So, not the company. One possibility down, twenty-seven thousand to go.
Apparently satisfied, they both stood. Foster handed me a business card. “We need to insist that you contact us if she tries to get in touch with you.” His tone held the slightest hint of warning. I tried not to giggle.
“Absolutely,” I said, leading them back out. I stopped before opening the door that separated Cookie’s office and mine. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, and you have to leave now.”
Foster cleared his throat uncomfortably when I hesitated a moment more. “Right, okay. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
As they stood waiting behind me, I turned the knob slowly, jiggled it a little, then opened the door. Cookie was typing away at her computer. If I knew her, she’d been listening in on our conversation through the speakerphone.
“Ms. Davidson,” Foster said, tipping an invisible hat as they walked past.
After the agents left, Cookie turned an exasperated expression on me. “Jiggling the knob? That was subtle.”
“Oh, yeah, grace. Could you have knocked anything else over?”
She cringed at the reminder. “Do you think they suspected anything?”
So many possibilities came to mind: Duh. Ya think? Only if they weren’t complete idiots. “Yes,” I said instead, the lack of inflection in my voice insinuating all of the above.
“But, shouldn’t we be working with them instead of against them?” she asked.
“Not at this precise moment in time.”
“Why not?”
“Mostly ’cause they’re not FBI agents.”
She sucked in a soft breath. “How do you know?”
“Really?” I asked. The last thing I wanted to explain was how I could tell when someone was lying. For the thousandth time.
“Right,” she said, shaking her head, “sorry.” Then she gasped. “You knew they weren’t real FBI agents?”
“I had my suspicions.”
“And you led them into your office anyway? Alone?”
“My suspicions don’t always pan out.”
She thought about that a moment and calmed. “True. Remember that time you tackled the mailman and—”
I held up a hand to stop her. Some things were just better left unsaid. “Cancel looking into the business stuff,” I said, thinking out loud. “I’d bet my virtual farm that’s a dead end. Concentrate on finding a connection between Mimi and Janelle York.”
“Besides the fact that they went to high school together?” she asked.
“No. Let’s start there. Dig into both their backgrounds, see if anything stands out.”
Just then, Uncle Bob walked into the office. Or, well, stormed into the office. He was always so stressed. It was probably time for us to have the talk. He needed a girlfriend before he stroked. Or maybe a blowup doll.
“If you’re going to be a grumpy bear,” I said, pointing to the door, “you can just leave the same way you came in, Mr. Man.” I twirled my finger in circles, motioning for him to do an about-face, make like a sheep, and get the flock outta there.
He stopped short, eyeing me with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “I’m not grumpy.” He sounded offended. It was funny. “I just want to know what you’ve gotten yourself into now.”
It was my turn to be offended. “What?” I asked. “Why I never—”
“No time for your theatrics,” he said, shaking a finger. That’d teach me. “How do you know Warren Jacobs?”
What the heck? Word traveled fast in the crime-fighting world. “I just met him this morning. Why?”
“Because he’s asking for you. Not only is his wife missing, but a car dealer he stalked and threatened to kill was found dead last night. Call me crazy, but I think there might be a connection.”
Son of a bitch, I thought with a heavy sigh. “Instead of plain old Crazy, can I call you Crazy Bob?”
“No.”
“CB for short?” When I only got a glare, I asked, “Then can I see him?”
“He’s being questioned right now and he’ll probably lawyer up any second. What’s going on?”
Cookie and I glanced at each other then spilled our guts like frogs in biology lab.
We told Uncle Bob everything, even the writing-on-the-wall thing. He took out his phone and ordered one of his minions to check out the diner. “You should have told me,” he said after hanging up, his tone scolding.
“Like I’ve had a chance. But since we’re on the subject, there are two men posing as FBI agents to get to her. And they want her bad.”
Alarmed, Uncle Bob — or Ubie as I liked to call him, though rarely to his face — took down their description. “This is serious stuff,” he said.
“Tell me about it. We have to find Mimi before they do.”
“I’ll get a hold of the local feds and let them know they have a couple of impersonators. But you should have called me when this whole thing started.”
“Well, I didn’t think I would need to, since you’re having me tailed and all.”
