“Darn. That doesn’t help.” I turned left onto Central. “Do you know where you are? Where your body is? We’re headed downtown. This might be you.”

“No, I had just pulled into my drive. My wife and I live in the Heights.”

“So, you’re married?”

“Five years,” he said, a sadness permeating his voice. “Two kids. Girls. Four and eighteen months.”

I hated that part. The people-left-behind part. “I’m so sorry.”

He looked at me with that expression, that you-can-see-dead-people-so-you-must-have-all-the-answers expression of so many who’d come before him. He was about to be very disappointed.

“It’s going to be hard on them, isn’t it?” he asked, surprising me with the direction of his thoughts.

“Yes, it will be,” I answered honestly. “And your wife will scream and cry and go through a depression from hell. Then she’ll find a strength she never knew she had.” I looked directly at him. “And she’ll live. For the girls, she’ll live.”

That seemed to satisfy him for the moment. He nodded and stared out the window. We drove the rest of the way downtown in silence, which gave me unwanted time to think about dream lover. If I was right, his name was Reyes. I had no idea if Reyes was his last name or his first, or where he was from, or where he was now, or any other thing about him, for that matter. But I knew his name was Reyes, and I knew he was beautiful. Unfortunately, he was also dangerous. The one and only time I’d met him was years ago, when we were both in our teens. Our one encounter was full of threats and tension and skin and his lips so close to mine, I could almost taste him. I never saw him again.

“There it is,” Sussman said, dragging me from my thoughts.

He’d spotted the crime scene several blocks away. Red and blue lights undulated along buildings, pulsing through the pitch black morning. As we drove closer, the bright spotlights set up for the investigators lit up half a city block. It looked like the sun had risen in that one spot alone. I saw Uncle Bob’s SUV and pulled into a hotel parking lot nearby.

Before we got out, I turned to Sussman. “Hey, you didn’t happen to see anyone in my apartment, did you?”

“You mean, besides Mr. Wong?”

“Yeah. You know, like, a guy?”

“No. Was somebody else there?”

“Nah, forget it.”

I had yet to figure out how Reyes did the magic shower trick. Unless I had the uncanny ability to sleep standing up, he could do more than just enter my dreams.

After I got out—and Sussman more or less fell out—I looked for Uncle Bob. He stood about forty yards away, a spotlight casting an eerie glow around him as he gave me the evil eye. He’s not even Italian. I’m not sure that’s legal.

Uncle Bob, or Ubie as I liked to call him—though rarely to his face—is my dad’s brother and a detective for the Albuquerque Police Department. I guess he got a life sentence, because my dad was a cop, too, but he retired years ago and bought a bar on Central. My apartment building sits directly behind it. I make a little extra cash occasionally tending bar for him, which brings my current job count to 3.7. I’m a private investigator when I have clients, a bartender when my dad needs me, and technically, I’m on the APD payroll as well. On paper, I’m a consultant. Probably because it sounds important. In real life, I’m the secret to Uncle Bob’s success, just as I was for my dad when he worked APD. My ability rocketed them through promotion after promotion until they both became detectives. It’s amazing how easy it is to solve crimes when you can ask the victims who did it.

The .7 stemmed from my illustrious career as the grim reaper. While it does take up a significant amount of my time, I never profit from that part of my life. So, I’m still undecided as to whether or not I should call it a job.

We walked under the police tape at exactly five thirtyish. Uncle Bob was livid but surprisingly stroke-free.

“It’s almost six,” he said, tapping his watch.

That’d teach me.

He wore the same brown suit as the day before, but his jaw was clean shaved, his mustache neatly combed, and he smelled like medium-priced cologne. He pinched my chin and maneuvered my face to get a good look at the bruises.

“It’s much closer to five thirty,” I argued.

“I called you over an hour ago. And you need to learn to duck.”

“You called me at four thirty-four,” I said, swiping at his hand. “I hate four thirty-four. I think four thirty-four should be banned and replaced with something more reasonable, like, say, nine twelve.”

Uncle Bob released a long breath and popped the rubber band at his wrist. He’d told me it was part of his anger management program, but how the infliction of pain could possibly help control anger was beyond me. Still, I was always willing to help a surly relative in need.

I leaned into him. “I could Taser you if you think it’ll help.”

He slid me the evil eye again, but he did it with a grin, and that made me happy.

Apparently, the supervisor for the Office of the Medical Investigator had already done his part, so we could walk onto the crime scene. As we did, I ignored the plethora of sideways glances directed my way. The other officers have never understood how I do what I do, how I solve cases so fast, and they look at me with wary suspicion. I guess I can’t blame them. Wait a minute. Yes, I can.

Just then I noticed Garrett Swopes, aka pain-in-the-ass skiptracer, standing over the body. I rolled my eyes so far back into my head, I almost seized. Not that Garrett wasn’t good at his job. He’d studied under the legendary Frank M. Ahearn, probably the most famous skiptracer in the world. From what I’d heard, thanks to Mr. Ahearn, Garrett could find Hoffa if he put his mind to it.