Shoot from the Lip

by Leann Sweeney

  He said, “You want to talk here? Or go somewhere else?”

  “I’d like to get away from the TV trailer, in case anyone hanging around gets nosy. Can I buy you dinner?” I said.

  “No, thanks. Already grabbed a burger.” DeShay unlocked the passenger door, and I sat down on the cream leather bucket seat.

  He slid behind the wheel and offered me a huge smile, his perfect teeth bright in contrast to his dark lips and skin. “Let’s take Lucille around the block, okay?”

  “Lucille?”

  “Named her after my granny. Seemed fitting to call the best car ever made after the best woman who ever walked the earth.”

  He started the ignition, the engine came to life and the headlights lit up the empty parking area. He drove over to the next street and curbed the T-bird in front of an empty house with a FOR SALE sign.

  “First off,” I said, “I can’t thank you enough for showing up. You know me. I may think I know what I’m doing, but it’s nice having someone around who’ll steer me straight if I stray.”

  “You’ve handled your cases pretty damn good, from what I’ve seen. How’s your client liking the limelight?”

  “She hates it.”

  “Well, she’d better get out her sunglasses. Hollywood loves to shine their spotlights far and wide. She’s a good woman, this client?”

  “I am so impressed by Emma. She has an amazing spirit, DeShay.”

  “If you say she’s good, then I know she is. How can I help?”

  “I want to research Emma’s mother’s disappearance. If we find her, we might find that baby’s killer. Her name was Christine O’Meara, and she abandoned her kids in 1997.”

  “Missing-persons inquiry ever filed?”

  “Not by the family, but maybe a friend filed a report. I don’t know. CPS probably didn’t. Since I started working as an adoption PI, I’ve learned that in Texas, the courts have no obligation to hunt down abandoned children’s parents. Sure, the social workers look for relatives to care for the kids, but those people are seriously overworked and overwhelmed. Their job is placement, not investigation.”

  “Cold-case disappearance. Sounds like a tough one.”

  “Let me run a few things by you,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “That baby disappeared and was probably buried under the house in 1992. Why do you think Christine waited five years to split if she’d put a defenseless infant under her house? Wouldn’t she want to get as far away as possible as soon as possible?”

  “Maybe she was afraid a new owner would discover the body and she’d be busted. Either that or something happened to her—something she didn’t plan on.”

  “She could have ended up anywhere, maybe even landed in an alcohol-induced coma in a nursing home. Or maybe was arrested and put in jail—but wait . . . there’s another possibility.”

  “She’s dead.” DeShay smiled. “I figured you’d get to that.”

  “Yes. And that would be the easiest place to start. Can you help me get a list of all unidentified bodies from 1997?”

  DeShay wet his finger and wiped at a smudge on the dashboard. “Sure, but I won’t be sneaking around behind anyone’s back. White and Benson ask me what the hell I’m doing, I’ve got to tell them.”

  “Fair enough,” I answered. “Let me give you her description.”

  DeShay pulled out his pocket notebook and jotted down what I told him; then he said, “And now, can you help me out?”

  “Anything,” I said.

  “What the hell is our man Jeff doing in Seattle, Washington? And why does he sound like a different person, all subdued and mysterious and, well, weird?”

  “DeShay, I wish I knew. I’m sure he’ll tell us soon enough.”

  “Just kinda worried. That’s all.”

  “Me, too.” Worried more than curious, especially since DeShay, who spent hours and hours with Jeff, thought he now sounded like a different person, too.

  7

  I arrived home about seven thirty to find a hungry dog and an aloof cat, but no Kate. Working late, I guessed. I fed Webster and Diva, wondering how this case had gotten so complicated in less than forty-eight hours. Not that complications bothered me. On the contrary, I was sure I’d have a hard time sleeping tonight as I inventoried all the possible tracks I could take trying to solve this one.

  When I’d left DeShay, he told me he’d dig around in the 1997 unsolveds, see if he came up with anything. Meanwhile, I would try to find Xavier Lopez’s widow and warn her of the impending media storm.