His jaw clamped down, totally busted. With a heavy sigh, he stepped closer, towering over me, and lifted my chin gently. “Reyes Farrow is a convicted murderer, Charley. This is for your own protection. If he contacts you, will you please let me know?”
“Will you call off the tail?” I asked in turn. When he hesitated then shook his head, I added, “Then may the best detective win.”
I strode out the door, realizing what a ridiculous statement that was, as Uncle Bob, a veteran detective for the Albuquerque Police Department, was the ace of spades when it came to investigations. I was kind of like a three of hearts.
As I walked down the block to my friend Pari’s tattoo parlor, I scanned the street for the shadow Ubie’d assigned to me, with no luck. It had to be someone good. Uncle Bob wouldn’t send a rookie to watch over me.
I stopped in front of Pari’s shop, not because I particularly needed a tattoo, but because Pari could see auras. I could see auras as well, but I figured maybe I’d missed something over the years. How could I see auras and dead people and sons of Satan and yet in all my days never see a demon? Heck, I didn’t even know demons existed until Reyes told me, much less that they would be fighting tooth and nail to get to me. To get through me. My breath caught as another realization dawned. If demons existed, heck, if Satan himself existed, then angels surely existed as well. Seriously, how could I be so out of the loop?
Hopefully, Pari knew something I didn’t, other than the correct timing for a 1970 Plymouth Duster with a supercharged 440 big block. I didn’t even know cars had timing issues — speaking of which, it was still early in tattoo parlor time, so I was surprised to see Pari’s front door open. I stepped inside.
“I need some light,” I heard her call out from the back.
“On it,” came a male voice.
Then I heard scrambling in the back room as I walked up behind Pari. She was bent under a refurbished dentist’s chair, electrical wires in a heap at her knees.
“Thanks,” she said, quietly deciphering the wires.
“What?” the guy in the back room called out.
Startled, Pari jolted upright and hit her head on the seat of the chair before turning back to me. “Charley, damn it,” she said, raising one hand to shield her eyes and the other to rub the sting from her head. “You can’t just walk up behind me. You’re like one of those floodlights shining from a cop car in the middle of the night.”
I chuckled as she fumbled for her sunglasses. “You said you needed light.”
Pari was a graphic designer who’d turned to body art to keep the bill collectors at bay. Luckily, she’d found her calling, and she did the profession proud with full sleeves of sleek lines, tiger lilies and fleur-de-lis. And a couple of skulls thrown in to impress the clientele.
She’d designed the grim reaper I now sported on my left shoulder blade. It was a tiny being with huge, innocent eyes and a fluid robe that looked like smoke. How she managed that with tattoo ink was beyond me.
She slipped her shades on, then looked back at me with a sigh. “I said I needed light, not a starburst. I swear you’re going to permanently blind me one day.” As I said, Pari could see auras; mine was just really bright.
She grabbed a bottle of water off the counter and sat on the broken dentist’s chair, propping her hiking boots onto two crates on either side of her and resting her elbows on her knees. I grabbed a water out of a small fridge and turned back to her, struggling not to crack up at her indelicate position.
“So, what’s up, Reaper?”
“I can’t find the flashlight!” the guy yelled from the back room.
“Never mind,” she called back before grinning at me. “All beauty, no brains, that one.”
I nodded. She liked beauty. Who didn’t?
“Okay, so you’re pretending to be all cool and collected,” she said, studying me with a practiced eye, “but you’re about as serene as a chicken on the chopping block. What’s going on?”
Dang, she was good. I decided to get right to the point. “Have you ever seen a demon?”
Her breathing slowed as she absorbed my question. “You mean like a hellfire and brimstone demon?”
“Yes.”
“Like a minion of hell demon?”
“Yes,” I said again.
“Like—”
“Yes,” I repeated for the third time. The subject made my stomach queasy. And the thought of one torturing Reyes … not that the little shit didn’t deserve to be tortured just a tad, but still.
“So, they’re real?”
“I’m going to take that as a no,” I said, my hopes evaporating. “It’s just, I think I have a few after me, and I was hoping you might know something I didn’t.”
“Damn.” She glanced at the floor in thought then refocused on me. At least I think she did. It was hard to tell with her shades on. “Wait, there are demons after you?”
“Sort of.”
