“You didn’t think to mention the mass grave?”

“What mass grave? How did you know about that? They just found it late Friday afternoon. It was being kept quiet for the time being.”

“You didn’t happen to tell Noni Bachicha, did you?”

“Son of a – I may have. I had a few beers at his house last night.”

“He grilled you for info and you caved like an unstable salt mine.”

“Thanks for the visual.”

“You’re welcome. Mass grave?”

“I’m at the bar about to head out there, not that we have jurisdiction or anything, but we’ve joined forces with the state ME, the FBI, and local law enforcement to get this under control. I volunteered to assign a task force from APD to assist with the efforts.”

“That explains your working on a Sunday.”

“Yeah.”

“With a hangover.”

“How do you always know?”

“Because you always sound like you have a cold.”

“It’s about a three-hour drive, if you’re interested.”

“I’m interested,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.

“Why don’t you meet me here?”

I drove to Calamity’s and parked in my usual spot. The spot where I’d put up a sign saying no parking: violators will suffer from several exotic std’s for which there is no cure. It seemed to do the trick. My landlord didn’t especially like my tactics, but everyone was a lot happier when I had a parking space. I walked over to the bar and ducked in the back door.

The place was packed. On a Sunday. At lunch. On a Sunday. And once again, women seemed to be the main enthusiasts.

“What’ll you have?” Ubie asked when I walked to the table he’d snagged. I couldn’t believe it. Jessica was there again. What the freaking hell? Had she moved in?

Emaciated from watching Nicolette eat her breakfast burrito, I said, “I’ll have my usual breakfast fare.”

“You got it, pumpkin.” He waved over our server. She was new, so I didn’t know her name. Because of this, I was forced to call her Sylvia. “She’ll have huevos rancheros with scrambled eggs, and I’ll have a carne adovada burrito smothered in red.”

“So, we’re going to the actual site, yes?” I asked him as Sylvia wrote down our order.

“Yes, and I know how you are with dead bodies.”

Sylvia paused then restarted, pretending not to hear us.

“How am I with dead bodies?” I asked.

“Squeamish.”

“Oh, right.” Dead people I could handle. Dead bodies not so much.

“It amazes me that you deal with dead people all day every day, but toss a dead body at you, and you turn into a girl.”

“I am a girl,” I said, utterly offended. “And I happen to know plenty of men who would rather eat fried worms than come face-to-face with a dead body.”

“Okay, sorry. That was sexist.”

He best be sorry. “So what’s up with this new cook, Sylvia?”

“Um, it’s Clair.”

That was disappointing. Now I knew her name, but she’d always be Sylvia to me. “That’s too bad. And the new guy?”

She grinned and ducked her head shyly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Sylvia had a little crush on him. Or her. Either way. “He’s a really good cook.”

He it was. And she had a point. “Okay, well, thanks.” That was about as useful as a chocolate teapot.

She headed for the order station when a large man in dire need of anger control therapy stormed into the place with fire in his eyes. He took hold of her shirt collar, and she was too startled to do much about it. Poor thing.

“Doesn’t anyone know this is a freaking cop hangout?” I asked aloud. “Why do they do these things?” I jumped up, hurried over, and flashed my PI license. “APD,” I said, illegally impersonating an officer in a room full of off-duty officers, but no one else was jumping to Sylvia’s rescue. I looked over at Uncle Bob. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back to watch the show.

“What seems to be the problem?” I continued.

“This man is the problem. Look at this.” He jabbed a phone in my face with a picture. Then he scrolled for me.

It took a moment for me to focus, but it took only a microsecond for me to recognize the man in the images. Reyes. Shot after shot, photos of Reyes scrolled past me. What the f**k?

“This is my wife’s phone,” he said, his voice screeching until the entire room quieted and a familiar heat rose around me.

Uh-oh.

“I want to talk to this ass**le immediately.”

I looked over as Reyes walked up beside us wearing Sammy’s apron and wiping his hands on a towel.

“What are you doing here?” But he didn’t have to answer. Suddenly it all made sense. The women. The heat. The food. “You’re the new cook?” I asked him, stunned.

“You,” the man with questionable intelligence said. “My wife comes in here every day to eat because of you. And she takes pictures!” He shoved the phone toward Reyes, but Reyes had no intention of entertaining the guy’s accusations. He kept a deadpan expression on him, refusing to look at the phone, until I thought the man would explode.

I decided to intervene. “Oh, my god!” I said to Reyes, my eyes radiating accusations at him. “She took your picture? Just what kind of game are you playing? You’re under arrest, mister.”