Page 13 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jack seemed more settled as we pulled back onto the main road, the rain still coming down but not quite as violently as before.
“We should head home,” I said, stifling a yawn. “It’s been a long day.”
“Actually,” Jack said, glancing at the dashboard clock, “Martinez gave me Al Contreras’s number earlier—the maintenance guy who was supposed to lock the cemetery gates Monday night. He works nights at city facilities, so this is actually the perfect time to catch him.”
“Of course he works nights,” I muttered. “Because why would anyone in this case have normal hours?”
Jack was already pulling out his phone. “If someone got into that cemetery through an unlocked gate, I need to know. This can’t wait until morning.”
I listened to Jack’s side of the conversation as he explained who he was and asked if Al could meet them somewhere to talk. After a few minutes, Jack hung up.
“He suggested Martha’s Diner,” Jack said. “He’s about to start his rounds but can meet us for a quick coffee.”
“Well, at least there’ll be coffee,” I said, though what I really wanted was my bed. “And maybe pie.”
Martha’s Diner was one of those roadside establishments that had been serving truck drivers and insomniacs since the Eisenhower administration.
The neon sign buzzed and flickered in the rain, casting pink and blue shadows across the puddle-strewn parking lot.
Half the letters in Martha’s had given up the ghost years ago, so it now read Ma ha’s , which Emmy Lu always said made it sound like a laugh track for people with bad timing.
Inside, the familiar scent of coffee mingled with the smell of bacon grease and industrial-strength disinfectant.
The black-and-white checkered floor was worn smooth by decades of work boots, and the red vinyl booths had been patched with duct tape in so many places they looked like they’d survived a knife fight.
Al Contreras sat alone in a corner booth, hunched over a cup of coffee that steamed in the fluorescent lighting.
He was a small, wiry man in his sixties with weathered hands and the kind of deep tan that came from working outdoors year-round.
When he saw Jack approaching, he half stood and extended a calloused hand.
“Sheriff Lawson,” he said, his voice carrying a slight Hispanic accent. “Thanks for meeting me here. I figured it was better than trying to talk over the rain.”
“No problem, Al. This is Dr. Graves, our coroner.” Jack slid into the booth across from Al, and I settled in beside him.
“Doctor.” Al nodded respectfully. “Heard about what happened at Olde Towne Cemetery. Terrible thing. Makes a man feel responsible, you know?”
The waitress—a woman named Dorris who’d been working at Martha’s since before I was born—appeared with coffee cups and a pot that looked like it had survived both World Wars. She poured without being asked, which was Martha’s Diner policy. If you didn’t want coffee, you went somewhere else.
“Tell me about Monday night,” Jack said, adding cream to his cup. “Walk me through your routine.”
Al’s hands fidgeted around his coffee mug.
“I start my rounds at nine thirty, usually finish up around midnight. Got the cemetery, the municipal building, the parks, couple other places. Cemetery’s always last on my list ’cause it’s the easiest—just check that the main gate’s latched proper and the grounds are clear of any troublemakers. ”
“What time did you get there Monday night?” I asked.
“Around eleven fifteen, maybe eleven twenty. I was running behind because Mrs. Jorgenson had locked herself out of the library again.” He took a sip of coffee and made a face that suggested it tasted exactly as it looked.
“Third time this month. Woman’s the head librarian but can’t remember to take her keys when she goes to empty the trash. ”
“So you were late getting to the cemetery,” Jack prompted.
“Yeah, and it was a clear night, nice and warm. I pulled up to the main iron gate—the public entrance—and it looked closed. I always give it a shake to make sure it’s latched proper, but…” Al’s voice trailed off, and he stared into his coffee cup like it might contain absolution.
“But?” I encouraged.
“But I was already running so late, and I could see the gate was pulled to. I figured it was locked and just drove on.” He looked up at Jack with guilty eyes.
“I know I should’ve gotten out and checked it proper.
The back entrance where we keep the maintenance equipment is always locked—only grounds crew and funeral directors use that one.
But the main gate, that’s the one the public uses, and that’s the one that should’ve been secured. ”
“Al.” Jack’s voice was gentle but firm. “Someone was determined to get into that cemetery Monday night. If the main gate had been locked, they could have tried the back entrance or found another way. A locked gate doesn’t stop someone with bolt cutters or determination.”
Al nodded, but I could see the guilt was going to eat at him for a long time.
“Did you see anything unusual while you were there?” I asked. “Any cars, people, anything that seemed out of place?”
“Well,” Al said slowly, “there was a dark car parked over by the gas station across the street. Didn’t think much of it at the time—people pull in there all hours to use the restroom or grab snacks from the vending machines. But it was just sitting there with the engine running.”
“What kind of car?” Jack asked, his attention sharpening.
“Couldn’t tell you the make or model. Too dark to make out details, even under those streetlights. But it was a sedan, dark color. Blue or black, maybe dark green. Hard to say.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“Nah. Windows were tinted, or maybe it was just too dark. But whoever it was, they were just sitting there. Waiting for something.”
Or someone, I thought.
Jack nodded, committing the details to memory. “You’ve been helpful, Al. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
“I will, Sheriff. And I’m real sorry about not checking that gate proper.”
“I bet you’ll never do it again,” Jack said, making Al smile.
“You got that right.”
Jack caught Dorris’s eye. “Could we get some pie to go?”
“You got it, honey,” Dorris called back. “Give me ten minutes.”
Jack left a generous tip on the table and we waited only five minutes for our order.
Outside, the rain had intensified, if such a thing were possible. We ran to the Tahoe, but by the time we got inside, we were both soaked.
“Well,” I said, wringing water from my hair, “that gives us something to follow up on. A dark sedan near the cemetery around the time of the murder.”
“Could be nothing,” Jack said, starting the engine and cranking up the heat. “Someone stopping for gas or using the restroom. But it’s worth noting. We’ll see if Cole and Martinez can track down any security cameras in the area.”
As we drove through the darkness toward home, I found myself thinking about the partial information we’d gathered.
Al’s oversight with the gate, a dark car that might or might not be significant, and a killer who’d managed to get into the cemetery undetected.
We had pieces, but not enough to form a clear picture yet.
“Jack,” I said as we turned onto the winding road that led to our house, “what if this isn’t just about covering up historical land theft? What if someone’s been planning this for a long time—waiting for the right moment, the right research, the right threat to their secret?”
“You mean Thomas Whitman might not have been the first person to stumble onto this conspiracy?”
“I mean maybe he wasn’t the first person to die because of it.”
The thought hung between us as we pulled into our driveway, the motion-sensor lights illuminating the three-story structure that rose majestically from the cliff like something carved from the landscape itself.
It was a modern-day log cabin of polished golden logs and glass that had become our sanctuary, perched on the edge of the Potomac with towering pines surrounding us like natural guardians.
But tonight, even home didn’t feel completely safe.
Somewhere out there, a killer was still free, and we were just beginning to understand how deep this conspiracy ran.
“Come on,” Jack said, taking my hand as we made another dash through the rain. “Let’s get inside and see what we can dig up about our five families. Something tells me the real story is going to be even uglier than what we’ve seen so far.”
As we reached the porch, I realized I was looking forward to diving into the research. Because somewhere in the historical records and family trees, a killer had left tracks. And by morning, we were going to start following them.