After she stared a long time, long enough to be considered culturally insensitive, she bowed her head. “I’ve never seen one,” she said, her voice quiet, “but I know there are things out there, things that go bump in the night. And not just the prostitute next door. Scary things. Things that are impossible to forget.”
I tilted my head in question. “What do you mean?”
“When I was fourteen, a group of friends and I were having a slumber party, and like most fourteen-year-olds do eventually, we decided to have a s'eance.”
“Okay.” This was going nowhere good.
“So, we went down into my basement and were all s'eancing and chanting and conjuring a spirit from beyond when I felt something. Like a presence.”
“Like a departed?”
“No.” She shook her head, thinking back. “At least I don’t think so. They’re cold. This being was just sort of there. I felt it brush up against me like a dog.” One hand gripped the opposite arm in remembrance, a soft shiver echoing through her body. “No one else felt it, of course, until I said something.” She glanced up at me, a dire warning in her eyes. “Never tell a group of fourteen-year-old girls having a s'eance in a dark basement that you felt something brush up against you. For your own safety.”
I chuckled. “I promise. What happened?”
“They jumped up screaming and ran for the stairs. It freaked me out so, naturally, I ran, too.”
“Naturally.”
“I just wanted away from whatever had materialized in my basement, so I ran like I had a reason to live despite my suicidal tendencies.”
Pari had been Goth when Goth wasn’t cool. Kinda like now.
“I thought I was in the clear when I reached the top stair. Then I heard a growl, deep, guttural. Before I knew what was happening, I fell halfway down the stairs, spraining a wrist and bruising my ribs. I scrambled up and out of there without looking back. It took a while for me to realize I didn’t fall. My legs were pulled out from under me and I was dragged.” She lifted her pant leg and unzipped her knee-high boots to show me a jagged scar on her calf. It looked like claw marks. “I’ve never been so scared.”
“Holy crap, Par. What happened then?”
“When my dad found out why we were all screaming, he laughed and went down into the basement to prove to us nothing was there.”
“And?”
“Nothing was there,” she said with a shrug.
“Did you show him the wound?”
“Oh, hell no.” She shook her head like I’d just asked her if she ate children for breakfast. “They’d already filed me in the F’s for ‘freak of nature.’ I wasn’t about to confirm their suspicions.”
“Holy crap, Par,” I repeated.
“Tell me about it.”
“So, what makes you think it was a demon?”
“I don’t. It wasn’t a demon. Or, well, I don’t think it was. It was something more.”
“How do you know?”
She twisted the leather straps at her wrist. “Mostly because I knew its name.”
I froze for a moment before saying, “Come again?”
“Do you remember what I told you about my accident?” She glanced at me, her brows drawn together.
“Sure I do.” Pari had died when she was six in a car accident. Thankfully, an industrious EMT brought her back. After that, she could see auras, including those of the departed. She’d learned that if she saw an aura with a particularly grayish tint and no body attached, it was the soul of someone who’d passed. It was a ghost.
“When I died, my grandfather was waiting for me.”
“I remember,” I said, “and thankfully he sent you back. I owe him a fruit basket when I get to heaven.”
She reached over and squeezed my hand in a rare moment of appreciation. Awkward. “I’d met him only once,” she said, wrapping both hands around her water. “The only thing I remembered about him was that he had Great Danes taller than I was, yet I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was my grandfather. And when he told me it wasn’t my time, that I had to go back, the last thing I wanted to do was leave him.”
“Well, I for one am glad he sent your ass packing. You would have been hell on wheels in heaven.”
She smiled. “You’re probably right. But I never told you the strange part.”
“Most people find near-death experiences pretty strange.”
“True,” she said with a grin.
“So it gets stranger?”
“A lot stranger.” She hesitated, drew in a long breath, then rested her gaze on me. “On the way back, you know, to Earth, I heard things.”
That was new. “What kinds of things?”
“Voices. I heard a conversation.”
“You eavesdropped?” I asked, a little amazed such a thing was possible. “On celestial beings?”
“I guess you could call it that, but I didn’t do it on purpose. I heard an entire conversation in an instant, like it just appeared in my head. Yet I knew I wasn’t supposed to hear it. I knew the information was dangerous. I learned the name of a being powerful enough to bring about the end of the world.”
“The end of the world?” I asked, gulping when I did so.
“I know how it sounds, believe me. But they were talking about this being that had escaped from hell and was born on Earth.”