  I’d have loved to get my hands on the anonymous letter, but I suspected Venture would never willingly let me see it since I’d refused to hire on with them. Paul Kravitz was probably holding it in his hot little hands this very minute.

  I pulled a pint of Haagen-Dazs pistachio from the freezer and was heading for my computer when my cell rang. Luke O’Meara was on the other end.

  His words spilled out so fast I had to ask him to slow down.

  “Emma called about six,” he said. “She told me she’d be at the hotel in fifteen minutes. But she’s not here and she’s not answering her phone and I was thinking maybe she’s with you.”

  “No, Luke. Could she have stopped for snacks or sodas, maybe?”

  “I-I don’t know. That wouldn’t take nearly two hours, would it?”

  “No. Okay, maybe she got mixed up about which place Venture put you guys up at and—”

  “No way. She told the lady who picked us up from school where to take us, and she called here, so she’s not mixed-up.”

  His panic was contagious and I started pacing, trying to come up with some plausible explanation. “Maybe she’s with a friend. Venture is planning some changes, and perhaps she wanted to talk to someone about it. Is that possible?” Since I had no idea what Emma had said to him, I didn’t want to go into detail about this morning’s events.

  “She’d call us.”

  “An unplanned meeting with a client?” I said, not believing myself now.

  “Same answer. She’d call. You’re a detective, Miss Rose,” Luke said. “You can find her, right?”

  “Yes. Yes. Absolutely. I will find her. Meanwhile, are you and your sister okay?”

  “We’re fine, but we don’t have money to get anywhere. If you need us to help you look, can you pick us up?”

  “You need to stay put in case Emma shows up. She’d get all worried if she arrived at the hotel and you guys were gone. Let me take care of this.”

  “Please find her. I want to talk to her real bad.”

  “I know you do. I’ll be in touch.” As soon as I hung up, I called DeShay. He answered on the first ring.

  “What’s up, Abby? Think of something else you need?”

  “No. It’s Emma. She didn’t show up at her hotel,” I said.

  “She’s been gone a couple hours,” he said. “Maybe she had a flat tire or—”

  “But she didn’t contact her brother and sister, and she would have done that.”

  “Abby, come on. She’s a big girl. She can—”

  “Would you mind checking with Don White or even traffic patrol? Meanwhile I’ll start calling hospitals. My gut tells me something’s wrong.”

  He sighed. “Hospitals won’t tell you squat these days. I’ll get back with you in a few minutes.”

  I was still pacing and chewing my cuticles rather than enjoying Haagen-Dazs when Kate came in through the back door.

  “Hey,” she said, which was immediately followed by, “What’s wrong?” The shrink knew her sister.

  “Probably nothing,” I said. “The house came down early, some unexpected things happened and now Emma didn’t show up at her hotel. She should have been there by now. Her brother called and sounded pretty worried.”

  “And so are you.” Kate bent to scratch an excited Webster’s head. He started barking, then ran over and pulled his leash from the hook on the wall near the back door, hoping for a walk. “Okay, buddy. In a minute. What do
you plan to do, Abby? Because you aren’t the kind to wait around.”

  “I called DeShay for help.” My cell rang and I snatched the phone up from the kitchen counter.

  “You were right,” DeShay said. “Emma Lopez was taken by ambulance to Ben Taub. Her car hit a cement barrier on the freeway. That’s all I got.”

  “Oh, my God. Thanks, DeShay. I’m on my way to the emergency room.”

  I closed the phone and grabbed my car keys and purse. “Emma’s been in a wreck. You want to go with me?”

  She didn’t even need to answer. We took her 4Runner, and on the fifteen-minute ride I told Kate all that had happened today. She agreed we should wait on calling Luke until we knew Emma’s condition.

