with Stevie Ray was good.

Most PIs would simply call the former sheriff of Mora County instead of driving three hours, but I could tell much more about a person with a face-to-face. There would be no question as to what Mr. Kirsch knew about the case by the end of the day. If he knew his son was involved in something illicit, I’d know. Maybe not the finer points, but I’d have a good idea if he was involved in any kind of cover-up.

Cookie worked the entire way, gathering intel and making calls. “And you worked for Mr. Zapata seven years?” she said into her phone. Mr. Zapata was our murdered car dealer, and she was speaking to one of his former employees. “Mm-hm. Okay, thank you so much.” She closed her phone and cast me a weary gaze. “I hope when I die people only remember good things about me as well.”

“Another testament to Zapata’s pending sainthood?”

“Yep. Same story, different day.”

“Whatever they did back in high school,” I said, taking a right on Mr. Kirsch’s block, “nobody but nobody is talking about it. At least we know one thing about this group of kids.”

“What’s that?” she asked, making notes on her laptop.

“They were all really good at keeping a secret.” I pulled into Mr. Kirsch’s drive. “Where did you say his wife is?”

Cookie closed her laptop and looked up. “Wow, nice house.” Most houses in Taos were nice. It was an expensive place to live. “She’s up north visiting her mother.”

“You know what?” I asked, climbing out of my Jeep. “When this case is over, I vote we join her. I mean, north is a good direction.”

“We should go to Washington State.”