My pulse accelerated by a hairsbreadth, just enough to cause a tingling flutter in my stomach.
“They said that he could destroy the world, he could bring on the apocalypse if he so chose.”
I knew of only one being who had escaped from hell. Only one being who had been born on Earth. And while I knew he was powerful, I couldn’t imagine him powerful enough to bring about the freaking apocalypse. Then again, what was? I totally should have paid attention in catechism.
“And so the night of the s'eance, in all my teenaged wisdom, I decided to summon him.”
I gaped, but only a little. “Right. Because that’s what we want to do. Summon the very being who can destroy every living thing on Earth.”
“Exactly,” she said, spacing my sarcasm. “I thought I might convince him not to. You know, talk some sense into him.”
“And how did that work out for you?”
She stopped and pursed her lips at me. “I was fourteen, smart-ass.”
I tried to laugh, but it didn’t quite make it past the lump in my throat. “So, for real? This being is going to bring on the apocalypse?”
“No, you’re not listening.” She pressed her lips together before explaining. “I said he is powerful enough to bring on the apocalypse.”
Okay, well, that was a plus. No prophecies of mass destruction.
“And so that night during the s'eance, I summoned him. By name.”
Goose bumps crept up my legs and over my arms in anticipation. Either that or Dead Trunk Guy had found me again. I glanced around just in case.
“But, like I said,” she continued, “he’s not what you think. He’s not a demon.”
“Well, that’s taking a frown and turning it upside down.”
“From the gist of the conversation, he is something so very much more.”
He was more, all right. “Pari,” I said, growing impatient, “what’s its name?”
“No way am I telling you,” she said with a teasing sparkle in her eyes.
“Pari.”
“No, really.” She turned serious again. “I don’t say it aloud. Ever. Not since that day.”
“Oh, right. Well—”
Before I could say anything else, she grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled onto it. “This is it, but don’t say it out loud. I get the feeling he doesn’t like being summoned.”
I took the paper, my hand shaking more than I’d have liked, and gasped softly when I read the name. Rey’aziel. Rey’az … Reyes. The son of Satan.
“It means ‘the beautiful one,’” she said as I read it over and over again. “I don’t know what he is,” she continued, unaware of my stupor, “but he caused quite a stir on the other side, if you know what I mean. Chaos. Upheaval. Panic.”
Yep. That would be Reyes. Damn it.
Chapter Five
WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU GET SCARED HALF TO DEATH, TWICE?
— T-SHIRT My head reeling, I left Pari’s shop stunned, wandering aimlessly toward home before I remembered I had a job to do. And a job I would do. Time to pull the curtains back on my shadow. Whomever Uncle Bob had assigned to follow me was about to have a very bad day.
I opened my cell phone and answered as if it had been ringing. I stopped, incredulous. I looked around. Gestured wildly. “Meet? Now? Well, darn it, okay. You’re in the alley to my right? You’re that close? Are you crazy? You’ll be caught. Surely someone will suspect you might get in touch with me. Surely … Okay, fine.” I closed the phone, scanned the area, then eased between two buildings, the passageway leading to an alley, all the while throwing furtive glances over my shoulder.
After my production of Casablanca meets Mission: Impossible, I hightailed it toward a Dumpster and ducked behind it, waiting for my shadow to appear. As I sat scrunched, feeling oddly ridiculous, I played with Reyes’s name in my head, let it shape and slide over my tongue. Rey’aziel. The beautiful one. Boy did they have that right.
But why would he hurt Pari? I calculated ages. If Pari had been fourteen when she performed her little s'eance, then Reyes could have been no more than eight. Nine at the most. And he attacked her? Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe she summoned something else accidently, something evil.
“Whatcha doin’?”
I started at the voice behind me and — having flailed a bit — fell back, my palms and ass landing in an illegally dumped oil slick. Wonderful. I ground my teeth together and looked up at a grinning departed gangbanger with more attitude than was socially acceptable.
“Angel, you little shit.”
He laughed aloud as I examined my filthy hands. “That was awesome.”
Freaking thirteen-year-olds. “I knew I should have exorcised your ass when I had the chance.” Angel died when his best friend decided to take out the puta bitch vatos who’d invaded their turf by utilizing the drive-by technique of execution so popular with the kids today. Angel tried to stop him and paid the ultimate price. Much to my eternal chagrin.