  We hunted for a parking spot for what seemed an hour but was probably more like five minutes, then made our way to the emergency room. Ben Taub Hospital is a county facility, and the waiting area was swamped with sick and injured people. Kate and I weaved through the filled chairs, and I thought, This is where you come when you cannot pay. This is where you sit for hours to find out what’s wrong with you or your loved one. This is where you cry when you learn that the bullet your son or husband or brother took in the chest killed him.

  The unhappy, pained faces only made my anxiety level rise. More than thirty minutes later, we finally convinced someone with access to the mysterious goings-on behind the closed double doors that we were friends of Emma’s and that her brother and sister were minors who had no clue about their sister’s accident. The convincing factor, unfortunately, was a call to the hotel where Luke and Shannon were staying. I’d hoped to be the one to call them, but it didn’t work out that way.

  They gave me the phone then, and Luke insisted we come get him and Shannon. He sounded close to tears. Kate agreed to be their taxi while I was allowed into the belly of the ER. Behind curtain number one I heard a woman squealing like a pig caught under a gate, and I was also engulfed by more smells and sounds than my brain could sort. The nonsorting was probably a good thing.

  A nurse’s aide pulled back curtain number four, where Emma lay, her gurney raised at the head. No hospital staff was with her, and the nice person who’d helped me left us alone. Emma’s upper body was wrapped like a mummy, her left arm bent at the elbow and secured against her stomach. Other than looking like she could use about a week’s sleep, she seemed in far better shape than I had imagined. She didn’t even have a mark or a bruise on her face.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” Emma said. “They took my clothes and purse and put them in that closet next to you. I couldn’t call anyone. Did Luke or Shannon tell you I was here?”

  I explained about Luke’s call, then said, “The kids are on the way here.”

  Emma’s eyes flashed with anger. “But the policeman said he’d call them.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, no. My fault. I think I gave him our old number, and with the house torn down... how could I—”

  “It’s been an awful day, Emma. Don’t be so hard on yourself. What’s the word on your injuries? Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “I have a cracked collarbone from the air bag. My car’s totaled, and this little visit will cost me a fortune.”

  “Try not to obsess over things you can’t control.” I rested a hand on her knee. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I’m not sure. The car behind me was tailgating, I think. I was distracted after all that happened today, not paying much attention to my driving. But the lights got so close and I thought that car might drive into my trunk. Then the headlights swung to my right, and next thing I know, I’ve got an air bag in my face and this serious pain in my shoulder.”

  “Kids, probably. Or a drunk driver.”

  “Funny, but the cop asked me if anyone was mad at me—mad enough to run me into that barrier. Could have been my own fault, though. I should haven’t been in the left lane.”

  “The officer implied someone did this to you on purpose?”

  “He asked a lot of questions. I think he was trying to understand why a woman who admitted to one margarita that didn’t even register on the Breathalyzer would drive her car into an immovable object.” She nodded with her chin toward her left shoulder. “Think this little problem will make Venture delay shooting their damn show?”

  I smiled. “Wishful thinking. A broken collarbone may slow you down, but not them.”

  “I can’t imagine they’d want the world to see me on TV like this.”

  “More bad luck to exploit for ratings,” I said with a wry smile. But I wasn’t sure this incident had anything to do with luck, and the thought sent a small chill down my spine.

  8

  The following morning I showered by seven thirty, made a pot of French-roast coffee and then took my mug and a muffin to my office, ready to hunt down Xavier Lopez’s relatives.

  Emma had been released from the hospital last night, not long after her brother and sister arrived with Kate. The kids were relieved to see that Emma could walk and talk. Before we all drove back to the hotel, my practical sister made sure Emma called her insurance company to inform them of the accident.

  Then Kate took the phone from Emma and arranged to have a rental car delivered to the hotel—this over Emma’s protests when Kate told them to bill her. After we’d arrived home, my sister and I were asleep within a half hour. It had been a long day.

  Today I would search for any of Xavier Lopez’s surviving relatives, and after devouring my blueberry muffin, I booted up my computer. Since Lopez had died at a young age, around thirty-three, his widow was probably still alive. The obituaries of fallen heroes, I soon learned, are easy to find, especially those related to a news-grabbing event like the marine barracks attack in ’83. It was one in a string of terrorist bombings that year, which offered more than a hint of what we now faced in the twenty-first century.