“You couldn’t exorcise a cat, much less a bad-to-the-bone Chicano with gunpowder in his blood. Besides, you hate exercise.”
Chuckling at his own joke, he took my outstretched hand and pulled me onto the balls of my feet. I needed to stay squatted behind the Dumpster, the prime tactical position for an ambush. “You don’t have any blood,” I pointed out helpfully.
“Sure I do,” he said, looking down at himself. He wore a dirty white T-shirt with jeans hanging low on his hips, worn-out sneakers, and a wide leather wristband. His inky black hair was cropped short over his ears, but he still had a baby face and a smile so genuine, it could melt my heart on contact. “It’s just kind of see-through now.”
I scraped my hands down the side of the Dumpster to no avail, wondering how many germs were hitching a ride in the process. “Do you have a reason for being here?” I asked, now swiping my hands at my pants. The oil was obviously going to remain stuck until I found some water and a professional-grade degreaser.
“I heard we got a case,” he said. While Angel had been a constant companion since my freshman days of high school, he agreed to become my lead investigator when I opened my PI business three years ago. Having an incorporeal being as an investigator was kind of like cheating on college entrance exams — nerve-racking yet oddly effective. And we’d solved many a case together.
Facing no such quandaries with the oil slick, he sat down in front of me, his back against the Dumpster, his eyes suddenly drawn to my hand as I knocked the rocks and soil off my left butt cheek. “Can I help?” he asked, indicating my ass with a nod. Thirteen-year-olds were so hormonal. Even dead ones.
“No, you can’t help, and we suddenly have not one, but two cases.” While Mimi was my professional priority, Reyes was my personal one. Neither was expendable, and I pondered which case I should put him on. I opted for Reyes because I simply didn’t have any other resources in that area. But Angel wasn’t going to like it.
“How much do you know about Reyes?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t disappear. Or pull a nine-millimeter and gank me.
He eyed me a moment, shifted uncomfortably, then rested his elbows on his knees and looked off into the distance. Or, well, into a warehouse. After a long while, he said, “Rey’aziel isn’t our case.”
I sucked in a soft breath with the mention of Reyes’s otherworldly name. How did he know it? Better yet, how long had he known it?
“Angel, do you know what Reyes is?”
He shrugged. “I know what he isn’t.” He leveled an intent gaze on me. “He isn’t our case.”
With a sigh, I sat on the pavement, slick or no slick, and leaned against the trash bin beside him. I needed Angel with me on this. I needed his help, his particular talents. After placing a dirty hand on his, I said, “If I don’t find him, he’s going to die.”
A dubious chuckle shook his chest, and in that instant, he seemed so much older than the thirteen years he’d accumulated before he passed. “If only it were that easy.”
“Angel,” I said, my tone admonishing. “You can’t mean that.”
The look he stabbed me with was one of such anger, such incredulity, I fought the urge to lean away from him. “You can’t be serious,” he said as if I’d suddenly lost my marbles. Little did he know, I’d lost my marbles eons ago.
I knew Angel didn’t like the guy, but I had no idea he felt such malevolence toward him.
“Is there a reason you’re sitting in a puddle of oil talking to yourself?”
I looked up to find Garrett Swopes standing over me, a dark-skinned, silvery-eyed skiptracer who knew just enough about me to be dangerous; then I glanced back at Angel. He was gone. Naturally. When the going gets tough, the tough refuse to talk about it and insist on running away to stew in their own crabby insecurities.
I struggled to my feet and realized my jeans would never be the same again. “What are you doing here, Swopes?” I asked, swiping at my ass for the second time that morning.
As skiptracers went, Garrett was one of the best. We’d been fairly decent friends for a while until Uncle Bob, in a moment of weakness brought on by one-too-many brewskis, told him what I did for a living. Not the PI part — Garrett already knew that — but the Charley-sees-dead-people part. After that, our slightly flirtatious relationship took a left turn into hostile territory, as though he were angry that I would try to pull off such a scheme. A month later, Garrett was slowly but surely — and quite reluctantly — beginning to believe in what I could do, having seen the evidence firsthand. Not that I gave a shit if he believed me or not, especially after his behavior over the last month, but Garrett was good at his job. He came in handy from time to time. As for the skeptic in him, he could bite my ass.
At the moment, he seemed to be contemplating that very thing. He’d tilted his head and was eyeing the general vicinity of my lower half as I knocked dirt and rock chips off it when he asked, “Can I help?”
“No, you can’t help.” Didn’t I just have this conversation? “Stop channeling Angel and answer my question. Wait.” Reality sank in slowly but surely. My jaw dropped for a moment before I caught it and turned on him. “Oh, my god, you’re the tail.”
“What?” He stepped back, his brows drawn sharply together in denial.
“Son of a bitch.” After staring aghast for a solid minute — thank goodness I’d recently practiced aghast in the mirror — I watched him try to disguise the guilt so plainly on his features. Then I threw a punch that landed on his shoulder with a solid thud.
“Ouch.” He covered his shoulder protectively. “What the hell was that for?”
“Like you don’t know,” I said, stalking away. I couldn’t believe it. I simply could not believe it. Well, I could, but still. Uncle Bob had actually put Garrett Swopes on my tail. Garrett Swopes! The same man who’d been taunting and badgering me about my ability for the last month, swearing to have me locked away or, at the very least, burned as a witch. Skeptics were such drama queens. And Uncle Bob put him on my tail?
The injustice of it all. The indignation. The … wait. I stopped short and considered all the possibilities. All the wonderful, glorious possibilities.
Garrett had been trailing behind me when I stopped and, his reaction time being what it was, almost ran me down. “Did you go off your meds again, Charles?” he asked, sidestepping around me while trying to change the subject. He’d taken to calling me Charles recently. Probably to annoy me, so I didn’t let it. And my meds were none of his concern.
I turned, planted my best death stare on him, and said, “Oh, no, you don’t.”
“What?”
He stepped back. I stepped forward.
“You aren’t getting off that easy, buddy boy,” I said, stabbing him with an index finger.
The confused expression on his face would have been comical had I not felt so blindsided that my uncle put him, of all people, on my tail. And I was in dire need of an investigator who was on Albuquerque’s finest’s payroll. Free labor.
“Did you just call me buddy boy?”
“Damn straight I did, and if you know what’s good for you,” I said, taking another step toward him, “you won’t insult me for not coming up with anything better on such short notice.”
“Okay.” He held up his hands in surrender. “No insults, I swear.”
I trusted him about as far as I could throw him. He was totally going to insult me the first chance he got. Damn it. “How long have you been tailing me?”
“Charles,” he said, trying to come up with a good story.
“Don’t even.” I poked him again for good measure. “How long?”
“First…” He took hold of my shoulders and led me back toward the building as a car passed through the alley.
When we were out of harm’s way, I crossed my arms and waited.
With an acquiescent sigh, he admitted, “Since the day Farrow disappeared from the long-term-care unit.”
I sucked in a sharp breath of indignation. “That was a week ago. You’ve been following me for a week? I can’t believe Uncle Bob did this to me.”
“Charley,” Garrett began, his voice sympathetic. I didn’t need his sympathy.
“Don’t. Ubie is so not getting a Christmas card this year.” When he spread his hands as if I were overreacting, I added, “And you can mark your name off the list as well.”
“What did I do?” he asked, following me as I cut across a parking lot toward the street.
“Stalking isn’t pretty, Swopes.”
“It’s not stalking when you’re being paid for it.”
I stopped and scowled at him.
“Well, when PD is paying you, anyway. And your uncle Bob didn’t do anything to you. He figured there was a possibility Farrow would try to contact you, and for some unexplainable reason, he didn’t want a convicted murderer hanging with his niece.”
Always with the convicted murderer rap. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“Okay,” he said, his voice tainted with suspicion.
“I need to find Reyes as much as you do, or, well, Uncle Bob. You help me and I’ll help you.”
“Why?” he asked, still suspicious. You’d think I never kept up my side of the bargain. I almost always, nigh 100 percent of the time, tried really hard to attempt to hold up my side of any bargain in any given situation.
Now for the hard part, the yeah-I-know-he-was-convicted-of-murder-and-is-an-entity-who-was-born-of-pure-evil-but-deep-down-inside-he’s-really-a-good-guy part. “What all did Uncle Bob tell you about Reyes?”
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