  When I found Lopez’s obit, I sat back in my swivel chair and said, “Uh-oh. More surprises.” The article listed the surviving relatives as not only his widow, Gloria, but his two children, Xavier Junior and Raul. Did Emma know about them, too? She had to if she’d read the same obituary I was reading. Yet she’d failed to mention them. I wondered why.

  I also wondered if Sergeant Lopez had been divorced or estranged from his wife at the time of his death. Was that why he shared a house with Emma’s mother? Or had he never even lived with Christine O’Meara? Emma had only her mother’s side of the story to rely on.

  Diva slinked into my office and jumped on my keyboard. I lifted her onto my lap before she had a chance to dislodge a key and carry it away and stroked her soft calico coat. I returned to work and learned that Sergeant Lopez had been buried in his hometown, San Antonio. That seemed like the logical place to look for Gloria Lopez.

  “Diva? You settled in? ’Cause I’m about to take us on what could be a long ride on the Internet to find a woman named Gloria.”

  She closed her eyes and began to purr. This was her favorite part of my job.

  By the time I heard Kate coming downstairs, ready to leave for work, I’d located Gloria Lopez—now Gloria Wilks. This particular Internet surf had taken only an hour. The woman was a prominent figure in San Antonio, active in charity work while playing a visible, supportive role to her lawyer and Texas senator husband, Neal Wilks. A politician’s wife. Great. If she didn’t already know about her late first husband’s love child, she might feel like shooting the messenger when I called.

  Kate poked her head in the door. “I’m off. Let me know how Emma’s feeling after you talk to her.”

  “Sure. I’m hoping the TV people will leave her alone to recover.” I then explained about Xavier Lopez’s family and how I had Gloria Wilks’s phone number on the screen in front of me and planned to call her.

  Kate said, “You’re delivering this information over the telephone? What if the woman has no idea Emma exists?”

  “She’ll be shocked, sure, but at least she’ll be ready when Crime Time or the newspaper reporters show up on her doorstep.”
>
  “You should tell her in person. You can take a South-west flight, be there in forty-five minutes.”

  “Kate, maybe face-to-face is a better way to handle this situation, but I don’t want to leave Houston even for a couple hours. Paul Kravitz was coming into town last night, if you remember.”

  She sighed. “I can see I won’t win this argument. You have the protective instincts of a big sister—which you’ve never been, by the way, since I’m sure I was born before you.”

  I sat back and smiled at Kate. “I’m pretty certain the midwife who delivered us would tell us I came first. But I do feel like Emma’s almost a sister. How did that happen so quickly?”

  “Because she’s a lot like you. Smart, kind, stubborn... but if I go on, your head will swell to the size of a watermelon. Time for me to get to work—and the same for you.” She blew me a kiss and was gone.

  I looked at my computer screen, wondering how to approach the problem of Mrs. Wilks.

  Call her, Abby. See how she reacts and respond accordingly.

  I picked up the phone and was surprised when she answered right away, sounding polite and warm as only Texans can over the phone.

  “I’m not sure how to start, so I’ll get right to it,” I said. “My name is Abby Rose, and I’m a private investigator with Yellow Rose Investigations.”

  “Private investigator?” Polite turned to wary in a flash. “If this is about Senator Wilks, perhaps you should call his office.”

  “This isn’t about your current husband.” I tried hard to sound nonthreatening, or so I thought.

  “Not about my current husband? Are you calling about Xavier?”

  “Yes. Do you have time to talk? Or are you too busy?”

  “I have time,” she said. “But if you’re a private investigator, someone hired you to make this call, correct?”

  “Yes. A young woman named Emma Lopez,” I said.

  “Lopez? I’m guessing that last name is no coincidence.” Her tone had gone way past wary. She sounded downright hostile now.

  Why? But then I understood. “You know who Emma is, don’t you?”